Marjorie Liu: Within the Flames

He had used it tonight. There was a guest upstairs.

It was over, thought Eddie, putting his back to the wall as sparks danced off his clothes. I was sure it was over.

He had not lost control in almost a year.

He had not needed the cage.

Until tonight.

You know why.

Eddie closed his eyes, haunted. Every inch of him, so tender that the softest touch of his clothes hurt as though he were being dragged naked, on gravel.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

Eddie breathed, but each breath was hot in his lungs — the same heat burning in his bones, rising through his skin. Smoke rose off his body, singeing his nostrils. He tried to think of cool water, ice, this morning’s silver fog around the Golden Gate Bridge. He imagined the flow of the salt-scented breeze on his face as he’d walked to his favorite coffee shop. .

Everything, good and normal. Part of the life he had made for himself.

But it meant nothing. His mind kept returning to his mother’s sobs, the broken rasp of her voice — the sound of his grandmother in the background, trying to calm her. Trying, and failing — because she was crying, too.

Tears sizzled against his cheeks. Eddie held his stomach, overwhelmed with grief and anger. So much anger.

He pushed it down. Then he kept pushing, and pushing, methodically bottling his emotions: frustration, unhappiness, regret. He hid them all in a cool dark place inside his heart. He buried them, far away and deep, until he felt raw, empty.

Empty, except for the loneliness. An isolation so profound it bordered on despair.

Flames erupted against his legs and hands, flowing up his arms to arc over his shoulders — down his back like wings. Eddie tried to stop the fire — struggled with all his strength — but it was like trying to catch the wind. The flames slipped around him, through him, and all the control he had so carefully cultivated once again meant nothing.

He was powerless. Helpless. And he hated himself for that.

His spine caught on fire, a deep burn born in his bones, born deeper, rippling from his heart. Eddie closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of flames eating through his jeans and T-shirt, turning them to ash.

He didn’t make a sound, not even when the burn of his skin made him feel as though he would split apart. He pretended not to feel the soaring waves of heat moving around him, wrapping him in a nest of fire that brushed against the walls of his cage.

He tried so hard not to think about his sister’s murderer walking out of prison.

But in the end, it was easier just to burn.

When Eddie left the cage, a woman was waiting for him.

He happened to know that she was in her early fifties, though she hardly looked it with her loose red hair, creamy skin, and long, supple body clad in black. A patch covered her right eye, and the other was golden, pupil slit like a cat’s. She leaned on the kitchen counter, arms folded over her chest — and even standing still, there was a lethal, inhuman grace about her.

Eddie froze and clutched the curtain around his waist. None of his clothes had made it through the blaze.

“Ma’am,” he said, a little too hoarse.

Her gaze traveled down his body, cold and assessing. “You make me feel so old. How many times will we meet, Edward, before you call me Serena?”

Eddie waited. Serena gave him a slow, dangerous smile and picked up a cloth bag on the counter behind her. She tossed it to him. When he looked inside, he found sweatpants and a T-shirt.

“Roland told me where you keep your things,” she said. “He also mentioned that your skin is sensitive. . afterward. I chose what seemed soft.”

“Thank you,” Eddie said. “Ma’am.”

Serena tilted her head, golden eye glinting. Eddie stepped back into the cage, letting the curtain fall behind him. The process of dressing made him feel more human — more grounded in his own body — though his skin still ached, and when he moved too quickly, lights danced in his eyes.

When he reemerged, Serena stood at the foot of the stairs.

“They’re waiting,” she said.

Eddie did not move. “No one mentioned that you would be here.”

“Shocking, I know.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a bad sign. What else has happened?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” Serena gave him a faint, mocking smile and turned to climb the stairs. “If it’s any consolation, no one told me I’d be in San Francisco tonight. But here I am. I go where there’s trouble.”

“You make trouble,” he replied. “With all due respect.”

She laughed, quietly, and kept climbing.

Eddie did not follow. He watched until she disappeared around the landing, then looked down at his hands. Small, circular scars covered his skin. He rubbed them and shivered.

He was always cold after he lost control. Cold as winter, in his bones. When he felt like this, he couldn’t imagine losing control ever again. Drained of fire, burned out. Safe.

If only.

Eddie took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

He entered an immense room filled with overstuffed couches and low tables sagging with books and newspapers. The top floor, the penthouse suite of an entire building owned by one man, one organization — converted into a home and office. Nine floors that could be traversed by stairs and hidden elevators.

It was night outside. Only a few lamps had been turned on, but the floor-to-ceiling windows let in the scattered light of downtown San Francisco, and that was enough to illuminate the room, softly, as though with starlight.

Two people stood near the windows. Serena still had her arms folded over her chest. The man who stood beside her was taller by half a foot and broad as a bear. His rumpled flannel shirt strained against his shoulders. Thick brown stubble, peppered with gray, covered his jaw. The scent of whiskey clung to him, but that was no surprise. Not for months.

Roland’s bloodshot gaze was compassionate and sad as he studied Eddie. Edged with doubt, too. And pity.

Eddie tamped down anger. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Roland grunted. “Like what?”

“Like I’m broken,” he said hoarsely. “Like I’m you.”

Low blow. Eddie received no satisfaction from the surprise and hurt that flickered across the other man’s face — but he wasn’t sorry, either. He had never thrown a first punch, hardly ever used his fists at all, but for the last year he had wanted to — against the man in front of him. Words were a poor substitute.

And he needed to hit someone right now. Right now, more than anything, he needed to inflict some pain.

Roland cleared his throat. “You little shit.”

“I only look like shit. Don’t confuse the two.”

“In your case, it’s the same thing.” Roland tilted his head, watching him. “Are you going to be able to do this? Handle New York?”

Eddie hadn’t told him about his mother’s phone call. He hadn’t needed to. Roland had known from the moment Eddie entered the penthouse, heading for the cage. Some telepaths were like that.

“According to you,” Eddie said, “there’s no one else.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He set his jaw, warmth finally trickling back into his hands. “It’s the only answer I need. You taught me that.”

Roland stilled. Serena murmured, “Generous praise. Given that you’re speaking to a man who hasn’t left his home in over a decade.”

Roland blinked hard, tearing his gaze from Eddie. “ You’re certainly free to go.”

“I wish I could. I have a grandchild I could be visiting right now, and you smell like a drunk.” Serena swung away from Roland to stare out the window. “But the new alliance stands. A Priori wants me here, and I work for them. Not Dirk & Steele.”