Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Within the Flames (21 page)
“It’s survival. And not a bad idea.”
“It’s disgusting. She loves him. It’s obvious he loves her. If you kill her child . . .”
“No,” Lannes spat, while Lethe made a furious sound, deep in her throat. “Don’t you
touch
her—”
“—you might as well kill Alice,” finished the old woman. “I won’t let you do that.”
Morgana gave her an icy look. “Are you going to stop all of us? With what? A sharp word?”
Eddie listened, sickened. Were these people actually talking about his friends as though they could be imprisoned and sold? Were they really discussing whether or not to kill their child?
He tested his hands and found he could still move. Fire filled his fingertips, hot, mixed with anger. He was just about to speak, when sharp laughter filled the room.
It was Lyssa.
She stared at Morgana—at all of them—with pure, rock-hard disdain. It took Eddie by surprise because up until then he hadn’t imagined her confronting these witches, not when she’d been so hesitant to come in the first place.
Her scorn, however, was a shocking, beautiful thing.
“Look at all of you,” she said, with withering contempt. “Look at how ridiculous you are. You think a little power means something? You think it gives you the right to control another living being?”
Morgana narrowed her eyes. “Who are
you
?”
Ursula shook her head, looking at the other woman as though she was a fool. “Morgana, be smart. Don’t say another word.”
“Why?” She waved a bony hand at Lyssa. “She’s a little girl. Nothing but a shape-shifter. Give me a
real
challenge.”
“A challenge?” she echoed, too softly. “You will not keep this woman against her will. And you are
not
touching her baby. Over my dead body.”
Everyone but Ursula shifted—sideways and forward, at the same time—though not with quite the same movements. Close enough to be eerie, though.
Morgana unfolded her arms, staring. “I can rip you apart with my mind.”
“Then why do you need
six minds
to hold one gargoyle and your daughter? I can feel the link among you all. Without it, you could never hold either of them.” Lyssa shook her head and stripped off her glove, exposing her right hand. “No. You can’t touch me.”
She walked toward Lethe, and Eddie fell in beside her, silent as her shadow.
She gave him a brief, startled look. He didn’t understand why, and he didn’t care. Everyone in that room was staring at them with the same surprise—though their gazes were equally torn to her hand, with its glinting golden claws and crimson scales.
Morgana stepped in their path. Again, a wash of air rippled and undulated against his skin, but the fire rose from his heart and consumed the cold—swallowing that watery sensation until it was nothing. Lyssa stepped up to his side. Both of them faced the witch.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Move aside.”
Morgana frowned. “No.”
Eddie gritted his teeth and strode toward her, fire sparking off his hands, flames licking his wrists and threading into the air. He never engaged in deliberate displays of power, but his anger was too rich.
And power, it seemed to him, was all these people understood.
Lyssa moved with him, silent and graceful—deadly in her grace. No fire, but heat throbbed off her body, shimmering around them both.
Morgana’s eyes widened, and she slid sideways, almost staggering in her haste to keep him from touching her.
“Impossible,” she murmured, staring at him—and then Lyssa. “You can’t be immune to {be
She said it as if a blob of mud had just started quoting Shakespeare. Eddie was pretty certain he should feel insulted.
Lyssa squeezed his arm as she passed him. “Maybe you’re just that bad at magic.”
Morgana choked.
Lyssa ignored her and stopped in front of Lethe. Eddie protected her back, waiting for someone, anyone, to finally react. No one did. Just that one act of defiance had broken something in them. He could see it in their eyes.
Everyone, that is, except Ursula . . . who gave him an oddly knowing look that was surprisingly kind, and resigned.
“I apologize for what I’m about to do,” Lyssa said to Lethe, then scratched the woman’s hand. Blood welled, coating her claw.
Lyssa placed it in her mouth and licked.
Everyone in that room sucked in their breath, as though punched. It was the kind of sound Eddie heard in theatres, watching horror movies. An uncontrolled reaction of shock and revulsion.
Morgana seemed the most undone, hands pressing down hard on her bony chest, as if she were trying to hold herself together.
