Eddie regarded her a moment, then stepped aside. When she tried to pass him, though, his fingers grazed her arm. A tingling shock rolled through her, a powerful awareness of him.
“Lyssa. Whatever you see in there—”
“—is my fault,” she interrupted, and his hand slid fully around her arm, holding her still.
“Look at me,” he said in a soft, firm, voice.
She did so, reluctantly. It was very difficult to meet his gaze. As though she were dreaming again—only this was real. He was real. He looked at her with those knowing eyes, and it was as though he could see right through her.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “Whatever happens, remember that.”
Of all the things he could have said to her, that was the most devastating. It made her feel more alone than ever, and tears—those damned tears—burned her eyes, again. She never cried. Never, not in years.
Today, it seemed that parts of her were grieving whether or not she wanted them to.
Lyssa ducked her head. Eddie’s fingers brushed the edge of her jaw. She flinched, and he made a soft sound between his teeth.
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m just wiping off some soot.”
His thumb brushed her cheek, and the fire inside her responded, lighting up her heart like some hidden sun. With it, she felt a terrible ache that was another kind of loneliness.
Lyssa had never been touched by a man she wanted.
Actually, “want” was too cheap a word. Every part of her felt inexplicably, inexorably, tugged toward this man. The attraction was primal, elemental—utterly beyond her comprehension. She would have blamed witchcraft if she were susceptible to that sort of thing, but in this case, all she could call it was insanity.
She didn’t know him. She didn’t want to know him. Yes, he had saved her life. She might not have been conscious, but she could smell a lie—and he was telling the truth about those two women. Two women. Just the right number. Exactly what the Cruor Venator would use.
No, she thought. No. I can’t want this man. Not him, not anyone. I shouldn’t even have friends.
Not Jimmy. Not Estefan. Not anyone who could get hurt because of her.
Lyssa pulled away from him. “Stop. Just . . . stop.”
Eddie lowered his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I . . .” Regret hit her, as did pain—flowing through her right arm. Bad, this time, a hard spasm that made hand curl into a trembling fist. She sucked in her breath, wincing.
“Lyssa,” said Eddie, with concern.
She shook her head at him and walked down the hall, holding herself strained and rigid. The television was loud.
“ . . . no word on what caused the explosion, and eyewitness reports are conflicted. Some have indicated that it might be the work of suicide bombers, but we’ve received no confirmation . . .”
Lyssa walked into a brightly lit kitchen: white walls and counters, and a white stone floor covered in rag rugs. Other splashes of color came from bowls of oranges and grapes, and several potted geraniums. A cozy, elegant space. She wished it were hers, to curl up in, and read, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
The gargoyle perched on a heavy oak stool made from solid rough-hewn timber. A giant mug of tea was in front of him, along with a novel that had the words DEATH and LUST on the cover.
A small television was set to a news channel that showed overhead aerial shots of firemen putting out burning cars, and ambulances parked on the outskirts of a blast zone: a blackened, charred, scorched-earth circle that made the sidewalk look like the heart of a meteor strike.
Lyssa’s heart stopped. A stool pressed against her legs. Eddie gestured for her to sit down.
She did, then stood again. Anxious, miserable, horrified. Too many emotions boiling inside her—chief amongst them, fear.
“Fatalities?” she whispered.
Lannes watched her carefully and hit the mute button on the remote. Beautiful silence filled the kitchen.
“Some broken bones. No one died, or will die. That’s been confirmed about a million times in the past fifteen minutes.”
“When I look at that damage, I can’t believe it.” Lyssa sat down again. Her jeans were half-burned, her knees sticking out. Seeing them made her think of when she was a kid, and for one agonizing moment, she let herself imagine what her parents would have said about this.
Wow, her dad might have told her. Impressive.
Lyssa sought out Eddie and found him leaning against the kitchen counter, very still and quiet, watching her with those dark eyes.
“It’s not just the Cruor Venator,” she told him, wincing when her voice broke. “I have to get out of here before something like that happens again. I’m not safe.”
Lannes straightened. “Wait, I thought . . .”
Eddie cleared his throat. The gargoyle blinked and shut his mouth.
Lyssa frowned. “What? You thought what?”
Lannes hesitated. “Well, I thought he caused . . .”
He didn’t finish. Eddie glared at him. “Where are the clothes you promised?”
The gargoyle’s wings shifted uncomfortably. “Er, bathroom. Down the hall.”
Lyssa stood and walked from the kitchen. She glimpsed a bathroom, door half-closed.
Eddie caught up with her. “Lyssa.”
Heat flared, wild beneath her skin. “Why did he think you caused the fire?”
“He assumed. I let him.”
“Why?”
Eddie grimaced. “I don’t know. I was trying to protect you.”
Her heart did a funny little jump. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know.”
Lyssa stopped by the bathroom door and made the mistake of looking at him. He didn’t appear any different than he had moments before—still scruffy, covered in soot—so handsome dirty, she couldn’t imagine how good he’d look clean. But it was his eyes that drew her in. They were her weakness.
