Within the Flames

by Marjorie M. Liu

  She tried to stand, but her knees buckled again. Eddie let out his breath and went to her. Her hand shot up, and the look she gave him was angry and fearful. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Then don’t fall,” he shot back. “You need rest.”

  “I need to get out of here,” she muttered, but trying to stand a third time was no better, and he grabbed her waist before she could fall. He half expected her to hit him, but all she did was stiffen and make a muffled sound of protest.

  Her body was slender and soft, and warm. Her scent, smoky and sweet. Eddie’s nose brushed against her hair, and a deep need sparked inside him, an ache that felt too much like being adrift, lost, homesick.

  A need that he knew, in his gut, this woman could ease.

  His reaction, and the thought that accompanied it, stunned him. He tried to let her go, but his hands tightened before he could stop them, and it took all his willpower to merely help her sit—instead of pulling her even closer.

  When he did finally loosen his hands, and step back—he felt hot, light-headed. Lyssa was not looking at him. Her shoulders sagged inside his oversized jacket as she braced her left hand on the covers. She seemed to be breathing hard. But so was he.

  Distance. He needed distance to clear his head. Eddie went to the wardrobe. He didn’t know whose room this was, but it looked feminine enough to have something around she could wear. His sister—and mother—had always filled every closet in the house with their things, even in rooms that didn’t belong to them.

  He found summer dresses hanging inside, alongside purses and frilly cardigans. Behind him, Lyssa said, “Who else lives here?”

  “My friend’s wife. I don’t know who else.”

  “A gargoyle doesn’t wear those clothes.”

  “She’s human.” Nothing in here was going to work. It was all short sleeves and gaping necklines. Eddie closed the wardrobe door. “You’re going to need something . . . warmer.”

  Lyssa tried to stand again, and this time stayed upright. She swung the backpack over her shoulder and winced. “I don’t feel the cold.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I can help you.”

  Lyssa shook her head and moved unsteadily to the door. Eddie crossed the room and planted himself in front of her. She shot him a deadly look, which he easily ignored.

  “What happened, with the fire,” he told her. “If nothing else, I can help you with that.”

  Distrust filled her eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Anger flared, unexpected and hot. He couldn’t push it down. After a moment, he stopped trying.

  “I’m not a liar,” he said in a deadly soft voice. “Don’t call me that.”

  Lyssa shivered.

  That—and the sudden uncertainty in her eyes—made his anger flash away as quickly as it had arrived.

  She gets under my skin, he thought, wondering what the hell was wrong, that he couldn’t control his emotions with her around.

  Bottled up was safe. He needed to stay safe. For her.

  No anger means no pain.

  And while I’m at it, best not to feel anything at all.

  Uneasy with himself, slightly nauseated, Eddie held up his hand and snapped his fingers. Sparks flew off his thumb.

  Lyssa made a small sound of surprise and backed away. Eddie followed her. He was taller, but not by much, and liked being able to look her in the eyes.

  He conjured another spark of fire, which shimmered like a star. Then once more, only this time it was an actual flame, rippling from his palm up his wrist, setting his sleeve on fire. He clapped it out with his other hand, smoke rising between them.

  The surprise in her eyes turned haunted. Lyssa reached out—slowly, tentatively. Her left hand was pale and delicate, smudged with color.

  Inks, he thought. Or paint. His hand seemed so rough in comparison. Ugly and scarred.

  Her fingertips hovered close to his. Heat touched his palm, warm and delicious, spreading deep into bone—down his wrist, into his arm. Slow and easy, and strong. A good heat, without the tumult of emotion that usually accompanied the fire inside him. A calm warmth that felt more right than anything he had experienced in a long time.

  Do you feel it, too? Eddie almost asked, wanting to touch her so badly. Instead, he held his breath, and remained still. Waiting for her. Waiting for her not to be afraid.

  Waiting for himself not to be afraid, too.

  Lyssa’s gaze flicked to his face, then down again. Her cheeks turned pink. She lowered her hand, and that good heat faded, leaving him cold. Cold, and so empty, so alone, he had to take a moment to steady himself.

  She clutched the jacket closed. “You’re not human.”

  “Not a dragon,” Eddie said heavily, watching her flinch ever so slightly. “But human enough.”

  “You know too much,” she whispered.

  “Let me help you. It’s what I do.”

  “Who are you, really?”

  “I told you. My name is Eddie.” He felt at a loss for what else to say. Giving her a bullet point of his interests and hobbies seemed stupid, and he didn’t have much of a life outside work. Nothing that mattered here. “I could tell you other things about me, but that probably wouldn’t mean anything to you. I wouldn’t expect it to.”

  Lyssa was silent a moment. “Who would do a favor for Long Nu?”

  She said the name with quiet bitterness and resentment. Eddie wanted to know what had happened to cause such anger. It made him uneasy.

  “The organization I work for helps people. All of us there are . . . not normal. Long Nu came into our lives almost seven years ago. We don’t see her often unless she needs something. But let me be clear. I’m not here for her. I’m here for you.”

  “I don’t need anyone,” she muttered, and tried to walk around him. Eddie blocked her again, and she looked at him with a great deal of wariness. That stung, but he buried it, buried his heart, until he felt nothing when he met her distrustful gaze.

