Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Within the Flames (19 page)
Time helped, though. She was able push away the bad memories, focusing instead on thoughts of her paintings, sunlight, Jimmy.
Eddie.
He returned less than a minute later with a jug of milk, an aluminum tray of chocolate cupcakes, and some paper cups.
“I hope you like sugar,” Eddie said. “This is all I found that’s easy.”
“Rawr,” she replied, and he laughed softly.
They poured the milk and sat on the floor, si stheg="en-usde by side, making a mess of the cupcakes and licking frosting off their fingers. She hadn’t done anything in years that could remotely be called companionable, but this . . . felt good. The silence between them as they ate was comfortable and safe—exactly what she needed.
Lyssa let herself imagine doing this over other meals, or—hell—a weekend on the couch, in front of a television. Like normal people lived.
And she could totally see it. It didn’t make her want to run. Just the opposite.
“This reminds me of when I was little,” she found herself telling him; and then, with that much already said, she added, “My dad was the cook in the family, but my mom could handle box mixes. So we always kept a lot around, just in case.”
“Sounds like my mom.” Eddie smiled, but his gaze was distant. “We had this thing. Every Friday and Saturday, we’d choose a movie. My sister would get one day, I would have the other. And my mom would bake us something from a box.” He glanced at her, and his smile deepened. “It was a big deal.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I loved it . . . but in hindsight, I wish I had loved it a little more often.”
He looked down. “I know what you mean.”
His sudden vulnerability called to her as strongly as the need to breathe. Lyssa reached for him with her left hand, unable to help herself.
Eddie closed his eyes as her fingers touched his throat, sliding up against the strong lines of his jaw. Hot skin. Hot as fire. Her right remained curled in a fist against her stomach.
She brushed some frosting from the corner of his mouth.
“Got it,” she whispered.
“Maybe you missed a spot,” he replied, softly.
Lyssa scooted closer, rising to her knees, and studied the hard lines of his face, the slight curl of his dark hair over his forehead. His eyes opened as she stared at him—and as always, she found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze, which was becoming as familiar as her own.
“I dreamed you,” she told him, unable to stop herself. “For a month, I’ve dreamed of fire. And inside the fire there was always a man. I could never see any part of him clearly, except his eyes. Your eyes.”
Eddie made a soft sound. “That was why you seemed to recognize me.”
“It shocked me,” she told him. “And it was frightening.”
“Are you frightened now?”
Lyssa shook her head. “No.”
He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him in one smooth, hard movement. Instead of feeling as though she was going to topple over, his strength filled her, warm and light, and the emptiness inside her chest no longer felt so vast and hollow.
Eddie bent his head, only a breath from kissing her.
“Good,” he murmured, and closed the distance, drawing her lips between his. She sighed against his mouth, and his hands tightened with a crushing strength that felt as good and safe as his kiss.
“Closer,” she breathed, and he laughed softly, curling his broad, hard frame around her body, tangling his fingers in her hair while his other arm squeezed them together in a devastating embrace that still was not near enough for what she needed.
In your skin.
In you,
thought Lyssa, reaching beneath his shirt to slide her hand up the lean, straining muscles of his back. Eddie grunted and kissed her harder. Fire licked the tips of her fingers—real flames, skimming his skin and hers. She didn’t need to see the fire to know they were burning. It felt as though she held her hand against the surface of a swift-moving river of lava, molten and throbbing.
Eddie broke off their kiss, both of them breathing so hard it sounded as though they were in pain.
I am,
she decided, burying her face against his throat.
I’m in agony.
His hand tightened in her hair, and he murmured in a deep, rumbling voice, “I have to tell you something.”
Lyssa started laughing. “That is the worst thing you could say to a girl at a time like this.”
Eddie laughed, too, swaying them as if a slow song was playing. “No, it’s nothing . . . nothing like that. I’m not married. If I had a girlfriend, we wouldn’t be . . .”
She smiled, nipping his throat. “I get it.”
