Within the Flames (4 page)

“I know the type,” he replied, still struggling with the heat gathering beneath his skin. “I won’t hesitate.”

Lannes paused. Eddie realized he was rubbing the scars on his hands. The gargoyle was looking at them.

Eddie stilled. Lannes dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. “It’s been years since I heard of the
Cruor Venator.
I had to ask my brothers about them. I had to go outside the family. Everyone says the same thing.”

Lannes finally looked at him. “When they want you, hey want all you can do is run.”

“Not an option. And nothing I haven’t already heard.”

“Then you know their power comes from blood. Blood obtained through death. The slower the death, the better. And not just any blood. A true
Cruor Venator
will absorb the essence of the victim, and so they choose only those whom they perceive to be strong, vibrant. The ones with the most to offer.”

“Shape-shifters,” Eddie said. “That doesn’t explain why everyone is so afraid of them.”

Lannes gave him a hard look. “Really?”

Eddie didn’t back down. “Really. You talk about magic and witches, and it means nothing to me. Just more people with strange gifts.”

“Gifts that alter reality. In small, personal doses.”

“So how do you fight that?”

“With luck and a strong sense of free will.” Lannes leaned forward, holding his gaze. “What creates a witch is nothing more than desire and power. That, and a particular bloodline that makes it possible to manifest that desire. What makes the
Cruor Venator
different is the way they harness power.”

“It doesn’t seem as though it should make them special. Anyone can spill blood.”

“You’re wrong. But that’s not something I can explain in words.”

Eddie jammed the toe of his boot into the grass, and dug in, frustrated. “I spoke to someone else. Long Nu. She’s a very old shape-shifter . . . old enough to remember the
Cruor Venator.
But she didn’t explain any of this.”

“I’ve heard of her. Dragons are like that.”

Great,
he thought. “Do you know how to kill these witches?”

“Maybe. But it’s not good.” Lannes leaned against a tree and, despite the illusion, suddenly looked tired. “I’ve been told they can only be killed by one of their own. The magic that gives them power . . . is the only magic that can take their lives.”

Eddie didn’t immediately respond. He couldn’t. It was all too overwhelming and strange.

He listened to the dull thrum of the city beyond the trees, a mix of voices and honking cars and birdsong. He imagined himself younger, hungry and homeless, craving a normal life. Free of violence. Free from the dead.

“Fire,” he said. “Will fire kill them?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a hundred years since the last
Cruor Venator.
A lot could have been forgotten.”

“But not the magic that made them. Who killed the
Cruor Venator
a hundred years ago?”

“One of her own kind. It had to be.”

“But after that, no sign of them. No deaths.”

“The last
Cruor Venator
was famous for her cruelty. She hunted nonhumans specifically, because they made her so much stronger. She could . . . adopt some of their powers. But the one who stopped her was either better at hiding her nature—”

“Or she just wasn’t a killer.”

“She killed at least once,” Lannes replied. “No reason to think she stopped.”

Eddie wasn’t so sure. “Could she still be alive?”

Lannes arched his brow. “You want to find her, too?”

“Well?”

“Maybe. Witches can live a long time. But there’s always a price.”

“Someone had to teach the current
Cruor Venator.
”

“Or maybe it’s the same witch who killed the last one.”

“We need to know.”

“You don’t
look
for a
Cruor Venator.
”

“Apparently you do if you need one dead.”

Lannes stared. Eddie ducked his head and shoved his ha"0ehoved hnds in his pockets. Silence fell around them.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Lannes finally said, quietly.

“Thank you.” Eddie had trouble meeting his gaze, too aware of what he was asking of the gargoyle. It was one thing to put his own life on the line for a stranger, but Lannes and his family had already suffered too much.

The gargoyle bound his wings again, then both men walked from the park. A large group of tourists mingled in front of them. Eddie and Lannes kept their distance. His gaze roved over open purses and backpacks, taking in expensive cameras and other small electronics belted to waists or tucked inside pockets. Out there, exposed. Like blazing targets.

“You’re frowning,” Lannes said. “Still thinking about witches?”

“I’m thinking that people never expect they’ll get hurt.” Eddie tore his gaze from the tourists and looked across the street, assessing, watching. His neck prickled. He felt exposed and uneasy, like something big was about to hit him. Big, like a fist. Big, like a wave.

His gaze continued to rove left, where it stopped at the red light just before Eighth.

A boy was marching across the intersection.

Like a little soldier, his legs kicking out, each foot pounding the pavement with hard, decisive, steps. He wore an oversized sweatshirt and jeans and had dark floppy hair that he kept pushing away from his face. With his other hand, he clutched a backpack to his chest. A tiny, ugly, dog with huge eyes peered out.

The boy held Eddie’s attention. There was something small and lost about him. The way he held that dog, with tenderness and desperation—heartbreaking. He reminded Eddie too much of himself at that age: clinging to pride, defiance, but always afraid. Always, and doing his best to hide it.

It hurt Eddie to see. He wanted to know if the boy needed help, but there was no way. No way that wouldn’t come off as creepy or strange.

And then he realized the boy wasn’t alone.

A woman was with him. Eddie couldn’t see much of her. From his vantage point, just her profile: pert nose, rosy cheeks, a small, delicate mouth. She was wrapped in an oversized green sweater, patched together with hearts and stars made of multicolored satin and velvet scraps. It stood out, compared to all the black, monotone colors worn by every other New Yorker around her.

