Within the Flames (22 page)

Betty’s body was a surreal exclamation point on the floor, but it was easier to ignore her—or feel nothing at all but relief. Especially while holding part of her friend’s corpse.

Ursula murmured, “If you need blood . . .”

Lyssa gave her a sharp look. Eddie hung up his cell phone, and said, “If she needs blood, she can have mine.”

It was like offering cocaine to a drug addict. He had no idea what that meant to her. She closed her eyes and shook her head. The remnants of Lethe’s blood would have to be enough. Before she could change her mind, she placed her hands on Estefan’s skin and opened her mind.

Images slammed like a hurricane, stealing her breath and squeezing her heart until her world was reduced to nothing but endless suffering—a life teetering on the edge of death.

From this maelstrom rose the memories of two women: one of them tall, lithe, and dressed in crimson; and the other, whose pale face was surrounded by a tumbling mass of glossy black hair. Betty and Nikola.

Both held curved obsidian blades in their hands. Their eyes glittered, and their smiles were white and sharp.

“
I wish you had a child,
” said the black woman, Nikola. “
I’ve never had the blood of a shifter-baby.
It must be sweet.
So . . . succulent.
”

Betty rose from her couch, and glided across the floor. “
Would it taste like spring?
”

In her memories, Estefan trembled. Lyssa trembled with him, lost in his skin, lost in the pounding fear that fell upon him in throbbing waves. A primitive, violent fear, overwhelming, paralyzing—and dehumanizing. No fear could match it. No fear could be as powerful. No one but a
Cruor Venator
and her women could tear a brave heart to pieces with nothing but a look.

Estefan was untied in her memories, but still helpless, wearing his leopard body as he pressed his belly to a concrete floor and groveled. Frightened into paralysis.

Betty and Nikola surrounded him, obsidian knives flashing.

The first cut was shallow, across his side. The second cut deeper, over his heart. Betty sank to her knees, licking his blood off her blade. Nikola did the same, throwing back her head with a shuddering sigh. Lyssa hated them with a terrible fury.

From behind Estefan a familiar, leathery voice whispered, “
I will wear your skin as my own, leopard.
I will hunt your kind and make them live as animals until I am ready for their blood.
I will take their power, and my empire will stretch into the fire when the new world comes.
”

His terror sank like a sick root into his soul. It did not matter that it was out of his control, nothing but an illusion induced by evil. Being forced to endure such a violation of emotion was the same as rape.

Her friend, tortured to death. Estefan, whose only crime had been showing kindness to a lost girl with no home, no family, and a lot of loneliness.

Leave these memories,
whispered the dragon, finally stirring.
Do what you came to do and let it be over.
Find the link
.
Sever it.

Whatever spell the
Cruor Venator
had cast would be linked to Estefan’s skin. Not the physical skin, because otherwise, burning it to ashes would be enough. The spell was linked to the essence, to the spirit and blood.

Shifting magic was a unique magic. All shifters could sense one another if close enough. The
Cruor Venator
would now have the same ability, simply augmented by her own power.

Guide me,
she said to the dragon.
Please.

A wing stretched through her soul, gathering her close.
Here.
Follow.

Lyssa flew through a vast darkness dotted with golden stars.

Each star is a shifter,
whispered the dragon.
There are not many stars, but that could yet change.

How?

Time,
replied the dragon.
And those like your mate, who are their allies.

He is not my mate.

You will have babies with him.

Focus,
she growled, and the dragon laughed with a sibilant hiss, before her voice dropped again to a whisper.

We cannot shield all these shifters from the
Cruor Venator,
but we can hide you.

That wasn’t good enough. No one could be allowed to suffer.

Then you will kill her,
said the dragon, sensing her thought.
And no one will suffer.

Lyssa ignored her, focusing on her own light.
How do I shield myself?

Like this,
it murmured, and spread its wings around her.

Darkness fell down. She fell with it.

And heard, on the other side of those wings, a pounding fist. It had to be the
Cruor Venator.
The witch knew she had lost the link and was trying to find her again.

Fear laced through Lyssa’s heart but lasted only long enough for her anger to consume it.

I want to see her,
she told the dragon, and without a word of argument, warning, or caution, those wings pulled back—and let the
Cruor Venator
in.

Lyssa was ready for her, and attacked.

It was like trying to tangle with the breeze off a garbage dump. The witch’s spirit smelled like it was rotting. Except Lyssa was the wind, too, made of claws and fire, and she wrapped around that unclean spirit with a power born from grief, fury.

The
Cruor Venator
snarled, but before the witch could react, Lyssa bit her soul—and tasted a different kind of blood.

She drank, and a maelstrom blasted through her like dynamite exploding. Images flashed, forests and mountains, men in Nazi uniforms, a strange woman with black eyes and blood on her teeth . . . Lyssa’s mother, except younger, much younger . . .

Lyssa didn’t want to see any more. She tried to wrench herself away, but the
Cruor Venator
held tight with frightening resolve.

Your mother was so very pretty,
whispered the witch, with satisfaction.
As are you, I’m sure.
After all these years, Lyssa . . . what took us so long to find one another?

