Within the Flames

by Marjorie M. Liu

He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wondered if she was playing games, but he looked closer into those eyes and felt power crawl over his skin. Whoever was staring back at him now was not the same woman. There was no fear in that gaze, no uncertainty.

  Nothing remotely human.

  He wet his lips. “I don’t understand. What does that even mean, you’re her dragon?”

  She drew in a rasping breath that sounded like the rub of scales. “If she trusted herself, it would mean nothing. But she forgets that human and dragon can be passengers of the same heart. She does not believe that we are one, and that accepting me will not diminish her. So I wait, and protect her when I can.”

  It sounded like a split personality disorder. He hadn’t realized that shape-shifters could be caught between the different spiritual and mental aspects of their existence—independent of one another. It was sort of creepy.

  Eddie wanted to choose his next words very carefully. “Were you protecting her today? Were you aware of those women who came for her?”

  “I was aware. But you protected her. Simply by saying no to them.”

  “Who are they?”

  The corner of her mouth curled. “Prey.”

  Eddie wondered if she was cocky or just that dangerous. “Does Lyssa feel like that?”

  Her smile faded. “She is afraid to.”

  Based on what he’d seen, Lyssa’s anger stood out more than her fear. She had a lot of anger inside her. But he didn’t want to bring that up. In fact, he suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable discussing her. “Will she remember this?”

  “No.”

  “Then this conversation is done.” Eddie stared into those golden eyes, refusing to flinch when her clawed right hand slipped out from beneath his jacket and slid down his arm. “I mean it, ma’am.”

  She stilled. “Yes. I can tell you do.”

  Eddie pulled away, slowly. “You do this often?”

  “Never.”

  Curiosity got the better of him. “Why now?”

  She closed her eyes. “Because I wanted to see the man who makes her blood sing.”

  Eddie exhaled sharply. “Ma’am.”

  But she said nothing else. After a quiet, breathless moment, her face relaxed and softened. Until then, he hadn’t even realized her expression had hardened, but the difference was startling. The weary vulnerability was back.

  I wanted to see the man who makes her blood sing.

  Eddie fingered the scars on his hands and watched her sleep.

  It took Lannes more than thirty minutes to reach them, but it felt longer. He heard sirens wailing—far away, then, once, very close. He watched police and an ambulance speed through the intersection half a block away.

  Every time people walked past the car, his throat closed. If vehicles drove by too slowly, he had to force himself to breathe. A litany of excuses flooded his head—she’s drunk, carsick, just sick, we’re waiting for a restaurant to open, we’re homeless so give us a break—anything, everything.

  He hated being a sitting target. Worse, this reminded him too much of the old days. Always waiting to be caught—if not by police, then by someone worse.

  Finally, finally, his phone rang. Lannes was on the other end.

  “I’m here,” he said. “I can see the Camry. Get ready.”

  Eddie got out of the car and opened up the back door. A black SUV rolled close. No cars behind it. Some foot traffic, but far enough away that very little, if anything, would be seen. He hoped.

  He had Lyssa halfway out of the car when Lannes stopped beside them. She made a small sound. Eddie looked down into her eyes.

  Human, golden, eyes. No dragon in them. Staring half-lidded and so exhausted he wasn’t even certain she was seeing him.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, smoothing her hair back from her face. “You’re safe.”

  “No,” she breathed, eyes drifting shut again. “No, I have to . . .”

  Eddie held her as close as he could, pulling his jacket tight around her. She didn’t fight him when he piled her into the backseat of the SUV, slumping down into a boneless heap when he let her go.

  It took him less than twenty seconds to rub down the Camry’s interior and exterior for the second time. He grabbed her backpack, kicked the door closed, and climbed into the idling car.

  Lannes accelerated away before the door was closed. “You look terrible.”

  “Been better.”

  “And her?”

  Eddie touched Lyssa’s shoulder and shook her as gently as he could—which was little more than a tightening of his fingers. “Hey.”

