Tiger Eye (31 page)

“I see you in many ways,” he finally said. “Family is … one of them.”

“Oh, Hari.” Dela went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He touched her hair, her back, enfolding her in his warmth.

After a time, he said, “You still have not shown me your art.”

It was true, she realized. The first night home had been awful, the next night worse, and she had spent the past several days absorbed with Adam’s suicide. During that time Hari had remained a silent presence, sensitive to her moods. When she needed solitude, he found some reason to leave her; when she
needed to talk, to simply
be
, he was there, bearing the weight of her heart. Unselfish, patient, kind.

“I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to realize the enormity of his gift.

“You have suffered great losses,” he said. “But I would like to see more of your life than just this building.”

It was the closest thing to an admonishment Dela had ever heard from Hari, and she felt appropriately chastised.

Dela took him on a tour of the studio, pointing out her tools, her works in progress. He had already seen the weapons, and while those caught his eye, he was equally fascinated by her art, her technique. He asked many questions, and as they talked, a curious itching sensation arose in her fingers, in her heart. A vague desire for the hammer, heat.

In the gallery, Hari pored over her finished work: sculptures, whimsical and fantastic, intricate renderings of famous myths, creatures from legend and fairy tale. Dancing centaurs bore the weight of an engraved tabletop, upon which Puss n’ Boots, his namesake gilded gold with platinum tassels, confronted a tarnished, copper-wrinkled ogre. Nymphs, sly and clever, hid in various poses around the gallery, while mermaids lounged on turquoise seashores, silver scales shining seductively.

As Dela watched Hari prowl her gallery, something tight unfurled from her chest; she could suddenly breathe easier, and it occurred to her that she had spent the past three days suffocating.

Maybe things
will
get easier
, she thought, and then turned away from such musings. Hari had finally stopped in front of the tree.

“Oh, Delilah,” he murmured, gazing up the ten-foot trunk to peer at the intricately detailed branches, flung wide as though to embrace the world—or at the very least, a good portion of the gallery. Birds, snakes, and other small animals nested in the heavy limbs, hidden by veined leaves, many of which had been
hammered from copper and silver. Human eyes stared out from beneath the raised foliage; the hint of a mouth, a hand.

No one leaf or branch was alike; like snowflakes, Dela had taken painstaking care to forge individuality, the lifelike essence of something unique and wild. The creatures peering down through the vegetation wore dissimilar expressions of curiosity and merriment, seemingly changing with the light. An eerie effect, some said.

“It took me a year to complete.” Dela ran loving fingers over the variegated trunk, the steel rough and raw, cracked like actual bark. The wide thick roots curled around her feet, hiding a fox—and there, a little woman with wings. “It’s not for sale, but I couldn’t keep it locked up. I have visitors who sit here for hours, just looking.”

“A year of staring would not be enough time,” Hari said, bending close. He glanced at her for permission, and then stroked the leaves with his fingers. They flexed on their delicate stems, shining.

“The detail is incredible. So delicate. It reminds me of home.”

She flushed. “It would have been impossible without my telekinesis. Take the leaves, for example. A molding of an actual plant is what some artists use, especially for mass-produced objects like jewelry. But the detail is superficial. A real leaf is imperfect in its perfection. It has character. I use my mind to picture all those nicks and veins, the rub of the surface, and then just … impress the image into the metal. ABANA, the artisan blacksmiths association, has been trying for years to get me to fess up my ‘secret technique.’ They still think I use molds.”

“It is magic,” Hari said warmly. “You must not give up your craft, Delilah. You must keep creating.”

“I will,” she found herself promising. And much to her amazement, she meant it.

They talked more about her work, and then Dela ran upstairs to tell the guys that she and Hari were going for a walk.

“You should take additional protection,” Artur said. Dean snickered.

“It’s all right,” Dela reassured him, with a hard glare at Dean. “Hari is protection enough, and we won’t go far.”

Artur grunted, barely mollified, but Dela did not give him time to insist. She scampered down the stairs, grabbed Hari’s hand, and led him out into sunshine and a sweet breeze.