“Oh, my God,” whispered the old man. “God save us.”
“Hey,” Lyssa said in a tense voice, and suddenly Lethe fell forward, staggering into Eddie’s arms. He tried not to let his hands touch her, afraid they were still too hot.
“Can you walk?” he said, keenly aware of Lyssa closing her eyes and swaying, her lips stretched in a grimace.
Lethe gave her mother a venomous look. “Absolutely.”
She pushed away from Eddie and ran to Lannes. She hugged him hard, pressing her cheek against his chest—but he remained frozen in place, grimacing with frustration and pain.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered.
Lethe kissed his chest and swung around to face her mother. No words. The betrayal in her eyes was enough—as well as the hate.
Ursula sighed. “Let him go, Morgana. You lost. You lost more than you had to.”
The woman stared at her daughter and swallowed hard as her pale, bony hands trembled. “You can’t be sure the baby will survive. There has never been a human and gargoyle hybrid. And if you
do
carry it to term, what then? What if the birth . . . kills you?”
Lannes sucked in his breath. Tears glittered in Lethe’s eyes.
“Let him go,” she whispered.
“Let him go,” Lyssa said, flexing her claws. “Or I’ll make you.”
Morgana flashed her a hard look, one filled with fear and hate—but Lannes sagged forward with a grunt, reaching for Lethe in that same heartbeat of freedom. The desperate relief on his face hit Eddie in the gut.
After today—after so much violence and pain—it was like a star of hope, shining for one lost moment.
He looked at Lyssa and found her watching them, too. He reached for her left hand. She flinched when he touched her—and then relaxed—giving him soft, grim eyes.
It was as if she was reaching for him with just her gaze—and he felt himself reaching back, with all the cold broken pieces of his heart.
“Alice,” whispered Morgana, but her daughter deliberately turned her back and grabbed her husband’s arm in a white-knuckled grip.
Eddie couldn’t see her face or hear more than the murmur of her voice, but Lannes dipped his head, silver hair falling past his broad shoulders—and his eyes were hard and full of love as he whispered, “Yes.”
He looked past her at Morgana and the rest of the witches.
“If you come after us,” he said quietly, “it will be war.”
Eddie felt a shiver course through the room.
“War,” murmured Morgana, glancing at Lyssa. “I believe you.”
Lyssa did not move a muscle, but the sense of menace that had been growing around her seemed to spark and intensify, until it was as though actual doom was descending: a hard dread that was physical and cold as ice. Eddie felt it, but the {t iify, sensation slid off him like water.
It did not slide off the rest of the room, though. He saw pale faces, hollow eyes, and fear. Fear that was sharp, biting.
“You damn well better believe it,” whispered Lyssa. “You go after any gargoyle, or your daughter—
or
their child—and there will be a storm that comes down on your head that you won’t rise from, ever. Do you understand me?”
Only an idiot wouldn’t understand. Eddie didn’t know if it was Estefan’s murder that made her so angry now, or if she had always been this full of purpose and intensity. What he
was
certain of, though, was that he wanted to bow his head from the odd, dark pleasure that filled him when he listened to her. He squeezed her hand, and though she did not look away from Morgana, her fingers tightened around his. Fire between their palms.
The witch trembled and looked at her daughter. “Don’t do this. Don’t go with that monster.”
“I love him,” Lethe hissed.
“Not him,” she replied. “
Her.
”
Lyssa started laughing again, but it was a strangled sound that put even Eddie on edge. Not with fear, but concern. He remembered how she had tasted her own blood—and the aftermath. Like a drug user coming down from a high.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the consequences of tasting someone
else’s
blood, if there were any. He didn’t understand magic or witches, or how any of this was supposed to work . . . just that his job was to make things right and safe. Somehow.
Almost every witch in that room seemed to shrink from Lyssa’s voice.
“
I’m
the monster?” she asked softly, eyes glowing with golden light. Morgana stepped back, burying her hands against her long skirts. A tremor raced through her.
Ursula stepped toward Lethe and Lannes and made a shooing motion. “Go on, now. Quick.”
