Tiger Eye (6 page)

“They said twenty or thirty minutes.” Dela looked at him, and Hari wondered if she sensed the coiled wariness in his body, the sudden tension singing through his muscles. “That should be enough time for you to bathe.”

The “bath room” was excruciatingly small, the fixtures unusual but not incomprehensible. Dela showed Hari how to use
the strange latrine, as well as the basin with its remarkable hot running water.

He wondered if he could ask, and decided now was as good a time as any to test her true willingness to accept him as a sound mind, and not just a body.

“Will you tell me how this functions? I have never encountered such a thing.” He adjusted the knobs, feeling the water instantly change temperature. A marvel.

She smiled. “I don’t know much about plumbing, but I’ll try.” And she did; he was pleased. When she finished telling him about pipes and heaters and electricity, he began to remove his weapons and clothing. Dela stumbled from the room, blushing. “Enjoy,” she said in a rush of breath, firmly closing the door behind her.

Hari stared, wondering at her reaction, the feel of her body so close to his own. He wondered, and when the emotions became too much, tried to focus on his first bath in ages.

Dela stumbled to the bed, inhaling deeply. She smelled Hari in the air, on her covers, the same scents that had filled the room when she opened the box: a coalescence of leaves and wood. Wild and resonant, a reflection of the man.

God help her, she was actually beginning to like him.

She sank to the mattress and hugged her shoulders. A fine tremor ran through her body; her heart thudded dully, loud and coarse.

I just obligated myself to help this man for the rest of my life.

The enormity of that decision slammed into her brain, and she lay down, staring blindly at the ceiling.

What have I done?
and then:
What was the alternative?

The alternative was unthinkable. Dela had no intention of sending Hari back into the riddle box, could never live with herself for returning him to a prison where he didn’t belong.

He could be lying. Maybe he was put there for a good reason.

Dela closed her eyes, recalling the sensations wrought from her connection to his weapons. After a moment, she shook herself free and rubbed her eyes. No, he was not lying.

Two thousand years as a slave, an unimaginable expanse of time. Dela turned on her side, fighting the choking sensation that crept into her throat. So much pain—and somehow, through some incredible strength of will, he had kept his sanity, an element of grace. Dela wondered if she would be as strong.

She heard water splash; an oddly cheerful sound, innocent and ordinary.

Don’t go soft
, she told herself.
You shouldn’t trust him. Not completely. He’ll eat you up if you do, and you’re just another way to keep out of the box. Men use women for less.

True enough, although Dela’s friends—with one exception—were all men whom society considered unsafe, untrustworthy, and notoriously foul; and yet they were the complete opposites of such virulent labels. There was something about Hari that reminded her of them, a bright kindness beneath the razor shell. Dela had caught a glimpse of light beyond the shadows in his soul. She could not forget the comfort of its stunning warmth.

Dela blew out her breath. Something strange had come into her life, and as Grandma liked to say, “That’s that.” Of course, Grandma had always embraced the uncommon, even more so than Dela’s brother, Max, who had a great deal more talent than his younger sister when it came to the “unnatural and strange.”

She smiled, thinking of her brother. The last she had heard, he was in South America with the boys from Dirk & Steele—a name always good for laughs, as long as you weren’t doing the
laughing in front of the actual Dirk and Steele—trying to follow leads on some tourists who had been kidnapped by guerillas. She worried about him only a little; she was well aware that stalking evildoers was his idea of fun, and those other guys … sheesh. Boys with toys, indeed.

I should know. I made some of their “toys.”

Someone knocked. Room service.

Dela felt safe; she was distracted and did not think. She opened the door without looking through the peephole and caught the flash of something long and sharp, cutting her mind with fury.

Dela cried out, slipping sideways as a long blade slashed through her shadow. Instinct took over and she grabbed the hand holding the knife. Dela glimpsed dark eyes set in a flat face, a line for a mouth, and then she was knocked backward as a sharp fist slammed into her shoulder.

Dela never hit the ground. Strong arms caught her; Hari’s chest felt like a warm wall against her back. Her fingers brushed wet thigh as he helped her stand. She heard a growl, low and menacing, and realized it was rumbling from him.

