Within the Flames

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Eddie’s gaze jerked sideways, but she was looking down at his jacket draped over her arm. With a surprising amount of reluctance, she held it out to him.

  “Keep it,” he told her. “I don’t feel the cold.”

  “Neither do I.”

  They stared at each other a moment.

  “When,” began Lyssa, and hesitated. “When did you know? About . . . the fire?”

  When I killed a man.

  Eddie looked away. “There was an accident.”

  It was an accident that I killed the wrong man.

  Matthew Swint’s face swam into his memories, but he pushed it away as hard as he could.

  “You?” he asked, inwardly wincing at how sharp his voice sounded.

  “I was ten,” she said, with particular softness. Eddie finally met her gaze and found her looking at him with knowing, gentle, eyes. His breath hitched in his throat, caught behind a hard, aching knot.

  “I got angry,” she continued. “I was a clumsy kid and tripped down a couple stairs. I set the whole thing on fire as payback.”

  “Really.”

  “I had a temper. My parents were not amused.”

  He smiled to himself and looked down at his feet. “You could talk to them, though. They weren’t . . .”

  “No,” she finished for him. “They weren’t frightened. What about . . .”

  “My mother,” he said. “No, she doesn’t . . . know. I don’t think she could handle it.”

  “Is she your only family?”

  “I have a grandmother. I had a sister. But she’s not . . .” Eddie couldn’t say the words. He never spoke of Daphne.

  “It’s okay,” said Lyssa.

  He chanced another glance, but she was looking down at his jacket again. Her gaze lost, thoughtful.

  “You could throw that out,” he said.

  She smoothed her gloved hand down the charred leather. “No. That would be a waste. You really don’t want it?”

  Eddie shook his head, and she gave him a shy, hesitant smile that made his heart stop.

  And then he stopped breathing altogether when she slid his jacket on.

  It should have meant nothing. She had worn his coat earlier. He’d had girlfriends who slipped on his shirts. Cute and fun.

  But seeing Lyssa wear his clothing . . . even just his coat . . . now, out in broad daylight with the hint of a smile in her eyes . . .

  He couldn’t think of a word for it. “Sexy” wasn’t good enough. A parade of naked women could have been marching up the street, and it would have meant nothing compared to seeing this woman lost in his jacket. The sight hit him with breathtaking force—making him suffer some primal, guttural, ache that he hadn’t realized he was capable of feeling.

  Not like this.

  Her hair was still damp, tangled around those intelligent, golden eyes. Everything in her face was smart and alive—and tempered with the vulnerability that had haunted him from the first moment he had seen her in Columbus Circle.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He blinked at her, unsteady. “It looks better on you.”

  Lyssa’s cheeks turned pink. Eddie wondered when she’d last been given a compliment. Not that he was much better. He suddenly felt awkward and shy—like he was eleven years old with Suzie Mitchell on the school field trip, helping her catch insects while hoping, maybe, if nothing else, she’d say, I like you.

  It’s better if she doesn’t like you. It’s better if you don’t like her. Keep your distance.

  Words that Lannes had spoken, right before leaving to pick up Lethe.

  She’s dangerous, said the gargoyle. Maybe you can’t feel it, but I can. There’s something inside her that isn’t right.

  In what way?

  I don’t know. I’m not wrong, though. If my brothers were here, they would tell you the same thing. But not as nicely.

  So, what? I turn her loose? I don’t help her?

  Does she even need your help? Lannes had been so grim. Let me put it another way, Eddie. I only get this itchy feeling around witches. Lyssa Andreanos is not just a shape-shifter.

  She’s something else, Eddie told himself, watching Lyssa check her scarf and adjust it around her throat. Her movements were quick, delicate. An old habit, he thought. Always hiding. Even inside his jacket. She wanted to get lost in things, he thought. Like armor.

  Lannes might not trust her, but Eddie’s life depended on reading people. Instincts mattered. Small gestures. This woman was hiding something, that much was clear. Was she a danger to be around? Probably.

  But did any of that make her a bad person?

  She’s no Matthew Swint.

  Matthew Swint, who was free. Matthew Swint, who was free and knew that Eddie had killed his brother.

  He exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “Why are the Cruor Venator hunting you? There must be other people in the world who would be just as attractive.”

  She shot him a look he’d seen in the mirror a time or two: afraid, angry, and desperate. But just as quickly as it appeared, the mask fell down, and all that raw emotion vanished—replaced by cold wariness.

  “You should be more concerned about how they found me. I’m worried they might have gotten to Estefan.”

  Eddie looked away, chilled. Her friend had been murdered. A fact that had been burning a hole in his heart since first invoking the shape-shifter’s name. He had wanted to tell her the truth from the beginning, but their few moments together hadn’t seemed right.

  How could he tell her now? How could he say the words?

  The Cruor Venator killed your friend, and that’s how they tracked you to this city. They drained his blood, skinned him, and ate his heart. But don’t worry, because I’m here to take care of you.

