Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Within the Flames (3 page)
“Jimmy.”
“Rumors started a couple weeks ago,” he said sullenly. “Maybe earlier. I didn’t hear anything until I went with Mom to the church place and helped with the sandwiches. Guys were warning her to be careful. They knew people who knew people who were just gone one day. All girls.”
“Homeless? From the city?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Four, five. More if you count Mandy and Flo.”
“Maybe they’re sitting in jail, some hospital.”
“The guys didn’t think so. They were sober,” Jimmy added, after a thoughtful moment. “One mentioned blood had been found at a Midtown bench, in a station where some girl liked to hang.”
Blood meant nothing. Probably there wasn’t any blood. Just a crazy unfounded rumor getting larger and nuttier by the minute. But hearing that word—“blood”—sent a chill through her anyway.
Lyssa tapped the newspaper clippings, forgetting herself and using her right hand. The claw on her index finger clicked through the leather on the hard surface: a distinctive, cold sound. Her heart lurched a little, but Jimmy was still looking at the watercolors and didn’t seem to notice. The dog, though, twitched.
“These six,” Lyssa said, after clearing her throat. “What about them?”
Jimmy hugged the dog more tightly. “No one knows what happened to them, either.”
It didn’t surprise her that he’d paid enough attention to the news to single out six missing women. Even when the kid was still living in the tunnel, he kept boxes for mept boxe different kinds of crime. He collected robberies, murder, assault, rape, kidnapping—there was even a box for the elusive and indefinable
miscellaneous—
and he was as careful and obsessive as any detective in poring over facts..
Lyssa wasn’t certain his obsession was healthy
or
normal, but she wasn’t in much of a position to judge. If it helped Jimmy feel in control of his life—then fine. Maybe he would grow out of it. Maybe she was looking at the future director of the FBI.
She studied those six faces. Besides the fact that their disappearances remained unsolved, the only thing the women had in common was their relative youth—all were in their thirties, or younger. Two were black, one was Asian, and there was a blonde, a brunette—a lawyer, a college student, an accountant, a homemaker, a cashier at Walmart . . .
No connection. The dates of their disappearances were random. Their locations dissimilar.
Lyssa gave Jimmy a careful look, but he was staring at her painting again.
“Is that fire?” he asked.
“It could be,” she said. “Yes.”
Jimmy pointed to the empty white spot on the drawing block. “What’s supposed to go there?”
Dread filled her. With some reluctance, she said, “Eyes.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because I see eyes in my head,” she said, which was the truth but not the whole truth. “And I can’t get them out of my head.”
Lyssa could see those eyes even now, as though they occupied a permanent spot just to the left of her thoughts: eyes that were dark and masculine, staring into her with incredible intensity.
A
knowingness . . .
leveled at her soul.
Premonition, maybe. Which frightened her. Enough so that she was already considering uprooting her life—again—and running. But that was the problem with premonitions: Running might be the very thing to make them come true.
Lyssa was afraid of what would happen if she ever met the man those eyes belonged to.
Jimmy scrunched up his nose. “Yo s nose. u’re weird.”
She had to smile. “Yeah?”
“Well,” he said, hedging a little.
Lyssa shook her head. “Why
these
women? Why did you bring them to me?”
“No reason,” he said, after a noticeable hesitation. “I told you . . . they’re gone.”
She wished he would tell her what was really on his mind. “And nothing in the papers about homeless girls disappearing?”
“Not yet. Probably won’t be.”
He was right, but it pained her to hear that kind of pessimism in a twelve-year-old. “What does your mom say?”
The dog squirmed, sad eyes watery and huge. Jimmy tucked its knobby head under his chin. “Nothing. I tried talking to her . . . but she got mad. She doesn’t . . . want to be afraid anymore.”
Lyssa said, “You don’t have to be afraid, either, you know.”
Jimmy shot her a cold look, then ducked his head, burying his face against his dog. Lyssa also looked down, embarrassed. Of course he was afraid.
She began folding the newspaper clippings. Both hands at first, then just her left.
Her right hand was suddenly useless—seized with a terrible cramp that made her clawed fingers curl inward against her palm. She breathed hard through her nose, trying to control the pain. It was getting worse, every day. Her body, betraying her in so many little ways.
“Okay,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound too strained. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I’ll be careful. I promise. If I hear anything, I’ll talk to your mom.”
Jimmy shrugged, like he didn’t care—but his eyes, half-hidden beneath his hair, lost some of their sullenness. His shoulders relaxed.