His soul was in his eyes. And what Lyssa saw in his soul was mystery, and pain, and shadow. In her dreams, she had never seen such emotions in his eyes: just determination and a dangerous resolve.
He hurts, whispered the dragon. Like you, his heart has nowhere to fall.
You could fall together.
Lyssa blinked, swaying. Eddie seemed to sway with her—or maybe that was her imagination.
You are not alone, said the dragon.
“You,” she began, but her voice was hoarse, and she had to stop to wet her lips. “You lose control of your . . . fire?”
Regret filled his eyes. “Yes.”
“Have you ever hurt anyone?”
“Yes,” he said again, and the pain in that one word hurt worse than it should have. She ached to touch him—but he stood so still, and so did she, her right hand clenched in a fist against her stomach, the other white-knuckled as she held his jacket closed.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, and found herself adding, “I’ve hurt people. I didn’t mean to, but the possibility I might do it again . . . frightens me . . . more than anything.”
“It’s the same fear I live with.” Eddie hesitated. “But you don’t have to be afraid with me.”
The truth of that was almost too much to believe—and heartbreaking. He was immune to her fire. She was immune to his. Something she had never dared imagine.
But there were other things to fear . . . that he most certainly would not be safe from.
Lyssa pulled away, reluctantly. Warmth faded. Cold crept in. An insidious, bone-deep chill that made her feel as though she had stepped from a warm fire into the old Montana winter, with its hollow winds and ice.
Eddie made a small sound deep in his throat, like pain. It sounded like the same pain she felt, putting distance between them. As though she were stretching some part of her heart too
tight—and it might snap.
She was afraid to look into his eyes. Gaze down, she turned and entered the bathroom. A small part of her hoped he would reach out and stop her . . . but he didn’t. She should have been happy for that. Happy to turn the tide on whatever she was feeling.
He was a stranger. She did not know him. Whatever this was in her heart . . . it couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. She might believe in magic, but not . . . trust at first sight. Or instant, devastating hunger for another human being.
But when the bathroom door was closed behind her, and she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, all she saw was a shadow. The soot didn’t matter, or her dirty hair, or the scrape along her jaw.
Just her eyes. Haunted, red-rimmed with unshed tears. Pained and lonely.
“Pathetic,” she whispered. “Toughen up, kid. Be tough.”
Deep breath. Jaw set. She could do this. Ten years, she’d been doing this. Now was no different.
So why have you not run? whispered the dragon. Do not deceive yourself, sister.
Go back to sleep, thought Lyssa. I liked you better when you were just a feeling.
I have been asleep too long. You need me now. You need him.
I don’t even know him.
A pity you are too much of a coward to try.
Lyssa exhaled sharply and spun away from the mirror.
The bathroom was small, white, and very clean. A white basket had been placed on the edge of the tub. Inside were clothes: faded jeans and an ivory-colored cable-knit sweater that was oversized and soft. Socks, underwear . . . and a scarf. A pair of gloves.
She stared at the gloves, then, carefully, shrugged off Eddie’s jacket. She hung it on the hook that was on the bathroom door, then stripped off her clothes and placed them in the small garbage bin beneath the sink.
The shower felt tremendous. She slouched beneath the pounding stream, watching hot water hit her right arm and trail in rivers down her crimson scales. Golden claws glittered.
She imagined them around Eddie’s throat, and still felt the power of that grip, as well as her inability to let go.
Power is dangerous, she remembered her mother saying. Power over life and death is the most dangerous thing of all.
Anyone could kill. But to turn that death into something more . . . to take a life and twist it into the otherworldly . . .
Made her sick.
“Nikola and Betty,” she murmured. New women. New servants. As terrified as Lyssa was of having come so close to them, she wished she could have seen their faces.
How did they find me?
Eddie had found her through Estefan.
Lyssa shut off the water and dried herself—shivering the entire time. Not from the cold but from possibilities.
She needed to call Estefan and make certain he was okay. The older shape-shifter had been exceedingly kind to her, once upon a desperate time . . . and for years they had traded e-mails. Not about anything important. Just little stories about life, his family. He loved talking about his wife, who had started out as a waitress and now ran a little café with him in Florida.
That little bit of contact with another of her kind had saved her, in more ways than one. Just a few words, proving to her that someone . . . someone in the world . . . knew who she was. Her real name. Not Liz, but Lyssa.
Never mind that she hadn’t told Estefan everything. Just the fact that he’d known she was a shape-shifter, a dragon, was enough to make her feel anchored.
How much did I tell him in my e-mails? How much have I let slip over the years?
Favorite coffee shops. That was how Eddie had found her. The fact she loved Columbus Circle and Central Park, which explained why he had been there, as well. She had told Estefan about her volunteer work at various homeless shelters.
Had she mentioned Jimmy and his mother? Yes. But not their address. Not where he went to school, or where Tina worked.
