Where The Heart Lives

by Liu, Marjorie

  Twisting trees grew before her, and after a moment it seemed a path appeared, grass rimming its edges. Ahead, light. Lucy ran.

  She pushed out of the forest into a sunlight that felt like holy fire, bright and hot and clean. She was not beside the pond any longer, but on the meadow across from the old house. She saw Barnabus in the distance, with an ax in his hands. Miss Lindsay and Henry were with him. Above her head, in the branches of the trees, crows began to shout. And, after a moment, so did Henry.

  The bell in her hand rattled. Lucy released the silver charm, unable to hold it. She instantly felt light-headed –closed her eyes to keep her balance—and when she opened them, there was a woman on the ground.

  Mary. Still in her wedding dress. Looking not one day older.

  Again, Henry shouted. Lucy was not able to see the reunion. She staggered, eyes closing. Inside her head, voices, bells, a woman whispering. The dizziness was too much; her muscles melted.

  She fell down and did not get up.

  ***

  Lucy dreamed. Of women and men who turned into crows, and other creatures with burning gold in their eyes; of beings who grew tails like fish, and dragons that breathed fire; dark figures with green shining eyes, and the woman, the queen herself, with a similar gaze, effortlessly regal and unrelenting in her stare.

  “Truce,” said the woman, in Lucy’s dream. “Never ask me why, but between us, a truce. For one who loves.”

  And Lucy woke up. She was in her bed. Miss Lindsay was seated beside her, as was Barnabus. There were shadows under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. She wondered, fleetingly, if he might speak to her—if perhaps there were other gifts in her release—but when he picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth with that silent gentle strength, she knew instantly that was not the case.

  “Henry?” Lucy breathed. “Mary?”

  Miss Lindsay briefly shut her eyes. “Gone. Already gone. Henry wanted to stay to see you wake, but Mary…” She stopped, hesitating. “Mary wanted away from this place, immediately. She said to give you her thanks.”

  Miss Lindsay made the words sound flat, cheap. Barnabus looked unhappy. Lucy did not know what to think. She felt an aching loss for Henry. She wanted to see him, but thought of Mary, twenty years trapped, and knew why the woman had run—and that where she went, so would he. No choice. She was his home.

  Miss Lindsay seemed to read her mind—she was good at that, Lucy mused wearily—and said, “For both of us, thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you, always.”

  “It was her, not me,” Lucy pointed out. “She gave us up.”

  Miss Lindsay looked sideways at Barnabus. “She does that, sometimes.”

  Lucy shifted, uncomfortable. “What is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Lindsay. “She is old, though. Her kind always are. So old, they don’t have children anymore. Not with each other, anyway.”

  “She’s lonely.”

  “Tell Henry that.”

  Lucy held up her hand. “He and Mary have their time now. Time to make their own way.” Time to finish what they had started, if such a thing was possible. To have their honeymoon, their marriage, their life.

  Miss Lindsay murmured, “Patience. I told Henry—both of them—to have patience. They’ve been through so much. Neither is the person the other married. Not anymore.” She glanced away, bitterness touching her mouth. “Is it wrong to wonder whether I should be happy for them?”

  Lucy closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of Barnabus’s hand. “Did you ever marry?”

  Silence, long and deep. Finally, Miss Lindsay said, “A woman like me rarely does.”

  Lucy opened her eyes and gave her a questioning look. The woman sighed. “I’ll tell you some other time, perhaps.”

  Some other time, Lucy thought. Like how you read minds? Or how sometimes you are a woman, and sometimes a crow?

  Miss Lindsay stared at her, startled, and then laughed out loud.

  “Yes,” she said, still smiling. “Just like that.”

  But she never did. At least, not for a long while. One morning soon after, she approached Lucy and Barnabus as they were weeding the garden, and said, crisply, “I think I will go away for a time. There’s a world beyond the wood, you know. I’ve been here my entire life, already.”

  “Yes,” Lucy said, though she herself had no desire to go elsewhere. Barnabus put down his rake and regarded the older woman thoughtfully, with no small amount of compassion in his steady gaze. He nodded once, finally, and held out his arms. Miss Lindsay fell into them, hugging the young man so tightly, Lucy thought his bones might break. And then Miss Lindsay did the same for her, and she was quite certain that was indeed the case.

  “Tend this place for me,” whispered Miss Lindsay, her eyes glowing golden as the sun. “For all of us. We’ll be back. And we might bring others. There is so much in this world I have yet to explain to you.”

  And then, with no shyness or hesitation, she did a shocking thing—stripping off all her clothes, right in front of them, with hardly more than a smile. Golden light covered her body. Feathers black as jet, thick and rich and hot, poured up from her skin and rippled like water. Lucy could not help but gasp; her knees buckled. Barnabus caught her, and she glanced at his face. He did not appear at all surprised by what he was seeing, and there was an appreciation in his gaze that was from the heart.

  He nudged Lucy, gestured for her to look again—and she found Miss Lindsay shrinking, narrowing—until she was no longer a woman, but a crow.

  A crow who stared at them with golden eyes—cawed once—and leapt into the air, followed by a flock of companions that shrieked and beat their wings in raucous sympathy.