They ambled up Main Street, looking at window displays, mingling with the late summer tourists. It felt strange to Dela—strange, but good. She rarely wandered just for the fun of it. Usually alone, she always had a destination in mind, a place to go, someone to see.

But now, the only person she wanted to see was Hari. Nothing mattered but him; not time or destination, not even grief. She watched the world through his eyes, and found it exotic and lovely. They talked without stopping, renewing themselves through words, finally resting at a small outdoor café where they ordered tea and warm slices of blueberry pie.

Hari savored each bite, treating every morsel as a luxury. But despite his apparent absorption, the relaxed set of his shoulders, his smile, Dela knew he was on guard. His eyes occasionally flickered to the street, to the people around them, his instincts hunting.

It did not bother her. She suspected Hari would always be like this, the predator waiting. Rather than set her on edge, it made her feel safe. Dela was tired of being alone, of taking care of herself. Until Hari came into her life, she had not realized how ready she was to shrug off solitude, which had always seemed so comfortable.

But then, it takes a good boyfriend to be better than none.

She paid the bill, Hari watching the transaction with a
slight frown. When the waitress left, he leaned close and said, “I still do not feel comfortable living off your goodwill, no matter how wealthy you are. I should be able to take care of you. Add to your life in all ways.”

“You do that.” Dela covered his hand with her own. Hari shook his head.

“In my day, shape-shifters had no use for the material. Our needs were few. A rarity, I have learned. The past two thousand years have taught me much about human society, and what is required to be comfortable.” Hari looked at his hands, large and elegant, tight with muscle. “All I know is fighting, Delilah, but that is no longer enough. Not if I wish to provide for you.”

“But you don’t need to provide for me. Not like that, anyway.”

“Yes, I do. It is a matter of honor, Delilah.”

His mouth set in a stubborn line. Dela knew this was a fight she would not win. Hari might not mind if she had money, but he wasn’t going to use it as an excuse for laziness. She admired him for that, but also found it exasperating.

“Hari,” she began, and stopped, tracing a pattern on the tabletop with her fingernail. How could she explain to him?

“You think I am foolish,” he said.

“No.” Dela vehemently shook her head. “I think you are admirable. It’s just … I have
a lot
of money, Hari. I have no doubt you could find work, but there are very few jobs that would pay you a salary equal to what I already have … and what I have is yours as well.”

“I do not want your money.”

“As long as we’re together you’re going to have it,” Dela said firmly. “But that’s not the point. I need you to take care of me, Hari—but I don’t need you to take care of me with money. I need more than that.”

“Name it,” he said. Just like that. A promise, with no questions asked.

“I need you to be my friend,” she said, feeling her courage falter. “I need you to take care of my heart. I need … I need your love.”

“My love,” he echoed, his eyes soft, so soft. “But you have that, Delilah.”

“And that is all I need,” she breathed, leaning close. She touched his hands and brushed her lips against his mouth. He kissed her, gentle.

“And the rest?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Will work itself out,” she promised.

They walked home. Blue was on the phone when they opened the door.

“She’s back,” he said into the receiver, and glanced at her. “It’s Roland. He wants to talk to you.”

Dela wordlessly took the phone.

“Not so smart taking a walk without more bodyguards, Del.”

“I needed some privacy,” she said.

Roland grunted. “I’ve been hearing stories about your new boyfriend. Sounds like a useful guy to have around.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?” he asked, and she heard the sly smile in his voice. “Ah, don’t get your thong in a twist, babe. I’m not calling to recruit. I’ve got an update on that woman, Long Nü.”

“Finally.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s only taken this long because the intel I first received didn’t make much sense. There
was
someone registered for that particular stall, but under a different name: Lu Xia. Thing is, when my contacts did a full search on this Lu Xia, using her registered government number and address, they were told she’d been dead for the past ten years. Well, they went back to the Dirt Market, found out who the old timers were, and passed off her name. Get this—they all remembered
her, and insisted she was the one selling those Tibetan tapestries you mentioned.”