Lethe glanced back at the old woman, tears spilling down her cheeks. Lannes barely looked at her. His focus was on Lyssa. Eddie didn’t like what was in his eyes. Too much bad news. Like he’d just disco
vered that you could catch a terminal disease from breathing the air.
“We’re gone.” Lannes wrapped his arms around his wife and gave Eddie a haunted look. “Eddie—”
But he didn’t finish.
Lannes staggered forward, grunting in pain, nearly taking Lethe to the ground as he went down on one knee.
He was big. His body had been blocking the entire doorway. But when he moved, Eddie saw that someone else had been standing behind him.
Betty. Pale, beautiful, and smiling. Seeing her was like being slapped in the face by a nightmare that Eddie had, until that moment, forgotten.
She held a curved obsidian blade in her hand, which was dripping blood from the shallow cut that she’d made across Lannes’s back.
“A gargoyle, a dragon, and a roomful of witches,” she murmured. “What a perfect day.”
I
t was the knife. Lyssa looked at it, and for one precious moment, lost herself to memory. It was night, and she could hear the
drip, drip, drip
of blood on snow, and the rasp of sobs, and her mother’s quiet breathing as she begged, with dignity, for her daughter’s life.
And then the memory died, she blinked, and said, “Kill her. Quick.”
Eddie gave her a startled look, but Lyssa didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t. If Betty got away and told the
Cruor Venator
what she’d found, there would be another bloodbath. Lannes and his wife would never be safe. Neither would the witches, though frankly, Lyssa was a hell of a lot less worried about
them.
She lunged toward Betty, claws out. An entire room separated them. Betty had time to blink, and raise her knife—
—and then Lyssa was on her, claws slashing downward as she aimed a blow at the witch’s perfect, startled face.
Betty moved aside at the last moment, graceful and inhumanly quick. Her empty hand turned into a blur as she tried to punch Lyssa in the gut—but her dragon reflexes saved Lyssa, and she blocked the blow.
Betty lashed out again in a series of precise kicks and hand-strikes. She did not use the blade. No permission. The first cut, and every cut after, would belong to the
Cruor Venator.
)"t, and en-us" height="0em" width="1em" align="justify">
She had training, though. Her fighting style was too polished. Time in a gym or dojo, no doubt at the encouragement of the
Cruor Venator.
Lyssa knew within moments that she was outmatched.
Betty’s fist caught her across the face—the blow hard enough to knock her back. She would have fallen if Eddie hadn’t caught her. His hands were strong and hot as hell, and his gaze was furious.
As he helped her stand, Lyssa caught a glimpse of the rest of the room. Lannes had dragged Lethe away from the door, holding her out of sight behind him. She could smell the stink of his fear—though it was a little less strong than the stink rolling off every other witch in that room, who stared at Betty like she was Satan personified: evil,
more
evil, and
shitting in the pants
evil.
It was just the projection—the infection of fear—but it was as potent as a death ray. Morgana was already sinking to her knees, sweat pouring off her face as she trembled so violently her teeth chattered.
Eddie, though, stepped in front of Lyssa. His hands were on fire.
“You,” he said a deadly soft voice. “Will never touch her again.”
Betty stared at him with total, unaffected calm, her gaze thoughtful, and assessing. “I told her about you. The
Cruor Venator
wants to know what makes you tick. Why you’re not afraid of us.”
Lyssa pushed past him, fire pulsing at her fingertips. “She’ll never find out.”
Betty frowned. “Lizard. Do you even know what she is? What
I
am?”
Prey,
whispered the dragon, coming awake.
And Lyssa whispered, “Dead.”
Betty snarled, raising the obsidian blade. Lyssa stepped forward, ready. There was a sour taste in her mouth, bitter and metallic. A thread of power. The aftereffects of tasting Lethe’s blood.
She wanted more. More blood. More power. More than just a taste. It was like the lightest brush of an ice cube on her tongue after dying of thirst in a desert.
In other words, torture.
And here was Betty, served up on a platter. It w pln oas almost too easy.
