Marjorie Liu - Within the Flames

The way he lived his life until then had revolved around his ability to protect people from himself. Suddenly, in an instant, that was no longer possible. For almost a year he had needed to live in that glass cage, where he would be safe from others.

Confidence, shattered. Heartbreakingly alone.

Those first few times venturing beyond its glass walls — terrifying. After that, months where Eddie did nothing but stay indoors or sit on the roof of the building, staring at downtown San Francisco. Watching people. Watching the world.

It had taken another six months for his confidence to return. . but only because he’d had no choice. A friend needed help. That had been motivation enough for him to test the limits of his new control, and after that. . it had gotten easier.

Taking back his old life had felt like a miracle.

Now he wondered if he needed to return to the cage again.

The spare room that Roland had given him was nearly a thousand square feet in size and full of windows, overlooking the city. His bed was a mattress on the floor, and his clothes were stored in plastic bins. Stacks of travel books, language study guides, and science magazines surrounded his bed, along with a small lamp and a box full of bottled water.

Eddie found a backpack and began stuffing it with underwear, a pair of jeans, and some Tshirts.

He found a small leather wallet, covered in stains and worn so thin with age it almost broke when he handled it. No money inside. Just photos. He hesitated but placed it in one of the bins, carefully. He had enough distractions.

Free. He’s free. Good behavior. They let him out because he was a model prisoner.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God, baby.

He’s free.

Eddie closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. With a great deal of effort, he pushed away the memory of his mother’s stunned, grief-filled voice.

But there was another voice inside his head. His own.

Don’t go to New York City. Go after Malcolm Swint, instead .

Kill him.

For Daphne.

It would be so easy. All it would take was a thought.

Just one, little, thought.

Eddie shook his head in disgust. No. This was the perfect time to leave San Francisco.

He kept the lamp off. Old habit. He preferred working in the dark, unseen. The city lights were more than enough for going through the motions. He had packed this bag so many times, he could do it in his sleep. It gave his brain time to sort through everything he had been told.

Find the girl.

Air moved across his neck. Eddie turned. Long Nu stood behind him, silent as a ghost. He was too surprised to speak — and then he was too busy keeping himself calm as heat flooded his bones and muscles, rising through his skin. The air warmed around them.

“One more thing,” she said.

Eddie never saw the old woman move. Suddenly he was falling, falling and falling until he hit the mattress so hard he bounced. Golden light flashed, and he heard a rough, rubbing sound, like the belly of an alligator dragging over the floor.

A huge clawed foot settled on the mattress beside his head. Heat washed over his body, but it was not from him.

“Look at me,” Long Nu whispered, her voice deeper now, almost a growl.

Eddie turned his head. It was too dark for details, but he glimpsed scales rippling over the muscles of a long, serpentine throat. . the hard line of a jaw, the shine of a sharp white tooth. Golden eyes shone like fire.

“The Cruor Venator don’t just take the blood of shape-shifters,” she said, each word softly hissed. “Any blood will do. But yours. . your fire. .” A deep rumble filled the air, caged thunder, born in her throat. “Fire is elemental. Only dragons have fire in their blood. You will stir their hunger.”

“I’m no dragon,” Eddie whispered. “I’m human.”

Long Nu leaned away from him, a slow retreat, revealing a massive body that in the darkness resembled a sinuous coil of muscle and claws, and draped leather. Eddie did not look too closely. He began breathing again. His heart pounded so hard he was dizzy — and that was dangerous.

Staying calm kept him cool. Staying calm was the key.

“You’re wrong,” said Long Nu. “What you bury only grows stronger, in time. This is true of what sleeps in blood.”

Eddie swallowed. “Stay out of my head.”

“I can’t,” she said simply. “You hide so much of your heart, even from yourself. Hide too long, and you will forget it’s there.”

He sat up, but had to shield his eyes as golden light flared bright as the sun, blinding him.

When he could see again, he found Long Nu on her knees, human and mostly naked. Her clothes were torn, hanging off her in rags. Eddie averted his eyes and dragged the blanket off his bed. He handed it to her.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly.

Long Nu’s hand touched his fingers as she took the blanket. Her skin was hot — just as hot as his. Even hotter, when she grabbed his wrist with her other hand and held him tight. Smoke rose between them. Eddie set his jaw and met her golden gaze.

“There are so few left of my kind,” whispered Long Nu. “Find the girl.”

“I will,” Eddie promised, and found himself adding, “Whatever it takes.”

Long Nu gave him a mirthless smile, and the smoke between them suddenly became fire. It did not burn him, but the flames flickered up both their arms, like tiny deadly fingers.

“If the Cruor Venator is hunting her,” she said softly, “it might just take everything you have.”

When Jimmy screamed, Lyssa was holding a warm teacup in her gloved right hand and shading watercolors with her left: ungloved, her skin pale and oh-so-human. A mild headache had been brewing all morning. Not enough sleep. Too little sunlight and fresh air. Bad premonitions.

Lyssa jumped when she heard the boy’s voice, jumped right to the edge of her battered folding chair, knocking her knees on the plastic table. Everything slid sideways. Tea sloshed over her wrist, onto the painting — and the brush tumbled from her hand, hitting the concrete floor. Cold sweat broke against her back, followed by a wave of heat that made all the burning candles flare with a massive, crackling hiss.

They found me, thought Lyssa, and all her careful planning went out the window. She sat, paralyzed, even when the boy cried out again. Her body just wouldn’t move.

Until, suddenly, it did.

And she ran.

It was black as a cave outside her nest, which was at the farthest end of the unfinished subway tunnel, at the spot where construction had stopped, many years ago. Nothing there but the old worker’s station she’d moved into, built inside a massive concrete wall. Outside — scattered, shoveled up against the damp walls — was loose rock, unused iron rails, and old electric cables that draped in snakelike piles. In some spots, garbage still remained from the previous resident: plastic cups and rotting clothes, a hollowed-out mattress that was home to rats.

Desolation, in the dark. Her apocalyptic garden.

The cool air was heavy with the scent of rust and cement, and stagnant water; and the ground was uneven beneath Lyssa’s boots: dirt and gravel, and the old train tracks that hadn’t ever been used. She raced over them with sure footing. No flashlight, no lamp burning in her hand. Her eyes were good in the dark.

Lyssa tried to stay calm — to think— but when Jimmy cried out again, his young voice echoing against the cavernous walls, power poured into her muscles, and her entire body prickled with heat. Sight faded into a golden haze. Her teeth sharpened. Lyssa slapped her gloved hand over her mouth, breathing hard through her nose.