Within the Flames d&s-11

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “What is it?” asked Eddie. His voice was low, thick with concern, and sent an aching rumble through her heart.

  “You ever feel like you have a split personality inside your head?” Lyssa tried to make it sound like a joke, but he gave her an odd look that made her feel embarrassed. “Never mind.”

  Eddie’s mouth softened into a faint smile. He took her right hand in his, holding it loose and warm — and then, as if that wasn’t shock enough, he kissed her palm — with breathtaking gentleness.

  The heat of his touch soaked through the glove. Muscles she hadn’t even known were tense seemed to relax, and a tight knot buried deep in her chest unwound, just a little. No one had ever held that deformed hand of hers. It felt strange and good. Too good.

  “I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Hard to breathe. Lyssa felt naked in his gaze but anchored, too. More safe, more accepted, than she had in years — right now, in this moment. She didn’t know if that made her a fool or naïve — or very lucky — but it scared her enough that she pulled her hand free and backed away from him.

  “Lyssa,” said Eddie, but she stepped out in the street in front of an oncoming cab. The driver barely stopped in time and leaned on his horn. Lyssa ignored his ire, slid around to the side, and got in. So did Eddie before she could shut the door.

  “What are you doing?” he said to her, angry. “Running again?”

  “Screw you,” she replied, even though he was right. “Get out of this cab.”

  “No,” he snapped. “Forget about that. And next time, try not to get yourself run over.”

  “Hey,” said the driver, flicking his fingers at them. “Take it outside or give me a place to drive. I don’t got all day.”

  Neither did she, unfortunately. Eddie stared at her challengingly, and she shook her head, heart aching as she gave the cab driver the address. He accelerated so hard she slammed backward.

  “Women,” he muttered, and turned up the volume on his radio — and kept turning it up — until reggae music seemed to flood every molecule of her body with the not-so-relaxing urge to claw through the divider and rip apart that radio. Her eardrums vibrated. So did her teeth.

  Eddie grimaced. Moments later, she heard a loud click, and the radio quit.

  The driver said, “Shit, man.”

  “Check your wiring,” he told him. “Sometimes it burns.”

  Lyssa stared, and he gave her a disarming smile that made all her anger at him feel petty and misplaced.

  “Well, it does,” he said.

  She shook her head, planting her feet on the floor, so they wouldn’t start bouncing nervously. “I need your phone.”

  “You’re using it now, but not earlier?”

  “Circumstances have changed. I don’t have time for pay phones, and it’s clear I’m not protecting anyone by trying.”

  “So who are you calling?” Eddie gave her a surprisingly wary look as he placed the phone in her hand.

  “Jimmy,” she said, wondering why he seemed relieved by her answer. “The little boy.”

  She dialed his number, but the phone rang and rang. He didn’t pick up.

  Icky probably needed a walk.

  Maybe he went back to school.

  He’s in the bathroom.

  Taking a nap.

  “If that kid’s not hurt, I’m killing him,” she muttered, trying again — still receiving no answer. There was no machine to leave a message. The phone rang twenty times before the call was disconnected.

  “Jimmy seemed like a good kid,” Eddie said. “What little I saw of him.”

  “The best. I’ve known him and his mother for about a year.” A year too long if this ended badly.

  But what was I going to do? Turn my back on them? Pretend they didn’t need my help and protection in that underground hellhole? I couldn’t do that.

  There are some things you can’t run from, she thought.

  I wouldn’t want to, she realized.

  Lyssa made another call and suffered another endless round of rings, each one driving into her skull with the same hammering force of that reggae music — only much worse. Eddie watched her with concern but kept silent. Just there. Strong, and there. Which she appreciated more than she cared to admit.

  She tried Jimmy’s mother, who worked at an upscale deli in Midtown.

  “Tina’s not back from her lunch break,” said the girl who answered. “Our boss is pissed.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “An hour. Bitch,” she murmured, and then, louder: “If you get hold of her, tell her she better get her ass back, like now. Dishes are piling up, and the bathroom needs new toilet paper.”

  Lyssa hung up, her head pounding. “Dammit.”

