Black Planet: Tiger Eyes Read online

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  Changeling Press LLC

  www.changelingpress.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Belinda McBride

  First published in 2008, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Black Planet: Tiger Eyes

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Belinda McBride

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  Black Planet: Tiger Eyes

  Belinda McBride

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2008 Belinda McBride

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 978-1-60521-105-3

  Formats Available:

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  MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader

  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1046

  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Vicki S. Burklund

  Cover Artist: Zuri

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Black Planet: Tiger Eyes

  Belinda McBride

  San Francisco: 2184 CE

  Sometimes, when you reach the end of the road, you find a twist you didn't expect. A hill rises, a trail breaks away and to your surprise, the end has become the beginning.

  Lieutenant Milo Greene's career is all that keeps him on his feet and functioning. He's lost everyone he ever loved, and now, only the job holds him together. When he looks to the future, he sees no reprieve.

  And then one day he looks up and sees his destiny standing in the doorway.

  Darah Lash is the most powerful Thalian present on Earth. Yet, to his people, he is a second-class citizen. He came to Earth with the small, desperate hope that he would find a woman who would accept him, mate him, and eventually bear his children. What he doesn't expect to find is love.

  Grace Chen is a wrecked shell of a woman. Once admired and feared, she is now on the brink of death, fighting for every day, every hour. In a vision, she is told to wait for the miracle, but it hasn't come yet. And if that miracle comes, will the cost be too high?

  Three paths end, one road begins.

  Destination: Black Planet.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  If she drank that last shot of whiskey, would she be able to make it home under her own power?

  Grace Chen contemplated the golden fluid in the tiny glass. She didn't particularly want it, but she couldn't take it with her and was too short of funds to buy a bottle.

  She was drinking on the house, a small token reward for clearing out some kids who'd decided to bust up the place. Not that busting it up would have made a difference. It was a challenge to find a single unbroken chair in this pathetic, moth-eaten dive. That's why she leaned against the cracked leather of the formerly elegant bar, her feet aching, every muscle in her body protesting.

  One more shot and the pain would fade. One more shot and she'd be able to sleep through the night. The cramps would be muffled, and the roaring in her ears would fade, if only a bit.

  One more shot and she'd be unable to fend for herself out on San Francisco's dark, treacherous streets.

  If she drank it now, fast, she might be able to move quickly enough that the alcohol wouldn't hit her system until she was safely behind locked doors.

  Gloved hands trembling, Grace checked the seedy bar, searching for enemies; even a friend could slow her enough to make a difference. She slipped her black leather jacket over the skin-tight bustier, and then stood upright, brushing off the chaps that covered her black jeans. Leather boots rose to her knees but were surprisingly light and supple. A wide, studded collar guarded her throat. Every inch of her body was protected, armed and cushioned.

  And she looked hot, to boot. Stilettos would be better, a g-string under the chaps, but hell...

  Ah well, vanity was a fleeting thing, best left in the past. Fetish just wasn't practical for battle.

  Taking on that gang had been stupid, but hell and damnation, they were getting on her nerves! And she wasn't dead yet. Seeing them fall to the floor, and then scatter like kittens ... that had been like the good old days when crowds had parted at her presence. The reality of that life had been harsh, but damn, she missed it.

  Seeing that all was clear, she lifted the fiery fluid to her lips and tossed it back, wincing at the sharp heat of the cheap alcohol. It hit her stomach in a blaze, joining the three other shots of the evening. She flicked a finger at the bartender. He nodded, waved back, and returned to his boxing match on the decrepit vid screen.

  Grace hit the antique leather-covered swinging door and stepped out into the foggy night. Standing quietly, she checked both directions, listening for those who might be lingering in wait. Once she was comfortable, she walked quickly, long legs covering ground smoothly.

  A quarter mile along she began to slow. At a half mile she propped her butt against a graffiti-covered wall, taking a rest.

  Yesterday, she'd made it two blocks further in before needing to stop. She rested her head against the boarded-over window, feeling the lump of her ponytail against the hard surface. It was ironic that, even as her body was breaking down, her hair grew as thick and lush as it ever had. Her skin was sallow, her eyes sunken, but her hair was beautiful. It was probably karma.

  As a girl, Grace had bragged to her cousins about her hair. She was secretly jealous of their twisted braids and poofy little pigtails. Their moms and grandmas had put in endless hours doing elaborate cornrows and plaits, while Grace's mom just scraped her hair back in a ponytail and sent her on her way.

  Her hair had been long, sleek and straight, and the object of envy. She found a weakness and exploited it, not caring that she hurt the other girls’ feelings.

  Then one morning, she woke to find that her ponytail had been cut off. When the story came out, her mother had slapped her silly and taken the scissors to the rest of her hair, trimming it nearly to her scalp.