Dela’s assailant darted forward, knife poised for an underhand strike. His eyes were dead, cold as scales—and much to Dela’s horror, they were completely focused on her.

Hari pushed her out of the way, rising to meet the attack. He moved incredibly fast, his hands a blur as he grabbed the wrist holding the knife, slamming it so hard against the wall that several wooden panels shook loose. Even as the knife fell to the ground, Dela caught the glint of new blades in her attacker’s free hand.

“Hari!” she cried, as the knuckle blades shot toward his exposed chest. Hari turned in time to prevent a lethal stroke, but the blades still ran over his shoulder and arm like claws, blood
welling, pouring down his skin. Hari showed no indication of pain. His face set in a deadly grimace, he grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed.

The blades rose for another strike. Dela did not hesitate. She leapt on that lethal hand, holding it with all her might so the blades would not touch Hari. Hari shouted at her, but she paid him no mind. She dug her fingernails into pressure points, mercilessly piercing thick flesh, grunting with the effort. When the man finally dropped the blades, she kicked them away, deep into the room.

Her assailant’s face turned purple; he was choking, struggling with all his might. Hari held him with only one hand.

“Who sent you?” he snarled, shaking him for emphasis. There was a killing rage in his golden eyes, some beast swirling beneath the surface of his burning gaze.

Hari never received an answer. Dela’s attacker freed his hand from her grip. Grabbing her by the back of the head, he sent her careening into Hari, who was surprised enough that his fingers loosened. The man squirmed free and took off.

Dela scrambled into the hall, watching the man disappear through a fire exit. Hari began to follow, but Dela pushed him back into the room and closed the door.

“Let me go,” he ordered. “I can track him.”

“No,” she said firmly. “If he escapes, so be it. You’re hurt.” And she absolutely did not want to draw any attention to them. She hoped no one had heard the fight and called security. If the police got involved they would ask questions, want to see Hari’s passport—a vital piece of information that simply did not exist. Yet.

Another reason for Hari not to race down the hall—he was completely naked. Oh boy, was he naked. The image of his well-endowed intimates eternally emblazoned on her mind, Dela darted into the bathroom to grab some towels. She
shoved one into his hands and pressed the other against his shoulder and arm, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

Hari stared at the towel. Dela rolled her eyes. “Wrap it around your waist,” she said.

Something that could have been humor glinted in his eyes, quickly disappearing beneath simmering rage. “He hit you,” Hari growled. He touched the space above her heart. “He was trying to kill you.”

His concern surprised her almost as much as the attack. Though his fingers were light, they seared her, cutting straight through her carefully wrought control, a lifetime of training to control fear. Images overwhelmed her: eyes cold as an arctic sea, a flashing knife arcing toward her bared flesh, cutting Hari …

She began to shake. Hari watched her, a mystery in his silence. He wrapped the towel around his waist, beads of water coating his skin.

Control, Dela. Swallow your fear. Now is not the time to lose it.

Dela took a deep breath and pulled away to look at Hari’s shoulder and arm. Despite her efforts, there was too much blood; her heart, already pounding, deafened her ears with thunder. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

“It is nothing,” he said. “It will heal in minutes.”

Dela stared at him. “Minutes? But that’s … that’s …”

“Impossible?” The barest of smiles touched his lips, and he showed her the hand he had sliced open for their blood oath. The rough bandage was gone, the blood washed away. His palm was smooth, unharmed. “I cannot die, Delilah.”

The full import of what he said hit her, lifting the hairs on her arms. Although, when she thought about it for a moment, immortality made sense. What good was a curse if you could catch an arrow through the heart and be done with it?

And by your calculations alone, dumbass, he’s probably two thousand years old. He hasn’t hung around that long just because he feels like it.

“It was brave of you to fight for me,” Hari said, “but unnecessary.”

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” she asked, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. He took a moment to answer, and only then with a slow nod. Dela tried to smile. “Well, then. I think that’s reason enough to stop someone from stabbing you.”