It
is
too easy
, she realized.
“Where’s your friend?” Lyssa asked, but Betty had already begun her attack in a frenzied blur of deadly movement. She braced herself, ready to block those blows—
—but they never came. Eddie stepped in front of her, fire still raging around his hands, and rained down one single blow that sent Betty to her knees. He was unbelievably fast—as if he were a shifter himself, or fueled with the same blood magic that infused Betty’s muscles.
The witch hit the floor, stunned, nearly unconscious. Lyssa heard, behind her, a deep release of breath—everyone in the room freed from that infection of paralyzing fear.
Do it,
she told herself.
Right now.
End it.
Betty can’t go free.
But once again, she was too slow.
Lyssa got knocked into Eddie’s side as Lannes stormed past and grabbed Betty off the floor.
His hands were massive around her throat, and she was limp as a rag doll, almost swinging from his grip. Half her face was burned. Her eyes cracked open, and she gave him a slack, half-conscious stare—just before he snapped—and then crushed—her neck.
The sound was loud, crunchy, and final. Lannes dropped Betty and backed away, staring at her body. Pure silence filled the apartment.
“Oh, my God,” someone whispered.
And then Lethe said, “Lannes.”
The gargoyle exhaled and looked at his wife. Gaze terrible, and haunted. He reached out to her with a trembling hand.
She went to him without hesitation. Lyssa released her own breath—realizing that Eddie did the same.
Without a word, Lannes picked Lethe off her feet and carried her over Betty’s dead body—which blocked the doorway. In a heartbeat, they were gone.
Eddie moved close. Fire gone from his hands, though his eyes were filled with the same haunted remorse that she had glimpsed on the gargoyle’s face.
“I was going to kill her,” he whispered, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
“So was I,” Lyssa told him, just as softly—still able to taste the resolve that would have kept her fighting until the bitter end. A tremor raced through her, and she swallowed hard, feeling nauseated. Part of her was disappointed she hadn’t been the one to make the killing blow—but mostly, she was relieved.
Lyssa turned in a slow circle to study the witches behind her. The girls who seemed to be sisters had fled down the hall, and the woman seated beside the old man was helping him to his feet. Both looked pale, shaken. A heart attack, perhaps imminent.
Morgana had gotten off her knees. Ursula seemed surprisingly calm, except for the fine sheen of sweat on her wrinkled face. It was rare to see a witch who was physically old. Which meant Ursula was very,
very
, old, and accepting of it—enough, so that she felt no need to cast an illusion of youth.
Old witches usually also had balls of steel.
“We’ll take care of the body,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Come on.” Eddie touched Lyssa’s hand, something in his voice and movements undeniably shaken. “We should leave.”
But she remained still. Morgana gave her a grim, wary, look. “What now?”
Cutting Betty and tasting her blood would only expose Lyssa to every murder Betty had ever committed. Unlike Lethe’s blood, which was easily read, the
Cruor Venator
’s woman would carry only one message in her veins: death.
And that would tell Lyssa nothing she didn’t already know.
“I need to find out where the
Cruor Venator
is taking her kills,” said Lyssa. “Have you heard anything? Even rumors?”
Morgana pointed. “Maybe you should have asked. As if you don’t already know.”
“Ma’am,” said Eddie. “Go to hell.”
Ursula touched Morgana’s arm. “You and the others should leave this room. Right now.”
For a moment, Lyssa thought there would be an argument. But Morgana took another look at Betty’s corpse—her gaze lingering on the obsidian knife—and she ifea mbacked away, jaw tight, eyes slightly unfocused. The old man and his companion had already left the living room. Morgana turned, and staggered down the hall—leaning heavily on the wall.
Ursula sighed and rubbed her face. “My God. No wonder we are a dying race.”
“Because you’re cruel and stupid?” said Lyssa wearily. “Yes, that’s a problem.”
The old woman gave her a look that made her feel small and slightly ashamed.
Eddie flexed his hands. “I see suitcases lining that wall. You planned on running.”
