Tiger Eye (3 page)

“Don’t be an asshole,” she snapped, craning her neck to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know how you got here, or who you are, but you’re looking at me like I’m rat shit and I
know
I don’t deserve that. Give me some courtesy. You know what that is, don’t you?” She was testing him with her insults; if he was going to hurt her, now would be the time. Dela was a firm believer in getting things over with.

Something that might have been bewilderment passed through the man’s face, quickly concealed behind a cool mask. Disgust slowly drained from his eyes, and in its place appeared something darker but far cleaner. A cousin to curiosity, dressed in anger.

Dela lifted her chin, demanding an answer with only her eyes and body. A part of her still shrieked, but she tuned out her fear. Weakness would only invite intimidation.

Honey, you
are
intimidated. Do you really think this guy’s holding back just because you’re acting tough? Gimme a break. He could kill you with his pinky.

“You will not command my name?” His voice rumbled, an echo of thunder. “What then will you command?”

Dela stared, caught between laughter and a scream. This was
all too surreal. “Nothing. I won’t command you to do anything.” She took in his size, his weapons. “How could I?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying there is no battle to fight, not one person you wish me to kill?”

His words were too matter-of-fact, completely chilling. Dela threw up her right hand, while the other clutched her towel. She stepped away. “Hey, now. I don’t want anyone to die.”

His mouth tightened into a hard white line. “I see.” He gave her a slow once-over that, oddly, managed not to feel degrading. “If you did not bring me here to kill or fight, then I was summoned to pleasure your body.” He looked like he would rather impale himself face-first on a bed of nails.

For a moment, Dela forgot how to speak, and he seemed to take her silence as a resounding “yes.” He began unbuckling his armor, his movements sharp, efficient. Getting the job done. No more talk of commands.

He walked toward her, rolling on the balls of his feet with an unearthly grace that distracted Dela long enough for him to step within reaching distance. She slipped away from his outstretched hand, furiously shaking her head, and backed up until she hit the wall.

“No, no, no. Stop that. Stop that! I don’t want you to … to … pleasure my body. Just stay away from me.
Stay. Away.”

The man instantly stilled, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Dela felt something trapped between them—fragile, delicate—a breath of time in which they were just two confused people, marveling at the absurdity of the world.

The moment passed. He took one long step away from her, and then another, until the entire room separated their bodies. Dela let out a shaky breath; she wanted to rewind the day and start over, except this time she would stay in bed and watch government-edited airings of CNN.

Calm down. He didn’t hurt you. He stopped when you said no.

A small comfort, but Dela kept her back pressed against the wall.

“Tell me why you’re here,” she said, desperate to know how a seven-foot-tall man, armed to the teeth, could appear out of thin air like magic.

Because it
is
magic, you idiot.

Impossible, right? Dela’s own psychic gifts were strange, but at least they had some basis in science. This … this man … was completely inexplicable.

He just stared, and Dela sensed his confusion. It was odd, that crack of vulnerability in the stranger’s golden eyes. It made him more human, more man than magic. No less threatening, though.

“Well?” she prompted, unwilling to be cowed into silence.

The man stooped and picked up the riddle box, so tiny in the wide planes of his hands. He carefully replaced the lid.

“You summoned me,” he said very slowly, as though speaking to an idiot. He held up the box, and set it on the edge of the bed. “You removed the lid, did you not?”

Dela laughed, but not for long. Her amusement seemed to ignite the man. Three long strides and he loomed over her, golden eyes ablaze. He did not touch her, but she felt the heat of his body lap over her exposed skin; powerful, shattering.

“You are lucky I am imprisoned by the terms of the box,” he growled. “There was a time when I did not tolerate amusement at the suffering of others.”

For just one moment Dela did feel afraid, but anger was the stronger emotion and she fed her indignation. She pressed her palms against his chest, and pushed hard. He did not budge. She made a low sound, gritting her teeth.