And then a smile touched his mouth. “Do I still have to go to school today?”
“Don’t even,” muttered Lyssa, and bent past him to blow out her candles, one by one. Careful to separate her mind from the silken heat of fire licking at the edges 00"t the eof her thoughts.
Before she put out the final candle, she glanced around her small, dark, nest: with its sleeping bag set on layers of cardboard and swept concrete; and the walls with their scorch marks; and the dirty air that smelled like smoke because of the mattress that had so recently burned beneath her while she slept.
Twenty minutes away, Lyssa had an apartment that she never lived in—and in this same city, an employer, and agent who didn’t know her real name or what she looked like—or that she lived beneath their noses. In all this world, she had only one friend who knew who she was—and
what
she was—and Lyssa hadn’t seen him in several years.
Because it wasn’t safe. Because she wasn’t human, and people had died because of that. Because she might die—or worse—if the wrong people found her.
Whatever it takes, you live
, her father had said.
Whatever you have to do, don’t let them catch you.
Lyssa grabbed her backpack off the concrete floor. “Better turn on your flashlight.”
Jimmy did. She blew out the little flame, and darkness swept in.
T
here were too many people around him.
Even here, out in the open. It was a problem. New York City was too crowded for fire. One blaze, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, would kill.
If the shape-shifter had had any sense—or cared about people at all—she would have gone elsewhere to live.
You went to Los Angeles,
Eddie reminded himself, drinking coffee, watching crowds of people cross the intersection at Columbus Circle.
You ran from home, but you stayed in a city.
Because it felt safer to be anonymous.
Anonymous and lost. Thirteen and terrified. Thirteen and a murderer.
Eddie’s foot began to tap. He stilled it. When he realized that he was rubbing the back of his hand, fingering the old scars, he placed his palm against his thigh and kept it there. His leg felt hot through his jeans.
Eddie closed his pro
You’re so nervous,
teased his sister, in his memories.
Take a chill pill, little bro.
Chill.
Chill out. Chillax.
Stay cold.
Don’t care so much.
It’ll pass.
Eddie didn’t want to remember her voice. He didn’t want to think at all about her.
He didn’t want to think too hard about any part of his life.
Matthew Swint is getting out of prison.
I have to do something.
Like what? Kill him?
Eddie closed his eyes, rubbing his brow with his knuckles. He’d managed to go years without thinking too hard about Daphne’s murderer. Once a day, as opposed to all the time. Maybe some people managed to move on, but it was hard for Eddie.
Every time he created fire, he thought about Matthew Swint.
Every time, he thought about Matthew Swint’s
brother.
Who had died in a blaze so hot the police hadn’t found much except his bones.
I killed the wrong man.
The sun was warm, but the wind was cold. It felt good. Eddie’s skin was hot, and so were his insides. He set down his coffee on the stone step he was sitting on and carefully pulled a battered, charred photograph from his jacket pocket. It was in a plastic Ziploc bag, and bits had broken off in large black flakes.
The photograph had burned long before coming into Eddie’s possession and looked as though it had been salvaged directly from hot ashes. Not much left except a fragment of a face: a girl with golden eyes, only eleven or twelve years old, thick auburn hair roped over her shoulder. She was grinning, pulling a fuzzy purple hat down around her ears. Eddie glimpsed snow behind her.
“Lyssa,” Eddie murmured to himself. “Lyssa Andreanos.”
She looked like a goofy kid. Sweet, and very human. Not a worry in the world. He would have even gone so far as to say that she appeared . . . loved.
He was happy for her. But also envious. Of all his family pictures that had survived, only a couple showed him with a real smile.
“You’ve been on the run for ten years,” he murmured to the girl in the photo, wondering if she could still smile. Hoping she could.
The scant details Long Nu had given him hadn’t painted a clear picture of the girl. Her father had been a dragon shape-shifter. An old friend of Long Nu’s. He and his human wife had died in a fire. Their daughter, Lyssa, had never been found.
Eddie sipped his coffee. It had gone cold. He concentrated, and the paper cup warmed beneath his hand. A little too warm, maybe. When he tried his coffee again, it burned his tongue.
He returned the photo to his pocket and glanced around. Even with the cold breeze, the sun had brought out the crowds. He watched faces, pretending he was thirteen again, living on the street, looking for a mark.
He found three in seconds. Easy targets. Easy cash. New York City was full of people, crammed together, crowded. During those bad years, he would have lived more easily here than in Los Angeles.
