Marjorie Liu - Within the Flames

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry I did this to you, Edward.”

“You didn’t.” Eddie closed his eyes. “I have to go. Call if you need anything. If it’s an emergency, 911 first, then Roland. You have his number.”

“Yes, and yes,” she said, but with a trace of sadness — and perhaps, disappointment — that made him feel terrible. He was an awful son. He’d abandoned his mother after Daphne’s murder, and even if his reasons were good. . he’d never told her why. She had blamed herself for losing him. Blamed herself for bringing Matthew Swint into their lives.

Deep down, Eddie still blamed her, too.

Hanging up exhausted him. He stared at his phone, heartsore, helpless. What was he doing here, with Matthew Swint on the loose?

Lyssa said, quietly, “That was your mother?”

He glanced at her. Embarrassment flickered over her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I know you must have. . sharp ears.”

“Too sharp, maybe.” Lyssa gave him a hesitant look. “Is she okay?”

“Been better.”

“She sounded scared.”

“There’s a man,” began Eddie, but after that, he didn’t know what else to say. . how much to tell her. He wasn’t even certain he could talk about Matthew Swint. Or his sister. The wound was too raw.

“There’s a man,” he repeated himself, hoping she would understand.

Lyssa gave him a long, thoughtful look. “That’s the worst kind.”

He swallowed hard and nodded.

Both of them stayed silent for the remainder of the walk. Eddie watched the city: neighborhoods that transformed from one block to another — gritty to chic, to sleek, then back again.

But the people never changed. Everyone walked fast, expressionless, lost in their own worlds. No one looked anyone else in the eye.

He studied them all, and noticed Lyssa doing the same: quick assessing glances that never stopped, never looked down. She was, he thought, completely aware of everything around her. Including him.

Only once did he get an odd feeling. A prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced around but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“So these women have been sent to retrieve you,” he said, uneasy. “Why not the Cruor Venator herself?”

“She’ll come eventually.”

“That’s it?”

Lyssa’s silence went as deep as her eyes: reserved and thoughtful. “If you’re looking for logic, don’t. A Cruor Venator lives for death, but the slower the death, the better. The same is true when hunting. Prolonging the chase just means more pleasure in the end. Games are part of it.”

“That’s sick.”

“Yes,” she said, and there was no end to the pain he glimpsed in her eyes before she ducked her head, hair falling down around her face and obscuring her gaze.

He had no defense against that. His heart bled for her. But more than that, the mystery of why all this seemed so personal, haunted him.

Eddie reached out, very carefully, and grazed his fingertips against her gloved left hand. Lyssa’s own fingers twitched, curling toward his. But just before she touched him, she pulled away and shoved her hand in the jacket pocket.

He let out his breath, slowly. “Lannes said he. . sensed something different about you.”

“Did he?” Her voice was strained. “I suppose it made him uncomfortable.”

“His wife is a witch,” he said, watching her flinch. “Or at least. . she has that potential. Her family lives in this city, and they’re definitely. .”

“I get it,” Lyssa said. “And since the gargoyle brought it up. . no, I’m not a witch. Not exactly. I suppose I have. . that potential, too. But it’s nothing I’m interested in exploring.”

“Why not?”

“Some powers aren’t safe to want.”

“Specifically?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Maybe you don’t ask enough.”

“Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just want to mind my own business and be on my way before anyone gets hurt.”

“Or you get hurt,” he said, unable to stop himself. “It’s more convenient not to feel anything, isn’t it?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Are you talking about yourself or me?”

“Fair enough.” Eddie held up his hands as heat shimmered around his skin. “People are fragile. It’s easier to be alone than worry all the time about hurting someone. But then one day you wake up, and you realize you’ve been alone for—”

“Ten years?” she said dryly.

“—a long time,” he finished.

Her expression turned disgruntled. “I have friends.”

“I know,” Eddie said, suddenly regretting saying so much.

He never talked like this. He never asked this many questions. Like her, he minded his own business, except for when it involved his friends. And even then, he preferred to stay silent, to hang back and observe. To be the man everyone could depend on — without their needing to ask.

That had been all he needed. . until now.

Lyssa stopped at a pay phone near the intersection of West Fourth Street and MacDougal, on the southern tip of Washington Square Park. Beside them was a clean brick building covered in ivy and bordered by a tall wrought-iron fence. Eddie was pretty certain it was part of the NYU campus, given the university banners hanging from a similar-looking building across the street.

“Are you calling Estefan?” he asked, with dread.

“Yes,” she said, searching through her backpack for change. “Did you ever talk with him?”

“No. All I saw were forwarded e-mails.”

“E-mail is how we usually communicate.”

“How did you meet?”

Lyssa suddenly looked uncomfortable. “It’s a complicated story. I’m sure you’re getting sick of hearing me use that word.”

“You’re a complicated woman. That’s not something I mind.”

She looked at him like maybe he was teasing her, but he was serious — and seriously dreading telling her about Estefan. He had to, though. Right now.

“Lyssa,” he began, but her gaze sharpened, and she turned to stare at the park across the street. Eddie turned with her, on guard. His right hand twitched, fire at the tips of his fingers.

He studied the people at the intersection, but all he saw were several Asian girls wearing backpacks, and a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. A biker zipped past, and so did a man on rollerblades. . but that was it. No one watched them. No sign of Betty or Nikola.

But if they were witches, not seeing them probably didn’t mean much, anyway.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Lyssa tilted her head, and closed her eyes. “A scent. I smell. .”

She stopped, and her eyes flew open, stark with surprise. Without another word, she started running.

“Dammit,” Eddie muttered, chasing her.

Lyssa was fast, graceful, her feet barely touching the ground as she flew across the street, nearly getting clipped by a cab that swerved into another lane and laid on the horn. Eddie followed, heart in his throat, trying to keep track of everyone around them — anyone near her who could mean her harm.

She didn’t run far. Just down the sidewalk that led into the park, then across the grass — straight to a slim woman resting on a blanket near some bushes.

Eddie thought at first she was sleeping, curled on her side. He saw a pierced brow and nose, and tight brown curls. Her dark skin held an ashen undertone, and the hollows under her eyes and in her cheeks were so deep she might have been a cadaver.

Maybe she was, Eddie realized.

The blanket beneath her was stained red with blood.

If the wind had been blowing in another direction, Lyssa would never have smelled the blood.