Tiger Eye by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

Magicker?”
    The term was unfamiliar to Dela, but she could guess its meaning. Hari did not seem to care. “Leave her be, Magi. Do not even think of harming her.”
    “Or what?” His teeth were too white, sharp. They seemed to click when he spoke.
    “Or I will kill you.” It was a soft promise that made Dela shiver.
    The Magi laughed, holding out elegant brown hands, fingers curled like claws. “You will do that anyway, Hari. But not today, in front of so many strangers. Not with so much left to do. No, no. Your mistress is right. Today, you and I will talk.”
    Dela glanced around; no one seemed to be paying attention to the substance of their conversation, though several elderly Chinese men grouped against the glass railing were watching avidly, whispering to each other.
    Fine entertainment, as long as no one pokes out any eyes or plays tug-of-war with entrails.
    “Talk.” Hari’s lip curled. “What could we possibly say to one another? You broke your oath, murdered my sister and her unborn child, and condemned me to spend eternity as a slave.” He threw back his head, his throat working convulsively. A strangled gasp passed his lips. “You are a fool to show your face, but to expect more? Insanity.”
    The Magi glided close. It was disconcerting watching him, his shoulders relaxed, his smile lazy. His eyes betrayed him, though—they were cold glass, sharp and bright, completely unafraid. Even with Hari at her side, Dela felt isolated under that gaze, vulnerable. She had escaped this man once before, but looking into his face, she wondered if she had been lucky—if simple surprise had been her only savior.
    Dela searched his body with her mind, seeking steel, any kind of metal. She found nothing. He was completely unarmed. No less dangerous, though—she remembered his strength, his inhuman rage. The hollow void of his eyes. He frightened her, and she did not trust him. Not one bit.
    “I have been searching for you, Hari,” said the Magi softly. “For nearly two thousand years I have walked the earth, hoping to tell you this: I am sorry. I was a different man then. Time has taught me the error of my ways.”
    To anyone else he might have sounded as sincere as the Dalai Lama, but Dela could taste his deceit like a squirming worm in her mouth.
    “Bullshit,” she said, angry. She felt Hari stir, but refused to look at him, instead staring deep into the Magi’s frightening eyes. A deep calm descended over her mind. “Why are you really here?”
    He did not try to pretend. His contrite mask evaporated like a noxious fume. A horrible, startling, transformation. “Can’t you read me?” he asked, tapping his forehead, his smile sly.
    “Do not speak to him,” Hari warned. “Do not tell him your name, do not stare too long into his eyes. Anything you give him, he will use against you. He is a master manipulator.”
    The Magi lay a hand over his heart. “I am a survivor, Hari. Just like you. Perhaps our methods differ, but in the end, we are still both animals. Ruled by instinct, hunger—” He looked at Dela. “—lust.”
    Hari’s muscles bunched, and again Dela squeezed his hand. The Magi’s smile widened, and he said something in a musical language she did not understand. Hari stiffened, and a moment later spat out a tangle of incomprehensible words.
    “Oh, he likes you,” said the Magi, once again turning his cool gaze on Dela. “How very interesting.”
    Hari tucked Dela behind him. She began to protest, but one look at his face and the words died on her tongue. This time, it was Hari who squeezed her hand, a gentle fleeting pressure, warm and solid.
    “Say what you must,” Hari said, his voice low, rough. “I am tired of these games. I can ignore you just as easily as I can fight you.”
    “You were always a terrible liar.” The Magi tilted his head. “There is too much history between us, Hari. Too much blood and pain. We are the tragedies myths are made of, bound together until some