Tiger Eye (26 page)

Dela was insane to even consider it. “I don’t think I can, Kit.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll save you a table up front. Besides, what could be better than me?”

Nothing, considering that Dela and her friends would probably be holed up in her home, armed to the teeth.

“Count me as a maybe,” Dela finally said, figuring it couldn’t hurt to entertain the possibility of going out. “But you better make it a big table. If I come, I’ll be bringing more guests than just Blue and Hari.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Dela laughed weakly. “Just save us the table. Where and when?”

“Eight
P.M.
at the Kosmo Klub. And don’t you try anything, Dela. I’ve got a black-belt in crazy, and I know where you live.”

“Amen. I’ll see you then, barring some emergency.”

“We have a date?” Blue asked, as Dela hung up the phone.

“Who has a date?” Dean asked, coming through the door with Artur. The two men wore completely different clothes than the ones they had left in, and their hair was damp, as though they had taken showers.

“Clean-up go all right?” Blue asked.

“Well enough,” Dean said. Dela did not have the guts to ask what that meant. Dean leaned against the back of the couch. “So what’s this about a date?”

That was Dean. One-track mind.

Dela told them about Kit’s concert in the city. “It’s stupid, I know. It’s not safe, and none of you are probably in the mood. I can call Kit back and cancel.”

Blue shrugged, scratching his chin. “We’ve all been on ludicrous speed for the past few days. A little music and dinner might be a nice break, and I know I could use some down time.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Dean. He briefly stared at Hari’s scars, but made no comment beyond a slight frown. “Glad you’re in one piece, Hari. You had Dela scared out of her wits.”

“We were all worried about you,” added Artur, going to the kitchen to wash his hands. Each movement was strangely deliberate—from soap to water to the rub, methodical and familiar—and Dela wondered if it was not part of some ritual, a coping mechanism. Washing his hands clean of the night.

As Artur dried his hands and replaced his gloves, he carefully looked at everyone in the room. “We now know the source of the threat—who these people are and what they do—which is far more than what they know about us.”

“Hari and I gave their man an eyeful,” Dela reminded him.

“Who’s going to believe any of that?” Dean said. “I mean, come on. You guys were acting like comic book superheroes or something. That Wen Zhang will just think his guy was high on crack. That, or a really bad liar.”

Dela was not entirely convinced, but she was in no mood to argue. “So what’s next? Find the murderer?”

Artur nodded. “Someone with a vendetta against Wen Zhang.”

Blue snorted. “After all I’ve heard, even I have a vendetta against that guy.”

“I will make some calls,” Artur said, his face curiously blank, “but I think some sleep is in order. I do not know if Zhang will take our message seriously, but we should be prepared for anything. We will not get far without rest.”

“All of you sleep,” Hari said. “I can stand watch. I am used to going without.”

“You were hurt,” Dela protested, but Hari shook his head.

“I have had worse,” he said, and no one wished to argue with the sudden darkness in his eyes. It was a simple statement burdened by two thousand years of story—and they all knew it.

Blue and Dean moved off to the guest rooms, while Artur
began making his calls. Hari followed Dela into her bedroom and shut the door behind them. He watched as she stripped off the blood-soaked sheets and dumped them into a pile on the floor, bullets clanking. She pulled more sheets out of the linen closet, and as she began fitting them to the bed, he moved to help her.

Surprised, Dela smiled as they pulled and straightened the covers. It was curiously intimate, making the bed together, and she thought she might enjoy doing this every day—finding some excuse to mess up the sheets, so she could strip everything off and put it together again with Hari’s help.

They worked silently until the bed was fixed, ready for a warm body. Hari unbuttoned Dela’s jeans and slid them over her hips. He pulled her blouse over her head.

She stood before him in just her underwear, and Hari pressed his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. She smelled the forest in his skin.

“Sleep,” he whispered, making her stretch out under the covers. He tugged them to her chin, tucking her in. “I will watch over you.”

“I love you,” she said, catching his hand. She had to say the words out loud—she had to tell him again, every day for the rest of her life. Such a strange thing, their relationship. New and rich and wild. She was afraid of letting him out of her sight. He was magic; he might turn into a dream.

