Tiger Eye (15 page)

But thinking of Hari was far more pleasant than contemplating the person—or people—who apparently wanted her dead.

Dela stared at the ceiling, running through the past ten years of her life—every major argument or strange encounter—and came up with nothing important enough to kill over. Nothing worth her life. Nothing except the agency.

It was a risk they all lived with, that the government or military would discover their powers, that the media might catch wind of the agency’s true purpose and light the fire of scrutiny under their collective psychic asses. No one wanted to end up in a lab or on the cover of
National Enquirer.

But Roland had been emphatic; Dirk & Steele was safe, its cover still intact. Which meant this was somehow
her
fault.

Dela blew out her breath, exasperated. True, she knew she had a talent for irritating people. She was too blunt, completely undiplomatic, with dislikes that were painfully obvious. But to hire an assassin?

“You cannot sleep.” Hari’s voice floated from the darkness.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

“I was not sleeping, either. You are still thinking of who might want you dead?”

“Yes. I’m not coming up with anything.”

“You know the answer, even if you are not aware of it. Give yourself time.”

“Ha. You’re implying I’ve actually done something deserving of murder.”

“That is unfair,” he said.

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But true.”

He was silent for a moment. “I find it difficult to believe you have enemies, Delilah. I have seen nothing in you to warrant such hate. But perhaps it is jealousy you are encountering. Men and women have been killed for less. Is there a … a lover in your past—or present—who would wish you harm?”

“No,” Dela said. “There have been some men, but not for a long time. They wouldn’t have any reason to hurt me, either. Our separations were amicable.” Amicable because Dela and her few boyfriends had always known the relationship was temporary. Dela never allowed herself more.

She thought Hari sighed, but it could have been her imagination.

“Rest,” he said. “I will take care of you.”

Dela smiled. “And I’ll take care of you.”

“I do not dare dream of such a gift,” he murmured, and they talked no more for the rest of the night.

Dela finally did manage to sleep, and when they both rose early the next morning to go to the Dirt Market, she felt more cheerful. Hari’s fake papers were coming, and with those in hand they would get the hell out of China. Maybe this mess would follow them, but back in Dela’s own territory, with friends to help her and Hari, the illusion of safety would feel fine indeed.

But when they exited the hotel, morning sun glowing silver through the light haze of Beijing’s smog, Dela glanced up at Hari and realized they had another slight problem. A problem fully appreciated when a cab pulled up and Hari could not fit inside.

It was almost funny, watching his unsuccessful attempts to bend like a pretzel into the backseat of the small red vehicle. Foreigners and locals alike stared with open-mouthed fascination as Hari struggled to cram all seven feet of bone and muscle into an interior even Dela found tiny. A young bellboy finally darted into the hotel, reemerging with the desk manager.

The graying, bespectacled man looked at the massive leg hanging out the side of the cab and shook his head. He gestured at Dela.

“I can arrange a larger car for you, courtesy of the hotel,” he said, his expression pained.

So Dela and Hari got a van, with a driver. The driver didn’t seem to care that Hari was almost seven feet tall, or that he might have to drive them all over the city for the entire day. An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and his narrow dark eyes, set in a sweaty face, stared only at the winding road.

Even with the larger vehicle, the ride to the Dirt Market was uncomfortable. Hari’s knees were pressed to his broad chest and his shoulders hunched so his head would not bump the ceiling. Dela worried about his claustrophobia, but the van’s large windows seemed to ease whatever pain he felt from confinement.

Dela sat up front next to the driver, and whenever she glanced over her shoulder to see how Hari was faring, she found him watching the passing city, his eyes wide with wonder. Sunlight poured through the van windows, bathing his body. His variegated hair looked streaked by fire, his tawny skin glowing warm. He was unearthly, beautiful—a man outside time with another world in his searching eyes.

The blue gate had already been flung open by the time they reached the Dirt Market. The taciturn driver parked across the street, saying nothing when Dela reiterated their need for him to wait. When she handed him a twenty, he finally smiled, revealing a remarkable set of yellow teeth.