  Quite a sight. But it was not the last time Lucy ever witnessed it.

  Time passed. Lucy and Barnabus did as Miss Lindsay asked—maintaining the house and land, as well as the cemetery—though they married soon after to keep local tongues from wagging. She kept the name of her birth, since Barnabus had none to give. Lucy Steele. They called their son William, who also, on occasion, exhibited peculiar talents.

  And sometimes Lucy would take a book and sit on the edge of the woods, and read out loud. She never knew if the woman, the Sidhe queen, was listening, but she liked to think that the trees were, and that through them the immortal could hear another voice, speaking just for her.

  It was a good life for Lucy and Barnabus, a happy life. A life together, a grand adventure, and one that lasted many moons, over many secret stories—each as sweet and golden as honey.

  ***

  Thank you for reading WHERE THE HEART LIVES, a prequel to the New York Times bestselling Dirk and Steele series -- in which shape-shifters, mermen, gargoyles, and other creatures out of legend, walk this world in secret, united with a common purpose: to help others.

  READ ON for more of Marjorie’s work, from the latest Dirk and Steele novel (about a dragon shape-shifter hunted by witches) -- to an excerpt from the Hunter Kiss series, which follows the adventures of a woman covered in living tattoos that peel off her body at night to form her own demonic army…

  ***

  Marjorie Liu is an attorney and a New York Times bestselling author of urban fantasy and paranormal romance—as well as comic books for Marvel. A nomad at heart, she divides her time between Beijing, the American Midwest, New York City, and Boston. To learn more, please visit her website at www.marjoriemliu.com.

  Or, follow her on Twitter: @marjoriemliu.

  WITHIN THE FLAMES

  A Dirk and Steele Novel

  Joining the Dirk and Steele Agency turned Eddie’s life around. A pyrokinetic and former car thief, he cannot refuse an assignment to cross the continent in order to rescue an extraordinary woman in peril…even though he fears losing control of the destructive power of flame at his fingertips.

  The last of her shape-shifting kind, Lyssa hides in the abandoned tunnels beneath Manhattan, seeking refuge from those who murdered her family a decade ago and wo
uld now destroy her as well. Like Eddie, fire is her weapon, her destiny…and her curse. For beneath Lyssa’s extraordinary beauty are dangerous secrets…and even darker, nearly irresistible urges.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A dragon slept beneath New York City.

  Her dreams were fitful. Her dreams always were. She had been hiding a long time, and had run a great distance with no home, no place to rest her head.

  Her home now was humble and small, but it was hers. Filled with light and color, and glass. Small jars of paint, and a canvas to stretch her wings upon.

  Others shared her underworld. Men and women, and children. The dragon protected them, when she could. Some, she considered friends. But always from a distance, where it was safe. Safe, for them.

  Safe meant being alone.

  The dragon had been alone a long time.

  But sometimes, like tonight, she dreamed of a man.

  And he was made of fire.

  ***

  More than twenty-five hundred miles away, Eddie knelt on the polished concrete floor of a glass-walled cage, trying very hard not to catch on fire.

  The cage was an eight-by-eleven block of concrete and fire-resistant glass, and the door was made of thick steel, framed in that same concrete. No furniture. No blankets. The space had once been part of the dining room, and the double-paned glass wall usually offered Eddie an unobstructed view of the kitchen. There was, however, a privacy curtain that he could draw over the exterior of the cage.

  He had used it tonight. There was a guest upstairs.

  It was over, thought Eddie, putting his back to the wall as sparks danced off his clothes. I was sure it was over.

  He had not lost control in almost a year.

  He had not needed the cage.

  Until tonight.

  You know why.

  Eddie closed his eyes, haunted. Every inch of him, so tender that the softest touch of his clothes hurt as though he was being dragged naked, on gravel.

  Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

  Eddie breathed, but each breath was hot in his lungs—the same heat burning in his bones, rising through his skin. Smoke rose off his body, singeing his nostrils. He tried to think of cool water, ice, this morning’s silver fog around the Golden Gate Bridge. He imagined the flow of the salt-scented breeze on his face as he’d walked to his favorite coffee shop…

  Everything, good and normal. Part of the life he had made for himself.

  But it meant nothing. His mind kept returning to his mother’s sobs, the broken rasp of her voice -- the sound of his grandmother in the background, trying to calm her. Trying, and failing—because she was crying, too.

  Tears sizzled against his cheeks. Eddie held his stomach, overwhelmed with grief and anger. So much anger.

  He pushed it down. Then he kept pushing, and pushing, methodically bottling his emotions: frustration, unhappiness, regret. He hid them all in a cool dark place inside his heart. He buried them, far away and deep, until he felt raw, empty.

  Empty, except for the loneliness. An isolation so profound it bordered on despair.

  Flames erupted against his legs and hands, flowing up his arms to arc over his shoulders -- down his back like wings. Eddie tried to stop the fire—struggled with all his strength—but it was like trying to catch the wind. The flames slipped around him, through him, and all the control he had so carefully cultivated once again meant nothing.

  He was powerless. Helpless. And he hated himself for that.

