Within the Flames (26 page)

Metal rattled. A loud groan filled the air.

Then, light. A flickering flame. Eddie focused on it and sighed.

Lyssa held a candle in her hand. It shed enough light that he could see the stairs beside him.

He joined her at the narrow doorway. She had already taken off his jacket and laid it neatly on the back of a small plastic chair.

“This used to be the workers’ station,” she told him. “Come in.”

It was one small room made of concrete, with a stone floor that had been carefully swept and covered in bright-colored rugs. A plastic table was set against the wall, covered in paper and pens, inks, tin cans full of brushes. Water jugs were on the floor, surrounding a small cooler. In the corner was a sleeping bag.

In his opinion, quite cozy. Surprisingly so. Homey, even.

Except for the scent of smoke, and charred walnd heils.

Eddie walked in, carefully. If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have taken it off. He felt as though he were trespassing, that the ground beneath him was made of glass. He was certain, in his gut, that few people ever came here.

“You’re probably wondering how anyone could live like this.” Lyssa set the candle on the desk and started lighting others. She used matches, he noticed. Not her own power.

He joined her at the table. “No, I would have been happy for something this good, not so long ago.”

Lyssa glanced at him. Eddie said, “I told you I was homeless.”

“Yes,” she said, with particular gentleness.

“I ended up in Los Angeles. It wasn’t an easy place to survive.”

“L.A.,” she said, staring at him with a compassion that made him want to sit down. “I tried living there when I was thirteen. It was a nightmare. I went to Vegas next, but when you’re a kid, alone, there’s nothing for you.”

“Nothing you want to be part of,” he added. “You were younger than me.”

“Twelve, when I . . . when I began. I didn’t know anything.” Lyssa looked down at the table and scattered paintings. “How’d you survive?”

“I stole,” he said, and hated those words, and the memories. “I got odd jobs. I ate from garbage cans. I did everything short of prostituting myself. Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t do that anyway, just not with sex.”

Lyssa didn’t say anything, just ran her fingers over a watercolor filled with flames and an empty white spot. Eddie said, “I’ve never talked about it.”

“How could you? No one would understand.” She finally looked at him. “It’s not just surviving. It’s keeping the secret. It’s keeping other people safe from you.”

“I don’t like to remember.” He took a deep breath, then another, and studied the watercolors and sketches in front of him. There were a lot, and each was extraordinary: castles on clouds, and dragons floating on ponds; and women holding spears, with flowers in their hair.

There was fire, too. Fire, in several paintings, and in one, especially, which Lyssa kept staring at.

“These are beautiful,” he said, which was inadequate, but he thought she might be embarrassed by too much praise.

“Thanks.” Lyssa went to the cooler and flipped it open. Inside was half a loaf of wheat bread, a small bag of apples, and a couple bottles of water. “I’m an illustrator.”

“Really?”

“Surprise,” she said, with a faint smile. “Mostly children’s books, some comic-book covers. I do spreads in magazines, every now and then.”

“I . . .” Eddie stopped, and took a water bottle from her outstretched hand. “How?”

“I taught myself. I told you I hung out in libraries. I spent time around the art books, because I liked the pictures . . . and I had done a lot of drawing before my parents died. My dad was a painter. Most of his work . . . burned in the fire.” Lyssa cleared her throat. “I’d find old newspaper or scraps of scratch paper around the library . . . pencils, pens . . . and then I’d draw. I drew everything. There was a librarian in Salt Lake City . . . Mrs. Shue . . . who paid special attention to me. She gave me a sketchbook, and I used that to make money. I’d tell people I was in high school, raising cash for charity . . . and then I’d draw portraits for whatever people wanted to donate.”

Eddie smiled in admiration. “And then?”

“Luck. I drew a portrait of a woman who ran a local comic-book store, and she liked what I did enough that she had me sketch some superheroes for an event she wanted to advertise. It wasn’t much, but it gave me confidence. And then Mrs. Shue started leaving out books on art school. I knew I couldn’t go, but I started researching how people make a living at that sort of thing. Building a portfolio, making contacts. It helped that my librarian was having some luck selling her own writing. She started making inroads at children’s magazines and recommended me to some editors.”

“You did it.”

Lyssa shrugged. “It was slow. I didn’t have anything better to do. I wasn’t in school, so all my time was spent trying to make a living at the only thing I was really good at.”

She made it sound as though it were nothing, but Eddie knew better. Brains, determination, talent . . . she’d taken all that, and despite everything else against her . . . had turned it into something beautiful.

“I didn’t have aspirations,” he told her, “except to survive. I stole cars. I was good at it, but it at "1em" alwas dangerous. You had to be careful of the territory you worked, the people you worked
for.
Cops almost caught me more times than I can remember. I never felt safe. And then . . . not long after I got out, I heard that the crew I ran with had gotten in some dispute with a local gang. Most ended up dead, or in jail.”

“You seem so straightlaced.”

He looked away. “I was a thief. I could still be a thief if I had to be. I saw so many tourists this morning, and there was a part of me coming up with a plan for how to take each one of them. Pick pocket, or short con. Snatch and grab. I used to tell myself that taking personal property didn’t really matter. As long as I didn’t hurt anyone physically, all that
stuff
could be replaced.”

“But that’s not how it works,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “When I was sixteen, I stole a car . . . and at the shop, we found this box that was full of baby pictures and toys, and . . . things you can’t replace. There was something about the way it had all been put together . . . it made me wonder if maybe it was more than just someone’s cleaning out a closet. As if . . . the baby was dead, or something bad had happened. Just a gut feeling.”

