He returned the photo to his pocket and glanced around. Even with the cold breeze, the sun had brought out the crowds. He watched faces, pretending he was thirteen again, living on the street, looking for a mark.
He found three in seconds. Easy targets. Easy cash. New York City was full of people, crammed together, crowded. During those bad years, he would have lived more easily here than in Los Angeles.
Eddie wondered what the girl in the photograph had done to survive.
His gaze roved across the street to the Time Warner Center. The curved sidewalk was crowded. Kids perched on the stone guards, talking and listening to music, while cops sat in the cars parked alongside the cabs—watching the kids, and all the men and women coming and going, past the mall, from the mall, talking on cell phones, or not—gazes on the ground, or stubbornly straight ahead, focused on anything but everyone.
Cabs parked in front of the Time Warner Center. An enormous man got out of one, nearly crawling from the backseat.
His shoulders were broad, his legs long, chest thick with muscle beneath a button-up denim shirt. Like Eddie, he didn’t seem affected by the cold. His dark hair was tousled around his craggy face, and his demeanor, his height—his entire presence—was utterly imposing. Women gave him appreciative looks. Men got out of his way.
If only they realized Lannes isn’t human, thought Eddie, amused.
Not that anyone could tell. As Lannes crossed the street, Eddie marveled at the strength of the illusion: even up close, the man appeared completely human. No sign of wings. No silver skin. Not a glimpse of horns. The illusion perfectly hid the impossible truth: that the man walking in broad daylight was actually a gargoyle, from a race of winged creatures capable of magic.
And an expert on magic was exactly what Eddie needed.
He walked forward to meet him, extending his hand. Lannes engulfed him in an immense grip that felt different than it looked: Instead of human fingertips, Eddie felt claws scrape his skin—and the carefully restrained strength in that touch was more than human.
“I’m sorry for being late,” Lannes said, glancing at the people around them and lowering his voice. “I had to make certain Lethe was safe with her family.”
“Safe?”
Lannes grimaced. “We’re still not sure we can trust her parents. Lethe hasn’t even told them about me.”
“You’re married.”
“They don’t know it. Every time she goes over there, they try to get her back together with an old boyfriend.” His grimace turned into a scowl. “He looks like a Ken doll.”
Eddie ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. “Your illusion wouldn’t fool them?”
Lannes growled. “Stop laughing. And no, even Lethe can sense it, just with the training I’ve given her. Her family would certainly know me for what I am. We can’t take the risk.”
Hearing him say it like that wiped the smile off Eddie’s face. “I didn’t think all witches were a threat. When your brother told me that your wife’s family was full of . . . of magic-users . . . I just assumed . . .”
He didn’t finish, watching as a cold, humorless, smile touched Lannes’s mouth. “Lethe’s own grandmother tried to sacrifice her to demons. And Lethe was her favorite grandchild.”
Eddie held silent. Lannes said, “So, you understand.”
“I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I’d known,” he replied quietly.
“We want to help. And Lethe doesn’t think the rest of her family means her harm. Her grandmother was an anomaly.”
Eddie raised his brow. Lannes said, “Yeah, I know.”
“Someone should have told me.”
“Why? Your job is to find a girl.”
“And protect her. But if learning how to do that puts you or your wife at risk—”
“Stop. You’re not responsible for us.”
“Responsible enough. You’re not sure she’s safe with them.”
“I’m biased. I hate witches. I love Lethe. So I compromise. I have to trust her judgment.”
Eddie was not comforted. “Could the Cruor Venator be members of her family?”
“I hope not.” Lannes rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Let’s talk in the park. My wings are killing me. I need to loosen the restraints.”
As they walked, Lannes did his best to give other passersby a wide berth. Eddie, trying to avoid a stroller, brushed too close and hit something firm and invisible—about eight inches away from the gargoyle’s body.
“Sorry,” Eddie said.
Lannes grunted, giving him a sidelong look. “It’s why I don’t like cities. I always get touched in a crowd.”
“Your brother doesn’t bind his wings.”
“Which is why he only comes out at night and dresses like a crazy person.” Lannes’s mouth twitched. “I use a leather strap. Foot wide, cinched around my wings and chest. Imperfect, but it cuts down how often I bump into people when I walk. I hate it, though. I can’t take a deep breath.”
Eddie studied the illusion but found nothing that would give away the fact that a winged gargoyle walked through Columbus Circle, in broad daylight. “Does it ever make you nervous that a trick of light is all that keeps you from being discovered?”
“Used to. Until I realized there were things more frightening than being . . . seen.” Lannes gave him a pointed look. “I hope you’re prepared for the possibility that you’ll face some of those bad things.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
Lannes studied him a heartbeat too long.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Eddie pretended not to care. “I haven’t said it yet, but thank you. It was good of you and Lethe to come down from Maine for this investigation.”
“Witches are hunting a girl,” said Lannes simply.
It was a short walk. The leaves in Central Park had turned golden and red, and a long line of horse-drawn carriages was parked alongside Fifty-ninth. Tourists surrounded them, taking pictures. The drivers stood off to the side, in small groups, smoking cigarettes.