“Of course. The
Cruor Venator
prefers to kill witches and those with power. It was only a matter of time before we became targets. We would have left already, except Alice . . . Lethe . . . chose today to visit, and it became clear after spending some time with her that she was with child. We could . . . feel it . . . even though she couldn’t.”
Lyssa didn’t want to be here anymore, and she
really
didn’t want to be near a dead body. Especially this one.
“Do you know where the
Cruor Venator
is?” she asked again, in a sharper voice.
“No,” said Ursula. “I have something else to discuss with you.”
“What?”
“Kara. Your mother.”
“M
y last name is Hadrada,” she said. “Is that familiar to you?”
Lyssa shook her head, unable to find her voice. Hearing this woman mention her mother by name had formed a knot in her throat that seeing Betty, fighting Betty, and standing over Betty’s dead body couldn’t come close to touching.
She seemed disappointed. “Ah.”
“How . . .” Lyssa stopped, wetting her lips. “How did you know her?”
“Kara saved my life.” Ursula smiled. “Much too long a story for a time like this. But you have her face. When I saw you . . . I thought at first it was her.”
. "Times (T1)" color="#000000">Again, it was difficult to speak. “She’s dead.”
Ursula’s visible surprise—and regret—did painful things to Lyssa’s heart. No one had ever been sorry her mother was dead. Quite the opposite.
“I’m sorry,” whispered the old woman. “She was . . . a good person. Few understood that, and she was unfairly treated because of it. As you are, I suspect.”
“She understood why.” Lyssa looked deep into her eyes, memorizing them. Some rainy day, when or if anyone ever disparaged her mother’s memory, she would recall this old woman, and her compassion. “So do I.”
“And yet, you haven’t fully embraced . . .” Ursula stopped and looked past her at Eddie. “Never mind. I wanted to know if there’s anything I can do for you.” She looked down at Betty. “You’re here because of the
Cruor Venator
, aren’t you?”
Eddie’s shoulder brushed against hers, hard and warm. “She’s hunting Lyssa.”
“And so you become the hunter,” said Ursula softly, glancing down at Lyssa’s gleaming claws. “A formidable one, I expect.”
She pulled the jacket sleeve over her hand. “Not formidable enough to keep them from killing my friends, and . . . tracking me.”
“Tracking you.” Ursula paled. “Ah.”
Lyssa thought about Estefan and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. That’s how Betty found this place. We should leave, and so should you. Right now. Before anyone else comes.”
“We will,” said the old woman firmly. “But how are they tracking you? It shouldn’t be possible.”
Lyssa was keenly aware of Eddie listening, and was afraid of how much he might hear that would damn her. But the truth had to be told, because she sensed Ursula might be able to help. She had nothing to lose, at this point.
And, Ursula had spoken her mother’s name. She had looked Lyssa in the eyes, without fear. No other witch in that room had been able to do the same.
That had to mean something.
Lyssa swallowed hard, and looked at Eddie. “Can you . . . bring out the . . .”
Skin,
she could not say.
Estefan’s skin.
Compassion filled his eyes. He slid off the backpack and pulled out the paper parcel. When he began to hand it to her, she shook her head and backed away.
Tight-lipped, Eddie unwrapped the brown paper and revealed the leopard hide.
Ursula leaned forward but did not touch.
“A shape-shifter,” she said, after a moment. “And so are you. I understand now. That’s the blood they’re sniffing.”
“I need to break the link. I’m not sure how.”
“If you’re Kara’s daughter, you know how. But I think you know the medicine will be worse than the disease.”
“What does
that
mean?” Eddie asked.
Lyssa finally reached for the parcel. “It means I can’t just grieve like a normal person.”
He hesitated, holding it back. “You know what you’re doing?”
“No.” She tried to smile for him, but the burning had already begun in her throat and eyes. “I don’t want any more knocks on the door, though. Do you?”
Eddie gave Lyssa a sharp look but handed her the parcel. She sat down on the couch, just as his cell phone began ringing. He answered tersely, his gaze never leaving hers. She was dimly aware of him speaking to Lannes, but her focus was mostly on Estefan’s skin.