  To her shame, her cousins all suffered the same fate.

  She'd learned to stop taking herself so seriously back then. She'd also realized that she wasn't jealous of her cousins’ hair, she was jealous of the attention they got from their mothers. Within weeks, she and Aiden had been bundled up with their belongings and sent to stay in Wharf, under the watchful eye of the Lee family. Her aunt, Windy Lee, had tousled her shorn locks and smiled, telling her how beautiful she was without all that hair hiding her face.

  Grace smiled at the memory as she pushed herse
lf off the wall to continue her journey. Another six blocks to her tiny apartment, a cubbyhole tucked above a store that sold Chinese movies and music.

  She'd have to move soon and was reluctant to do so. The residents on her street had turned a blind eye to her dark skin, choosing to see only her Chinese features and her protective virtues. In just weeks they'd made a home for her here in Chinatown. Her neighbors had become family, and after being alone for so long, Grace craved connections with other people. She longed for casual gossip and a friendly touch on the arm. Laughter and belonging.

  She'd found it here, among her father's people. She protected them, they protected her. Lately though, they were the ones doing the protecting.

  When members of Grace's old fight gang came hunting, asking about the tall, black woman, the neighbors treated them with bland, polite respect. Only Chinese here, they told the hunters. No outsiders in the neighborhood.

  When Shigeo Nakashima's Yakuza cruised through with casual arrogance, they were simply ignored as though they were ghosts. Gweilo.

  Nakashima's boys and girls had started after Grace about nine months ago, after her brother Aiden had skipped town with Annie Tanaka. She hadn't seen her brother in years, and hadn't made the connection until she'd picked up an old paper at Golden Palace Dim Sum. She'd read that her brother's woman had beheaded the wife of San Francisco's most powerful Yakuza. The couple had disappeared shortly thereafter leaving Grace to bear the brunt of Nakashima's grief and fury.

  Yeah, thanks for the warning, bro. Since Nakashima was unable to return the compliment directly to Aiden and Annie, he'd chosen to avenge himself on the next-of-kin.

  That would be Grace Chen.

  Nakashima and the Red Flags tag-teamed, sharing information, and pooling their sources, but they were always just a step behind Grace. She was rapidly running out of wiggle room here in the City. Grace had proven that she had more lives than an alley cat, dodging attempts on her life with skill, determination, and sheer dumb luck.

  With her former gang and the Yakuza covertly watching the docks, the rattle-trap BART system, and greasing the palms of the fishermen, escape from the City had proven impossible. She'd been cut off from her bank accounts, and had rapidly run through the little stashes of money she'd secreted away.

  She'd fled her nice, nearly luxurious digs in the Presidio and had been running ever since, squatting in tiny garage apartments in the South City, bunking down in noisy attic rooms in the Tenderloin. She'd stayed with a porn star at her posh Nob Hill address until Nakashima's people had tracked Grace and threatened the actress while she was filming. Glenda the Good Bitch might have poor taste in names, not to mention career choices, but she didn't deserve the attention of a psychotic crime lord.

  And Grace wasn't the one to criticize anybody for career choices.

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  She was four blocks from home when she saw movement in the fog, shadows that were just slightly darker than the night. Grace kept her hands buried in her pockets, hiding the black metal knuckle guards that she wore. Slowly, she freed one hand, a wicked, long bladed knife gleamed in the darkness.

  There were three, and normally, it wouldn't be a problem. But normal was a thing of the past, and Grace's new reality was a frightening place to live.

  "Last call, children.” She forced a wicked smile to her face, setting aside the fear, the nagging suspicion that death might come for her tonight. Grace quickly surveyed her strengths, what few of them remained, and her myriad weaknesses. It wasn't good.

  On the air, she smelled tofu and the lingering smells of the market; fish and fried foods, the elusive scent of ginseng and green tea. And tobacco.

  Tobacco gave her the grounding she needed, the focus on her center. Grace felt her body relax into muscle memory, moving easily into a harmless looking Hsing-I stance. When they came at her, she was Water Strider, slashing and stabbing with the wicked blade of the knife. She shifted to Tai Chi, flowing easily, and then she was Strider again, falling back, protecting her body, her skin ... she must protect her skin...

  She used to be Tiger, crushing with her hands, slashing with her fingers. She'd long since lost the strength that the Tiger needed to attack.

  A hot bite at her waist sent her back into stance. Two were down. The one that remained had caught her with a lucky move. The cut was shallow, superficial, but ultimately mortal. Hot blood slipped down into her waistband, carrying her life with it.

  With a feral grin, she tossed her knife into the air. His eyes tracked the weapon, and Grace struck, dislocating a shoulder, slamming his face into the battered cement of the sidewalk. Few women were tall enough, strong enough for Bear. It had been her last trick of the night.