  “No,” she murmured, as though dreaming.

  “Lyssa.”

  At the sound of her name, her entire face tightened with so much pain, his heart broke. “No . . . don’t hurt me . . . please . . .”

  He sagged against the seat, staring. Buzzing filled his ears, along with his thudding heartbeat. Fire burned in his blood.

  “Hey,” Lannes said in a low voice, sounding very far away. “Eddie.”

  He wet his lips. “Yes?”

  “Take a break. Join me up front.”

  Eddie flashed him a surprised look, but after a moment’s hesitation, crawled into the front. Lannes drove with his seat pushed all the way back, hunched over, his massive hands tight around the steering wheel. Lines of concern were etched in his brow.

  “So,” he said. “That’s her.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. “Yes. I think she’s had a difficult life.”

  “Mmm.” Lannes glanced at his rearview mirror. “I feel like I’m committing a crime.”

  “Any more news?”

  “Still no deaths reported. Everyone’s screaming terrorist, though. You need to get out of the city.”

  “I know.” Eddie looked at Lyssa again, who was still unconscious—or seemed to be. Would she leave with him? He very seriously doubted it.

  Lannes followed his gaze. “Does she need a doctor?”

  “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be safe, anyway.”

  “Her arm,” he replied thoughtfully. “It looks as though she’s caught in a bad shift. I’ve never seen it so extreme.”

  “There’s a shifter who was found in a Consortium facility in the Congo. He’s part eagle, still. It was forced on him, by scientists.”

  Lannes let out a weary sigh. “Lethe called. She said something’s up with her family. They won’t tell her what, but they’re talking about leaving the city for a while. They’re insisting she go with them. For her safety.”

  “She won’t, will she?”

  He hesitated. “I’m thinking of telling her to go.”

  “She won’t like that.”

  “And she probably won’t listen.” A faint, worried, smile touched his mouth, but it faded almost as soon as it appeared. “She thinks they know the Cruor Venator are here.”

  Nikola and Betty, thought Eddie, with anger. They had made him feel like he was thirteen years old again, terrified and abused. That was one crime he could not forgive.

  Both men shared a long look. Lannes said, “You were lucky to get away from those women. Very lucky.”

  “Maybe you should go. Take Lethe back to Maine.”

  “Run for the hills? Not yet.”

  Not yet, but maybe.

  It took them twenty minutes to reach Greenwich Village, where Lannes and Lethe had a home. It wasn’t just their home, but a brownstone that belonged to the gargoyle’s entire family. Eddie didn’t know how often it was used, but he’d heard from one of the brothers that it had been passed off to all of them for about seventy years. Gargoyles were long-lived.

  West of Seventh Avenue, Leroy Street bent and became St. Luke’s Place. Quiet, upscale. Row houses lined the block, brick and brownstone, with arched entries and other elegant details. The trees were
old and shedding their leaves. Expensive cars were parked along the street.

  He felt out of place. Like a thief.

  Lannes found a parking spot about a hundred feet from their brownstone. Eddie said, “People are going to see.”

  “Let me carry her. I can spread my illusion.”

  Eddie would have preferred to hold her, but he couldn’t say that. He could barely admit it to himself.

  No traffic on the street. Just an old woman walking a dog half a block away. He didn’t see anyone watching from the windows, but that didn’t mean much. He felt as though a target were painted on his back as he opened the SUV’s back door. Lannes loomed over him and bent to pull out Lyssa.

  He froze, though—and made a sharp, surprised, sound.

  “What?” asked Eddie, concerned.

  “I . . .” Lannes stopped, leaning back with a frown. “Nothing. When I touched her . . .”

  He paused again. Eddie said, “Spit it out. Is there something wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Lannes pulled Lyssa into his arms. She made a small sound, but when her head lolled, her eyes stayed closed. Eddie didn’t think she was faking it. Whatever had happened in that explosion had drained her completely.