Hari looked astonished. Encouraged by some brazen impulse, Dela snaked her arms around his neck and tugged down his head. He did not resist her, and she brushed her lips against his rough cheek. She turned her mouth to his ear. “Thank you for saving my life, Hari.”

“It is nothing,” he said. But that was a lie, and they both knew it.

Chapter Three

While Hari was physically incapable of harming his masters, there had been times over the years when he “accidentally on purpose” allowed some of them to die. Like the sheik who commanded Hari to shield the royal body with his own during a particularly vicious volley of arrows. Hari had looked, and felt, like a pincushion. A simple step to the right, a slight movement to block certain arrows and not others, and the sheik … well, he’d ended up looking nearly the same.

And back into the box, again and again. Taking orders, following them to the letter and doing nothing more—sometimes earning punishments so severe even practiced torturers were unable to watch. It was a miracle no one had yet broken him.

And yet …

Hari had heard Dela open the door, heard her cry out, and had not thought—he’d leapt from his bath, emerging just in time to see Dela struck hard in the shoulder. He’d managed to
catch her, and for one moment remembered she had spoken no commands. He did not have to protect her.

But I do
, he thought, the words so strong in his head he could not be sure he hadn’t spoken them aloud. It was the first time in all his years of imprisonment he’d actually
wanted
to help his summoner, and the need burned through him, creating a clean, cold rage. This intruder had hurt Dela; her life was in danger. That could not be tolerated.

The rest was a blur until Dela grabbed the attacker’s wrist, fighting like an angry cat, grunting and hissing. She’d had no reason to put herself in harm’s way, her pale flesh lethally close to the flashing knuckle blades—which Hari had tried to tell her, shouting orders to stay away, to run. His words might have been made of air. They passed through her, insubstantial, and he’d realized in one blazing moment of insight that she was trying to help. Her struggle was to keep the assassin from stabbing him.
Him.

She does not know.
And then,
She is fighting for me. Defending
me.

Unexpected, stunning. Actions told stories unexpressed by mere words, and her selfless courage staggered him.

And after the fight …

He dared not believe she was real, that she could risk so much, could speak such damning words as those which spilled over his soul, his open bleeding wounds, his old assumptions simmering in a brew of hate and tearing him apart. An hour previous he could not have cared whether she lived or died, and now …

Now I know why I had to protect her. She is worthy of a little spilled blood, if it means her safety.

Dela sat on the bed, head bent over her assailant’s blade, gaze intense upon something only she could see. She had only just stopped shaking—the attack had unnerved her more than
she would admit, but she had not cried or lost her senses. Grown men had shown less fortitude, men who did not care about the sacrifices made to keep them safe. Selfish, arrogant men—wrapped in veils of godhood, power—collecting enemies like silver, boasting of how many feared and hated their shadows upon the world. Inviting assassination as a dare, a challenge.

Dela was nothing like that. Hers was a quiet strength, a fire tempered by compassion. Or so he thought. Perhaps time would reveal another story, some reason even she had enemies desiring her death.

The attack was not random; Hari knew it in his heart. Someone had prepared the assassin, who had clearly expected Dela to be alone—strange to Hari, who had thought only shape-shifter women had the freedom to journey in solitude. Worry taunted him; an unfamiliar emotion, one long forgotten. Simple worry had no place in his life, not for two thousand years. How could an immortal, a slave, worry? The worst to come was pain, and he had experienced enough that the sensation no longer frightened him.

Still, worry. Not for himself, he realized, but for Dela.

Every moment spent in her presence bound her tighter and tighter to his senses—a dangerous attachment, unfathomable and confusing. He had never felt so many strong—and, if he dared admit it, passionate—emotions for a master.

No, Hari corrected—he had never experienced such feelings for anyone.

A low sound escaped Dela’s throat. Like by command, Hari suddenly found himself at her side, unaware of crossing the distance between them. He almost touched her, but held his hand tight against his thigh. Familiarity was dangerous; his trust was already coming too easily. The last summoner to whom he had bared himself had ruthlessly betrayed him.