Marjorie Liu - Within the Flames

But she did, and because it was blood she paid attention — and smelled someone familiar.

Mandy. One of the women Jimmy had said was missing.

Lyssa didn’t know her well. A crazy, loud girl, who liked to dance in the middle of Grand Central, and hold signs advertising FREE HUGS. She and her girlfriend, Flo, were inseparable — homeless, sometimes-prostitutes — addicted to heroin.

She dropped to her knees, trying not to panic — and reached out to touch the young woman’s face. Her skin was cool, but she was breathing.

The blood was on her clothes. Mandy wore a green army jacket that was three sizes too large, and her clothes beneath were all black. Lyssa had to lean in to see the bloodstains that covered her chest, and reached carefully beneath the girl’s jacket to give them an experimental touch. Some of the blood had dried, hardening the sweater.

But most of the blood was wet. The blanket beneath, soaked through and stained. That metallic scent washed over her, making sweat break out against her back and between her breasts. When she swallowed, her throat burned. When she breathed, her lungs were hot.

“Mandy,” she whispered harshly.

Eyelids fluttered. Cracked lips moved. Lyssa listened hard, but all she heard was a quiet hiss of breath.

There was no way to know how long Mandy had been here, but it was long enough to come close to death — without anyone’s noticing.

No one ever noticed. No one ever looked. It was why Lyssa had come to this city.

But I don’t want to die alone. Alone, in a crowd. Invisible.

Eddie crouched beside her, already on his cell phone. She listened to him speak with a 911 operator, his words less important than the fact that he was there, with her.

“Liz,” breathed the young woman. “S’you?”

Hearing Mandy’s voice filled Lyssa with terrible relief, though it was short-lived. “It’s me.”

She let out a strained, shaky, sigh. “God, Flo.”

“Flo isn’t here.”

“No. Gotta get to. . Flo. ’Fore they kill her.” Her face crumpled, tears sliding down her cheeks. “They took me. . away from her. I tried to. . to fight. Didn’t wan’ ’em to make me. . leave.”

Lyssa leaned back, Mandy’s grief tearing into her like a knife. She had thought similar words over the past ten years.

I should have stayed and fought. I shouldn’t have run.

Heat exploded behind her eyes, but it’s wasn’t fire. Just tears. Lyssa felt twelve years old again, dying of guilt. She would never forgive herself for that night. Never.

She touched Mandy’s hand, wanting to comfort her.

A connection formed, unexpected and instantaneous: a split-second bond, electric hot, tossing her into a mindscape that resembled a frenzied dance floor crowded with memories, fragmented and frozen between rapid pulses of light.

Flo.

Flo, with her ruddy skin and wild blond hair. . those lips she puckers to blow kisses, everywhere, at anyone. .

Flo. Smiling.

Flo. Screaming.

Chains. Blood. Sobs.

A knife glints. Wicked blade.

Black blade. Curved. Obsidian.

Etched with runes.

Pain seared: a lick of fire in her head, above her heart. Sharp as a stab.

The connection snapped.

Lyssa tilted, breathless. Floating, flying, falling. Part of her was still in Mandy’s mind, listening to Flo scream. Staring at the blade.

She slumped forward, clutching her chest. Blinking hard. Heart pounding with frightening irregularity. The grass came back into view, but it was blurry. Lyssa blinked, and tears spilled from her eyes. She hardly noticed. All she could think about was the obsidian blade.

The weapon of a Cruor Venator.

Someone touched her shoulders. Lyssa recoiled, but it was only Eddie. His scent washed over her: a mix of woodsmoke and sandalwood.

It had a strange effect on her. His scent reminded her too much of warm winter nights in front of a fire. Nights holding hot chocolate and listening to music. Nights that had been home, long ago and far away.

Lyssa rubbed a shaking hand over her mouth, but the scent of blood was so strong on her fingers that she reeled. Eddie immediately pulled her against his chest, and the contact was warm in the most healing way possible, safe and solid, and more real than the grass beneath her.

“Breathe,” he whispered, covering her hand with his, and squeezing. “Close your eyes, listen to my voice, and breathe.”

She shivered. “Don’t worry about me. Just Mandy.”

Eddie’s hand tightened. “You know this woman.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “She went missing. A lot of homeless women have been disappearing.”

“Was it the Cruor Venator who hurt her?”

An obsidian knife flashed through her memories. Mandy’s memory. . and her own, ten years old and still fresh in mind.

Lyssa nodded, as more tears slid down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she tried scrubbing her face with the back of her hand, but it did no good. More tears took their place. It was horrifying.

“Hold on,” Eddie said, and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a rumpled tissue and held it out to her. “Here. It’s clean.”

Lyssa was more surprised by the thoughtfulness of the offer than the possibility the tissue might be dirty. She looked at him, and the kindness in his eyes stole her breath away. No pity. Just compassion and concern.

He pushed the tissue into her hand, and she pressed it to her nose.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from his. “Is an ambulance coming?”

“Listen,” he said, and just like that, she heard the wail of a siren.

She looked around the park. Mandy lay ten feet off the sidewalk, just one more homeless woman amongst thousands — making her invisible. No magic needed to hide a dying woman in plain sight.

Some people walking down the sidewalk were watching them now, but no one stopped. Their scents filled her nose — body odor and perfume, pizza grease, halitosis. Nothing slick or dangerous.

Her skin prickled, though. As a child, she’d watched a mountain lion stalk a young elk, and that poor nervous creature had sensed the blow long before it happened. It just hadn’t known from what direction it would come.

I’ve been waiting ten years for the knife to fall.

Lyssa should have already been running. This was a trap. Or a message. A homeless drug addict was not the type of person a Cruor Venator would choose to kill. And there was no way Mandy could have escaped the witch. . unless she was let go on purpose.

But I hardly know her. Why would she be a target?

What did that mean for Jimmy and his mother?

And who would stop the Cruor Venator and her women this time?

Who, she said to herself, dreading what she already knew. Who else?

“You know something,” said Eddie.

She shook her head, but only because panic and anger had lodged in her throat, cutting off her voice. The ambulance sirens were closer, and she struggled to her feet — the fire inside her so hot, her skin prickled.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered, staring at Mandy’s ashen face. The woman was barely conscious, making soft moaning sounds as her fingers twitched. Blood seeped beneath her on the blanket, inviting Lyssa to make another, different connection.

She backed away. Eddie stood with her. “We need to wait for the ambulance.”

A frustrated growl left her throat — followed by the tremendous urge to swing her fists at a stationary target. “I can’t. I barely knew this woman, but if they got to her. .”

Mandy was a small target. The next one? Closer, more important.