Sirens wailed with ear-screeching strength. The ambulance had arrived. Eddie and Lyssa jogged to the intersection and met one of the EMTs: a burly man with a beard, and a tattoo on his neck.
“What happened?” he barked, slinging gear over his shoulder.
“I think a woman was stabbed.” Lyssa pointed at the pathway into the park. “Someone is with her now.”
The EMT grunted and helped his partner, a young woman, grab a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. More sirens filled the air. The police would be next.
Lyssa and Eddie looked at each other and started walking.
“You mentioned that other homeless women have been disappearing,” Eddie said, as a police cruiser sped past them, lights blazing. “For how long?”
It took Lyssa a moment to find her voice. “Couple weeks. I only found out today. I didn’t even know Mandy was gone. Like I said, we’re not close.”
“Then they weren’t targeted because of you.”
Lyssa touched her scarf, pained. “How do you know?”
“You weren’t aware they were missing until today.” Eddie glanced at her, his eyes dark and serious. “What’s the point of a message if the intended recipient isn’t even aware there’s one in the first place?”
He had a point, but it didn’t make her feel any better. “Finding Mandy in that park was not a coincidence.”
“So they carry an injured women with them all the time, just waiting for the right moment to spring her on you?”
Lyssa blew out her breath, frustrated. “I don’t know.”
“They must have a van,” he muttered to himself. “Especially if they’re kidnapping women off the street.”
“That part doesn’t make sense,” she admitted. “Mandy is a heroin addict. Not the kind of person the Cruor Venator would kill.”
“She only goes for doctors and lawyers?” A hint of sarcasm touched his voice.
Lyssa shrugged and nodded. “Something along those lines, yes. And kidnapping? Not her style, either. She likes to play games and pretend she’s dignified. She’ll lure the victim—or stalk, attack, and murder on-site. But throwing girls into a van . . . is beneath her ego.”
Eddie stared. Lyssa’s cheeks warmed. She had said too much, again. And the way he looked at her . . .
She couldn’t hide from his eyes. First in her dreams, and now here in broad daylight. If running from the Cruor Venator had been difficult all these years . . . running from this man’s gaze would be impossible.
No doubt, too, he was going to ask, again, why she knew so many details about a race of witches that hardly existed anymore. What was she going to tell him this time? Too complicated? Shut up? Go away?
Go away, she thought. That would be the smart thing.
But the idea of speaking those words out loud filled her with a shocking amount of pain—as though part of her heart would be ripped to pieces. How the hell had that happened? Why him?
Because he is the right one, whispered the dragon. Have faith, for once.
Faith. What was that, again?
But Eddie surprised her.
“Okay,” he said. “What made you think, initially, that Mandy had been hurt by the Cruor Venator?”
Lyssa hesitated. “It’ll sound hokey.”
His mouth twitched. “Try me.”
“I had a vision when I touched her. I saw the blade of a Cruor Venator cutting her body.”
Amazingly, he seemed to take her seriously. “Did you see anything else?”
“Her friend, Flo.”
Eddie was silent a moment. “Let’s say all these homeless women have been taken by the Cruor Venator, and not some other crazy person. If they aren’t the typical target, then why bother?”
Lyssa said the first thing that came to mind. “Training.”
“What?”
She felt ill having to explain. “People aren’t born knowing how to kill.”
“That’s disgusting.” Eddie looked away, swallowing hard. “But if you’re right . . . is she training more like Betty and Nikola?”
“I’d be shocked if she was.”
“But?”
“But it’s possible,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t know why she’d want to. A Cruor Venator doesn’t keep more than she can control.”
Eddie was silent a moment. “I was told they . . . absorb things . . . from blood. If one of them . . . tasted Mandy . . . could your connection to the woman have been found that way?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Something stinks about this.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Besides everything, she wanted to say. Including what I should do about you.
Lyssa had never let anyone slip under her guard as quickly as Eddie. Here she was, telling him things no one else knew . . . revealing her problems, her life . . . letting him risk his life . . . and she barely knew him.
She just . . . couldn’t help herself. The need to share with him, to be with him, was overwhelming. Beyond instinct. Natural as breathing.
Could she even trust him?
Yes, whispered the dragon. I would kill him for you if his heart meant to hurt yours.
No, Lyssa replied. I wouldn’t let you.
As if you could prevent me, it replied, with such chilling certainty she had to stop walking and hold her head.
“What is it?” asked Eddie. His voice was low, thick with concern, and sent an aching rumble through her heart.
“You ever feel like you have a split personality inside your head?” Lyssa tried to make it sound like a joke, but he gave her an odd look that made her feel embarrassed. “Never mind.”
Eddie’s mouth softened into a faint smile. He took her right hand in his, holding it loose and warm—and then, as if that wasn’t shock enough, he kissed her palm—with breathtaking gentleness.
The heat of his touch soaked through the glove. Muscles she hadn’t even known were tense seemed to relax, and a tight knot buried deep in her chest unwound, just a little. No one had ever held that deformed hand of hers. It felt strange and good. Too good.
