Within the Flames

by Marjorie M. Liu

  His finger began to squeeze the trigger—and the world slowed down with agonizing force. Eddie stopped thinking. His heart and body took over, and he raised his hand at the man.

  Fire erupted, consuming him in a spire of flames. But even as Matthew burned, he fired the gun.

  Pain lanced across Eddie’s arm, spinning him. Just a flesh wound.

  But then he heard Lyssa scream.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Everything happened too fast, up until the moment Eddie got shot. But when he spun, hit—the world dropped away.

  Lyssa screamed in rage and lunged toward Matthew Swint. She heard shouts behind her, but those were lost beneath the roar in her ears. It didn’t matter that he was already dying, that she could feel his blood boiling beneath his skin as the fire licked up his legs. A terrible fury clawed up her throat when she thought about him hurting Eddie—and a sister that she would never know.

  Children, abused. And now he was back, trying to kill . . . to murder . . .

  Your mate, whispered the dragon, in a voice crackling with rage.

  Flames burned through the glove of her right hand, turning it to ash as she plowed into Matthew’s burning body. Her claws gleamed with fire.

  She barely felt the first blow or the second, but when the blood sprayed from his throat and hit her face, the heat and scent of it flooded her with terrible pleasure. For the first time in her life, violence did not frighten her. It felt righteous.

  Matthew Swint screamed, but his voice choked as Lyssa pressed her mouth to his throat wound and drank—deep and long, lips tight as her dragon teeth sharpened and bit into his flesh.

  His blood was not sweet. It was terrible. She realized in that moment why a Cruor Venator chose victims so carefully: only good people with good lives, because when drinking a soul—drinking memories—it was only sweetness that a Cruor Venator would want inside her mind.

  Matthew tasted like shit. And the images in his head . . .

  Lyssa finally broke off, gagging—but it was already too late. She felt the cigarette between her fingers as she burned a young boy’s hand—a beautiful child who disgusts me because he is weak, a fag, a piece of shit—and then the memories shifted, and she saw a lovely teen girl with long dark hair and huge eyes, and—

  —Lyssa lashed out, unthinking, desperate to kill what was flowing through her mind—

  —realizing too late that it was Matthew receiving her final, killing, blow. She saw him drop, half his throat missing, eyes rolled back in his head as the fire turned his skin black.

  Strong arms wrapped around her body, pulling her backward. Eddie’s voice broke through the roar in her head, and she clung to him—staring in horror at Matthew’s body.

  She had killed him. Consumed his dying blood.

  Power ripped through her, tearing through her veins. Lyssa gasped, clutching her head, throat cracking with a soundless scream as a thousand, a million prickling needles dug into her soul.

  And then, just as a abruptly, the pain faded . . . leaving nothing behind but a floating sensation that was cold and sharp as a knife’s edge.

  Birthright, whispered the dragon, with pride and pleasure. Finally.

  “No,” she said, horrified.

  “Lyssa,” said Eddie sharply, and she staggered from him, holding up her hands—which were covered in blood.

  Eddie chased her, grabbing her wrists. “Come on. We have to go.”

  Lyssa stared at Matthew’s charred, blackened remains. Cars drove past the alley entrance, but she thought she heard shouts, coming close.

  “No,” she said again, and Eddie pulled ruthlessly away, making her run.

  When they reached the end of the alley, he slowed them to a walk and slung his arm over her shoulders. Lyssa staggered against him, clutching his shirt. Power still flowed through her, and it was sweeter than she wanted to admit.

  “I killed him,” she murmured.

  Eddie said nothing, wincing as he reached into his coat for his cell phone. Lyssa sucked in her breath. “He shot you.”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Lyssa closed her eyes, nauseated. “Be honest.”

  “I am.” His hand tightened around hers. “I’ve had much worse, I promise you.”

  Sirens filled the night air. Eddie made them walk faster, and Lyssa finally straightened, trying to pull herself together.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” she said, as he dialed his phone. “Actually, I take that back. I really wanted him dead for hurting you.”