  “Talk to me,” Eddie said.

  She glanced at the cab driver, but he was on his cell phone, making an angry speech about his radio.

  “Jimmy’s mother isn’t back from lunch. That’s not like her. She takes her job too seriously. Something’s wrong. If the Cruor Venator got them. .”

  Her voice choked off, her throat closing up as if actual fingers were squeezing the life out of her. Lyssa clawed at her scarf, uncaring if anyone saw her dragon scales. She couldn’t breathe.

  Eddie reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist, stilling her. No words. Just his touch. Heat seeped through her skin, deeper into muscle, bone — soothing, embracing, a sweet fire that once again made her think of kinder days, softer memories.

  The knot in her throat loosened. Lyssa drew in a deep breath.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “We’ll find them, Lyssa. That’s what we do.”

  She took another breath. “I’m afraid that knowing me is going to ruin their lives.”

  He squeezed her wrist, very gently. But there was nothing gentle about the way he looked at her.

  “I’ve seen lives ruined,” he said in a too-soft voice. “I’ve seen people hurt in unspeakable ways. I know what that looks like. I know what it feels like. So when I tell you, Lyssa, that you’ve ruined nothing. . I know what I’m talking about.”

  He let go of her. “Don’t blame yourself for things that are out of your control. The world is unforgiving enough.”

  It was still hard to breathe, but for a different reason. “Jimmy and his mother are beneath the contempt of women like the Cruor Venator. If those witches have hurt them. . it’s because of me. To hurt me.”

  “Sounds like it would be easier to kill you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  But “easy” wasn’t the point. Death would be the last on a very long list of things that the Cruor Venator would do to her.

  If you let her, murmured the dragon. You have a choice.

  My mother had no choice, replied Lyssa.

  You are wrong. She chose your father. She chose you. Your survival. That was a good choice. What you choose is cowardice. Because you do not trust yourself.

  So true. How come, then, she was finding it easier to trust a stranger than her own heart? Why did she want to trust him. . even more then she wanted to trust herself?

  It made no sense. It felt crazy.

  Crazy and right.

  If I could tell you my secrets, she thought at Eddie, but there was no way to explain just one part of the story without spilling the whole thing. . and that was something she could not do. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Eddie filled up his side of the backseat, exuding calm and strength, and resolve — though the hard light in his eyes made all of that seem dangerous. “Is this another trap?”

  “I don’t know.” When Lyssa dialed the phone again, her hands shook. Only this time, she got a busy signal.

  “Someone’s there,” she said.

  Fifteen agonizing minutes later, she was racing up three flights of stairs — oozing sweat, sick to her stomach. The elevator was too slow coming to the lobby, and she didn’t fancy the idea of being stuck in a metal box.
/>   Eddie was right behind her, moving just as quick and silent. Waves of heat pulsed off his body — or maybe that was her, suffering the wild rise of fire in her blood. Her mouth tasted sour. Her head hurt. So did her right arm, muscles burning from her fingers to her neck.

  When they reached the fourth-floor landing, Eddie grabbed her shoulder.

  “Slow,” he whispered. “Don’t lose your head.”

  Too late, she thought, hearing a muffled, distant scream. It sounded like Tina.

  Lyssa did not run, though — not when Eddie opened the landing door and entered the corridor, not when she followed him — staring past his shoulder at the apartment door. No more screams, but she heard Tina sobbing.

  Another door cracked open. A middle-aged black woman peered out, holding a cigarette between her fingers. A phone was in her other hand.

  “Calling the cops,” she muttered. “Can you hear that? Quieting down, but it’s been crazy for the past hour. I like to mind my business, but that don’t sound right.”

  “Ma’am,” said Eddie, in that low, quiet voice. “We are the police. We’ll handle this. Just go back inside and stay there.”

  “Don’t come out, no matter what you hear,” Lyssa told her, and whatever the woman saw in her eyes made her nod real quick and close her door.

  As they neared the apartment, Lyssa heard glass shatter — and a man’s muffled voice through the door.

  “I fucking bought you, bitch. I married your worthless ass, and you run from me? You take my son?”

