Within the Flames

by Marjorie M. Liu

  When he answered, she didn’t wait for him to say hello.

  “I know this is a bad time,” she said in a low voice that reminded him so much of his sister. “You’re at work.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, as Lyssa looked down at her feet, pretending to give him privacy. “What’s happened?”

  She laughed, but it sounded like a sob. “Nothing new. I just needed to make sure you’re okay. Now that . . . he . . . is free, I’m afraid . . . I think he might . . .”

  “I know.” Eddie bowed his head, staring at the scars on the back of his left hand. “I asked some friends to keep an eye on things. But . . . you be careful, okay? Doors locked. Security system on. Tell Grandma the same.”

  “Yes.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry I did this to you, Edward.”

  “You didn’t.” Eddie closed his eyes. “I have to go. Call if you need anything. If it’s an emergency, 911 first, then Roland. You have his number.”

  “Yes, and yes,” she said, but with a trace of sadness—and perhaps, disappointment—that made him feel terrible. He was an awful son. He’d abandoned his mother after Daphne’s murder, and even if his reasons were good . . . he’d never told her why. She had blamed herself for losing him. Blamed herself for bringing Matthew Swint into their lives.

  Deep down, Eddie still blamed her, too.

  Hanging up exhausted him. He stared at his phone, heartsore, helpless. What was he doing here, with Matthew Swint on the loose?

  Lyssa said, quietly, “That was your mother?”

  He glanced at her. Embarrassment flickered over her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I know you must have . . . sharp ears.”

  “Too sharp, maybe.” Lyssa gave him a hesitant look. “Is she okay?”

  “Been better.”

  “She sounded scared.”

  “There’s a man,” began Eddie, but after that, he didn’t know what else to say . . . how much to tell her. He wasn’t even certain he could talk about Matthew Swint. Or his sister. The wound was too raw.

  “There’s a man,” he repeated himself, hoping she would understand.

  Lyssa gave him a long, thoughtful look. “That’s the worst kind.”

  He swallowed hard and nodded.

  Both of them stayed silent for the remainder of the walk. Eddie watched the city: neighborhoods that transformed from one block to another—gritty to chic, to sleek, then back again.

  But the people never changed. Everyone walked fast, expressionless, lost in their own worlds. No one looked anyone else in the eye.

  He studied them all, and noticed Lyssa doing the same: quick assessing glances that never stopped, never looked down. She was, he thought, completely aware of everything around her. Including him.

  Only once did he get an odd feeling. A prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced around but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “So these women have been sent to retrieve you,” he said, uneasy. “Why not the Cruor Venator herself?”

  “She’ll come eventually.”

  “That’s it?”

  Lyssa’s silence went as deep as her eyes: reserved and thoughtful. “If you’re looking for logic, don’t. A Cruor Venator lives for death, but the slower the death, the better. The same is true when hunting. Prolonging the chase just means more pleasure in the end. Games are part of it.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Yes,” she said, and there was no end to the pain he glimpsed in her eyes before she ducked her head, hair falling down around her face and obscuring her gaze.

  He had no defense against that. His heart bled for her. But more than that, the mystery of why all this seemed so personal, haunted him.

  Eddie reached out, very carefully, and grazed his fingertips against her gloved left hand. Lyssa’s own fingers twitched, curling toward his. But just before she touched him, she pulled away and shoved her hand in the jacket pocket.

  He let out his breath, slowly. “Lannes said he . . . sensed something different about you.”

  “Did he?” Her voice was strained. “I suppose it made him uncomfortable.”

  “His wife is a witch,” he said, watching her flinch. “Or at least . . . she has that potential. Her family lives in this city, and they’re definitely . . .”

  “I get it,” Lyssa said. “And since the gargoyle brought it up . . . no, I’m not a witch. Not exactly. I suppose I have . . . that potential, too. But it’s nothing I’m interested in exploring.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some powers aren’t safe to want.”

  “Specifically?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Maybe you don’t ask enough.”

  “Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just want to mind my own business and be on my way before anyone gets hurt.”

  “Or you get hurt,” he said, unable to stop himself. “It’s more convenient not to feel anything, isn’t it?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Are you talking about yourself or me?”

  “Fair enough.” Eddie held up his hands as heat shimmered around his skin. “People are fragile. It’s easier to be alone than worry all the time about hurting someone. But then one day you wake up, and you realize you’ve been alone for—”

  “Ten years?” she said dryly.

  “—a long time,” he finished.

  Her expression turned disgruntled. “I have friends.”

  “I know,” Eddie said, suddenly regretting saying so much.

  He never talked like this. He never asked this many questions. Like her, he minded his own business, except for when it involved his friends. And even then, he preferred to stay silent, to hang back and observe. To be the man everyone could depend on—without their needing to ask.

  That had been all he needed . . . until now.

  Lyssa stopped at a pay phone near the intersection of West Fourth Street and MacDougal, on the southern tip of Washington Square Park. Beside them was a clean brick building covered in ivy and bordered by a tall wrought-iron fence. Eddie was pretty certain it was part of the NYU campus, given the university banners hanging from a similar-looking building across the street.