The merchants were still setting up. Dela and Hari stood in the shade of an old brick wall, watching men and women trudge through the gate with bicycles laden by wares. Wrapped vases stacked in carts; mountains of boxes holding jade, paper fans, statutes of Buddha or Gu Gong; stone bowls, ceramic lions and crouching women; antique weapons, scroll paintings, charms, and musty books.

If Dela thought Hari attracted attention in the hotel and mall, it was nothing compared to the feast of eyes that followed his presence on the city street in broad daylight. Not that she blamed everyone for staring. In a place where blond hair or very dark skin might merit a speculative glance, Hari was seven feet of exotic temptation.

Children, accompanying their merchant parents to assigned stalls, ogled Hari with speechless awe. So struck by him that they could not even muster the strength to point, the children stood in a loose circle, like an audience to some silent show where Hari was the only star. A smile shadowed Hari’s face, and Dela watched as he slowly knelt to tighten the straps of his sandals, the last remnant of his ancient clothing.

The children whispered. A little girl, her eyes huge in her
heart-shaped face, shuffled close with an orange popsicle melting down her delicate wrist. Hari continued to fuss with his sandals. Dela watched the little girl touch his multi-hued hair.

Hari’s eyes snapped up and the girl smiled—so sweet, so pure, it made Dela’s throat ache. Hari returned the smile, and it was everywhere: his lips, his eyes, in the hand that reached out to flick the child’s nose.

The little girl squealed with laughter and tugged harder on Hari’s hair, sticky fingers tangled in auburn, honey, and sable. He let her play with him, and there was nothing hard in his face; his eyes were completely unguarded. His gentleness profound. Emotion swelled in Dela’s throat; her eyes felt hot.

“Where are you from?” the girl asked in Chinese. “The others don’t think you’re real.”

Hari glanced at Dela with a mischievous slant to his mouth, and it took her a moment to remember the curse allowed him to understand different languages.

“I am from the forest and the mountain,” he said in perfect Mandarin, “and if your friends do not believe I am real, they are welcome to match your courage and see for themselves.”

The child’s nose scrunched with delight, and all Hari’s young admirers were soon tangling his hair, trying to climb his arms and back. He got into the game with easy grace, standing to his full height while children clutched his shoulders and outstretched hands, shrieking with delight. He swung them in wide circles, a human merry-go-round. Dela had trouble keeping her eyes off him, and he shot her heated, playful glances that made her heart shake inside her chest.

Finally, almost painfully, she managed to look away and scan the growing throng. Quite a few people were watching Hari and the children, but beyond them, in the market, the stalls were almost ready for the mid-morning onslaught of
tourists and local shoppers. The old woman would surely be there by now.

She glanced at Hari, hesitating. He was having such a good time playing mountain to the monkeys; it seemed a crime to interrupt. Surely there were enough people here that the Magi or her mysterious assassin would not try anything. Nothing had happened the night before, and this was much more public.

Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll eventually believe it. Preferably before you get shot, stabbed, or mentally mutilated.

But it seemed so mean to make Hari stop. Such a small thing, playing with children, but she could feel him basking in their laughter, in the freedom of being allowed a moment of innocent play. No blood, no war, no pain.

She almost left him then. A little danger seemed a cheap price for joy.

Perhaps Hari read her mind. He glanced at her, and something stern touched his gaze, though his smile never faltered. He said something to the children, and within moments they slid down his back and dropped from his arms like dark-eyed cherubs tumbling from a tree. When the last was safely standing, Hari waved good-bye and made his way to Dela. His smile faded.

“You were thinking of leaving without me,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his grave eyes.

“Well,” she said, suddenly feeling very small and somewhat rattled, “you were having such a good time with the children. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

Hari’s frown deepened. “Your safety is all that matters to me, Delilah. If anything happens to you, I—”

“I know, I know.” She held up her hands, lowering her gaze. Her heart hurt with shame, and something deeper yet. “If I die, you go straight back into that box. I’m sorry, Hari.”

“Delilah.” His voice was sharp. “I do not care about the box.”