  Almost nothing.

  She was so pale, the shadows under her eyes very deep. But there was defiance there, too—and strength. Her spine was straight. She would go through him if he didn’t set her free.

  “Leave me alone,” she said.

  He didn’t bother arguing. Not directly.

  “There were two women,” he told her. “On the street, after the explosion. I think they were witches. Maybe even the Cruor Venator. They knew you were a dragon.”

  A profound stillness fell over her, and the fear returned to her eyes—along with terrible, haunting dread. He could feel her terror, and it was almost more than he could bear. Eddie burned to comfort her. All of him, burned. Being near her set the fire loose inside him in ways he did not understand. He had never felt this way about anyone.

  “Describe them,” she said, in a low, hoarse voice.

  “One was tall, African-American, wearing a red leather jacket. She called herself Nikola. The other was named Betty. A little shorter, with long black hair and very pale skin.”

  “How much did they say to you?”

  Eddie hesitated. “They wanted me to . . . carry you for them.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. If they’re who I think they are, you should have been too frightened to resist. That’s what women like them can do. Scare you into submission.”

  “I was terrified,” he told her. “I’ve never been so frightened. All they did was look at me, and I wanted to give up. But that’s not the same thing as losing my mind.”

  Lyssa looked as though she wanted to disagree. “What’d you say to them?”

  “I told them no. And then I got into a stolen car and drove us out of there.”

  “That’s it?”

&nb
sp; “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I . . .” Lyssa stopped, staring at him as if he was new and strange. “Thank you.”

  Eddie felt embarrassed. “They had been following you.”

  She closed her eyes . . . but when she looked again at Eddie, moments later, her gaze was clear and determined, and hard. “You resisted them. That will make you a target, too.”

  Cold armor slipped over his heart. The quiet place welcomed him, and all his fear slipped away.

  “I know,” he said.

  She took a breath, blinking.

  “Call me Lyssa,” she said, and moved around him to the door.

  Eddie exhaled, briefly closed his eyes, and followed her.

  Chapter Seven

  Walking, breathing—and seeing straight—were all too difficult. Lyssa had to concentrate just to put one foot in front of the other, blinking hard as lights danced in her vision, and strange buzzing sounds filled her ears. Her lungs hurt. So did her throat, as though she had been screaming.

  Her entire right arm felt as though it belonged to a different body. Her forearm was numb, but her fingers ached, and there was a spasm in her neck that made it difficult to turn her head.

  All her symptoms were familiar. Losing control always weakened her.

  She’d never experienced the aftermath with witnesses, though. Just huddled underground, in some alley, or beneath a bridge. Alone. Waiting out her body. Waiting for her life to change.

  She would have lost her life if it hadn’t been for him.

  Right now . . . she’d be cut open, bleeding out. Bleeding, slowly . . . because the Cruor Venator would want to make her death last.

  Well. The bitch hadn’t won yet.

  Eddie walked behind her: a slow-burning fire, warm against her back. Tall, lanky, with a quiet grace that seemed to flow around her each time he drew near.

  He looked like hell, though. Covered in soot, his clothes charred and ragged. Her fault. Her weakness. His eyes were even darker than she remembered, intense and thoughtful, and worried.

  Of course he is worried, whispered a familiar voice in her head, the voice of her instincts, the voice of her dragon, a voice that she had not heard so clearly in years. He is worried about you.

  That’s ridiculous, Lyssa replied. He doesn’t know me. I’m a job to him.

  No, you are not. The dragon sounded affronted. Do you not trust me to tell you the truth?

  You’re delusional.

  I am right. You are in his blood. Just as he is in yours. You have found your mate.

  Lyssa’s left knee buckled. Eddie caught her arm before she went down.

  “Excuse me,” he muttered, with an oddly disgruntled politeness. “I need to . . .”

  He stopped talking, then, and slid his arm around her waist. She froze. Maybe he did, too. He had touched her like this earlier, and it had felt like being anchored by a mountain: unyielding and powerful. It had stolen her breath away.

  She rarely touched people. Habit, instinct, circumstances. So few people were familiar enough to her to even be touched, casually or not. The simple contact that most took for granted just didn’t exist for her.

  So when Eddie put his hands on her for a second time, it was weird and wonderful, and frightening. Even through the oversized jacket, she felt his hard strength . . . and for one moment, she let herself imagine resting in that strength, unafraid.

  Lyssa tried pushing him away. “This isn’t safe. The last time we touched . . .”

  The last time, when I tried to kill you . . .

  Her hand, at his throat . . . squeezing . . .

  I can’t be trusted.

  Suddenly, the only thing holding her up was Eddie’s arm around her.

  “Don’t think about that,” he said, as if he could read her mind. His voice moved through her, into her blood. “It doesn’t matter. Let whatever you’re feeling, right now, wash over you. Feel it, put it away. Box it up where it can’t touch you.”

  What she felt was despair. “Boxing up your emotions only delays the inevitable.”

  “It’s control,” he countered.

