Marjorie Liu - Within the Flames

She gave their books a wary look and thought about grabbing a different chair. “I just need ten minutes to check my mail.”

“You have five,” said the guy on the right, hunching forward to slide his arm across the table — between her and his laptop.

“Don’t talk,” added his friend, tugging his computer closer to him.

“Mmm,” she said, already bent over her worn canvas backpack. She used her right hand to undo the strap, but had to stop when a sharp, stabbing ache flowed from her wrist to her elbow. Her fingers stiffened, paralyzed and hot.

Lyssa gritted her teeth as the muscles in her right arm tightened and contorted, shifting against her will: a fraction, a breath, but enough to make her afraid. She grabbed her shoulder with her left hand, squeezing. Begging her body to listen.

Slowly, it did. Trembling, sweating, Lyssa cast a quick look around. No one was watching her, not even the guys at the table, who were flipping through Macbeth and snarling at the pages. She might as well have been alone in her tunnel, in the dark, for all that people saw her.

Good and bad. Lyssa wished she had a friend here. Someone to lean on who wasn’t a thousand miles away.

She fumbled one-handed to pull free her laptop, and powered it on, connecting to the coffee shop’s free Wifi. She logged on to her Webmail account.

There was a new message from Estefan, as well as one from her editor. Lyssa chose her friend first.

The e-mail said:

When you get this, contact me. I haven’t heard from you in some time, and it’s important we talk. I know you’re obsessed with being on your own, but kid, that can’t fly forever — especially now. So I did something you’re not going to like.

I found you some help.

And it’s coming.

Lyssa leaned back in her chair, staring at those words. Help? What the hell was Estefan thinking? Who could help her? And why would anyone even want to try?

“Shit,” she muttered to herself.

Her right hand ached too much to type with. One-handed, pecking at the keyboard, she replied:

Got your message. Will try calling later. Does your help include a gargoyle? Because I saw one outside Central Park today. Coincidence or not? Need to know.

She almost ignored her editor’s e-mail, but there was no way to know how long she’d be off-line. The man was already prickly about only being able to contact her via the Internet.

Even if her world was going to hell, she still needed work.

In front of her, one of the guys slammed Macbeth on the table. “Unchecked ambition. I say we write the paper on that.”

“Bullshit. We need something better.”

“Better? This is due tomorrow.”

His friend got the middle finger in response.

Lyssa muttered, “Ambition and violence. Focus on that.”

Both men stared at her. One of them might have said, “What?” but she was distracted by her editor’s e-mail. A note about cropping and deadlines, and an inquiry about the possibility of taking on another illustrating job — this time for a friend who worked at a children’s magazine. He wanted some dreamy, surreal image for an upcoming short story. Not a bad gig.

One of the guys rapped his knuckles on the table. Lyssa tore her gaze from the computer screen, annoyed.

“What do you mean, ambition and violence?” he asked.

“Read the play,” she told him, looking back at her e-mail — telling her editor that, yes, she was interested in the job — adding that she’d be on the road for a week, away from her computer. She cc’d her agent.

Lyssa began packing up. The guys bounced in their seats.

“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to help us right now,” said the one on the right, stabbing his finger at her. Like that would seal the deal.

“Ha,” she replied.

“We’re desperate,” added the other. “We’ll love you forever. Just give us something more.”

Grow a pair, she wanted to tell them, and slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Fine. Think about this. Once you decide to use violence to get power, it’s difficult to stop.”

The young men gave her blank looks. She shook her head and left.

A cold wind blew down Lexington, sweeping bits of loose trash against her boots. She walked fast, hat pulled low over her brow. Her right arm was better. When she flexed her fingers, they worked. Not well enough to hold anything, but at least they weren’t cramping. She dug her thumb into her palm, massaging her hand.

Not Boston, she thought, considering where to go next. Philadelphia?

The idea of leaving made her ill. For better or worse, she felt comfortable in New York. Giving that up, just because Estefan had reached out to find her help. .

Help for what? Lyssa thought again. A home I can’t use? Money I don’t need? Estefan knows all that. So why now? Why after all these years would he suddenly become so protective?

Lyssa thought again about the gargoyle — but also the man with him. A shudder raced through her, but not one of disgust. Just warmth. So much heat, in fact, that she stopped walking and looked down at her feet and legs to make sure she was not shedding sparks.

A month ago, she had started dreaming of his eyes. Always, during her nightmares. Her mind, wrapped in fire — screaming, terrified — so very alone — until, like a ghost, she would see someone watching her. A male presence, within the inferno. Just standing there: intense and dangerous, and more real than the flames.

Focusing on him always made the nightmare go away. Usually. Sometimes, she just needed to burn.

Seeing those eyes today, recognizing them — was like being hit by lightning.

Now, though, with some distance, the memory of that moment inspired a different feeling.

Homesickness.

Fear, she understood. But homesickness was inexplicable, and specific: She felt sick for the old days, when she was safe and loved. It hit her hard, with a fresh, raw tenderness that made her want to press her clawed hand over her heart and dig in.

It’s him, she thought, suffering deep unease. He makes me feel this way.

No way Estefan could have known. But if that was help. .

If that’s help, I can’t take it. . no matter how curious I am. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do to help me.

Not while I’m being hunted.

Lyssa saw a bank of pay phones near the intersection at Forty-first, and started digging through her pockets for change. She needed to call Estefan and find out exactly who he had contacted, and why. He had to have a good reason, after all these years of so carefully leaving her alone.

Her skin crawled when she thought of what that reason might be.

She slipped some quarters into the pay phone, careful to use her left hand — claws not being great for picking up small objects — and dialed his home number, which Estefan had made her memorize before she’d left Florida.

When the call went through, however, all she heard was a busy signal.

Lyssa tried three more times, but the call never connected. She tried the café, but the phone rang and rang — and no one picked up.

Unease crept. Lyssa hung up but didn’t move. The heat throbbing through her blood only grew stronger. Pins and needles pricked her thighs and shoulders, between her breasts.

Something’s wrong.

But no, that was stupid. Paranoia. Lyssa always thought something was wrong. A busy signal and an unanswered call was not a big deal. Besides, she never called Estefan. Ever. She didn’t know the first thing about his phone habits.

Don’t leave the city tonight, she told herself, massaging her right arm. Take a couple days to plan. Talk to Estefan first. You don’t want to run blind.