  “Good,” he replied, flashing her a quick hard look—and then regret hit his eyes. “I didn’t mean . . . I know how you feel about . . .”

  “Don’t.” Lyssa took a deep breath, steadying herself. “He’s not worth second thoughts. Trust me . . . when I drank his blood, I saw . . .”

  Eddie blinked, and his breath caught. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, haunted. He swallowed hard and gave her a sharp nod. Then, with visible effort, he turned his focus back on making his call.

  “Roland’s not answering,” he muttered, moments later. “We’re close, though. We should go there. Lay low. I don’t know how much anyone saw back there.”

  “You think . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But Dirk & Steele has too many connections to let any of us go to jail for taking the life of a child molester.”

  “You make it sound like the mob.”

  “Feels like that, sometimes.”

  It was a ten-minute walk. Both of them silent, focused. San Francisco, which Lyssa had been falling in love with, suddenly felt like some glittering, alien cage that might collapse its bars around her at any moment.

  Except I’m the monster now, she thought. I am a Cruor Venator, and if I chose, if I wanted to . . .

  You could control the world, whispered the dragon. There has never been one like you. Demon blood, mixed with dragon? There is a reason Georgene wants you, either to control or to consume.

  They reached the building, but Lyssa grabbed Eddie’s hand as he began to unlock the narrow glass door. A scent curled around and through her—impossible, wicked, and muscular.

  It couldn’t be . . . not so quickly. It had only been a day.

  But then Lyssa remembered that Estefan had known how to contact Dirk & Steele, where they were located, that it was filled with people who could help her . . . people like Eddie.

  And what Estefan knew . . .

  “Georgene is here,” she told him, and deep inside, the dragon began to purr.

  They took the stairs. Eddie moved on light feet, fire sparking off his hair and shimmering over his hands. Lyssa followed, using the climb to mentally prepare—as if such a thing was possible. Being a Cruor Venator would not be enough to kill Georgene. For witches who were unaffected by magic, it would come down to hand-to-hand combat.

  But this time, there was no small child to use as bait. No mother forced to choose her life over the life of her daughter. No father, away on business, coming home to find his wife being slowly murdered, her body too far gone to save.

  When they reached the ninth floor, it was all very quiet. But Lyssa smelled Georgene’s scent . . . as well as blood. She grabbed Eddie’s shoulder, holding him back.

  “She’s here,” she breathed.

  His jaw flexed, and he pulled her close. “My arm. It’s bleeding.”

  Lyssa stared, confused . . . until he swiped some of his own blood and placed his hot, wet fingers on her lips. She recoiled instinctively . . . but the scent filled her, and so did the trace of blood that he left on her mouth. Her tongue licked it off, and his love coursed through, as well as golden light. It chased away the stink and sourness of Matthew Swint . . . and the next time he held up his hand, she did not resist.

  She licked his blood off his fingers, then did th
e same to the wound on his arm—soaking in his strength and goodness, feeling her heart grow, and her spirit.

  Eddie’s breath quickened. Between them, that mental link bloomed. It did not last, but there was enough time to feel his mind touch hers in a blossoming shower of concern and affection that was not in the least bit dimmed by her lapping his blood away with her tongue.

  Which, frankly, she wouldn’t have blamed him for finding disgusting. That he didn’t . . . was just another miracle. Her miracle. Her man.

  I understand, Lyssa wished she could tell her mother. I understand now.

  “Ready?” Eddie whispered.

  Lyssa nodded, jaw set . . . and moved in front of him to stride down the dark corridor to the living room. The lights were off, but the city gleamed through the windows, shedding a glow. Close, the scent of blood intensified . . . and so did the sound of harsh, pained, breathing.

  It was Roland, she discovered. Bound hand and foot, and shivering as he lay sprawled on the floor near an overturned table. An obsidian dagger jutted from his shoulder, but he had suffered cuts all over. Blood soaked his clothes.