  Her, and not her dragon, he reminded himself, as his jacket slipped off her body. He tucked it again more carefully around her—heart in his throat when he looked at her face. Heart in his hands when he touched her, as gently as he could.

  When he looked up, Lannes was watching him with peculiar intensity. It embarrassed Eddie, but he met his gaze and did not flinch.

  “You like her,” Lannes said.

  Eddie set his jaw. “I can see her. Your illusion isn’t working.”

  “Sure it is. It just isn’t working on you.” He started walking down the street. Eddie frowned at him but grabbed Lyssa’s backpack and shut the car door. When he caught up with them, Lannes said, “It’s strange, actually. Even I can’t see her. It looks to me like I’m holding air.”

  Eddie glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “Are you sure you didn’t do it wrong?”

  “It’s about willing an action,” Lannes said dryly. “I don’t have a magic wand, or a special incantation. And no, I didn’t make a mistake. For some reason, you can see her.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Lannes glanced down. Maybe he really couldn’t see Lyssa, but Eddie thought that he was looking at something. And not anything that made him happy.

  “No,” he finally replied, in a particularly grim voice. “None of this makes sense.”

  Eddie moved in so close he brushed against the gargoyle’s wings. Lannes gave him a hard look and moved away. Eddie crowded him again, refusing to back down. Concern warred with irritation. “What aren’t you saying? What did you feel when you touched her?”

  “Let’s get inside first,” Lannes muttered, as they reached the front steps of a brownstone decorated with carved pumpkins, goofy witch dolls, and stone gargoyles with bunny ears glued to their heads.

  “Wow,” Eddie said.

  “Shut up,” said Lannes.

  It was quiet inside. No one else home. In front of the door, a set of stairs led up to a second floor—and on either side of the entry were two massive rooms, spacious and furnished with overly large, well-worn blocks of furniture that looked big enough to hold several gargoyles, and maybe a baby elephant, or two. Threadbare rugs covered the hardwood floors, and large black-and-white photographs of mountains and rivers covered the white walls. A long hall led to the back. Eddie smelled cinnamon buns.

  Lannes paused. “Here, take her.”

  Eddie did, cradling Lyssa as gently as he could. She felt light, lighter than she should have, as though her bones were hollow, or she was made of air.

  The gargoyle let out an unsteady breath once Lyssa was out of his arms. Eddie said, “What?”

  “I don’t know if I should have brought her here,” he said, then stood there, looking stunned—as if he couldn’t believe he had just said that.

  Eddie couldn’t believe it either. “What do you mean?”

  His expression turned uncertain. “She makes my skin crawl.”

  “I . . .” Eddie began, and stopped. “If you want us to leave—”

  “No.” Lannes stepped back and pointed up the stairs. “First door on your right. But, if you don’t mind—”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her,” he said, a little more sharply than he intended. Irritated at himself—and Lannes—he began carrying Lyssa upstairs.

  “Eddie,” called out the gargoyle, behind him. “Just because she’s a shape-shifter . . .”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

  Just because she’s a shape-shifter, doesn’t mean you should trust her.

  Eddie continued climbing the stairs, holding her even closer—soft and warm against his chest. Her scent washed over him: indefinably sweet, with a hint of smoke, and vanilla.

  Trust. What did trust mean, anyway? There were so many ways to lose trust before it even had a chance to form.

  Give her a chance.

  Give her the same chance you wish she would give you.

  After all, it was only a matter of life or death.

  The first room on the right held a bed, a standing wardrobe, and a small desk. One narrow window overlooked the front street.

  Lyssa stirred in his arms, her eyes fluttering open. Just a little, then wider. Alert. He froze, staring down at her—and she went still, as well. Both of them, like caught animals.

  “Hi,” Eddie said, awkwardly.