His voice resonated through her, and Dela stared in wonder, unable to speak, unable to find the right words for such an incredible statement. And just when she thought words might never be enough, Hari took her hand and pulled her toward the first gauntlet of stalls.

“Come,” he said gently, “we have an old woman to find.”

They walked quickly; it was early enough in the day that the two of them could move easily down the open corridors. Dela ignored pleas to stop, eager sales pitches becoming nothing more than a buzz in her ears. She opened her mind, seeking the presence of weapons on the people surrounding her, but there was too much metal—from the wares to the girders to the tin roof—and she could not filter the whispers into anything comprehensible. Dela threw up her shields. Silence returned, blessed and sweet.

Dela retraced her steps, walking a circuitous route through ceramic jugs and cheap paintings—so new the oils and inks were still wet—until suddenly, vibrant Tibetan tapestries winked through a crack in the crowd. Relief coursed through her. Finally, some answers.

Hari stiffened as they approached. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, nostrils flaring.

“What is it?” Dela looked around. Everything seemed normal: dirty, crowded, loud.

Hari took a deep, shuddering breath. “Shape-shifter,” he exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “A fresh scent. The same as last night.”

“What are you waiting for?” Dela gave him a small push. “Go chase after it!”

“I cannot leave you,” he protested, and there was a wild look in his eyes—torn, yet determined. He began tugging Dela behind him—in a direction leading away from the tapestries—and Dela growled, digging in her heels.

“No.” She fought his grip. “You go without me. I need to find that old woman.”

“Delilah,” he warned. Dela shook her head, stubborn.

“You can’t be with me all the time, and I can take care of myself. Please. Both of us have something important to do. It’ll be better if we split up. Besides”—and here she smiled, pretending to be braver than she felt—”the curse won’t let you leave me for long, right?”

Hari hesitated, and then leaned close. He wrapped a gentle hand around the back of her neck, and whispered, “I meant what I said, Delilah. I do not care about the box.”

Dela smiled, this time for real. “Go find your shape-shifter, Hari.”

Hari’s lips compressed into a hard line; his thumb brushed lightly against her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He nodded once, then tore his gaze away, turning, slipping gracefully down the crowded aisle. Dela watched him for a moment, then went to find the old woman.

Except, the old woman was nowhere to be found. Dela padded up and down the entire aisle looking at each face, hunting for that youthful countenance with its wise ancient eyes.

“Excuse me,” Dela said, sidling close to a young woman sorting embroidered cloth. Small and bony, her dark cheeks bore acne scars; as she turned to face Dela, a strand of black hair fell loose from a red butterfly clip and covered her glittering eyes.

Dela gestured to the stall beside them—which, minus its owner, looked ready for a good day’s sale. “I was here yesterday and bought some things from your neighbor, an old woman. She wore dark red pants, a black t-shirt. I need to find her. Will she be back soon?”

The young woman’s gaze went flat, cold, and Dela got the once-over from hell—the kind that was supposed to make a
person feel like a dog caught eating its own shit. Because Dela was not a dog, nor inclined to dump a load in public, she simply raised her eyebrows and waited.

When the young Chinese woman finally spoke, her words were staggeringly unexpected. “She’s dead.” Simple, without a trace of emotion.

A sound escaped Dela’s throat—blood roared in her ears. “That’s impossible,” she stammered. “She can’t be dead.”

The young woman shrugged and went back to sorting cloth. Dela grabbed her sleeve. “Her stall is set up for business. You’re lying to me.”

“Am I?” The woman glared at Dela’s hand. “She’s dead. I own her business now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The woman yanked her arm away, mumbling something about stupid foreigners. Dela gritted her teeth. “Where is she?
Tell me.”

The young woman shook her head, lips pressed into a stubborn line. Like a mule; Dela wasn’t sure dynamite would loosen those lips.

Face flushed with anger, Dela straightened, noticing at once that she held the badly concealed interest of every merchant in the aisle.

“I’ll pay,” she said loudly, lifting her chin when the young woman in front of her snarled something incomprehensible. “For anything. A name, a location, the
truth.
It’s very important I find that old woman.”