“I would never laugh at the suffering of others,” she said, with the very same scorn she had hated seeing in his face. “I laughed because this is all completely, impossibly, insane. I saw
the light and I saw you appear, but men
don’t
come out of boxes like genies from a bottle. It’s ridiculous, and I want to know what the hell is going on. I can believe a lot of things, but this is too much even for me.”

The man grabbed her hand, pressed it to his chest. His grip was warm, firm, but he seemed conscious of his strength. He did not hurt her.

“I am
real,”
he hissed. “I am not an illusion.”

Stubborn, so stubborn—she was going to protest, but she looked closer, deep into his eyes, and what she saw gave her pause. Anger, shifting to confusion, bedding down with desperation. It was like watching the seasons pass in fast motion, winter blurring to spring—summer dying against the fire of autumn. A full circle, playing in his fierce face.

It was too much; she felt trapped in the center of that circle, and she tore her gaze away, down, down to their joined hands, lower to the brace of knives strapped to his waist. Sharp hooks, the short blades snared her vision, the steel whispering her name.

“You do not believe me,” he said, releasing her. A strange melancholy coated his words. Dela’s gaze flickered back to his face. She had trouble finding her voice, her mind ringing with the call of the blades, secrets softly singing.

“These are real,” she murmured, returning her attention to his weapons.

He snorted. “Of course they are real. All my weapons are
real.”

“No,” Dela said. She plucked one of the knives from its sheath, so intent on studying the blade she missed the look of utter astonishment that filled the stranger’s face. Her fingers caressed the perfect imperfections of the steel, drawing in the hum of its age. Stories slept inside the weapon, a collection of deaths, wrought again and again.

Dela opened herself to sensation, sinking into a quiet made heavy only by the most ancient and beloved of objects. Energies, accumulated over years through contact with flesh, gave an ambient life to the steel.

“This blade is over two thousand years old,” she whispered. Just like the mysterious riddle box.

“How do you know its age?” There was caution in his voice.

Dela barely heard him. She could feel his presence in the steel, the taste of his rage, bitter discontent. Guilt, regret, longing. Loneliness.

She drowned in emotions not her own, lost to the story of the blade, the man. Rolling deep, deeper, into a forest of sharp teeth and steel, cutting her mind on desperation, an echo plunging through the flashing images and sensations of endless battle, violence. Every death had meant something to the man who held this weapon. Every drop of blood was a dark testimony to some terrible heartbreak.

Dela pushed, and she caught a glimpse of warmth, a pure clean flame. She tried to touch the light, but it was snatched away, swallowed down a rose-colored throat striped with growling shadows.

No!
Dela screamed, struggling. She ran from the beast, the nightmares and dreams, and as though drugged, slowly rose through the gloom of imprinted memory, escaping from the tomb of the past to open her eyes into the present.

Her knees buckled, and the man caught her arms. He steadied her against the wall, leaning close, his hands strong and firm against her bare skin. Dela felt surrounded by his quiet, still heat. Her hand hurt; she found herself clenching his knife in a tight fist. Blood seeped from her palm.

“You cried out,” he said, and his voice curled fingers inside her gut, thrumming the metaphysical fibers still linking her to the weapon in her hand. Dela took a deep breath. She had
measured the soul of the blade, and had almost lost herself, engulfed by the soul of the man who wielded it.

That same man now watched her with eyes that were dark with curiosity, distrust. His gaze flickered down to the weapon she held, to the blood dripping down her wrist. Dela cleaned the knife on her towel, leaving bright red streaks. She returned it to its sheath, fingers lingering on the hilt. The voices were quiet, but she remembered. She remembered—and despite the violence, was no longer afraid.

Dela pressed her throbbing palm against her stomach; the wound felt shallow, but it hurt worse than a burn.

“I was taken by surprise,” she said, unsure how much to tell him, wondering if it mattered anymore. Surely her secrets were less bewildering than this man.

His lips tightened. “I have seen reactions like yours. Though only one has ever worked his magic on me.”

