Within the Flames
Page 6
“Shit,” she muttered to herself.
Her right hand ached too much to type with. One-handed, pecking at the keyboard, she replied:
Got your message. Will try calling later. Does your help include a gargoyle? Because I saw one outside Central Park today. Coincidence or not? Need to know.
She almost ignored her editor’s e-mail, but there was no way to know how long she’d be off-line. The man was already prickly about only being able to contact her via the Internet.
Even if her world was going to hell, she still needed work.
In front of her, one of the guys slammed Macbeth on the table. “Unchecked ambition. I say we write the paper on that.”
“Bullshit. We need something better.”
“Better? This is due tomorrow.”
His friend got the middle finger in response.
Lyssa muttered, “Ambition and violence. Focus on that.”
Both men stared at her. One of them might have said, “What?” but she was distracted by her editor’s e-mail. A note about cropping and deadlines, and an inquiry about the possibility of taking on another illustrating job—this time for a friend who worked at a children’s magazine. He wanted some dreamy, surreal image for an upcoming short story. Not a bad gig.
One of the guys rapped his knuckles on the table. Lyssa tore her gaze from the computer screen, annoyed.
“What do you mean, ambition and violence?” he asked.
“Read the play,” she told him, looking back at her e-mail—telling her editor that, yes, she was interested in the job—adding that she’d be on the road for a week, away from her computer. She cc’d her agent.
Lyssa began packing up. The guys bounced in their seats.
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to help us right now,” said the one on the right, stabbing his finger at her. Like that would seal the deal.
“Ha,” she replied.
“We’re desperate,” added the other. “We’ll love you forever. Just give us something more.”
Grow a pair, she wanted to tell them, and slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Fine. Think about this. Once you decide to use violence to get power, it’s difficult to stop.”
The young men gave her blank looks. She shook her head and left.
A cold wind blew down Lexington, sweeping bits of loose trash against her boots. She walked fast, hat pulled low over her brow. Her right arm was better. When she flexed her fingers, they worked. Not well enough to hold anything, but at least they weren’t cramping. She dug her thumb into her palm, massaging her hand.
Not Boston, she thought, considering where to go next. Philadelphia?
The idea of leaving made her ill. For better or worse, she felt comfortable in New York. Giving that up, just because Estefan had reached out to find her help . . .
Help for what? Lyssa thought again. A home I can’t use? Money I don’t need? Estefan knows all that. So why now? Why after all these years would he suddenly become so protective?
Lyssa thought again about the gargoyle—but also the man with him. A shudder raced through her, but not one of disgust. Just warmth. So much heat, in fact, that she stopped walking and looked down at her feet and legs to make sure she was not shedding sparks.
A month ago, she had started dreaming of his eyes. Always, during her nightmares. Her mind, wrapped in fire—screaming, terrified—so very alone—until, like a ghost, she would see someone watching her. A male presence, within the inferno. Just standing there: intense and dangerous, and more real than the flames.
Focusing on him always made the nightmare go away. Usually. Sometimes, she just needed to burn.
Seeing those eyes today, recognizing them—was like being hit by lightning.
Now, though, with some distance, the memory of that moment inspired a different feeling.
Homesickness.
Fear, she understood. But homesickness was inexplicable, and specific: She felt sick for the old days, when she was safe and loved. It hit her hard, with a fresh, raw tenderness that made her want to press her clawed hand over her heart and dig in.
It’s him, she thought, suffering deep unease. He makes me feel this way.
No way Estefan could have known. But if that was help . . .
If that’s help, I can’t take it. . . . no matter how curious I am. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do to help me.
Not while I’m being hunted.
Lyssa saw a bank of pay phones near the intersection at Forty-first, and started digging through her pockets for change. She needed to call Estefan and find out exactly who he had contacted, and why. He had to have a good reason, after all these years of so carefully leaving her alone.
Her skin crawled when she thought of what that reason might be.
She slipped some quarters into the pay phone, careful to use her left hand—claws not being great for picking up small objects—and dialed his home number, which Estefan had made her memorize before she’d left Florida.
When the call went through, however, all she heard was a busy signal.
Lyssa tried three more times, but the call never connected. She tried the café, but the phone rang and rang—and no one picked up.
Unease crept. Lyssa hung up but didn’t move. The heat throbbing through her blood only grew stronger. Pins and needles pricked her thighs and shoulders, between her breasts.
Something’s wrong.
But no, that was stupid. Paranoia. Lyssa always thought something was wrong. A busy signal and an unanswered call was not a big deal. Besides, she never called Estefan. Ever. She didn’t know the first thing about his phone habits.
Don’t leave the city tonight, she told herself, massaging her right arm. Take a couple days to plan. Talk to Estefan first. You don’t want to run blind.
But even as that thought passed through her, the prickling in her skin intensified, accompanied by a crawling sensation on the back of her neck. Like spider legs.