Just past Merchant’s Gate, Lannes and Eddie left the path and cut between the trees to a small grassy clearing still within sight of the Time Warner Center. It felt quiet. Private, even. Dead leaves crunched beneath them. No one else was around.
“Where will you go after this?” Lannes asked.
“We were given a list of places she likes to visit, but there’s a second list that Roland put together, on his own. I have a photo of the girl when she was young. I’ll be showing it around.”
“Needle in a haystack.”
“We’re close. That’s what Roland and the others say.”
“Psychics.” Lannes said the word like some would say, kids.
He fumbled at a spot above his chest. His fingers shimmered, as though immersed in a heat wave or the watery light of a prism. Eddie watched closely, searching for a break in the illusion.
It never came. He heard the distinctive sound of leather creaking, and the gargoyle’s chest expanded several inches—as though he had been holding his breath. He let out a quiet sigh.
“Better,” he said, and looked at Eddie. “What did my brother tell you about witches?”
Not enough. His brother, Charlie, was another agent of Dirk & Steele, and lived in San Francisco. Asking about witches had not elicited a positive reaction—more like suggestions to run for the hills and never look back.
“A witch imprisoned you and the rest of your family,” he answered. “Charlie said he was the only one not turned to stone.”
Lannes closed his eyes. “I thought he was lucky at first. But then the witch began carving up his body. Every night, like a slaughtered hog. We had to watch her eat his flesh. There was nothing we could do to stop her.”
Eddie didn’t speak. Charlie had not told him that part.
Lannes took a breath, then exhaled slowly. “Imagine being imprisoned inside your own skin for years, unable to move or breathe, existing only as a thought. Forced to watch someone you love be tortured, over and over again. And the only way to stop it is to sell your soul.”
Eddie didn’t need to imagine. All he had to do was think of his sister.
I watched. I was helpless. I couldn’t move or breathe. In the end, I sold my soul.
I did something I could never take back.
He remembered, and heat suffused his skin, rolling through him in a slow wave that poured from his head down to his toes. Eddie breathed slow and deep through his nose, trying to maintain control.
Lannes didn’t seem to notice. “The witch who captured us was incredibly powerful. And she loved that power. She wanted more of it. She wanted to flaunt it.”
“You’re warning me,” Eddie said in a strained voice. “I get it.”
“You better.” Lannes gave him a flat, empty look. “There’s a tipping point. It’s different for everyone. I don’t know if the witch was born without compassion, but somewhere in her life, she forgot it. She began enjoying the pain she caused. She fed off the agony of others.”
“I know the type,” he replied, still struggling with the heat gathering beneath his skin. “I won’t hesitate.”
Lannes paused. Eddie realized he was rubbing the scars on his hands. The gargoyle was looking at them.
Eddie stilled. Lannes dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. “It’s been years since I heard of the Cruor Venator. I had to ask my brothers about them. I had to go outside the family. Everyone says the same thing.”
Lannes finally looked at him. “When they want you, all you can do is run.”
“Not an option. And nothing I haven’t already heard.”
“Then you know their power comes from blood. Blood obtained through death. The slower the death, the better. And not just any blood. A true Cruor Venator will absorb the essence of the victim, and so they choose only those whom they perceive to be strong, vibrant. The ones with the most to offer.”
“Shape-shifters,” Eddie said. “That doesn’t explain why everyone is so afraid of them.”
Lannes gave him a hard look. “Really?”
Eddie didn’t back down. “Really. You talk about magic and witches, and it means nothing to me. Just more people with strange gifts.”
“Gifts that alter reality. In small, personal doses.”
“So how do you fight that?”
“With luck and a strong sense of free will.” Lannes leaned forward, holding his gaze. “What creates a witch is nothing more than desire and power. That, and a particular bloodline that makes it possible to manifest that desire. What makes the Cruor Venator different is the way they harness power.”
“It doesn’t seem as though it should make them special. Anyone can spill blood.”
“You’re wrong. But that’s not something I can explain in words.”
Eddie jammed the toe of his boot into the grass, and dug in, frustrated. “I spoke to someone else. Long Nu. She’s a very old shape-shifter . . . old enough to remember the Cruor Venator. But she didn’t explain any of this.”
“I’ve heard of her. Dragons are like that.”
Great, he thought. “Do you know how to kill these witches?”
“Maybe. But it’s not good.” Lannes leaned against a tree and, despite the illusion, suddenly looked tired. “I’ve been told they can only be killed by one of their own. The magic that gives them power . . . is the only magic that can take their lives.”
Eddie didn’t immediately respond. He couldn’t. It was all too overwhelming and strange.
He listened to the dull thrum of the city beyond the trees, a mix of voices and honking cars and birdsong. He imagined himself younger, hungry and homeless, craving a normal life. Free of violence. Free from the dead.
“Fire,” he said. “Will fire kill them?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a hundred years since the last Cruor Venator. A lot could have been forgotten.”