  “Are you calling Estefan?” he asked, with dread.

  “Yes,” she said, searching through her backpack for change. “Did you ever talk with him?”

  “No. All I saw were forwarded e-mails.”

  “E-mail is how we usually communicate.”

  “How did you meet?”

  Lyssa suddenly looked uncomfortable. “It’s a complicated story. I’m sure you’re getting sick of hearing me use that word.”

  “You’re a complicated woman. That’s not something I mind.”

  She looked at him like maybe he was teasing her, but he was serious—and seriously dreading telling her about Estefan. He had to, though. Right now.

  “Lyssa,” he began, but her gaze sharpened, and she turned to stare at the park across the street. Eddie turned with her, on guard. His right hand twitched, fire at the tips of his fingers.

  He studied the people at the intersection, but all he saw were several Asian girls wearing backpacks, and a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. A biker zipped past, and so did a man on rollerblades . . . but that was it. No one watched them. No sign of Betty or Nikola.

  But if they were witches, not seeing them probably didn’t mean much, anyway.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  Lyssa tilted her head, and closed her eyes. “A scent. I smell . . .”

  She stopped, and her eyes flew open, stark with surprise. Without another word, she started running.

  “Dammit,” Eddie muttered, chasing her.

  Lyssa was fast, graceful, her feet barely touching the ground as she fl
ew across the street, nearly getting clipped by a cab that swerved into another lane and laid on the horn. Eddie followed, heart in his throat, trying to keep track of everyone around them—anyone near her who could mean her harm.

  She didn’t run far. Just down the sidewalk that led into the park, then across the grass—straight to a slim woman resting on a blanket near some bushes.

  Eddie thought at first she was sleeping, curled on her side. He saw a pierced brow and nose, and tight brown curls. Her dark skin held an ashen undertone, and the hollows under her eyes and in her cheeks were so deep she might have been a cadaver.

  Maybe she was, Eddie realized.

  The blanket beneath her was stained red with blood.

  Chapter Nine

  If the wind had been blowing in another direction, Lyssa would never have smelled the blood.

  But she did, and because it was blood she paid attention—and smelled someone familiar.

  Mandy. One of the women Jimmy had said was missing.

  Lyssa didn’t know her well. A crazy, loud girl, who liked to dance in the middle of Grand Central, and hold signs advertising FREE HUGS. She and her girlfriend, Flo, were inseparable—homeless, sometimes-prostitutes—addicted to heroin.

  She dropped to her knees, trying not to panic—and reached out to touch the young woman’s face. Her skin was cool, but she was breathing.

  The blood was on her clothes. Mandy wore a green army jacket that was three sizes too large, and her clothes beneath were all black. Lyssa had to lean in to see the bloodstains that covered her chest, and reached carefully beneath the girl’s jacket to give them an experimental touch. Some of the blood had dried, hardening the sweater.

  But most of the blood was wet. The blanket beneath, soaked through and stained. That metallic scent washed over her, making sweat break out against her back and between her breasts. When she swallowed, her throat burned. When she breathed, her lungs were hot.

  “Mandy,” she whispered harshly.

  Eyelids fluttered. Cracked lips moved. Lyssa listened hard, but all she heard was a quiet hiss of breath.

  There was no way to know how long Mandy had been here, but it was long enough to come close to death—without anyone’s noticing.

  No one ever noticed. No one ever looked. It was why Lyssa had come to this city.

  But I don’t want to die alone. Alone, in a crowd. Invisible.

  Eddie crouched beside her, already on his cell phone. She listened to him speak with a 911 operator, his words less important than the fact that he was there, with her.

  “Liz,” breathed the young woman. “S’you?”

  Hearing Mandy’s voice filled Lyssa with terrible relief, though it was short-lived. “It’s me.”

  She let out a strained, shaky, sigh. “God, Flo.”

  “Flo isn’t here.”

  “No. Gotta get to . . . Flo. ’Fore they kill her.” Her face crumpled, tears sliding down her cheeks. “They took me . . . away from her. I tried to . . . to fight. Didn’t wan’ ’em to make me . . . leave.”

  Lyssa leaned back, Mandy’s grief tearing into her like a knife. She had thought similar words over the past ten years.

  I should have stayed and fought. I shouldn’t have run.

  Heat exploded behind her eyes, but it’s wasn’t fire. Just tears. Lyssa felt twelve years old again, dying of guilt. She would never forgive herself for that night. Never.

  She touched Mandy’s hand, wanting to comfort her.

  A connection formed, unexpected and instantaneous: a split-second bond, electric hot, tossing her into a mindscape that resembled a frenzied dance floor crowded with memories, fragmented and frozen between rapid pulses of light.

  Flo.

  Flo, with her ruddy skin and wild blond hair . . . those lips she puckers to blow kisses, everywhere, at anyone . . .

  Flo. Smiling.

  Flo. Screaming.

  Chains. Blood. Sobs.

  A knife glints. Wicked blade.

  Black blade. Curved. Obsidian.

  Etched with runes.

  Pain seared: a lick of fire in her head, above her heart. Sharp as a stab.