Someone was watching her.
Lyssa turned, and found herself face-to-face with the man.
The man from her dreams.
Chapter Five
Everything stopped. Heart, lungs, the world. Sounds died. Lyssa went numb.
Those eyes.
In all her dreams—a month of nights, lost in fire—those eyes had been her constant companions. Eyes that belonged to a face she could never see, or remember. Eyes that stared at her with an intensity that burned and made her feel lost, dizzy, as though she were falling.
She was falling now.
Lyssa blinked, and the spell broke. No longer just eyes, but the man from Columbus Circle. She hadn’t looked closely at him, before.
He was young, which surprised her. When she looked at only his eyes, she thought of him as old.
Instead, he seemed close to her age. He was tall, but not much taller than she. Lean, lanky, but broad in all the right places. He looked strong, fast. Dressed in black, with scruffy dark hair that framed a pale, chiseled face that would never be called boyish or weak.
I know you, she thought. I dreamed you.
But that was no comfort. Terrible heat burned beneath her skin, flowing into her right arm in a wild, uncontrolled rush that made her clawed hand close into a fist. Pain tingled, simmering in that heat, and the muscles running from her neck into her shoulder twitched so violently she sucked in her breath and gripped her shoulder hard with her left hand.
The dragon stirred beneath her skin.
The dragon opened an eye within her heart and looked at the man in front of her.
Lyssa felt it, as though she carried a second life within herself. Terror fluttered. The dragon could not be allowed to wake. Not here. Not ever. It had been years since she had felt its presence.
She backed away. The man followed, holding up his hands. “Miss. Don’t run. Please.”
I would take care of you. I wish I could.
Lyssa didn’t trust her voice to speak. Every instinct told her to run. Running was what she knew. Running was safe and empty, and kept the fire at bay, and all those dark memories that haunted, and tempted her.
This was dangerous. This man was dangerous, even if he meant her no harm. The harm would come, somehow.
Lyssa gave him a long, searching look. He let her look, though he didn’t make it easy. She was used to studying people from a distance, or while distracted . . . anytime, anywhere, so long as no one realized what she was doing.
But she didn’t have that luxury with him. He stared back with unflinching eyes, as though taking her measure as much as she was taking his. There was no place to hide in that gaze. Lyssa had never felt more naked.
“Who are you?” she asked.
His jaw tensed. “My name is Eddie.”
Eddie. A scruffy name, with an edge. Sort of like him.
Lyssa backed away, wary. “How did you find me here?”
He did not follow, but she sensed that if he wanted to, he could be at her side in a heartbeat. He was just like her dream. Intense, dangerous, and real.
Completely real. Flesh and blood, staring at her as though he was ready for her to try and slip away. It unnerved her. Made her feel as though she couldn’t trust her own perceptions of dream and waking.
“Estefan sent a list of places to search for you,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. “That Starbucks behind us was one of them. He said you like to use the Internet there.”
Damn, she thought, giving him a sharp look. “How do you know Estefan?”
Discomfort flickered in his eyes. “I don’t. Your friend sent a letter to my employer. He explained you needed help. So I’m here. To help.”
It sounded too good to be true. Who was he, a Boy Scout? Like those existed anymore. Lyssa had seen too many good people who needed help, shut out and ignored, treated as though invisible—simply for being homeless, or a little different. Even she, at her lowest, had been an untouchable. Except from those who wanted to use her.
“Estefan shouldn’t have gotten you involved,” she said, wondering why she was still standing here.
“Miss—”
“I am none of your concern.”
“You need help.”
“Starving kids in Africa need help. I don’t. Not even a little.”
He studied her—as though actually listening to what she was saying and digesting each word. It set her off-balance. Again.
Frustration warred with curiosity, and a bone-deep need to understand why the hell this man had been in her dreams. Had he dreamed of her? The possibility was almost as unsettling as his presence.
“You really came here because you were told I needed help?” she asked him, and what was intended to be a genuine question turned derisive when her voice came out too sharp. “Is that your job? Do-gooder?”
His brow lifted. “What’s your job? Professional cynic?”
Her mouth twitched. “Something like that.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, then, more softly, “Lyssa.”
She was not expecting the sincerity of that answer, or the regret in his voice. Nor could she have predicted what hearing him say her name would do to her nerves.
Like, electrifying them.
I had peace and quiet, she thought, weakly. I was alone, but that was safe.
“Eddie,” she said, feeling like a coward for not being able to stare as unflinchingly into his eyes, as he could hers. “Go home.”
Lyssa pushed through the crowd and walked away.
She turned left at the intersection, walking with long, ground-eating strides. Not running, but almost. A cab passed her but didn’t stop when she held out her hand.
Moments later, Eddie caught up.
He remained opposite her on the sidewalk, lanky and graceful. Outwardly relaxed though she sensed a coiled power inside him—and a tense control over that power that gave him a dangerous edge.