  When he saw Lyssa and Eddie, his eyes widened and a low, pained rumble escaped his throat. He had been gagged, too.

  She smelled his fear. The room stank with it, and the stench of his blood.

  “Interesting man,” said Georgene, moving in the shadows on the other end of the room. “Stronger than I expected. Still not able to resist me, but he fought the fear. He still fights. And his mind . . .”

  She made a hissing sound, filled with pleasure. “Such unexpected power. Everyone he loves is filled with power. I could harvest them all and rule this world.”

  Lyssa didn’t look away from Georgene, not even when Eddie slipped past her to crouch beside Roland.

  “I’m ripe,” she said. “Are you ready for me?”

  The witch strode toward her. “I offered you a chance.”

  “No.”

  “I meant it, you know. Both of us, together. Yes, you would have tried to kill me eventually, but two Cruor Venators working in tandem? That has not been seen in a thousand years.”

  “I can think of better dreams.”

  “I can’t,” said Georgene, with an oddly regretful smile. “There is nothing sweeter than drinking a life and riding that power. I took Nikola with me, and now she rests in here.” Her hand pressed against her heart. “Forever.”

  “You won’t take me,” Lyssa whispered. “Or Eddie, or anyone else.”

  “Ah,” she whispered, dark eyes glittering. “You are untrained. You are young, and have not fed on a full life. I can feel that. You have no chance, Lyssa. And yet . . . when I take your life, it will be the life of a full blood Cruor Venator . . . which is far more powerful than if I had just killed you before your first murder.”

  Eddie rose from helping Roland, and stepped forward. “You won’t touch her.”

  She smiled. “You’ll be next. And when I’m done, you won’t remember Lyssa. You won’t remember yourself.”

  That threat. That promise.

  For a moment, Lyssa remembered her mother, chained and bleeding. Her father, descending in a cloud of fire.

  Fire burned in her hands. Inside, the dragon simmered with such terrible rage she forgot everything but the need, and hunger, to protect the man behind her.

  My mate.

  Lyssa took one powerful, bounding stride—and grabbed Georgene’s head between her hands. Claws pierced her scalp, drawing blood. Blood that Lyssa scraped across her tongue.

  The reaction was immediate, and overwhelming. Power roared through her veins with such force she thought her skin would split—like a cocoon, split—or the skin of a snake—revealing her, transformed. Unrecognizable. Alien.

  She didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that taste of power, which felt like the purest form of infinity—like heaven after a hard death. Impossible and eternal.

  I will never give this up, came the unbidden thought. I will kill to keep it.

  And, just like that, the moment ended. One terrible thought was all it took to snap Lyssa free and send her slamming back to earth in a tumble of fear and hunger, and determination.

  The Cruor Venator snarled and shifted shape into a leopard. The transformation took a heartbeat, and suddenly Lyssa was on her back, fighting to fend off an enraged 150-pound cat with hate and hunger in its black eyes. Claws gouged her stomach.

  Eddie appeared behind the leopard—and in a burst of raw strength, slid his arms around its neck and hauled backward. Lyssa scrambled forward instead of away, slashing her own claws across the leopard’s belly, screaming in fury and disgust as she tried to gut the Cruor Venator.

  The leopard twisted, knocking Eddie on his side. Lyssa grabbed her tail, yanking the beast away from him—and barely jumped back in time to keep from being cut across the throat. Instead of pressing the attack, the Cruor Venator turned again on Eddie.

  She’s going to kill him first.

  Ruthless resolve shot straight into Lyssa’s heart. Pain ate at her right arm, muscles contorting with power, but this time she embraced it, opening her soul to the dragon, accepting that other half of her without hesitation.

  Golden light flooded her vision. Hot as the sun, and bright.

  Lyssa’s body contorted, expanding, her skin stretching until she thought she would explode from the force of the dragon fighting to emerge. Everything twisted—muscles and bone, the shape of the world—even the slant of light.