She hadn’t told him she was living underground, but he could have probably guessed the general area of where she made a home, just from certain details about places she liked to go. On occasion, Lyssa had even mailed him gifts. Some of her paintings, or little trinkets that could only be found in New York. She’d gone to post offices on the other side of the city, but still . . .
I got sloppy, she decided. And Estefan, with his graying black hair, grizzled, toothy smile—and good heart—had finally gotten tired of just sitting idly by, something she had always known would happen, eventually.
Maybe, deep down, she had wanted it to happen. Perhaps she had needed for him to take the step she couldn’t—and find her help.
Bullshit, thought Lyssa, angry with herself. Bull. Shit.
The Cruor Venator had found her. And the timing of that . . . just when Estefan had contacted strangers to locate her in New York . . . was not lost on her.
The witch had never come so close to finding her. Not to her knowledge. Then again, she’d had no idea that two of her servants had been following her. For how long? Had they seen her with Jimmy?
“Fuck,” she muttered. “I’m an idiot.”
An idiot who had a choice to make. Except it wasn’t much of a choice.
I can’t run anymore.
It was time to fight and die. Or fight and kill.
And if she killed . . . if she did exactly what needed doing . . . what would she become then?
You’ll hate being a coward more than you’ll hate being dead, her mother had once said. Fight your battles. Dig in your heels. What’s a little pain?
Pain leads to death, her father would have replied. Don’t give your daughter ideas.
And yet, he had stayed and fought. He had dug in his heels. For his wife. For his daughter.
“Be tough,” she told herself, staring into her eyes. “Do the right thing.”
The problem was how? How, without losing everything?
One step at a time. One step.
Lyssa exhaled slowly and flexed her right hand. Her golden claws gleamed, each tip razor-sharp.
One step. One cut. And once she started . . .
She dressed quickly. Everything fit and felt good on her skin. The scarf was dark green and made of thick cashmere. She wrapped it around her throat, fussing with each fold until she was satisfied that it would hide her scales. Or reveal only enough to make someone think she had an elaborate tattoo.
The matching glove slid easily over her right hand. Carefully, she took Eddie’s charred jacket off the hook and slung the backpack over her shoulder.
She opened the bathroom door, listening.
It was quiet in the hall. On light feet, she made her way to the front entrance. Holding her breath, waiting for someone to stop her.
No one did. Until she opened the front door and stepped outside.
Eddie sat on the stoop. The tips of his hair were wet, the rest of him scrubbed clean. He was just as good-looking as she remembered—darkly handsome, lean—all man. He wore a black sweater that hugged his body and dark jeans that did the same.
He smiled. “Hey.”
Lyssa blinked at him. “You’re not coming with me.”
“Of course not.” He stood, slow and easy, and slung a backpack over his shoulder. “I’m going for a long walk.”
“How pleasant for you.”
“Very.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe you could tell Lannes good-bye for me? Thank him?”
“I already did. He just left to go pick up his wife.”
Lyssa folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the rail. “Human, you said?”
“More or less.” Eddie glanced down, scuffing his boot against the stone step. “Where are you headed?”
“I need to find a phone.”
“You don’t want to use the one inside?”
“I think . . . the least
amount of attention I bring to you and your friends, the better. I don’t want my call traced back here. Same with your cell,” she said, as he began reaching into his pocket. “I’ll find something.”
Eddie nodded, looking away. “I’m sure you will.”
She studied him, wondering again how he had managed to stand up to the servants of the Cruor Venator. No one did that. No one had that much courage, or conviction.
You did. Your parents.
Her mouth softened. “If I ask you not to follow me . . . will you listen?”
He gave her a gentle, sidelong, smile. “What do you think?”
I think you’re going to break my heart.
Chapter Eight
They walked. Eddie didn’t ask where they were going. Questions seemed to make her prickly. Just being with her now was a hard-won victory.
“You haven’t told me much about the people you work for,” she said, as they left Lannes’s block-long neighborhood and crossed over to Leroy Street. “They sound . . . eclectic.”
“I suppose they’d have to be. Some of them aren’t human.”
She glanced at him. “How many?”
“When I was first discovered seven years ago, there were none. Since then, we’ve found quite a few. Or they’ve found us.”
“Found.”
“Dirk & Steele looks for people who need help. Regular people. And people like you and me. We investigate crimes no one else can solve.”
Lyssa frowned. “Dirk & Steele.”
“You’ve heard of us?”
She shook her head. “No. Probably not.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
Lyssa gave him a dirty look, but that only made him smile—and suddenly she was smiling, too, just a little. “I’m incredibly sure.”
Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Okay, then.”
He took a risk as they crossed another intersection and bumped her gently with his elbow. She shot him a look, but he kept his gaze locked straight ahead. Pretending he didn’t notice. That it was an accident.
Not every touch is a threat, he wanted to tell her. Not every person is out to get you.
A moment later, she bumped him, very lightly.
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