Tiger Eye by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

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 thanshe 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.
    Hari did not speak. He allowed his presence to ask the question, and Dela seemed to feel the press of his silent words.
    “I know this knife,” she said, disbelief coloring her words. “I made this knife.”
    Hari gingerly sat beside her, again surprised. “You are a metalsmith?”
    “Of a kind,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I am an artist, but I also craft weapons. Do you think that’s strange?”
    Hari could not help himself; he allowed her to see his smile, and it felt good. “I am a shape-shifter, cursed to spend eternity as a slave: I exist in a box when not in flesh, and I cannot be killed. In the face of all that, I would say your ability to work metal is unbearably ordinary.”
    She laughed; a delightful sound, cut too short. Her eyes went dark as she stared at the long blade, the steel emblazoned with the intricate rendering of a coiled dragon.
    “The knife was a