  His spine caught on fire, a deep burn born in his bones, born deeper, rippling from his heart. Eddie closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of flames eating through his jeans and t-shirt, turning them to ash.

  He didn’t make a sound, not even when the burn of his skin made him feel as though he would split apart. He pretended not to feel the soaring waves of heat moving around him, wrapping him in a nest of fire that brushed against the walls of his cage.

  He tried so hard not to think about his sister’s murderer walking out of prison.

  But in the end, it was easier just to burn.

  ***

  When Eddie left the cage, a woman was waiting for him.

  He happened to know that she was in her early fifties, though she hardly looked it with her loose red hair, creamy skin, and long supple body clad in black. A patch covered her right eye, and the other was golden, pupil slit like a cat. She leaned on the kitchen counter, arms folded over her chest—and even standing still, there was a lethal, inhuman grace about her.

  Eddie froze, and clutched the curtain around his waist. None of his clothes had made it through the blaze.

  “Ma’am,” he said, a little too hoarse.

  Her gaze traveled down his body, cold and assessing. “You make me feel so old. How many times will we meet, Edward, before you call me Serena?”

  Eddie waited. Serena gave him a slow, dangerous smile, and picked up a cloth bag on the counter behind her. She tossed it to him. When he looked inside, he found sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  “Roland told me where you keep your things,” she said. “He also mentioned that your skin is sensitive….afterwards. I chose what seemed soft.”

  “Thank you,” Eddie said. “Ma’am.”

  Serena tilted her head, golden eye glinting. Eddie stepped back into the cage, letting the curtain fall behind him. The process of dressing made him feel more human—more grounded in his own body—though his skin still ached, and when he moved too quickly, lights danced in his eyes.

  When he reemerged, Serena stood at the foot of the stairs.

  “They’re waiting,” she said.

  Eddie did not move. “No one mentioned that you would be here.”

  “Shocking, I know.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a bad sign. What else has happened?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.” Serena gave him a faint, mocking smile, and turned to climb the stairs. “If it’s any consolation, no one told me I’d be in San Francisco tonight. But here I am. I go where there’s trouble.”

  “You make trouble,” he replied. “With all due respect.”

  She laughed, quietly, and kept climbing.

  Eddie did not follow. He watched until she disappeared around the landing, and then looked down at his hands. Small, circular scars covered his skin. He rubbed them, and shivered.

  He was always cold after he lost control. Cold as winter, in his bones. When he felt like this, he couldn't imagine losing control ever again. Drained of fire, burned out. Safe.

  If only.

  Eddie took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs.

  He entered an immense room filled with overstuffed couches and low tables sagging with books and newspapers. The top floor, the penthouse suite of an entire building owned by one man, one organization—converted into a home and office. Nine floors that could be traversed by stairs and hidden elevators.

  It was night outside. Only a few lamps had been turned on, but the floor-to-ceiling windows let in the scattered light of downtown San Francisco, and that was enough to illuminate the room, softly, as though with starlight.

  Two people stood near the windows. Serena still had her arms folded over her chest. The man who stood beside her was taller by half a foot, and broad as a bear. His rumpled flannel shirt strained against his shoulders. Thick brown stubble, peppered with gray, covered his jaw. The scent of whiskey clung to him, but that was no surprise. Not for months now.

  Roland’s bloodshot gaze was compassionate and sad as he studied Eddie. Edged with doubt, too. And pity.

  Eddie tamped down anger. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Roland grunted. “Like what?”

  “Like I’m broken,” he said hoarsely. “Like I’m you.”

  Low blow. Eddie received no satisfaction from the surprise and hurt that flickered through the other man’s face -- but he wasn’t sorry, either. He had never thrown a first punch, hardly ever used his fists at all, but for the last year he had wanted to -- against the man in fro
nt of him. Words were a poor substitute.

  And he needed to hit someone right now. Right now, more than anything, he needed to inflict some pain.

  Roland cleared his throat. “You little shit.”

  “I only look like shit. Don’t confuse the two.”

  “In your case, it’s the same thing.” Roland tilted his head, watching him. “Are you going to be able to do this? Handle New York?”

  Eddie hadn’t told him about his mother’s phone call. He hadn’t needed to. Roland had known from the moment Eddie entered the penthouse, heading for the cage. Some telepaths were like that.

  “According to you,” Eddie said, “there’s no one else.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He set his jaw, warmth finally trickling back into his hands. “It’s the only answer I need. You taught me that.”

  Roland stilled. Serena murmured, “Generous praise. Given that you’re speaking to a man who hasn’t left his home in over a decade.”

  Roland blinked hard, tearing his gaze from Eddie. “You’re certainly free to go.”

  “I wish I could. I have a grandchild I could be visiting right now, and you smell like a drunk.” Serena swung away from Roland to stare out the window. “But the new alliance stands. A’Priori wants me here, and I work for them. Not Dirk & Steele.”

  Eddie was already tired, but hearing those words stole the last of his strength -- whatever was left in his heart. He couldn’t keep the bitterness off his face, and it made him feel like a different man. A worse man. Too much like the man who had burned those scars into his hands.