Tiger Eye by Marjorie M. Liu

unthinking rage. For one moment she felt him kiss her back, his lips pressing hard as fire-warmed steel against her mouth. Dela savored his scent, his heat. Tears burned her eyes.
    And then he stumbled, pulling away. Not far, only a breath, his eyes unveiling a story of pain, inhuman resolve. Rage. Longing. Dela felt Hari’s soul echo inside her heart, the bond that had gone quiet unexpectedly humming, electric and pure. She breathed in the memory of his golden light.
    “I need to kill that man,” Hari whispered, pleading.
    “I know you do,” Dela breathed, hating herself. “But if you kill him now, with so many witnesses, you will throw your life away.”
    His lips compressed into a hard white line. “Delilah, please. I have no life. Nothing but this. Let me go. I do not know how it is possible, but the Magi is here, now. I may not have another chance.”
    Dela shook her head, stubborn. She was not going to let him do this. Not now, no matter how much it hurt.
    “Hari, no. He must have been waiting for you at the Dirt Market. Think about it. He wanted the box. He wanted you. This isn’t over. This is just the beginning.”
    Dela knew she was right. This was not over. Not for Hari, and not for her.
    Something passed through his face; a spasm, a trembling in his firm lips. For a moment, she was sure he would refuse, that she would find herself flung down, but then, slowly, carefully, he nodded.
    Shaken, Dela pressed her forehead against his cheek and brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth. She could not guess what this was costing him.
    “Thank you,” she breathed, humbled. “Thank you for trusting me.”
    Dela heard clapping, and glanced over her shoulder. The Magi was smiling, applauding like a particularly smarmy wind-up monkey.
    “A wonderful performance. Quite touching, considering the length of time you’ve been acquainted. And to think, I actually believed you did not like men.”
    “You’re not a man,” she said, thankful for her strong, sure voice. Her body felt like jelly. Hari helped untangle her limbs from his body, displaying gentleness completely at odds with the anger she felt sieving through his pores. His tenuous control, balanced on a razor’s edge.
    The Magi smirked. “That is not what Hari’s sister said.”
    Dela almost forgot her own warnings, overcome with revulsion and the sudden desire to beat the Magi’s brains to pulp. Instead, she clutched Hari’s hand, eyeing the rapid pulse below the shape-shifter’s locked jaw. If Hari committed any violence, there would be no hiding—not with so many witnesses, not with such a memorable face and form. Nor would the American government be any help—Hari simply did not exist yet. The Chinese legal system would never let him go.
    Hari met her gaze, and she let him see her anger and grief, a sympathetic twin to his own apparent heartbreak. Emotion roared in his eyes and then was gone, drawn behind determination. He looked at the Magi.
    “I thought you were dead,” he said, unlocking his jaw. Dela heard it pop, crack. His voice was terrible to hear, low and visceral. “Dust to the ages. It was one of my few pleasures, but even that … even that you deny me. How many did you sacrifice in order to survive?”
    Hari might have asked the time of day for all the reaction he received. The Magi tilted his head. “Would you believe me if I said none at all?”
    “No.”
    The Magi smiled. “I am not here to fight you, Hari. Not yet, anyway.”
    Again, something slid against Dela’s mental shields: thick, oily, persistent.
    “Stop it,” she snapped, unconcerned if she revealed herself. Hari suspected, and it was clear the Magi already knew and was testing her. She hated the feel of his mind, prying at the surface of her own like a thick crowbar. He made her feel dirty.
    The Magi chuckled. “You are a very interesting young woman. A surprise, and I encounter few of those. Did you know, Hari, that your new mistress is herself a