  Each word was filled with venom and hate. Lyssa couldn’t imagine listening to that vomit day after day, chained to a man who treated her like garbage. It hurt. It was horrible. And she wasn’t even the target.

  Lyssa glanced at Eddie, and a chill swept over her. His eyes were flat, dead, his mouth little more than a compressed line.

  “That doesn’t sound like Betty or Nikola,” he said, and the barely controlled rage in his voice touched a part of her that was rough and primitive, and hungry for blood. “Is he her husband?”

  “Used to be,” said Lyssa, feeling grim as death. “Tina left this piece of crap. His name’s Aaron Roacher. He likes mail-order brides who don’t speak English.”

  And then it got worse.

  “Don’t you touch her!” screamed Jimmy, and the rawness of his voice hit Lyssa’s heart like a hammer. “I’m not your son! I’m not!”

  Tina let out wordless cry, and Aaron roared.

  Lyssa closed the rest of the distance in one long stride, and slammed her right fist hard against the door. Again and again, raining down blows as inhuman strength flooded her arm. The old door shook and rattled. It hurt her hand, but she didn’t care. She was too angry.

  “Hey!” she roared. “Open up!”

  Dead silence. Then heavy footsteps approached.

  Eddie nudged Lyssa to the other side of the door. She tried to stay focused, but her heart was pounding, a golden haze falling down over her vision. Her teeth felt sharp. The low rumble of a growl filled the air, but it wasn’t until she noticed Eddie watching her that she realized it was coming from her.

  “You’re a wild woman,” he said.

  “Just wait,” she muttered.

  From the other side of the door, a man said, “Who’s there?”

  “Police,” replied Eddie. “Someone reported a domestic disturbance.”

  “Like hell. Nothing’s happening here.”

  “Open the door, sir. Now.” He sounded cold, professional, and not one to be fucked with. Right then, he looked like it, too. Lean and dangerous, with shadows in his eyes.

  I’m glad you’re here, she thought.

  It was quiet for a moment. Until, slowly, the locks turned. Lyssa steadied herself. Eddie got even more still — and then, in a blinding flash of movement — slammed his shoulder into the door just as it cracked open.

  He crashed inside, and without missing a beat reached around the door and grabbed the other man — who was still trying to recover from being knocked back into the wall. Lyssa caught a glimpse of him — huge as a football player, with fatty muscles and a thick neck, and beady eyes that looked like blue peas tucked in slabs of white meat. He had a hundred pounds on Eddie, and a good six inches — but he wasn’t as fast.

  Eddie lashed out with a solid right hook, snapping Aaron’s head back. He had no chance to recover before he was slammed again in the face, again and again — and it was so quiet except for the thud and crack of Eddie’s knuckles, and the other man’s pained grunts.

  Vicious. Brutal. Beautiful.

  Aaron recovered enough to take a swing, but Eddie easily dodged it and kicked out hard. His boot struck the big man in the groin with enough force to make a wet, squishy sound. The man went down on his knees.

  “Nice,” Lyssa said, when what she really wanted to say was Oh my God, that was incredible.

  Eddie wasn’t even breathing hard. “My pleasure.”

  Lyssa heard a small squeak and found Jimmy standing behind them, staring. His bottom lip was split, and there was a bruise on his face. Huge eyes. At first, filled with fear. . and then awe, as he looked at Eddie.

  “Wow,” he breathed.

  Eddie drew in a deep breath and went to the boy. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I’m not. He deserved it.” Jimmy looked at Lyssa, and suddenly he was all kid again, vulnerable and upset. “My mom.”

  My mom. Just two words, saying a million different things.

  She followed him into the living room and found Tina on her knees, trying to sweep broken glass onto a newspaper. A mug had been smashed on the floor, along with several framed photos of Jimmy.

  Her arms were scratched and bleeding, and covered in bruises. No other visible signs of injuries, but Lyssa knew how deceptive that was. She was a small woman, birdlike, maybe only a hundred pounds dripping wet. No match for her husband. One blow from Aaron’s meat-hook fist would probably send her flying.

