Tiger Eye by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

special order for a client. I don’t usually take personal contracts, but this fellow promised to donate a lot of money to an arts program for children if I crafted the blade. I don’t like having my arm twisted, but he was adamant. He wanted an original Dela Reese knife, and he made sure everyone knew his donation hinged on my decision.” She shook her head. “The knife was stolen three months ago, straight from its shipment to the client.”
    “The person who stole the weapon had a specific purpose in mind,” Hari said, taking the knife from her. The blade was as long as her forearm, closer to a short sword than a dagger. The hilt was elegant in its simplicity, deceptively subtle, the workmanship revealing a brilliant, breathless quality that begged an admiring hand. Hari’s burgeoning respect deepened.
    “Someone planned this,” Dela said, horror shading her voice. “Someone with enough money and connections to track me down in China.”
    “Do you have enemies?” Hari traced the engraving with his fingers.
    Dela shook her head. “I keep to myself, spend most of my time alone. I have a close circle of friends, all of whom are above reproach.”
    “A smile on the face hides a dagger on the tongue.”
    Dela began to protest and Hari inclined his head. “I am sorry, Delilah, but as you said, someone planned this. Someone who knows you well.”
    “You can call me Dela,” she grumbled.
    Dela is not the name of a queen or a warrior , he thought, but said, “I prefer Delilah. It suits you.”
    “Maybe when you say it,” she muttered, standing up. Her eyes were hard as she looked at the knife cradled in his hands. Hari returned the dagger, hilt first. Dela’s grip was firm, easy. He noticed muscles flex in her arm, lean and strong—arms of a woman accustomed to hard work. Yet there was something else in her movements when she held the blade, some graceful instinct that called to him.
    “You have some skill with the weapons you make,” he said. Dela shrugged, cheeks slightly flushed. Embarrassed, he thought, though he did not understand why.
    “I’m no expert,” she said.
    “But you know enough to respect what you make.”
    A pleased yet sad smile touched her lips. “No weapon is ever truly ornamental. It’s just sleeping, waiting for its purpose.”
    “Which is to harm others.”
    “You understand,” she said. After a moment, she added, “It’s strange, being drawn to make things that can harm or kill. Sometimes I feel guilty, but I still craft the steel, forge the blades. It’s almost a compulsion.” Dela grimaced. “I am not a violent person,” she said, almost pleading.
    “I believe you,” Hari said. “But the weapons still fulfill somethinginside your heart, some desire. If not to kill, then to express the darkness that is part of every great passion.”
    Dela looked at him. “And how do you express the darkness of your passion?”
    Hari felt cold. “I have no passion. And if I did, my hands are covered in two thousand years of blood. Death would be my expression.”
    “That’s … depressing.”
    Hari grunted, and pointed at the dagger. She made him talk too much about himself. He wanted to change the subject.
    “I once knew a dragon,” he said, again doing what he had planned not to do, and yet unable to stop the spill of words. “A very kind man, if you were his friend. Enemies did not last long.”
    He managed to shut his mouth, afraid he had said too much, as though even that admission would curse him, call down some act of duplicity to tear his trust. Until now, he had never talked about himself to his masters.
    Dela’s eyes opened wide with surprise, innocent disbelief. “An actual dragon?”
    “A shape-shifter, to be exact. A man who could, at will, take the body of a dragon, just as I once wore the shape of a tiger.”
    “You could really change your shape? It’s so difficult to believe.”
    He could taste her wonder, and pleasure stalked him, unbidden.
    “Look into