  Lyssa sucked in her breath and pushed hard on his chest with her clawed right hand. He had no choice but to let go, but he tried to do so gently. She fell anyway, though, and he got clipped in the jaw trying to hold her upright.

  “Stop,” she gasped, as her knees buckled, and she fell back on the bed. Eddie stepped forward, concerned, but she threw up one hand—breathing hard, eyes wide. Eddie held as still as he could, afraid to breathe.

  Lyssa did not speak, but the wariness in her eyes was enough. Slowly, with a wince, she tried to sit up—and noticed her exposed right arm.

  Fear filled her eyes. Panic.

  Eddie said, “Hold on.”

  His jacket had slipped away. He picked it off the floor and placed it on the bed beside her.

  “I had you covered up before.” He had trouble meeting her gaze, which was tragic and lost. “Your arm . . . it doesn’t bother me.”

  Silence. Stillness. Eddie looked down at his hands. He rubbed his scars but barely saw them, his attention focused entirely on the woman sitting on the bed in front of him.

  Finally, with small movements, she took his jacket. Eddie did not watch her slip it on. It felt too personal, too intimate.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly. “You’ve been unconscious for more than an hour.”

  Rustling sounds ceased. “That long? I . . . what happened?”

  “There was an explosion. A fire.”

  Her silence was excruciating. Eddie finally looked up, and wished immediately he hadn’t. Her horror overwhelmed him.

  “How . . . bad?” she whispered, her left hand white as bone as she clutched his jacket closed.

  How had he ever thought that this woman might not care that people had gotten hurt? Her fear, the devastation teetering in her gaze, was almost more than he could bear to see.

  “No one died,” he reassured her.

  Lyssa inhaled sharply. “But people were injured.”

  “I don’t know details. It . . . made the news, though.”

  She covered her mouth like she was going to be sick. Eddie stepped closer to the bed, moving carefully in case his presence frightened her. She hardly seemed to notice.

  Lost. Lost deep, and far away.

  Lost in his jacket, even,
which was huge on her. Her right arm wasn’t in the sleeve. Hidden against her body, out of sight. Covered in soot, her clothing in tatters, auburn hair tangled and wild . . .

  . . . and still the most compelling woman he had ever met.

  Looking at her even now hit him with breathtaking force, deep in his heart and gut . . . stirring some primal ache that he hadn’t realized he was capable of feeling. Not like this. It frightened him, a little.

  “You didn’t tell me if you’re hurt,” Eddie said, hoarse.

  “I’m not,” she murmured, voice muffled against her hand. Then, after a moment’s silence: “You?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look like it.”

  Eddie wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he felt battered on the inside. “Fire doesn’t hurt me.”

  Lyssa held herself even tighter. “You’re no shape-shifter.”

  “Is that a requirement?”

  “It’s what I know.” She pushed herself to the edge of the bed, watching him warily. “Are you a witch?”

  “No. I’m just . . . me.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Eddie set his jaw. “It doesn’t have to. I’m here anyway.”

  But that doesn’t mean anything to me either, he imagined her thinking, and it stung more than it should have.

  This was a job, he reminded himself. This was a job, like any other he had been on. He had helped doctors in Africa, mermen in the South China Sea. He had fought mercenaries in Mongolia.

  He had lived as a thief on the streets of Los Angeles.

  Lyssa Andreanos was just one more challenge.

  She looked down at her torn, charred jeans, little more than rags covering her soot-covered legs. Eddie remembered her backpack and slid it off his shoulder onto the bed. When Lyssa saw it, she let go of the jacket just long enough to touch the blackened, burned canvas.

  Some tension left her shoulders. “Where am I?”

  “The home of a friend. The . . . gargoyle.”

  Her reaction was unexpected. Eddie saw surprise in her eyes, followed by grief—and a heartbreaking longing that disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.

  She lowered her head until her hair fell around her face, and he could barely see her. “I need to go. You shouldn’t have brought me here.”