Hari smiled, his eyes glowing for one brief second. “I love you, too, Delilah. Now rest.”

And she did.

Artur was standing in the living room when Hari closed Dela’s bedroom door. The two men silently studied each other, one predator to another.

“You are a dangerous man,” Artur said quietly.

“Yes,” Hari agreed. “But so are you.”

Artur smiled, though his dark eyes remained cool, assessing. “Perhaps, although in a much different way. Our lives have not been easy, Hari, although I think I had the better bargain.”

Hari leaned against the wall. “What did you see when you touched me?”

“Enough. I always see more than I wish.” Artur held up his gloved hands. “It is why I protect myself.”

“Must you protect yourself from everything?”

“From enough so that it feels like everything. But I am used to it, and my gift has saved me more times than I can count.” Artur raised an eyebrow. “I was testing you when I shook your hand. It is something I do, to keep my friends and myself safe. Dela has good instincts for people, but I am always careful.”

“When I saw so many of Delilah’s friends gathered together, I suspected some sort of trial. I would have done the same.”

“Good.” Artur stretched, and Hari was reminded of a wolf, lean and quiet. “I do not pretend to understand your life, Hari. There is too much, and it is too painful. I have my own shadows to keep without attempting to grasp yours.”

“I would not wish my life on anyone.”

“So you say, but the past has a way of circling us in our sleep.”

“Spoken like a man who knows.”

“And as a man who knows, I will tell you this: Do not allow your past to hurt Dela. Women like her, they are the ones who pay for our misdeeds.”

“Who paid for yours?” Hari asked, seeing the slip in Artur’s mask.

For a moment, Hari thought he had pushed too far. He could smell Artur’s pain, an old agony. When the Russian remained silent, Hari nodded.

“It is your private story. Forgive me for asking.”

“You had a right,” Artur said grudgingly. “I put the words
into your mind. It is an old pain, Hari. You have your own. It is something we learn to live with. The alternative is a broken life.”

“And the broken heart?”

Artur threw back his head, laughing quietly. “Look at us! Discussing life and love. Too ridiculous. I have nothing more to say on the matter, Hari. I need to rest.”

“Of course,” said Hari. “Rest.”

Artur threw him a strange look, but slowly nodded. He disappeared into the last guest room, and closed the door behind him.

Hari shook his head. Artur reminded him of a distant cousin; a quiet, reserved man, who always managed to surprise his friends and family with outbursts of keen wisdom and fiery temper. Strong passions, running under a cool façade. Such men made good fighters and better friends, but they always kept a piece of themselves locked away. For protection, Hari thought.

Do not allow your past to hurt Dela.

Never
, Hari swore, curling his fists. Never.

Chapter Nine

The Kosmo Klub was a homey, smoke-filled bar built completely underground and accessible via a narrow stairwell so nondescript and unadorned, only the long line of people waiting to get in drew attention to the diminutive, old-fashioned sign nailed above the entrance.

Kosmo Klub: for a kosmic good time.

Cheesy, but no one cared. The Kosmo Club attracted the best musicians, provided truly delectable drinks and finger food, and had the most comfortable seating arrangements in the entire city. It also had one of the most endearingly eccentric owners to ever walk the planet, an elderly woman who called herself Dame Rose.

A self-proclaimed nymphomaniac (“The only reason I’ve slowed down is because I don’t wanna replace any more o’ my hips”), Rose liked to prowl the evening lines into her club, drawing out the men who pleased her, and showing them to the prime seats in her bar. The price might be some judicious
butt-slapping and racy innuendo, but it was all in good fun, and everyone loved Rose.

It was a beautiful night—balmy, the sky full of stars—and all six friends were rested, clean, and coiffed. They stood in line outside the club, joking among themselves while watching the streets for trouble. The only reason Artur believed it was safe to come out was that he thought it would take several days for the Zhang family to regroup from their failed attack.

Still, everyone was careful. Though none of the men had said a word, Dela could taste the hot tang of weapons discreetly arranged beneath their jackets. Hari had a knife sheathed between his shoulders, rigged in a harness; he was a skilled craftsman in his own right, Dela had found, watching him work a leather scrap from her studio into something usable.