  Wings erupted against her back. Bursting with fire.

  Furniture scattered around her. The floor burned. She looked down, as though from very far away, and saw Eddie staring at her, his body surrounded in flames. Admiration and wonderment filled his eyes.

  The Cruor Venator still wore her stolen leopard skin. But her gaze was human and dark . . . and full of fear.

  Not that it mattered. She was hardly a mouthful, for a dragon.

  Which Lyssa discovered. When she ate her in one bite.

  Blood flooded her mouth, bone crunching. The taste was awful, and not because she was eating another person. The rot of Georgene’s spirit was thick and slimy, coating the inside of her mouth and throat—and then her soul—in such filth that Lyssa thought eating shit from a sewer would have been better.

  And then the power hit her—memories soaked from blood—and the world went black.

  “Fuck me,” muttered Roland, as the dragon ate the witch. Eddie, who had never much cared for swearing, had to agree.

  Fuck me was an appropriate response, along with Oh, my God.

  Lyssa’s transforming into a dragon had been awe-inspiring: golden and hot, a shimmer of light that clung to her skin as scales erupted, and her body stretched with furious power.

  But Lyssa as a dragon . . . was the stuff of fairy tales and children’s dreams on starry nights. A dragon, who in older days, would inspire quests and long journeys—searching for gold, when the only treasure worth finding would be the dragon’s heart itself. Living, beating, and full of love.

  God, he loved her.

  The ceiling cracked above her head. Eddie had to dance backward as her wings nearly knocked him into the window. Roland stayed on the floor, breathing hard, weak from blood loss. Eddie crawled close, thinking about how stupid he’d been to stay so angry at the older man, these last few years. Seeing Roland wounded, tied up, in pain—felt too much like watching his father die for a second time. Making him realize just how much he still cared. He tried instinctively not to feel anything at all, to bury those emotions, but the well was already too full with Lyssa. The cap he tried to screw on wouldn’t fit.

  “Hey,” Eddie said to the hurt man, just as Lyssa let out a strangled roar. Blood dripped from between her long white teeth—

  —and then she collapsed.

  Eddie dragged Roland out of the way before her l
ong, scaled neck would have crushed him. He kept moving, half-carrying the older man as fire shimmered along her skin. Fortunately, she began to shift shape—and in moments had returned to her human body: naked and on fire.

  “Roland,” he said.

  “Go,” he snapped, sagging against the wall. “Hurry.”

  Eddie raced to Lyssa’s side and threw her over his shoulder. The fire intensified when he touched her, and he felt his own power rise as he ran down the stairs to the cage.

  He had barely closed the door behind them when she exploded. Moments later, he followed—and in those first few seconds his mind opened to hers, and a rush of emotion not his own flowed through him: fear and longing, and anger.

  So much anger. Lyssa’s anger. He glimpsed memories—blood and death, snow and a forest in moonlight—and he knew that she was experiencing the murders of her parents all over again, this time in the body and mind of the Cruor Venator. From the perspective of the murderer.

  He fought to reach her through their bond, struggling against a morass of spiritual slime that tugged at him with sticky tentacles. Lyssa huddled in front of him, a beacon of light amidst disease, and when he finally reached her, it was like touching the sun on a summer morning, clean and white-hot, and full of promise.

  I’m here, he told her. Hold on to me.

  He wrapped wings around her, wings of fire, and held her within the flames. Lyssa held him, as well, with a close, hard strength that bound their spirits together—closer than flesh, closer than blood—bound in spirit, together, as one.

  Around them, the Cruor Venator’s dying soul thrashed and oozed with murder and filth—but that stain did not touch them.

  We’re forever, whispered Lyssa’s voice.

  And ever after, murmured Eddie.

  Then, together, their souls consumed the last dark remnants of the Cruor Venator . . . erasing even her memory.

  Until it was as if she had never existed.

  Epilogue

  There was nothing prettier than New York City in the winter, especially around Christmas.