  Right. Like hell.

  She’ll blame herself. She’ll run from me. I can’t let her do that.

  But silence stuck in his throat like a claw. It wasn’t honest. She had a right to know.

  “Why you, Lyssa?” he asked hoarsely, hating himself. “It sounds personal.”

  She was silent a moment. “They’re hunting me because that’s what they do. My . . . blood . . . is valuable to them.”

  “Because you’re a dragon.”

  She made an exasperated sound. “Don’t say that out loud.”

  “No one’s around us.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like you knowing what I am.”

  “You know my secret.”

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “You’ve been hiding for years. It’s a hard habit to break. I understand that.”

  “No,” she muttered, looking down at the sidewalk. “No, you don’t. How could you?”

  Because I killed a man when I was thirteen years old, then ran away from home.

  Lyssa stumbled. Eddie caught her elbow, and heat roared up his arm. He let go, startled, and she gave him a haunted, troubled, look.

  It was so quiet. Every sound, muted. Every car engine, every voice, dull in his ears. His beating heart was louder than it all.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he whispered.

  Lyssa let out her breath. “Like what?”

  Like you heard what I thought.

  Eddie backed away and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I left home after the first time I lost control of . . . of the fire. I was just a kid. I lived on the streets for years until it was safe enough for me to be around the people I cared about. So I know about hiding. About . . . holding back.”

  “You were homeless,” she said.

  “About as homeless as a person can be,” he replied. “I think about it every day.”

  Lyssa swallowed hard and looked away. “Hard not to, isn’t it?”

  “You have some experience with the street?”


  “You could say that. It was the only option for a long time.” She spoke with particular brittleness and gave him a lingering look full of doubt. “You said Long Nu told you about the Cruor Venator.”

  “Some. Not enough.” Eddie started walking again, needing to move, to focus on something other than her. “I asked Lannes to help me gather more information.”

  Lyssa matched his pace. “You shouldn’t have. You’ll make him a target. Maybe I did already, by being in his home.”

  Maybe, he thought. “I need to know what the Cruor Venator are. What they do.”

  Lyssa walked faster. “Witches have the blood of the fae in them. That’s what gives them their power, diluted as it may be. Sometimes it doesn’t even manifest, or if does, it can be mistaken for intuition or good luck.”

  Eddie stared. “I . . . the fae?”

  “You know.” She wiggled her fingers and raised her brow. “Faeries. Sidhe.”

  He had thought there was nothing left that could surprise him—but he was wrong. Crazy or not, though, it wasn’t worth arguing over. Not after all the other strange things he’d seen in his life.

  “So why does everyone act as though the Cruor Venator are different from other witches?”

  “Because they’re descended from a specific bloodline.” Disgust twisted her mouth. “Not fae. Demon.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine. But—”

  Eddie touched her arm, stopping her. “I was told the Cruor Venator haven’t been seen in one hundred years. How come you know so much about them?”

  Lyssa grimaced. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Can’t you just answer the question?”

  “No. I shouldn’t even be here with you. I wasn’t . . . thinking.” Her voice was sharp, but he heard a hint of pain that was all too familiar. Before he could say anything, Lyssa walked into the street and hailed an approaching cab.

  Eddie stepped in front of her. “Not without me.”

  She gave him a haunted look. “What is your problem?”

  “You,” he said, and grabbed the front of her jacket, pulling her close with gentle, firm, strength. Lyssa made a small sound of protest, staring at him with huge, troubled eyes. The cab slowed, then drove past.

  “You,” he said again, quieter.

  Her hands rose to cover his, but she didn’t try to free herself. Her touch was soft and warm, and a terrible prickling heat rose beneath his skin, behind his eyes. It scared him, but only because she slipped so easily behind the walls he’d worked hard to build. Years of keeping his heart quiet and calm, segregated from emotions that were too strong.

  Because it wasn’t safe. Fire reacted to the heart.

  His heart reacted to her.

  Her gaze flicked to his mouth, sending a bolt of hunger from his throat into his groin. Embarrassing, impossible to control. All he could do was keep his focus on her eyes, but if he looked at her delicate lips, the pale curve of her jaw . . .

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered. “Why are you trying so hard for a complete stranger?”

  A million reasons tumbled through his head. She was a job, it was the right thing to do . . . if only someone had done the same for him all those years ago . . .

  But shining through those thoughts was the memory of seeing her across Columbus Circle—that first sight when he hadn’t realized who she was, when all she was to him was a faceless, graceful woman—who had sparked a feeling of connection so powerful, so deep inside him, he could barely think about it, let alone try to describe it in words. He had wanted to take care of her, then. A complete stranger.

  Now that he was face-to-face with her . . .

  I don’t care what Lannes says. I don’t care.

  “I need to do this,” he told her, finding it difficult to say the words. “I don’t think I could . . . live with myself . . . if I didn’t make certain you’re safe.”

  Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Eddie forced his hands to loosen. “I don’t expect you to understand that.”

  “Just like you don’t understand the danger you’re in, being near me?”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

  Lyssa looked away, visibly swallowing.

  Eddie let go of the jacket entirely though his fingers ached and felt stiff. “We could be on a plane in two hours.”

  Her gaze darted toward him. “I thought you were determined to stay here.”

  “Because of you.”

  “So if I leave, you’ll forget about the Cruor Venator?”

  He couldn’t lie to her, not about that. Lyssa waited a heartbeat, then gave him a bitter smile.

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “Okay,” he replied, watching her carefully. “Does that mean you’re going after these witches?”

  Again, she said nothing. Eddie sighed. “Fine. We go our separate ways. I’ll stumble along until these witches find me, or I find them. And you can do the same.”

  “You’re serious,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re manipulating me. That’s ridiculous.”

  “We don’t have time to fight each other.”

  She took a deep breath. Both of them, watching the other. Standing so still as the leaves rustled on the trees, and cars drove past. Far away, sirens. Far away, laughter.

  But here, between them, it was quiet.

  Lyssa’s mouth tightened. “The witches you encountered today are not the Cruor Venator. They’re her servants. But if you thought they were frightening . . . if just their presence was terrifying . . . then keep in mind that whatever you feel around the true Cruor Venator will be a hundred times worse.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. “Understood.”

  “No,” Lyssa said, with a hint of sadness. “You don’t.”

  She looked away from him and took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll lose my nerve. Maybe I’ll run again. But if I do leave New York with you . . . there are some things I need to do first. Or else I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  “Again?” he said. “Just how long have you been running from these people?”

  “Ten years,” she said, giving him a flat look. “Since the night my parents were murdered.”

  They walked toward Washington Square Park. Eddie didn’t know the way, but Lyssa had no trouble navigating the streets. No one paid attention to them. New York University was close, and they could have been just another pair of college kids.

  Few words passed between them. Lyssa hadn’t elaborated about her parents and seemed uncomfortable having told him anything at all. Eddie understood her loss, which meant he knew better than to respond with anything more than a simple, “I’m sorry.”

  Because he was sorry. Sorrier than he could express in words.

  Daphne, he thought, shivering as old memories filled him. Good and bad.

  Lyssa glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

  No, he wanted to tell her, but that one little word refused to crawl from his throat. Her problems were big enough without him turning into some emotional victim. Maybe it was old fashioned, but while he could—while he was able—he wanted to be her broad shoulder. Her guy she could depend on. Her wall.

  Walls did not hurt. Walls didn’t break.

  Lyssa needed to feel safe with him. No matter what.

  He focused on all the NYU banners hanging in the distance, and said the next thing that came to mind.

  “Did you ever try going to school? All these years?”

  Lyssa gave him a lingering look as though she knew he was changing the subject. Eddie’s cheeks warmed, but instead of calling him out—she hunched deeper inside the charred leather jacket.

  “No. I was home schooled, and then . . . later . . . I spen
t a lot of time in libraries. You can learn pretty much anything you need to, that way.”

  She sounded wistful. Eddie said, “That’s how I survived. My formal education ended when I was thirteen. I never went back. Sometimes I wish I could have had that experience. High school. College.”

  “You still could,” she said. “Maybe not high school . . . but this, college.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Would you?”

  Lyssa hesitated. “No. I have what I need. I’ve been . . . educated in my own way.”

  “Yeah,” he said, remembering watching other kids with parents and money, and books—being less envious than sorry that he was not home, where he knew he would be welcome, and needed.

  None of which would have made his thirteen-year-old self feel less awful, or frightened.

  “After the things I’ve seen,” he told her, “I’m not sure I could sit in a classroom. It might feel like the opposite of learning.”

  Lyssa gave him a gentle, wistful smile. “And yet.”

  “And yet,” he agreed.

  They passed in front of a small café. The door stood partially open. Eddie heard a radio blasting the news and slowed to a stop as a harried voice detailed the explosion off Lexington. A police source had confirmed that investigators were looking for evidence of suicide bombers—a man and woman seen just before the detonation. So far, however, their bodies had not been recovered.

  “Didn’t anyone see me carrying you away?” he asked, mostly to himself. “Or see me stealing that car, or speaking with Nikola and Betty?”

  He didn’t really expect a response, but Lyssa seemed to seriously contemplate those questions.

  “Maybe not,” she said. “If the Cruor Venator’s women wanted me—and, by extension, you—it would have been in their interest to obscure our presence.”

  “Like the illusion that Lannes casts on his body, except over a wider area?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But how?”

  She frowned. “You imagine and will it to be. It’s not quite that simple, but that’s the essence. All you need is the power to back up the desire.”

  “But there are limits.”

  “That depends.”

  Eddie’s cell phone rang. Both of them flinched.

  He checked the screen. The call was from his mother. Another kind of dread filled him. A million little nightmares.