  Stiffly, she squatted, picking up the knife, cleaning the blood from the blade, using the young man's pant leg to do so.

  Three down, broken but all alive. Her grandfather would be pleased.

  And Grace was still on her feet, though rapidly running out of time.

  She cut one man's shirt from his body, folded it against her skin, clumsily unhooking his belt next, binding the padding to her waist. Pressure would slow the bleeding somewhat. There wasn't much she could do about the infection that had probably already entered her bloodstream.

  Grace focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, but she walked away from Chinatown, heading east instead of west. She went down-City, into the unforgiving darkness of the old business district, stumbling over the shattered fragments of the Embarcadero. Down to her final stand, the last of her defenses.

  In front of her rose an intimidating façade, building upon building, stretching for block after block. The walls soared many stories; slick and smooth where they faced the City, a simple defense against the outside world. Inside was safety, but only for those who lived here. To the City dwellers, it was dangerous, challenging and hostile. To those inside, it was a haven.

  The wall was too tall to climb, but Grace was no stranger to Wharf. It had been years since she'd last come home, but she still remembered the hidden entrances.

  She pushed aside overgrown foliage, located a crumbling hole at the base of the wall and shimmied through it.

  It had been an easier fit a decade ago.

  She slipped into a crack in the wall. It was really an alley so narrow that she could barely stand square, and then she forced herself up a ramshackle ladder, which led to a ramp, which led to a ledge.

  Slowly, she climbed levels and jumped over treacherous ravines of metal and concrete. She passed the remains of a child's doll, a pile of dog shit. Grace crossed broad expanses of rooftops that were littered with pipes and electric wires. Music and voices whispered on the air. An unspoken law of Wharf was to respect your neighbor. It was always quiet in the late hours of the evening.

  Up she climbed, following the elusive smell of tobacco until she climbed into a window, dragged herself the length of a hall, and came to a dead stop before an impossibly thick, impenetrable metal door.

  If she'd had the energy, she'd have wept in frustration at this final obstacle, but instead, Grace leaned against the door. She was too weary, in too much pain to continue. Besides, the Lees were gone now; her old home was occupied by others. There was nowhere else to go, and she'd slept in worse places than this hallway.

  The smell of smoke still lingered, but it wasn't tobacco. It was something else, wood and plaster, and the smell of new construction.

  Lacking anything better to do, she tried the huge lever. When it gave, her eyes grew large with suspicion. She pushed, and the door rolled easily to the side.

  "Hello?” Her harsh, tired voice echoed in the space, but no one answered.

  In the darkness, she heard the hum of some sort of appliance, so there was electricity. She stumbled into the room, hands outstretched, until she felt the fabric of a lampshade. Her night vision had steadily faded over the past year. When she twisted the bulb, it lit, dazzling her eyes.

  The space was huge, a one-room loft, wooden floors, newly pla
stered walls, and an eastern bank of windows that promised a spectacular view of the dawn. Looking around, she saw a door to a bathroom. She pushed her way into the small space. It was empty save for a bar of soap on the sink and toilet paper on an old holder.

  Inside the cabinet there was a toothbrush still in its package, toothpaste that was unused. A comb that had no hair in the teeth. A brand new towel, still tagged.

  She stripped, and then gingerly removed the makeshift bandage. As she suspected, the injury wasn't bad, the blood loss minimal. But in her condition, just the tiniest bit of bleeding could precipitate a crisis. One or two microbes could bring her to the grave.

  Grace ran the shower and groaned in relief as the water flowed warm, and then hot. She stepped in, gritting her teeth as the water bit into the cut, hissing as she soaped the tender flesh. She worked her hair loose of the band and washed the smell of the seedy bar from her body.

  As the water began to run cool, she twisted the handles and stepped out, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  She'd always been proud of her body, her long, muscled limbs and sensual curves. Her body had been the legacy of her mother. Her glossy, straight black hair had been her father's contribution to the recipe. Grace had been the winner in a game of genetic roulette.

  Now, she was approaching gaunt. Her jeans were cinched tightly. She'd poked new holes in the straps of her leathers. Under exotic, almond-shaped eyes, Grace's cheekbones stood out in stark contrast to the hollows in her cheeks. Her eyes were shadowed, her full lips pale. She scrubbed her face with her hands and turned away. Eyes on the prize, sister. You're still alive.

  Her transfusion was a week away, but she needed blood now. An early transfusion would cost her dearly, and Grace had only one coin with which to pay, and that might not be acceptable. Few people, male or female, wanted to fuck a dying woman.

  The face in the mirror had frightened her just a bit. The loss of beauty held little fear compared to the loss of life. In quiet moments like this, Grace knew that she was terrified of dying. Her life was hard, but it was better than the alternative.