The men still wore jeans, but Dela had opted for a tight red tank top and a playful white skirt that flared above her knees, the hem embroidered with roses and green vines.

“At least you’ll look good when the goon squad comes after you,” Dean drawled when she came out of the bedroom. Dela smiled, raising her skirt until everyone could see the slender throwing knives strapped to her upper thighs.

“That’s a kick-ass piece of lingerie,” Blue said, as Eddie’s eyes widened.

“My cod-piece is full of love,” Dean added.

Artur simply sighed, while Hari’s eyes flashed gold.

They waited for almost fifteen minutes outside the club before Dela saw Rose hobbling down the sidewalk, examining her choices of “fine fresh meat.” Her face lit up when she saw Dela, and she waved a dark mocha, fine-boned hand in her direction.

And then Rose looked past Dela.

For one moment, it was anyone’s guess whether an ambulance would have to be called. Rose clutched her glittering silver-sequined chest, eyes rolling white in her head.

“Oh, Lordy. Dela, girl, I have fallen into the throes of a mighty fleshly lust. Carnal desire is giving me a hot flash.” And she fanned her face with both hands.

“Rose.” Dela grinned, glancing from the stunned expressions of her companions to the bar’s owner, who was finally beginning to recover from her initial shock, a look of sultry determination filling her eyes. “I would like to introduce you to my very good friends.”

Artur set the tone by politely bending over Rose’s hand and placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. Rose pretended to swoon, and after that, it was kisses and fluttered eyelashes and enough choice words to make even a porn star blush.

Dela saved Hari for last.

“My lady,” he said, and Dela’s heart swelled with pride at the gentle respect in his voice. “It is my deepest honor to meet a woman who radiates such obvious passion for others.”

Rose sighed, looking at his hair, his eyes, her gaze slowly inching over the rest of his fine long lines. “If I were only two hips younger,” she mused, laughing when she saw Hari’s confusion. She slapped his arm, still chortling, and gestured for them all to follow her. Artur and Dean held out their arms, and Rose, still beaming, slipped her hands into the back pockets of their jeans, squeezing. The men jumped, biting back gasps.

“Off we go!” she giggled, fondling their backsides. Artur and Dean, flushed red as beets, simply swallowed and allowed Rose to guide them down the sidewalk—two dangerous individuals, man-handled by a little old woman in front of an entire street of grinning observers. Eddie, buzzed with painkillers, laughed so hard Dela was afraid he would burst his stitches. Blue doubled over, and even Hari began chuckling.

“I like her,” he said. Dela grinned, sticking her own hand into his back pocket.

They found Rose and her captured prey waiting for them at the main entrance of the bar, and as a group, they sidled into the smoky interior. Slow jazz filled the air, a soothing background to the clink of glasses and laughter. The walls were paneled in dark wood, covered with old photographs of famous musicians, including Rose herself—a jazz singer in her youth, standing on a stage with her eyes closed, arms outstretched to the audience.

“Kit told me you folks were coming. Saved you a table,” Rose said, still holding Artur and Dean in her curious grip. The two men glanced at each other over her head, and suddenly, inexplicably, grinned. When they finally reached their table, set near the edge of the stage, Rose reluctantly released them. Dean instantly gathered the elderly woman into his arms, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

“You have excellent technique,” he told her. “My ass is still tingling.”

Artur was next, except he hugged her from behind, his lips hovering beside her ear. Rose’s hands fluttered over his muscular arms. “Rose,” he whispered, in a seductive voice that had everyone staring in astonishment. “Rose,” he said again. That was it. Just her name. But it was enough.

“Oh my,” she tittered, as his arms slowly slid away from her body. She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks. “All of you, devils. Dela, honey, you can come ‘round often as you like, but bring these boys with you. Drinks will always be on me.” And she ambled away, still fanning herself.

The waitress came to take their orders. Just as she left, Dela heard a familiar voice call her name. It was Kit, looking like a million dollars in a long silky skirt dyed in variegated shades of gold and umber, and a matching wrap-around blouse trailing long silken ties. Her caramel skin gleamed, her hair loose and wild, bound away from her face by a brown velvet ribbon.