“I know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Hard to breathe. Lyssa felt naked in his gaze but anchored, too. More safe, more accepted, than she had in years—right now, in this moment. She didn’t know if that made her a fool or naïve—or very lucky—but it scared her enough that she pulled her hand free and backed away from him.
“Lyssa,” said Eddie, but she stepped out in the street in front of an oncoming cab. The driver barely stopped in time and leaned on his horn. Lyssa ignored his ire, slid around to the side, and got in. So did Eddie before she could shut the door.
“What are you doing?” he said to her, angry. “Running again?”
“Screw you,” she replied, even though he was right. “Get out of this cab.”
“No,” he snapped. “Forget about that. And next time, try not to get yourself run over.”
“Hey,” said the driver, flicking his fingers at them. “Take it outside or give me a place to drive. I don’t got all day.”
Neither did she, unfortunately. Eddie stared at her challengingly, and she shook her head, heart aching as she gave the cab driver the address. He accelerated so hard she slammed backward.
“Women,” he muttered, and turned up the volume on his radio—and kept turning it up—until reggae music seemed to flood every molecule of her body with the not-so-relaxing urge to claw through the divider and rip apart that radio. Her eardrums vibrated. So did her teeth.
Eddie grimaced. Moments later, she heard a loud click, and the radio quit.
The driver said, “Shit, man.”
“Check your wiring,” he told him. “Sometimes it burns.”
Lyssa stared, and he gave her a disarming smile that made all her anger at him feel petty and misplaced.
“Well, it does,” he said.
She shook her head, planting her feet on the floor, so they wouldn’t start bouncing nervously. “I need your phone.”
“You’re using it now, but not earlier?”
“Circumstances have changed. I don’t have time for pay phones, and it’s clear I’m not protecting anyone by trying.”
“So who are you calling?” Eddie gave her a surprisingly wary look as he placed the phone in her hand.
“Jimmy,” she said, wondering why he seemed relieved by her answer. “The little boy.”
She dialed his number, but the phone rang and rang. He didn’t pick up.
Icky probably needed a walk.
Maybe he went back to school.
He’s in the bathroom.
Taking a nap.
“If that kid’s not hurt, I’m killing him,” she muttered, trying again—still receiving no answer. There was no machine to leave a message. The phone rang twenty times before the call was disconnected.
“Jimmy seemed like a good kid,” Eddie said. “What little I saw of him.”
“The best. I’ve known him and his mother for about a year.” A year too long if this ended badly.
But what was I going to do? Turn my back on them? Pretend they didn’t need my help and protection in that underground hellhole? I couldn’t do that.
There are some things you can’t run from, she thought.
I wouldn’t want to, she realized.
Lyssa made another call and suffered another endless round of rings, each one driving into her skull with the same hammering force of that reggae music—only much worse. Eddie watched her with concern but kept silent. Just there. Strong, and there. Which she appreciated more than she cared to admit.
She tried Jimmy’s mother, who worked at an upscale deli in Midtown.
“Tina’s not back from her lunch break,” said the girl who answered. “Our boss is pissed.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“An hour. Bitch,” she murmured, and then, louder: “If you get hold of her, tell her she better get her ass back, like now. Dishes are piling up, and the bathroom needs new toilet paper.”
Lyssa hung up, her head pounding. “Dammit.”
“Talk to me,” Eddie said.
She glanced at the cab driver, but he was on his cell phone, making an angry speech about his radio.
“Jimmy’s mother isn’t back from lunch. That’s not like her. She takes her job too seriously. Something’s wrong. If the Cruor Venator got them . . .”
Her voice choked off, her throat closing up as if actual fingers were squeezing the life out of her. Lyssa clawed at her scarf, uncaring if anyone saw her dragon scales. She couldn’t breathe.
Eddie reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist, stilling her. No words. Just his touch. Heat seeped through her skin, deeper into muscle, bone—soothing, embracing, a sweet fire that once again made her think of kinder days, softer memories.
The knot in her throat loosened. Lyssa drew in a deep breath.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Of course,” he murmured. “We’ll find them, Lyssa. That’s what we do.”
She took another breath. “I’m afraid that knowing me is going to ruin their lives.”
He squeezed her wrist, very gently. But there was nothing gentle about the way he looked at her.
“I’ve seen lives ruined,” he said in a too-soft voice. “I’ve seen people hurt in unspeakable ways. I know what that looks like. I know what it feels like. So when I tell you, Lyssa, that you’ve ruined nothing . . . I know what I’m talking about.”
He let go of her. “Don’t blame yourself for things that are out of your control. The world is unforgiving enough.”
It was still hard to breathe, but for a different reason. “Jimmy and his mother are beneath the contempt of women like the Cruor Venator. If those witches have hurt them . . . it’s because of me. To hurt me.”
“Sounds like it would be easier to kill you.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
But “easy” wasn’t the point. Death would be the last on a very long list of things that the Cruor Venator would do to her.
If you let her, murmured the dragon. You have a choice.
My mother had no choice, replied Lyssa.