The tail of a pink-checkered flannel shirt peeked from beneath the sweater’s hem. Her jeans were tight, tucked into heavy boots, and a brown newsboy hat covered her head. Loose strands of auburn hair flew out from beneath the long red scarf wrapped around her throat, a scarf that she kept touching and tightening with slender gloved hands.

Eddie stared.

He couldn’t see her face, but the way she moved was beautiful—a dancer, graceful and certain of each light step. Everyone around her seemed like a clod in comparison, weighted down, hard and gray—while she flowed through them, around them, in a patchwork of color. Warm and sublime, and welcoming.

Confident,
he thought . . . but a heartbeat later she bowed her head, just so, and touched her covered throat. The gesture was pained and vulnerable, in the same way the boy was vulnerable.

As though she felt lost. Out of place.

It cut Eddie again, right in the heart. Deeper, even. He felt an instant, and inexplicable connection to the woman, as though she was a page out of his own book—someone whose pain mirrored his own.

Which was ridiculous, of course. He didn’t know her. She was just one woman out of eight million people in this city—and here he was, making up a story for her. Pretending that he understood her. A stranger.

It all makes pathetic sense.
I’ll never know that woman.
I’ll never hurt
her,
and she’ll never hurt
me.
Of course I’m attracted.

She’s untouchable.

And yet . . . as he watched her . . .

I would take care of you,
came the unbidden thought, and the need and hunger that followed rocked him to the core; so overwhelming, his breath caught with the pain of it.

I wish I could.

The woman stumbled. The boy reached out and grabbed her hand. Eddie took a step in their direction.

He stopped, though. He couldn’t just run after her. What would be the point?

If I were safe,
he thought to himself.
If
I
were sand n>
wefe to be touched
 
. . .

He took another step, anyway. And then realized something was wrong.

The woman was staring at Lannes.

The boy stood on the sidewalk, but the woman was partially in the road, one foot on the curb, remaining very still as she watched the gargoyle—who had walked a short distance ahead without noticing that Eddie wasn’t with him.

An entire street and heavy foot traffic separated them, but there was no question who had caught her attention.

She’s looking at a handsome man.
It happens.
There was no need to feel jealous about that, either.

But, moments later, it became clear something else was going on. Her face was too pale, jaw slack, eyes wide and stunned. The boy tugged on her sleeve, worried, but the young woman ignored him—staring at the oblivious gargoyle with what seemed to be deep, profound shock.

Too much shock. The first time Eddie had ever watched a shifter change shape from human to animal, he had felt a similar astonishment. No doubt his expression had appeared the same.

She can see through the illusion,
he thought, followed by another realization:

She looks like the girl in the photograph.
The resemblance was uncanny: in the set of her mouth and the tilt of her eyes.

Eddie ran halfway across Columbus Circle before realizing he had moved. He heard his name called. Lannes. Eddie did not look back to explain but instead watched the woman turn her head, slowly—to stare at
him.

His world stopped. Everything inside him, around him, suspended in a wash of a terrible heat. Even from across the street, he could see the color of her eyes: golden as the sunrise. Fire licked beneath his skin, inside his heart, in his bones—but it felt transcendent, made of light instead of flame. Light, burning inside him.

It was her. Lyssa Andreanos. No mistake. No doubt. He was staring into the face of a little girl who had grown into a woman.

Strands of hair floated around her face. Her golden eyes were large and sharp with intelligence—tempered with the vulnerability that had haunted him from the first moment he had seen her.

Fate,
he thought, stunned she was here.
Fate and magic.

But his wonderment was smashed to a thousand pieces as her expression turned stark with fear. It cut him, so cold his first instinct was to retreat. Instead, he stayed rooted in place, startled and numb as she fumbled for the boy’s arm, frantically pulling him with her as she backpedaled, nearly tripping over the curb.

He fought for his voice, but his throat was so dry. “Wait!”

She ran, pulling the boy after her.

The light at the crosswalk was green. Cabs roared past. He glanced at the road, saw an opening, and plunged forward. He heard honking, felt the rush of oncoming traffic—but he didn’t look. He focused forward—blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding, skin hot.

“Lyssa!” he shouted again, his voice breaking on her name. “Estefan sent us!”

She stumbled, turning to give him another shocked look.

But it didn’t last. Lyssa tugged hard on the boy, and they disappeared into the entrance of the Fifty-ninth Street subway station.

Eddie followed, desperate not to let her get away. Fire flowed beneath his skin.

You’re out of control,
he told himself—but he didn’t slow. His feet hit the station-entrance stairs, and he flew, down and down, trying not to knock anyone aside.

At the bottom, he hit a wall. No MetroCard. Long lines at the vending machines to buy one. And there were police everywhere, near the turnstiles. Some with dogs. No way for him to just break through. He couldn’t afford to be arrested.

The woman and boy were nowhere in sight.

No green sweater covered in patchwork hearts and stars. No boy with a dog. No grace, anywhere. Just tired-looking people in black clothing who kept their gazes down, rushing, lost in the pulsing crowd.

Eddie stood there, staring at everything, and nothing. Disgusted, disappointed, utterly heartsore. He had failed. Fate had given him exactly what he needed—and he had let her slip away.