“Except she’s not.”

“Uh-uh. She
is.
But this gal is in her thirties. She has the same name, ID number—the whole nine yards. And the weirdest part is that the government database no longer lists Lu Xia as dead.”

“That’s … very strange.”

“No fucking kidding. I don’t wanna know how you get yourself into this shit, Del. You know what kind of pull it takes to get into the government database like that? In fucking China?”

A good question. How, exactly, did she get herself into this kind of trouble, especially when her life up until last week had been calm, quiet, and relatively boring?

A build-up of chaos karma
, she told herself.
Too much calm requires action. Balance, little cricket.

“Have you heard anything from Max?”

“Little bastard got his tourists and is in Quito, the capital. There’s been a delay with the transport, but he should be back home in the next couple of days.”

“Lucky you.” Dela hesitated. “I haven’t gotten any calls from Mom or Dad. Or Grandma.”

“They have no clue what’s going on with you,” Roland said. “Amazing, I know. But you were right to ask me not to say anything. Your mother will have a nervous breakdown. That, or she’ll go commando on my ass.”

“Yancy knows. She may let it slip.”

“She knows what I’ll do to her if she does,” Roland said solemnly. Too solemnly.

“What’s wrong, Roland? You sound depressed. Gone celibate again?”

Choking sounds, followed by hoarse coughs, filled the air behind
her. For once, Roland had no snappy comeback. “I’m worried about you, Del.”

His sincerity made her breath catch. “You’ve got me surrounded by the best. Don’t you worry, Roland. I’ll be fine. We all will.”

“I know that,” he grumbled. “Have you seen anything of that Magi?”

“Not a whisper,” she said, uneasy. The Magi was the great unknown, the one threat she dreaded more than any other.

“All right, then. My beeper is going off. You keep safe, babe. Don’t do anything stupid.”

And he hung up on her.

“Delilah?” Hari tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She tried to smile, opened her mouth to tell him and everyone else what she had learned, but the phone rang again.

What now?

“Hello?” she answered, stifling a sigh.

Dead air was her first indication that this would not be a good call.

“Ms. Delilah Reese?” The voice was low, feminine.

“Yes.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“My name is Beth Wong. My employer, Mr. Wen Zhang, is in town and would like to meet with you tonight. If that is convenient.”

To Dela’s credit, she managed to swallow down the squeak that instantly rose from her throat. “Wen Zhang?” she repeated coolly, barely able to hear her voice over her thundering heart. She glanced at the others, and could feel them mentally loading their guns, sharpening their knives. “I suppose I can make time for Mr. Zhang. Where would he like to meet?”

Dean grinned at the cool tartness in her voice, pointing at his groin and then at her.
You’ve got balls
, he mouthed.

Brass ones
, she thought.

“I believe there is a restaurant near your home called Le Soleil. Have you heard of it?”

If that was the chosen location, then Beth Wong knew damn well she had heard of it. Le Soleil was the most popular place to eat in the city—Dela’s favorite, in fact. Several of her sculptures hung from the walls. “I know where it is,” she said evenly, hiding her unease that one of her favorite haunts would be the location of any meeting with the Chinese mafia.

“Lovely. Mr. Zhang will be there at eight
P.M.
You will come alone. If you do not come alone, or if you are late, Mr. Zhang will leave. You will not have another opportunity to speak to him.”

“Will Mr. Zhang be under those same constraints? Will
he
be alone? On time?”

“Those are the terms,” Beth said, her voice unchanging in its disconcerting serenity. “Good-bye, Ms. Reese.”

“Wai—”

The phone clicked. Dead air.

Dela froze, then slammed the receiver against its cradle. Blue winced.

“When you’re done punishing your phone, would you mind telling us what just happened?”

“Wen Zhang, whom I presume is the same Zhang who wants me dead, desires a meeting. Tonight. At Le Soleil. Alone.”

“That’s a bunch of crap,” Dean said. “You’re not going in there by yourself.”

“Agreed.” Hari laid his hands on Dela’s shoulders. “This is a trap.”