You are wrong. She chose your father. She chose you. Your survival. That was a good choice. What you choose is cowardice. Because you do not trust yourself.
So true. How come, then, she was finding it easier to trust a stranger than her own heart? Why did she want to trust him . . . even more then she wanted to trust herself?
It made no sense. It felt crazy.
Crazy and right.
If I could tell you my secrets, she thought at Eddie, but there was no way to explain just one part of the story without spilling the whole thing . . . and that was something she could not do. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Eddie filled up his side of the backseat, exuding calm and strength, and resolve—though the hard light in his eyes made all of that seem dangerous. “Is this another trap?”
“I don’t know.” When Lyssa dialed the phone again, her hands shook. Only this time, she got a busy signal.
“Someone’s there,” she said.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, she was racing up three flights of stairs—oozing sweat, sick to her stomach. The elevator was too slow coming to the lobby, and she didn’t fancy the idea of being stuck in a metal box.
Eddie was right behind her, moving just as quick and silent. Waves of heat pulsed off his body—or maybe that was her, suffering the wild rise of fire in her blood. Her mouth tasted sour. Her head hurt. So did her right arm, muscles burning from her fingers to her neck.
When they reached the fourth-floor landing, Eddie grabbed her shoulder.
“Slow,” he whispered. “Don’t lose your head.”
Too late, she thought, hearing a muffled, distant scream. It sounded like Tina.
Lyssa did not run, though—not when Eddie opened the landing door and entered the corridor, not when she followed him—staring past his shoulder at the apartment door. No more screams, but she heard Tina sobbing.
Another door cracked open. A middle-aged black woman peered out, holding a cigarette between her fingers. A phone was in her other hand.
“Calling the cops,” she muttered. “Can you hear that? Quieting down, but it’s been crazy for the past hour. I like to mind my business, but that don’t sound right.”
“Ma’am,” said Eddie, in that low, quiet voice. “We are the police. We’ll handle this. Just go back inside and stay there.”
“Don’t come out, no matter what you hear,” Lyssa told her, and whatever the woman saw in her eyes made her nod real quick and close her door.
As they neared the apartment, Lyssa heard glass shatter—and a man’s muffled voice through the door.
“I fucking bought you, bitch. I married your worthless ass, and you run from me? You take my son?”
Each word was filled with venom and hate. Lyssa couldn’t imagine listening to that vomit day after day, chained to a man who treated her like garbage. It hurt. It was horrible. And she wasn’t even the target.
Lyssa glanced at Eddie, and a chill swept over her. His eyes were flat, dead, his mouth little more than a compressed line.
“That doesn’t sound like Betty or Nikola,” he said, and the barely controlled rage in his voice touched a part of her that was rough and primitive, and hungry for blood. “Is he her husband?”
“Used to be,” said Lyssa, feeling grim as death. “Tina left this piece of crap. His name’s Aaron Roacher. He likes mail-order brides who don’t speak English.”
And then it got worse.
“Don’t you touch her!” screamed Jimmy, and the rawness of his voice
hit Lyssa’s heart like a hammer. “I’m not your son! I’m not!”
Tina let out wordless cry, and Aaron roared.
Lyssa closed the rest of the distance in one long stride, and slammed her right fist hard against the door. Again and again, raining down blows as inhuman strength flooded her arm. The old door shook and rattled. It hurt her hand, but she didn’t care. She was too angry.
“Hey!” she roared. “Open up!”
Dead silence. Then heavy footsteps approached.
Eddie nudged Lyssa to the other side of the door. She tried to stay focused, but her heart was pounding, a golden haze falling down over her vision. Her teeth felt sharp. The low rumble of a growl filled the air, but it wasn’t until she noticed Eddie watching her that she realized it was coming from her.
“You’re a wild woman,” he said.
“Just wait,” she muttered.
From the other side of the door, a man said, “Who’s there?”
“Police,” replied Eddie. “Someone reported a domestic disturbance.”
“Like hell. Nothing’s happening here.”
“Open the door, sir. Now.” He sounded cold, professional, and not one to be fucked with. Right then, he looked like it, too. Lean and dangerous, with shadows in his eyes.
I’m glad you’re here, she thought.
It was quiet for a moment. Until, slowly, the locks turned. Lyssa steadied herself. Eddie got even more still—and then, in a blinding flash of movement—slammed his shoulder into the door just as it cracked open.
He crashed inside, and without missing a beat reached around the door and grabbed the other man—who was still trying to recover from being knocked back into the wall. Lyssa caught a glimpse of him—huge as a football player, with fatty muscles and a thick neck, and beady eyes that looked like blue peas tucked in slabs of white meat. He had a hundred pounds on Eddie, and a good six inches—but he wasn’t as fast.
Eddie lashed out with a solid right hook, snapping Aaron’s head back. He had no chance to recover before he was slammed again in the face, again and again—and it was so quiet except for the thud and crack of Eddie’s knuckles, and the other man’s pained grunts.
Vicious. Brutal. Beautiful.
Within the Flames Page 13