“It’s not magic,” Dela said, wishing she could lie down, pretend this was all a dream. She did not want to talk about her visions—not to this stranger, who was suddenly not so strange. She had danced through the echo of his soul and been drawn too deep into his heart. Now when she looked into his eyes, she saw more than she should. Some link remained; she could feel it humming inside her body, as though they were both made of steel, and the metal of their flesh was being bound close by fire.

Dela shook her head, rubbing her uninjured hand over her eyes.

“You really came out of that box,” she said, more in statement than question. She knew the truth. His weapon merely confirmed what her eyes refused to believe. Steel never lied, not even about men with burning eyes who took flesh from light.

How do they do it in the books, when the frog turns into a prince and the genie comes out of the bottle? Everyone is always so
calm.

Maybe because the characters already believed magic was possible. Because, unlike Dela, they lived in a world where impossible things regularly happened.

Well, there’s impossible, and then there’s
impossible.

Dela thought the man might laugh, but not from amusement. He stepped away from her, and his face was a riot of emotion: confusion, exasperation, uncertainty, that ever-present anger. She wondered if he felt the connection she had accidentally forged, and decided it would be better if he did not. He disliked her enough as it was.

“There is more proof,” he said roughly, as though the words pained him. He once again began removing his weapons and armor. Dela held up her hand. The man paused.

“I cannot hurt you,” he promised quietly. “And even if I could, I would never harm a woman.”

Odd wording, but Dela believed him. His sincerity was unquestionable, tangible and bare-boned. To doubt him in that moment would have felt like a grave insult. An uncanny thing, her temporary trust, but she had seen something bright and clean beneath the shadow wrapped around his spirit. She had tasted its light.

“What’s your name?” Dela asked again as he continued undressing, hard muscles rippling like liquid beneath his skin. It was distracting to watch him, keenly aware of her own partial nudity. To have both of them quietly undressed made her feel more vulnerable than standing up to his rage.

She thought he might not answer, might begin again with his stubborn refusals. He surprised her.

“My name is Hari,” he said, his eyes so intense she wanted to look away. She could not, and he was the one who finally broke the connection. He lowered his leather armor and weapons to the floor. His pale linen undershirt, bloodstained and torn, followed. Warmth crept up Dela’s neck. Warmth, then a chill.

Words had been burned into Hari’s chest.

Incomprehensible lines, forming a distinctly hideous pattern from the edge of one pectoral to another, dipping into his breastbone like grotesque canyons.

Dela found herself tracing the deep grooves with her fingertips, spreading her hands against his chest, touching everything, soaking in the impression of his pain. A brand had done this, or a red-hot knife. A blunt, wide tipped blade—meant to press and catch flesh, cruel and deliberate. Dela bit back words of pity, but her eyes felt far too hot. She tried not to blink, afraid she would betray herself with tears.

The words were achingly familiar, and a different kind of pressure bore down on her vision as she remembered where she had last seen such markings.

The lid of the riddle box.

Hari made a small sound. A faint flush stained his cheeks; the intensity of his eyes changed, darkened. Dela suddenly realized where her hands were—how freely she was touching him—and gasped softly, pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, embarrassed. Her emotions were still running high. Anger, fear, confusion; she had felt all these things about the man standing before her, and now compassion could be added to the list. Indignation, that anyone could do this to another human being.

Dela waved her hand at his scarred chest. “Who did this to you?”

“Why does it matter?” Hari backed away from her. “It is done and gone. There is nothing left to speak of except the present.”

“Nothing left?” Dela stared at him, incredulous. “You call those scars on your chest ‘nothing’? I may not know you—or even like you very much—but no one deserves to be hurt like that. No one.”

“I almost believe you mean that,” he said.

“Believe what you want,” she said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

Some old pain moved through his face, fleeting, quickly swallowed by defiance. “My chest was branded by the same man who imprisoned me in the box.”

Dela looked at the tiny box sitting on the edge of her bed. It was too much to take in—one more revelation to add to the madness—but she pushed on, stubbornly clinging to the dying hope that something about all this would eventually make sense.