  “If you can’t control yourself when you’re at your worst, then you don’t have control.” Lyssa pulled at his arm, and this time he let go. Her left leg barely held. All her limbs felt like Jell-O. So did her heart.

  Eddie stood back from her, his eyes so dark.

  She leaned against the wall, exhausted. “I’m sorry. About what I did to you today.”

  “You were afraid.”

  “That’s no excuse.” Lyssa heard movement below them, near the stairs at the end of the hall. The sound of someone large, approaching slowly. She tried to catch a scent, but all she could smell was the jacket wrapped around her, with its warm dark notes that were masculine and Eddie.

  She pushed away from the wall. “I need to go.”

  “No. You’re safe here.”

  A bitter laugh escaped her. “With the Cruor Venator in this city, no one should be near me. If they’ve been following me . . .”

  Her voice choked off with dismay. She couldn’t imagine how they had been following her, but if they had . . . then she might have led them straight to the home of a gargoyle.

  “Wait,” he said, but she had already turned and was hurrying as best she could down the hall. Each step unsteady, the lights in her eyes dancing brighter, hotter. Her blood, which had been cool upon waking, warmed even more. Fire, filling her. Fire, rising beneath her skin.

  Because of Eddie. All that fire, reaching for him.

  Don’t turn around, she told herself, feeling him right behind her. Don’t turn around to look at him.

  Even though she wanted to, more than anything. The compulsion unnerved her. So did her dragon’s words, still rattling around her head. Crazy words. No way she was right. Like hell. That big lizard was insane.

  Lyssa, however, had to stop at the top of the stairs . . . and she let go of the jacket just long enough to brace herself against the rail.

  A gargoyle stood on the stairs in front of her. No illusion to see through, this time.

  Her mouth went dry. He was huge. Almost seven feet tall, with silver skin and broad, thick muscles that rippled over his long, powerful limbs. Horns protruded from his hair, and leathery wings draped over his shoulders. He wore cutoff jeans and held a giant mug of some steaming hot liquid.

  They stared at each other. Lyssa didn’t miss the flicker of unease in his eyes.

  “Wow,” he rumbled. “Okay, you’re up.”

  “Lannes,” Eddie said, behind her. “Meet Lyssa.”

  “I . . .” she began, and for some reason tears sprang to her eyes. “I need to get out of here.”

  Behind her, Eddie made a frustrated sound, and she finally let herself look at him. He stood there, skin shadowed with soot, raking one hand through his hair until it stood up—and the only thing keeping him from looking like some dark Sidhe was the curve of his ears.

  “Don’t say it,” Lyssa said hoarsely, as a deep ache burned through her entire right arm. “Let me go. Before you make yourselves targets.” She turned to face the gargoyle, who watched her with a frown. “Both of you, get out of this city.”

  Eddie stepped in close. “I would love to.”

  Her cheeks reddened, and she backed away from him. “What’s the problem, then?”

  He gave her a faint, unbearably sweet, smile. “You have my coat.”

  She stared at him. The gargoyle let out a small, muffled grunt that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

  “Here,” he said, taking another step and holding out the steaming mug. “I made you tea.”

  Those tears were coming shockingly close to burning up her eyes. “You’re both idiots.”

  Eddie arched his brow, and the gargoyle sighed. “You sound like my wife. Please, take this.”


  Lyssa took the mug, reluctantly. She had to let go of the jacket to do so, and instinctively sloped her shoulders, trying to keep them from seeing her right arm, folded over her stomach. Stupid, yes. They had to have already seen it. But old habits died hard.

  The tea was dark and smelled good. The gargoyle stepped back when she took the mug and rubbed his clawed hands together. Uneasy, she thought. Eddie joined her at the top of the stairs and leaned against the opposite wall.

  It got very quiet, then. All three of them, just standing there. Both men, watching her.

  Lyssa sipped the tea, suddenly shy, and uncomfortable. “I wish you both wouldn’t stare.”

  Eddie’s mouth softened. The gargoyle grunted. “I pulled some of my wife’s clothes from the dryer. When you’re ready to change, come down and get them. There’s a bathroom down here, too, with a shower. Feel free to use it.”

  He turned before she could thank him and walked back down the stairs, silent and graceful, despite his size. The tips of his caped wings trailed against the steps. Lyssa watched him go, feeling as though she were losing her mind.

  “I’m losing my mind,” she said.

  “I felt like that the first time I met his brother,” said Eddie quietly. “I never get tired of feeling surprised.”

  “Surprises are dangerous.” Lyssa walked down the stairs, leaning hard on the rail. “I don’t like them.”

  He followed her. “I’m not sorry I found you.”

  Lyssa wanted to say, I am, you should be, I wish we’d never met, but when she opened her mouth, those words wouldn’t come out. Apparently, there were some lies she just couldn’t tell.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she heard a television—the quick sharp tones of a news report. Dread filled her. She went still, staring down the hall.

  Eddie pushed past her. “I’ll tell Lannes to turn it off.”

  “No.” Lyssa almost reached for him with her right hand, and that shocked her enough into silence. Her right hand, which she hadn’t shown another human being for ten years . . . coming out into plain sight as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  She held her hand against her stomach. “I want to listen.”