He shivered, breath hitching when she scraped her teeth over his skin a second time. “I just . . . when you asked me before about whether I ever lose control of my fire, I told you yes. Just now . . . it was going to happen again. When you . . . touched my back.”
She was still touching his back. “Are you okay?”
Something pained entered his eyes. “I don’t want to be.”
Lyssa understood what he meant.
“But that’s . . . not me,” he went on. “I never let myself feel anything . . . that might make me lose control. I just don’t. I can’t.”
Some of that cold emptiness returned. “Oh.”
Eddie leaned back, forcing her to look at him. Lyssa was shocked to find his eyes, those dark and dangerous eyes, filled with a sorrow and hunger that wrenched her soul.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t know how to be . . . normal with someone. I’ve tried. I managed to pull it off a time or two, but I always had to hold back.”
“Because of the fire,” she murmured, aching for him.
“Not just that,” he said, and held up his hand, showing her his scars. Something old and weary entered his gaze, making Lyssa dig her fingers into his shirt to hold herself—and him—steady.
“This is a longer story than just a couple cigarettes,” he whispered.
Lyssa reached for his scarred hand and kissed it. Eddie’s chest rose and fell.
“You and me both,” she said, hoping he would understand what she was trying to tell him.
His other hand touched her cheek. His fingers trembled.
“Lyssa Andreanos,” he whispered, saying her name with such tenderness. “You’re going to break my heart.”
“Funny,” she whispered. “I’ve thought the exact same thing about you.”
He leaned in with excruciating gentleness to kiss her cheek. His scent washed ove snt >
Just a little kiss, but it felt amazing.
Lyssa grabbed the front of his shirt when he began to pull away. Eddie stilled, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes. She wanted to speak but had no words. Or maybe too many words. Too much fear, and uncertainty.
But loneliness was the most powerful of all.
She swayed closer, and he met her halfway, sliding his other hand into her hair as she pressed her mouth against his, soft at first—then harder—falling into his embrace as though she were drowning for his arms, his heat, that kiss.
Before Eddie, Lyssa hadn’t been kissed much in her life. She’d met boys while living on the streets, formed strong attachments and crushes when she’d banded temporarily with other children. But there’d always been a law of diminishing returns when it came to kisses. She’d feel nothing. Nothing but empty on the inside.
The opposite was true with Eddie. Every glance, each touch, was electrifying. His kisses, the same—times a thousand—growing more intense with each caress. Caught in fire. Burning in light. His mouth hot on hers as he buried his hands in her hair, dragging her tight against him. She felt like a fool to be so easily swept away . . . but not being here, the idea of not knowing this man, or being held by him . . . set a stranglehold on her heart that refused to ease.
He is yours,
whispered the dragon.
You are his.
Stop fighting what must be.
You were born for each other.
That doesn’t happen,
she replied.
Does it?
Someone knocked on the apartment door.
They flinched apart.
Lyssa glanced at Eddie and found him transformed. He gave her a cold, hard look that reminded her again of how he had reacted to Aaron Roacher—with pure ruthlessness and no hesitation.
Again, more knocking.
Eddie helped Lyssa stand, but her knees almost buckled, muscles aching as though she’d climbed a hundred flights of stairs. He caught her easily, both of them silent. He moved with the same effortless grace as a shape-shifter, coiled with power.
She fumbled for her glove. Her hands shook too violently to put it on. Eddie took it from her and slid the soft knit over her fingers. When he was done, he laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
“Yo, messenger service!” came a muffled male voice from the other side of the door. “Anyone home?”
He put his finger over his lips. Lyssa didn’t move. A minute later, that same voice muttered, “Fuck,” and she heard a thump. Then, receding footsteps.
Eddie waited another minute before going to the door. After listening carefully, he undid the locks. A brown paper parcel was in the hall on the floor.
He picked it up, very carefully. “It has your name on it. And this address.”
“What?”
Eddie gave her a disgruntled look. “We were tracked here. But how did they know this exact apartment? I was sure that no one followed us to this floor.”