“What happened to the box?” Lyssa tilted her head, lips tugging into a faint smile. “Come on. I know you didn’t throw it out.”

Eddie shrugged, scuffing his foot on the floor. “I found the owner’s insurance card in the glove compartment and put it in the box, along with a note. Then I mailed it to the local police department.”

Lyssa laughed, quietly. “A note?”

He felt embarrassed. “Yes, a note. I included the make and license-plate number of the car, and said it had been stolen and . . . and that I thought the owner might like those pictures back. I wore gloves when I handled everything,” he added, a little defensively.

She held up her hand. “I didn’t doubt it.”

“It made me rethink some things,” he said, then, wanting to change the subject, said, “You’re nowhere. Off the grid. Hasn’t that been a problem finding work?”

Lyssa tore off a piece of bread. “You can have a whole life now with nothing but an Internet connection. I only communicate with my editors and agent via e-mail. We’ve never met even though they all live in this city. I have a laptop, and there’s wireless everywhere. It’s easier than you think.”

“Did you use fake identification to open a bank account?”

“Yes. Dead person’s social security number, too. I also have reserve cash in post office boxes all over the country. Salt Lake City, Boston, Chicago . . . all the big cities where I’ve been. I mailed some to each location, just in case.”

Just in case you have to run,
he thought, noting how she tensed.

“Name a book you illustrated,” he said. “I’ll find it.”

She smiled. “Like you found me?”

“Come on.”

“
The Long Glow,
” she said, ducking her head as though embarrassed. “It’s about a firefly who wants to glow all the time. I wrote that one, actually.”

Eddie stared. “I know that book.”

“No.”

“I do.” He remembered the illustrations: watercolors and inks, flame-rich in reds and oranges. “I bought it last year for a friend’s daughter. But the name—”

“Kara Allan,” she spoke softly. “Kara was my mother’s name. Allan was my father.”

“It’s a good name.”

“They liked books,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

For several minutes they ate in silence. Lyssa found a can of pineapple and some plastic spoons. They passed it back and forth. Eddie began to relax. He understood why she felt safe in this place, so deep underground. Out of sight, out of mind.

When the pineapple was gone, and most of the bread—and a couple apple cores had been tossed into the darkness of the tunnel for the rats to chew on—Lyssa began gathering together her watercolors and drawings, stacking them into a neat pile.

Eddie looked around as she worked. Cans of food lined the wall, and a black garbage bag slouched open near his feet. He saw clothing inside. His gaze slid past to the scorched, blackened walls.

“What precedes an outburst?” he asked.

“Like I said, it happens mostly when I’m asleep. I’m usually having a nightmare.”

“You weren’t asleep today.”

“On the street? No . . . I was angry. When I touched you . . .” Lyssa shook her head. “It hasn’t happened like that in a long time. It wasn’t even a matter of control. The fire was just . . . there. It had to come out. Does that happen to you?”

“Used to. Now I usually have some warning.” Eddie wished he could make this easier for her. “Are you leaving this place for good?”

“I think I have to.”

“Where will you go?”

Lyssa gave him a tired smile. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I don’t think I can run anymore.”

“You want to fight.”

“I want to live,” she said, and sat on the edge of the table. “When did
you
start to live again, Eddie?”

The question made him pause. No one else could have understood, intuitively, that so much of his life had been spent just surviving.

“When I was found by the organization I work for,” he told her. “That was when I felt
safe
enough to live.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t alone.” He found himself rubbing his scars again, and stopped. “I was protected. It’s amazing how something that simple can change someone.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “So you really trust these people.”

Eddie thought about Roland. “Most of the time.”

“Do you think they could help me find the
Cruor Venator
?”

He wanted to tell her no. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I have to confront her.”

“Lyssa—”

She held up her hand. “I want to run away, more than anything. I want to run so badly, I can’t think straight. This is my worst nightmare.”

“So let’s go. I told you, I can have us out of this city in hours.”

“And then what? I live for another ten years on the run, underground, in shit holes where the rats are my only friends?” Lyssa closed her eyes, jaw tight. “Maybe it’s enough to just survive. But I don’t want to die alone, Eddie. I don’t want to die without anyone knowing me, or caring who I am. Or . . . missing me. I want something different than that. But I won’t have it, as long as the
Cruor Venator
wants
me.
”

He thought about what Lannes had told him and let out his breath. “You’re not going to die, Lyssa.”

“We all die,” she replied. “I’d just prefer it to be of natural causes, and in the very,
very,
distant future.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” he shot back. “But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

He half expected her to throw their stairwell conversation right back in his face, but instead she gripped the edge of the table, with smoke beginning to rise from beneath her hands, and said, “You’re going to stick with me twenty-four/seven? You’re going to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder with me? No, I don’t think so. Besides, if you got hurt . . .”

She looked down, and the candle flames around her spat and flared, while a wave of heat slammed from her body into his. “I don’t want you hurt.”

God, you twist me up,
he wanted to tell her . . . maybe right after he explained that looking over his shoulder with her for the rest of his life didn’t sound so bad.

“At least tell me you have a plan,” he said. “It’s crazy to go after the
Cruor Venator
without one.”

“You’re right. It’s crazy.
I’m
crazy. Lannes was right. I should never have let you get as close as . . .” Lyssa stopped, grimacing to herself. “I’ll show you how to get out of here, but then you leave me alone.”