Dirk & Steele 01 - Tiger Eye by Marjorie M. Liu

Author:Marjorie M. Liu
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-10-11T16:00:36+00:00

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Chapter Seven

After that particular announcement, Dela did her own share of vomiting, but in the privacy of her bathroom. She could hear the men talking in the other room, but their voices were muffled. Dela did not want to hear what they were saying. The horror was too great. Her throat felt thick with grief, but she could not cry. She wanted to, desperately, but tears refused to come. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, and hated what she saw.

I made that knife with my own hands. I gave it life, and it killed a child.

Her desire to craft weapons, knives—her knowledge of their dark purpose—had finally slammed together to form an awful, incomprehensible result.

But why was she surprised? Every time she made a weapon, it begged for blood. Not literally, but what else was a blade for, except cutting, spilling, encouraging pain and death? What else? Not just decoration. Not just art. Even she was not so naive as to believe a knife was ever truly safe. Dela had reconciled herself to that.

But a child?

Dela felt reminded of scientists working in their labs to build a better bomb or high-tech weapon, concentrating on the science, forgetting the human cost, the results of such experimental tinkering. All Dela ever thought about was the steel, giving it a useful shape. Death was a part of her considerations, but distant, a shadow. Unreal.

And yet, despite her disgust, her horror, she could still taste the need for steel at the back of her throat, the dark desire to forge and craft things other than "safe art." No soft rounded curves, but sharp, sharp, sharp.

Am I a monster? Dela asked herself. If not, then what am I?

Someone knocked softly on the bathroom door.

"Go away," she ordered. The door opened anyway, and Hari peered in. Their eyes met, and then distance blurred and he pulled her away from the sink into his arms. He held her tight, stroking her hair, and suddenly the tears no longer hid; they ran rivers down her cheeks onto Hari's shirt. Dela sobbed, and it was fierce, choking, and ugly.

Hari said nothing. He stood with her, warm and comforting, and she knew instinctively that no matter how bad things were, Hari would understand. He would understand because he had lived through worse than she could imagine. He would understand because he was her friend.

He would understand because… because he loved her?

Dela knew he desired her—that he lusted—but lust was not the same as love, and she had never been free with her heart or her body. And yet, she knew what Hari felt had to have some spark of the genuine. Even in her despair she could feel their connection, burning like a live wire in her heart, new and frightening and wonderful. Something deeper than simple friendship.

Love is a leap of faith. You must leap, and believe Hari will catch you as you fail. And if he does not, that is the way of things. You will not be the only girl to have ever suffered a broken heart.

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