Lyssa felt chilled. “I suppose . . . a spell? But nothing they’ve used before, or else they probably would have caught up with me long before this.”
He hefted the parcel. “Another trap?”
It’s like cats playing with mice.
“I don’t know. But whatever’s inside won’t be good.”
“Right,” he muttered, and began tearing the paper, carefully. Lyssa edged closer, trying to see.
Suddenly, Eddie stopped. “I don’t . . . know if you want to see this.”
Fear clutched her heart. Lyssa steeled herself, and held out her hand.
Regret passed through his eyes, but he gave her the to
rn parcel. It was heavy, the contents soft, uneven. She took a deep breath, wobbly and sick, and finished opening it.
When she saw what was inside, though . . . she didn’t understand. Not at first.
There were four strips of what looked like leopard hide, skinned from the legs. She knew it was the legs, because the knobby portions of the paws were attached, as well.
0000">There was a handwritten note. It read:
Say hello to Estefan.
Lyssa stared in horror, a scream rising in her throat.
The
Cruor Venator
had skinned her friend.
And sent her his legs.
A
ll Eddie saw, before Lyssa took the package, was the edge of a sleek, spotted hide. That was enough. He knew, in his gut, what it meant. But when he saw the horror and devastation that spread over her face, he was unprepared for his own reaction.
Rage. Pure, unbridled fury.
Those women who had murdered her friend, and probably others . . . who were hurting Lyssa with these terrible games . . .
. . . they were going to die.
No,
he told himself.
No, don’t think that.
But it was impossible not to. He knew what else had been done to Estefan, but seeing that fur . . . holding it in his hands . . . made the cruelty and horror of his murder viscerally real in a way that it hadn’t been before. The idea of those same women coming close to Lyssa strained his control to the breaking point.
She threw the parcel to the floor and turned away, gagging. He pressed to her side, holding back her hair—holding her—as she sank to her knees. She tried to push him away, but he didn’t budge.
Her grief killed him. It was too familiar.
Lyssa kept trying to grieve in silence, but he was wrapped so tightly around her that every shudder filled him—each heaving breath that shook her body, shaking his as though she were going to break apart against him.
Eddie remained quiet as long as he dared, but he watched the door the entire time—straining to hear if anyone was outside.
Finally, he murmured, “Lyssa.”
She buried her face against his chest, momentarily stilling.
“We have to go,” he told her quietly. “It’s not safe here.”
Her fingers tightened around his arm. “Okay.”
Her voice was so soft and muffled, he barely heard her. Eddie helped her stand, but she shook so badly, her teeth chattered. Her skin was cold, and he slid his hands beneath her sweater, pressing them hard against her waist and back. He focused on bringing heat into palms, even more heat than he had used on Aaron Roacher.
Fire flowed through his blood, fire that sank from his body into hers, as easily as if it were the same body, same blood, same life. Golden light streamed from her eyes, mixing with her tears.
He kissed her. “Can you stand without me?”
Lyssa nodded, face crumpling as she pressed her left hand over her mouth. A sob broke, and she turned from him, choking.
Eddie took a deep breath, then another—fighting to focus past her heartbreak—but when he started wrapping the shifter’s skin in the parcel paper, she turned and watched. It was difficult to work, feeling the heat of her gaze on his every movement.
He tried to be careful, respectful, but there was only so much he could do.
Eddie placed the remains in his backpack, then picked up Lyssa’s bag, slinging everything over his shoulder. He found her wiping tears from her cheeks. Grief was raw in her eyes, but her breathing was steadier, and there was a new hardness in her jaw that made her look almost . . . cruel.
“Estefan,” she whispered. “He was a good man.”
I know,
Eddie wanted to tell her, but a strong sense of self-preservation kept his mouth shut. Eventually, she would discover he had known the shifter was dead—and kept it from her. But not now.
“I can’t take this anymore. I’m done.”
“Lyssa,” he said.