“But not the magic that made them. Who killed the Cruor Venator a hundred years ago?”
“One of her own kind. It had to be.”
“But after that, no sign of them. No deaths.”
“The last Cruor Venator was famous for her cruelty. She hunted nonhumans specifically, because they made her so much stronger. She could . . . adopt some of their powers. But the one who stopped her was either better at hiding her nature—”
“Or she just wasn’t a killer.”
“She killed at least once,” Lannes replied. “No reason to think she stopped.”
Eddie wasn’t so sure. “Could she still be alive?”
Lannes arched his brow. “You want to find her, too?”
“Well?”
“Maybe. Witches can live a long time. But there’s always a price.”
“Someone had to teach the current Cruor Venator.”
“Or maybe it’s the same witch who killed the last one.”
“We need to know.”
“You don’t look for a Cruor Venator.”
“Apparently you do if you need one dead.”
Lannes stared. Eddie ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. Silence fell around them.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Lannes finally said, quietly.
“Thank you.” Eddie had trouble meeting his gaze, too aware of what he was asking of the gargoyle. It was one thing to put his own life on the line for a stranger, but Lannes and his family had already suffered too much.
The gargoyle bound his wings again, then both men walked from the park. A large group of tourists mingled in front of them. Eddie and Lannes kept their distance. His gaze roved over open purses and backpacks, taking in expensive cameras and other small electronics belted to waists or tucked inside pockets. Out there, exposed. Like blazing targets.
“You’re frowning,” Lannes said. “Still thinking about witches?”
“I’m thinking that people never expect they’ll get hurt.” Eddie tore his gaze from the tourists and looked across the street, assessing, watching. His neck prickled. He felt exposed and uneasy, like something big was about to hit him. Big, like a fist. Big, like a wave.
His gaze continued to rove left, where it stopped at the red light just before Eighth.
A boy was marching across the intersection.
Like a little soldier, his legs kicking out, each foot pounding the pavement with hard, decisive, steps. He wore an oversized sweatshirt and jeans and had dark floppy hair that he kept pushing away from his face. With his other hand, he clutched a backpack to his chest. A tiny, ugly, dog with huge eyes peered out.
The boy held Eddie’s attention. There was something small and lost about him. The way he held that dog, with tenderness and desperation—heartbreaking. He reminded Eddie too much of himself at that age: clinging to pride, defiance, but always afraid. Always, and doing his best to hide it.
It hurt Eddie to see. He wanted to know if the boy needed help, but there was no way. No way that wouldn’t come off as creepy or strange.
And then he realized the boy wasn’t alone.
A woman was with him. Eddie couldn’t see much of her. From his vantage point, just her profile: pert nose, rosy cheeks, a small, delicate mouth. She was wrapped in an oversized green sweater, patched together with hearts and stars made of multicolored satin and velvet scraps. It stood out, compared to all the black, monotone colors worn by every other New Yorker around her.
The tail of a pink-checkered flannel shirt peeked from beneath the sweater’s hem. Her jeans were tight, tucked into heavy boots, and a brown newsboy hat covered her head. Loose strands of auburn hair flew out from beneath the long red scarf wrapped around her throat, a scarf that she kept touching and tightening with s
lender gloved hands.
Eddie stared.
He couldn’t see her face, but the way she moved was beautiful—a dancer, graceful and certain of each light step. Everyone around her seemed like a clod in comparison, weighted down, hard and gray—while she flowed through them, around them, in a patchwork of color. Warm and sublime, and welcoming.
Confident, he thought . . . but a heartbeat later she bowed her head, just so, and touched her covered throat. The gesture was pained and vulnerable, in the same way the boy was vulnerable.
As though she felt lost. Out of place.
It cut Eddie again, right in the heart. Deeper, even. He felt an instant, and inexplicable connection to the woman, as though she was a page out of his own book—someone whose pain mirrored his own.
Which was ridiculous, of course. He didn’t know her. She was just one woman out of eight million people in this city—and here he was, making up a story for her. Pretending that he understood her. A stranger.
It all makes pathetic sense. I’ll never know that woman. I’ll never hurt her, and she’ll never hurt me. Of course I’m attracted.
She’s untouchable.
And yet . . . as he watched her . . .
I would take care of you, came the unbidden thought, and the need and hunger that followed rocked him to the core; so overwhelming, his breath caught with the pain of it.
I wish I could.
The woman stumbled. The boy reached out and grabbed her hand. Eddie took a step in their direction.
He stopped, though. He couldn’t just run after her. What would be the point?
If I were safe, he thought to himself. If I were safe to be touched . . .
He took another step, anyway. And then realized something was wrong.
The woman was staring at Lannes.
The boy stood on the sidewalk, but the woman was partially in the road, one foot on the curb, remaining very still as she watched the gargoyle—who had walked a short distance ahead without noticing that Eddie wasn’t with him.
An entire street and heavy foot traffic separated them, but there was no question who had caught her attention.
Within the Flames Page 4