Go to hell,
she snarled, but her heart was thundering, and hearing that smug voice reminded her too much of that night in the woods, when the witch had murdered her parents. Snow and moonlight flashed, the forest in a blur—

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she heard another voice inside her mind.

This voice was stronger than the
Cruor Venator . . .
and surrounded her in a burst of fire and blazing light that cracked the shell of darkness.

Eddie.

Lyssa,
she heard him think, as the connection bloomed between them. It was just her name, but that was enough.

His voice sounded like home.

Lyssa slammed the
Cruor Venator
, knocking herself free—and the dragon did the rest, tearing the witch away and tossing her beyond the protective circle of its wings.

Silence fell. A soft darkness.

Then the world returned.

She blinked, and suddenly there was a couch beneath her.

She was not alone. Eddie cradled her against his chest. A shimmering cocoon of heat surrounded them, making her feel safe, protected. As if nothing could hurt her while he was close.

Not pain, not loss. Not evil.

Blood dripped down her nose. Eddie pressed his sleeve against her nostrils. Lyssa pushed him away, gently.

“I’m okay,” she lied.

He gave her a haunted look. “You started to convulse.”

“I was fighting the
Cruor Venator,
” she whispered. “I don’t think she can track me anymore.”

“Good. Because we’re leaving this city. We’re gone.”

“No.”

He looked at Betty with her crushed neck and half-staring eyes. “Yes, Lyssa. Right now.”

She fought free of his arms, half-falling off the couch. “I’m finishing this. One way or another. I have to.”

“I won’t let you. I can’t. I don’t know if I can protect you, Lyssa.”

“I never asked you to.”

His gaze darkened, and those strong hands tightened with bruising strength. “Don’t. Not this again.”

“I’m not yoIt. Not thurs,” she snapped. “And you’re hurting me.”

Eddie stiffened.

Lyssa wished instantly she could take back those words. But she couldn’t even speak when he stood up and walked away from her.

Ursula swayed close, bangles chiming. Watching him, then her, with inscrutable eyes. She held the parcel with Estefan’s skin, having wrapped the paper around his remains.

“You dropped this,” she said, as Eddie stood at the darkened window, staring at Central Park. Smoke rose off his back.

Lyssa slipped her glove over her right hand, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Your suitcases are packed. I wouldn’t let that go to waste.”

Ursula handed her the parcel but didn’t let go. “Your mother once told me she was afraid of herself.”

Lyssa stared. The old woman gave her a soft, sad look.

“She said it was always a struggle. But it was a struggle she mastered. Do you understand?” Ursula stepped closer, cupping her cheek with a soft, trembling hand. “You are her daughter. If your face hadn’t convinced me, your actions here today most certainly did.”

Lyssa tilted sideways, light-headed. Eddie turned, saw her swaying, and strode toward her with quick, urgent steps. His scent was dangerous. Angry.

His hand, though, was gentle when it found hers. Lyssa was a little surprised he even wanted to hold her hand, especially when he couldn’t even meet her gaze.

Ursula scrutinized him. “You . . . are another mystery entirely.”

Eddie made no reply, but he didn’t need to. Nothing about him was soft, in that moment—or afraid. The old woman, who was a witch and held a hard power about her, had to look away first.

They had to walk over Betty’s body. Lyssa made a point to stare at the dead woman’s face, memorizing the emptiness of her eyes. Eddie waited beside her, silent. When she chanced a glance at him, he was also studying Betty . . . but with no emotion, just a flat, cold remoteness that transformed him into different man entirely.

The obsidian blade lay on the floor. Lyssa did not touch it. Too much death.

Ursula did not follow them. Out in the hall, Lyssa gave her a last, lingering look. The old woman stood alone, a wrinkled hand held over her heart.

Lyssa was surprised at how reluctant she felt to leave her. If the old woman had known her mother . . .

One day,
she thought.
One day, if I live through this.
Another thing to do, on an already long list. A list she hadn’t realized she was keeping until now.

They did not take the elevator. Eddie waited for her just inside the stairwell. Lyssa’s head began to throb, and so did her right arm, down to the tips of her claws.

“Are you okay?” he asked, but his voice was distant, and he barely looked at her. His distance felt personal—and was at direct odds with everything she thought she knew about him. It bewildered her. It hurt.

“I’m fine,” she said, wondering how it had all gone wrong. And why it felt as though her heart was crumbling to pieces.

Lyssa pushed past Eddie to walk down the stairs. He followed, staying close. Silent, though the waves of wild heat flowing off his body said more than words.

Outside, the evening breeze off Central Park tasted sweet, and she glimpsed a handful of stars. Lyssa stood for a moment, soaking it all in. Their cab was gone. Eddie strode to the street to hail another. His movements were powerful, confident—not at all like the damage in his scent, the fear and anger. Lyssa didn’t realize she was holding her breath until there was some distance between them.

“I don’t want to ask this,” she said, speaking to his back. “But what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it because I don’t want to give up?”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Yes, you are, if you ask me to leave. I’m terrified, Eddie. I’m scared out of my wits. But if I break now . . . if I let myself run . . .”

I’ll never stop,
she wanted to say.
I’ll run forever, until I die.
Like a cornered animal.