Her eyes glowed. “I’m going to kill them. I’m going to rip their guts out.”
Anger was bett {nge>
What kind of stain would that put on her heart? He knew killers. He knew men who killed to protect the people they loved. He had known people who killed just because they liked it.
Murder always changed the eyes. Lyssa didn’t have those eyes.
But I do,
he thought, filled with dread and fear—for her and himself.
“Your friend,” she said, her eyes bloodshot, bright. “I wasn’t certain Lannes was safe before . . . but now? If Betty and Nikola have been following me, then they must know about him. A gargoyle . . . would be as attractive as a dragon.”
Eddie reached for his phone. “If we could find a way to keep them from tracking you . . .”
“I think I know how they did it.” Her voice was ragged, hoarse. “When she . . . when she killed Estefan . . . she stole the essence of a shape-shifter. Same essence as mine. It’s no exact science, but with enough power . . . power she certainly has . . . she could take that essence and use it to find any shape-shifter near her.”
“And then make Betty and Nikola do her dirty work? Why these games? Why is this so personal?”
She closed her eyes, swaying. “Call your friend.”
“Lyssa.”
“I can’t—” She stopped, and softened her voice, though it broke with grief. “It has to do with why she murdered my parents, but that’s . . . that’s all I can tell you. For now. Please, Eddie.”
Her plea bought his silence but did nothing to ease the ache. He felt too much around her, too much that was reckless and dangerous.
Eddie stepped close, staring into her eyes—trying to harden his heart. But it was impossible when she stared at him with those golden eyes, tear-struck, and glimmering with light.
“They’ll come after you,” she whispered. “They’ll go after the people I care about before they come after me.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
Lyssa stepped back from him and looked down. “Better make that call.”
She really was going to break his heart. Eddie found Lannes’s number. On the third ring, the gargoyle answered.
“Eddie,” he said, sounding breathless. “I’m glad you called.”
Dread filled him. “What’s happened?”
“Lethe’s family is in some kind of uproar. They won’t let her go.”
Eddie was silent a moment. “What does that mean?”
“It means I need to face a household full of witches to get my wife back.”
“Have you talked with her?”
“Barely. There’s too much going on in the background that I don’t understand, and she’s furious.” Lannes hesitated, his voice dropping. “She also sounds scared.”
“Hold on.” Eddie pressed the phone against his chest and looked at Lyssa, who watched him with stark concern. “Did you catch any of that?”
“Some. His wife is being held by witches?”
“Her family. For some reason, they won’t let her leave.” He hesitated. “None of them know she’s married to a gargoyle.”
Understanding entered her eyes. “If he goes to get her, they’ll see he’s wearing an illusion. And Lannes isn’t sure he can trust them.”
“It’s more than that.” Eddie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He has a bad history with witches. He and his brothers were imprisoned and tortured by them.”
Lyssa paled. “He can’t go in there.”
“Not alone.”
They stared at each other.
“My presence will only cause trouble,” she said, rubbing the heel of her palm against her tear-stained cheek.
“I need to help him.”
“God,” she said brokenly. “This is going to be a mess.”
“L
ethe is not her real name,” Eddie told Lyssa, during the stop-and-go cab ride to the Upper East Side address that Lannes had given them. “It’s Alice. She had amnesia and doesn’t remember her life from before a couple years ago.”
Lyssa glanced at the cab driver, but he was holding a loud conversation in Arabic over his cell phone, and ignoring them completely. “How did she meet Lannes?”
“Accident.” Eddie turned off the touch-screen television embedded in the divider. If he had to hear another ad for daytime television, he was going to throw himself into traffic. “They found each other not long after she lost her memories.”
“Lucky.” Lyssa plucked at the backseat’s peeling black vinyl and dragged down a shaky breath. “Some things I’d like to forget.”
He hesitated. “How long did you know Estefan?”
“Three years, but only six months of that was face-to-face. We met in Florida. It was an accident. Going there was stupid because of the heat and how I have to cover my body. But I missed the sun and ocean.” Lyssa rubbed her face. “Do you have more tissues?”