  Tina didn’t look up when Lyssa walked in. Her small hands were a blur as she tried to clean the glass. Tears raced down her cheeks, but her face showed no grief, no pain. Just resolve.

  Glass crunched beneath her boots as Lyssa crouched. “Tina.”

  “Got to clean this,” she murmured. “I don’t want Jimmy to hurt himself.”

  Lyssa stared. The fight between Eddie and Aaron had been quiet, yes. . but it was almost as though she didn’t realize at all that something profound had changed in her home. Or that another person was standing there. Tina’s focus had only one note, one beat, one destination.

  How many times had she been in fights like this, where her only survival mechanism was to clean up afterward, and sweep away the evidence as though it had never happened?

  Worse, she had probably thought the abuse over, that she had escaped. She had let down her guard, only to have her peace and safety ripped from her.

  Just like Lyssa.

  Everyone runs from the pain, she thought, watching Tina sweep up that glass as though her life depended on it. I ran from mine. This is how she runs from hers.

  Jimmy stood beside his mother, watching her with terrible helplessness. “It’s okay,” he said, voice breaking a little. “I have shoes on.”

  At the sound of his voice, Tina shuddered and bowed her head. Her hands stilled. Lyssa held her breath, afraid to make a sound.

  “I’m sorry,” his mother whispered. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t know he would find us.”

  The boy’s face crumpled. “It’s not your fault.”

  Tina finally looked at him, and tears slid down her cheeks. Her eyes were hollow, filled with despair. “You’re hurt.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No.”

  She reached for him but pulled back at the last moment, like she was afraid to touch her son. Instead, she looked at Lyssa, and her gaze sharpened, as though she was only just realizing that the two of them weren’t alone.

  “How did you. .?” she began, and Lyssa said, “I happened to be in th
e neighborhood.”

  Tina frowned and rubbed a shaking hand over her face. “If you’re here, Aaron must be gone. We need. . we need to get out of here before he. .”

  “No,” Lyssa said. “Stay right there.”

  Terrible, pained resolve filled her eyes. “You don’t understand. I won’t let Aaron hurt my son again. I can’t.”

  “Mom,” Jimmy said, with the kind of restrained breathlessness that only a twelve-year-old boy could muster. “It’s okay. Lyssa’s friend knocked him out in the hall.”

  Tina stared. “What?”

  Lyssa jumped in. “It’s okay, Tina. I promise.”

  “Aaron’s still here?” She tried to stand, but her legs almost folded. Bits of glass were embedded in the knees of her slacks though she didn’t seem to notice. Her hands bled, too, and that bruise on her face had darkened.

  “Ma’am,” said Eddie, behind them. Tina let out a small, startled gasp. Jimmy grabbed her hand tight in his.

  Eddie stood just inside the living room, his face nothing but hard lines and shadows as his gaze roved from Lyssa to Tina with the same dangerous intensity that had drawn her to him in dreams.

  Until, as if it was her imagination, all that power in his eyes faded away and was replaced with a deceptive softness that seemed calculated not to threaten.

  “Ma’am,” he said again, with that old-fashioned, disarming politeness that he seemed to practice on every woman, despite her age. “Your husband will not bother you or your son, ever again.”

  Tina blinked. “Is he dead?”

  Eddie’s jaw flexed. “He’ll wish he was.”

  “Wow,” said Jimmy.

  Lyssa heard a faint whimper. The living room had been trashed, but she straightened a chair and found Icky hiding, his tail between his legs — and a little puddle beneath him.

  “I don’t blame you,” she muttered, picking him up. Jimmy made a small sound and reached for the dog, which started wriggling with joy.

  “He tried to squish him,” muttered the boy. “With his boot.”

  “I’ll squish him,” said Eddie, and took Lyssa’s hand. “Excuse us for a moment.”

  He pulled Lyssa across the living room, backing her against the wall. Over his shoulder, she watched Jimmy lead his mother to a chair, his every movement filled with tenderness. It broke her heart, especially when Tina gave the boy a tremendous hug that made him wriggle like the dog trapped between them.