Light foot traffic passed between them. She heard an ambulance’s sirens. Maybe the police. None of it felt real. Not the people around them, not the wind on her face, not even the concrete beneath her feet.
Her world had narrowed down to him—and only him.
“Lyssa Andreanos,” he said, quietly.
She hadn’t heard her full name spoken out loud in ten years. Hearing him say it made her feel crazy. “Did Estefan tell you that, too?”
“First, from him,” he replied, with a calm confidence that was assured, and, oddly, gentle.
She shivered. “Estefan shouldn’t have told anyone.”
“He made it clear he was violating your trust. But he didn’t see another way to help you.”
In two seconds, frustration was going to become anger. “I told you, I don’t need help. So just . . . get lost.”
“I can’t.” Eddie settled his gaze on her. “You’re being hunted.”
Lyssa stopped and stared at him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and spoke with a grim gentleness that she’d never heard in another man’s voice.
“Hunted,” he said again, “by witches who call themselves the Cruor Venator.”
Her heart squeezed down into a vicious lump of pain, and she drew an unsteady breath that was loud and rough, and made her dizzy.
“Not even Estefan knows that,” she said, hoarse. “Certainly not that name.”
“You already knew they’re looking for you?”
She exhaled sharply, wanting to laugh with devastating bitterness. “Of course. But who told you?”
His hesitation lasted a heartbeat too long. “Another of your kind.”
“My kind.”
“You know what I mean. It’s in your eyes.”
Golden eyes. He knows I’m a shape-shifter.
Of course, if his friend was a gargoyle, then it made sense he would know the signs that made a nonhuman stand out. But still, it felt like too much, too fast. The world was too mundane for this conversation.
Lyssa forced herself to breathe. “Does this person have a name?”
Eddie closed the distance between them. As he did, the air warmed. So much, it was like being exposed to the immense heat of a Southwest summer afternoon. A dry, rippling warmth, mirage-inducing.
Her own fire rose to meet that heat, with such power and hunger, she felt afraid all over again. She tried to read his face—as if her life depended on it. But all she could be certain of was that, for the first time in her life, she didn’t trust her instincts.
Because her instincts wanted to trust him. Her instincts picked apart the way he moved, the way he looked at her, the tone of his voice—his eyes, those eyes—and there was strength in his intensity—and compassion, and even gentleness.
She couldn’t trust it. She wouldn’t let herself.
Her mother’s voice drifted like a ghost through her mind.
You can tell everything from a man’s eyes, and the way he looks at you. If you’re not too afraid to see.
I was afraid when I met your father. He was too good to be true. So I ran, Lyssa.
It’s a good thing he followed.
The memory was so strong. Lyssa touched her throat, the scarf wound so tight she could barely breathe. Fire burned in her gut. Her right arm tingled.
Eddie’s gaze flicked to her hand. “Her name is Long Nu.”
For a moment, the name didn’t register. But it sat there, the sound of it ringing through her head. Slowly, so slowly . . . her mind made the connection.
And it was horrible. Terrible, and confusing.
“It’s been ten y
ears since I heard that name.” Lyssa’s voice shook, nerves betraying her. More rattled than she wanted to admit.
Eddie gave her a cautious look. “You don’t seem happy about it.”
Again, she wanted to laugh, but it would have sounded awful. “She knows you’re here?”
“She was one of the people who asked me to come.”
Fury gathered in her chest. “She’s your employer?”
“No,” he said firmly. “This was a favor.”
“There are no favors with Long Nu. You do or you die . . . and if you don’t die, you’re punished.” Lyssa backed away, wetting her lips. “Why now, after all these years? Why not before, when I was a child? I needed help then, and no one came for me.”
“My impression was Long Nu thought you were dead.”
“Wishful thinking,” she whispered. “She’s probably disappointed I’m not.”
Eddie gave her a sharp look. “What does that mean?”
Lyssa shook her head and realized she was hugging herself. Hearing Long Nu’s name should not have upset her as much as it did.
But it opened old wounds. It made her think of her father.
Straightening, she lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “Did Estefan know about Long Nu?”
He watched her, so carefully. “I don’t think so. My employer was the one who contacted her after receiving your friend’s letter.”
“What did Long Nu tell you about me?”
“Not enough.” Eddie reached, very slowly, inside his pocket—and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside was something charred. “This is yours.”
Lyssa didn’t touch it. “What is it?”
“A photo of you when you were twelve.”
She blinked, startled. He held up the bag. Inside, she saw a fragment of her face. Young and smiling. Before it all went to hell.
Her right hand clenched into a fist, claws biting through the tips of her gloves into her palm. “Did Long Nu give you that?”
“Yes.”
Sorrow burned away into anger. “How dare she.”
“What happened?”
“None of your business.” Lyssa backed away, that glimpse of her young face burning a hole through her heart. “We’re done here. Get away from me.”