Eddie reached into his backpack and found one.
She blew her nose. “There was a waitress he liked to flirt with at this little café near the water. We happened to be there at the same time. It had been years since I’d seen another of my kind, and the same was true for Estefan. I couldn’t help but talk to him.”
“He was a good friend.”
“So good. I was skittish at first, and he had such patience. I can’t tell you what it meant to me that someone knew . . . what I was. He made me feel less alone.”
“There wasn’t anyone else you could have gone to? Your father’s family? Your mother didn’t have relatives? No friends, even?”
“No one. No one wanted anything to do with my family. My father lost his friends when he married my mother.”
Eddie stared, baffled. “Why?”
Lyssa looked down at her glove { atng="ed hands, but he knew she was seeing past cashmere to scales and claws. “Ignorance and fear. Not that it matters anymore.”
It mattered to her, and to him. “Because your mother was a witch?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” When she didn’t take his invitation to explain, he added, “Is that why you’re angry at Long Nu?”
“She sent you to deal with me instead of coming herself. I think that says it all.”
“She told me it would draw the wrong kind of attention to you.”
A bitter smile touched her mouth. “You believe that?”
Eddie leaned back. “You think Long Nu was afraid that she would become a victim.”
“For all her power, she is still vulnerable to the
Cruor Venator
and her women. You, on the other hand . . .” Lyssa gave him a curious look. “Why were
you
able to resist them?”
“I had a priority more important than fear.”
“Must have been a good one.”
“It was you,” he said. “So yes, it was.”
Lyssa stared, and his cheeks heated—especially when a faint, warm smile broke over her face.
“You should use that line in a bar. It would get you laid, like, a thousand times a night.”
Eddie smiled back. “That sounds exhausting.”
“What are you, eighty?” Lyssa closed her eyes, leaning against him. Her smile faded. “Long Nu doesn’t want to end up like Estefan. He’s dead because of me.”
He felt like an asshole. “Maybe it was a coincidence. The
Cruor Venator
found him, then realized the connection afterward.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t hide myself in that town. Everyone knew he was looking out for me. I stayed in his home. If the witch tracked me there, and asked questions . . .”
That was exactly how it had happened. Again, Eddie kept his mouth shut and hated himself for it.
Lyssa shoved her wet tissue into the jacket pocket—and an odd look passed through her eyes. When her left hand emerged, it was with the plastic bag that contained her charred, flaking photo. It was slightly more ragged than he remembered, but her young, smiling face was still intact.
Eddie thought about his sister and felt a pang in his heart.
“You were happy then,” he said quietly, thinking that was something he should remember, too. “Don’t forget that, no matter what happens.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders—but when she glanced at him, her eyes were red-rimmed again, and bright.
“Seems like since I met you, I’ve been crying nonstop,” she said, and stroked the bag covering the photo. “You’re right. I was happy. If there was a kid who had a better childhood, I’d like to meet her. My parents were the best. There was so much love in our family.”
“I’m sorry you lost them.”
She gave him a heartbreaking smile. “I was going to have a brother. My mom was pregnant when she died.”
Eddie’s breath caught. Lyssa looked again at the photo, and her smile faded.
“Sometimes . . . I think my mom knew she wasn’t going to last long. Or maybe she was just paranoid. She tried to teach me as much as she could, even when my dad thought she went overboard.” Her hand began to shake, and she set the photo down in her lap. “I miss them.”
I miss my sister,
he wanted to tell her.
I miss her every day and think about all the ways I could have done things differently.
If I could turn back time
. . .
Eddie carefully took her hand in his. He felt wounded, touching her. Heartsore, grieving for his losses . . . and for hers.
She snuggled closer, without hesitation, resting her head against his chest as though she’d done so a million times before. The familiarity of that gesture, the trust in it, made tenderness burst inside him in a rush of heat that went deeper than any fire.