  The connection snapped.

  Lyssa tilted, breathless. Floating, flying, falling. Part of her was still in Mandy’s mind, listening to Flo scream. Staring at the blade.

  She slumped forward, clutching her chest. Blinking hard. Heart pounding with frightening irregularity. The grass came back into view, but it was blurry. Lyssa blinked, and tears spilled from her eyes. She hardly noticed. All she could think about was the obsidian blade.

  The weapon of a Cruor Venator.

  Someone touched her shoulders. Lyssa recoiled, but it was only Eddie. His scent washed over her: a mix of woodsmoke and sandalwood.

  It had a strange effect on her. His scent reminded her too much of warm winter nights in front of a fire. Nights holding hot chocolate and listening to music. Nights that had been home, long ago and far away.

  Lyssa rubbed a shaking hand over her mouth, but the scent of blood was so strong on her fingers that she reeled. Eddie immediately pulled her against his chest, and the contact was warm in the most healing way possible, safe and solid, and more real than the grass beneath her.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, covering her hand with his, and squeezing. “Close your eyes, listen to my voice, and breathe.”

  She shivered. “Don’t worry about me. Just Mandy.”

  Eddie’s hand tightened. “You know this woman.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “She went missing. A lot of homeless women have been disappearing.”

  “Was it the Cruor Venator who hurt her?”

  An obsidian knife flashed through her memories. Mandy’s memory . . . and her own, ten years old and still fresh in mind.

  Lyssa nodded, as more tears slid down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she tried scrubbing her face with the back of her hand, but it did no good. More tears took their place. It was horrifying.

  “Hold on,” Eddie said, and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a rumpled tissue and held it out to her. “Here. It’s clean.”

  Lyssa was more surprised by the thoughtfulness of the offer than the possibility the tissue might be dirty. She looked at him, and the kindness in his eyes stole her breath away. No pity. Just compassion and concern.

  He pushed the tissue into her hand, and she pressed it to her nose.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from his. “Is an ambulance coming?”

  “Listen,” he said, and just like that, she heard the wail of a siren.

  She looked around the park. Mandy lay ten feet off the sidewalk, just one more homeless woman amongst thousands—making her invisible. No magic needed to hide a dying woman in plain sight.

  Some people walking down the sidewalk were watching them now, but no one stopped. Their scents filled her nose—body odor and perfume, pizza grease, halitosis. Nothing slick or dangerous.

  Her skin prickled, though. As a child, she’d watched a mountain lion stalk a young elk, and that poor nervous creature had sensed the blow long before it happened. It just hadn’t known from what direction it would come.

  I’ve been waiting ten years for the knife to fall.

  Lyssa should have already been running. This was a trap. Or a message. A homeless drug addict was not the type of person a Cruor Venator would choose to kill. And there was no way Mandy could have escaped the witch . . . unless she was let go on purpose.

  But I hardly know her. Why would she be a target?

  What did that mean for Jimmy and his mother?

  And who would stop the Cruor Venator and her women this time?

  Who, she said to herself, dreading what she already knew. Who else?

  “You know something,” said Eddie.

  She shook her head, but only becaus
e panic and anger had lodged in her throat, cutting off her voice. The ambulance sirens were closer, and she struggled to her feet—the fire inside her so hot, her skin prickled.

  “I need to get out of here,” she muttered, staring at Mandy’s ashen face. The woman was barely conscious, making soft moaning sounds as her fingers twitched. Blood seeped beneath her on the blanket, inviting Lyssa to make another, different connection.

  She backed away. Eddie stood with her. “We need to wait for the ambulance.”

  A frustrated growl left her throat—followed by the tremendous urge to swing her fists at a stationary target. “I can’t. I barely knew this woman, but if they got to her . . .”

  Mandy was a small target. The next one? Closer, more important.

  “There’s a little boy,” Lyssa whispered to Eddie. “The one who was with me earlier today.”

  He stared at her for one second, then looked away at the sidewalk. Coiled, intense, his eyes focusing on a power-walking woman in yoga gear, with a tight face, glossy hair, and lips that were plumper than her breasts.

  “Ma’am!” he shouted, with a hard authority that Lyssa had only ever associated with the police. The woman responded immediately, teetering to a stop and giving him a startled look.

  Eddie didn’t give her time to ask a question. Lyssa watched, impressed, as he strode to her and pointed at Mandy.

  “That woman has been attacked. An ambulance is coming, but my partner and I have to direct the EMTs to this spot. I need you to stay with her until they arrive.”

  Her expression crumpled with uncertainty. “I don’t—”

  “Ma’am,” Eddie interrupted. “Do it. Now.”

  She blinked at him, then crossed the grass to Mandy, rubbing her palms over her thighs—uneasy, still startled, acting on automatic pilot. Lyssa crouched again beside Mandy, whose breathing was shallow, her eyes closed tight.

  “You’re safe,” she told her, hoping that was true. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Lyssa,” Eddie said, tugging gently on her shoulder.

  The power walker didn’t watch them go. She kept rubbing her hands, standing beside Mandy and staring down at all that blood with horror and consternation.