Eddie wondered what the girl in the photograph had done to survive.
His gaze roved across the street to the Time Warner Center. The curved sidewalk was crowded. Kids perched on the stone guards, talking and listening to music, while cops sat in the cars parked alongside the cabs—watching the kids, and all the men and women coming and going, past the mall, from the mall, talking on cell phones, or not—gazes on the ground, or stubbornly straight ahead, focused on anything but everyone.
Cabs parked in front of the Time Warner Center. An enormous man got out of one, nearly crawling from the backseat.
His shoulders were broad, his legs long, chest thick with muscle beneath a button-up denim shirt. Like Eddie, he didn’t seem affected by the cold. His dark hair was tousled around his craggy face, and his demeanor, his height—his entire presence—was utterly imposing. Women gave him appreciative looks. Men got out of his way.
If only they realized Lannes isn’t human,
thought Eddie, amused.
Not that anyone could tell. As Lannes crossed the street, Eddie marveled at the strength of the illusion: even up close, the man appeared completely human. No sign of wings. No silver skin. Not a glimpse of horns. The illusion perfectly hid the impossible truth: that the man walking in broad daylight was actually a gargoyle, from a race of wingtherace ofed creatures capable of magic.
And an expert on magic was exactly what Eddie needed.
He walked forward to meet him, extending his hand. Lannes engulfed him in an immense grip that felt different than it looked: Instead of human fingertips, Eddie felt claws scrape his skin—and the carefully restrained strength in that touch was more than human.
“I’m sorry for being late,” Lannes said, glancing at the people around them and lowering his voice. “I had to make certain Lethe was safe with her family.”
“Safe?”
Lannes grimaced. “We’re still not sure we can trust her parents. Lethe hasn’t even told them about
me.
”
“You’re married.”
“They don’t know it. Every time she goes over there, they try to get her back together with an old boyfriend.” His grimace turned into a scowl. “He looks like a Ken doll.”
Eddie ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. “Your illusion wouldn’t fool them?”
Lannes growled. “Stop laughing. And no, even Lethe can sense it, just with the training I’ve given her. Her family would certainly know me for what I am. We can’t take the risk.”
Hearing him say it like that wiped the smile off Eddie’s face. “I didn’t think
all
witches were a threat. When your brother told me that your wife’s family was full of . . . of magic-users . . . I just assumed . . .”
He didn’t finish, watching as a cold, humorless, smile touched Lannes’s mouth. “Lethe’s own grandmother tried to sacrifice her to demons. And Lethe was her favorite grandchild.”
Eddie held silent. Lannes said, “So, you understand.”
“I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I’d known,” he replied quietly.
“We want to help. And Lethe doesn’t think the rest of her family means
her
harm. Her grandmother was an anomaly.”
Eddie raised his brow. Lannes said, “Yeah, I know.”
“Someone should have told me.”
“Why? Your job is to find a girl.”
“And
protect
her. But if learning how to do that puts you or your wife at risk—”
“Stop. You’re not responsible for us.”
“Responsible enough.
You’re
not sure she’s safe with them.”
“I’m biased. I hate witches. I love Lethe. So I compromise. I have to trust her judgment.”
Eddie was not comforted. “Could the
Cruor Venator
be members of her family?”
“I hope not.” Lannes rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Let’s talk in the park. My wings are killing me. I need to loosen the restraints.”
As they walked, Lannes did his best to give other passersby a wide berth. Eddie, trying to avoid a stroller, brushed too close and hit something firm and invisible—about eight inches away from the gargoyle’s body.
“Sorry,” Eddie said.
Lannes grunted, giving him a sidelong look. “It’s why I don’t like cities. I always get touched in a crowd.”
“Your brother doesn’t bind his wings.”
“Which is why
he
only comes out at night and dresses like a crazy person.” Lannes’s mouth twitched. “I use a leather strap. Foot wide, cinched around my wings and chest. Imperfect, but it cuts down how often I bump into people when I walk. I hate it, though. I can’t take a deep breath.”
Eddie studied the illusion but found nothing that would give away the fact that a winged
gargoyle
walked through Columbus Circle, in broad daylight. “Does it ever make you nervous that a trick of light is all that keeps you from being discovered?”
“Used to. Until I realized there were things more frightening than being . . . seen.” Lannes gave him a pointed look. “I hope you’re prepared for the possibility that you’ll face some of those bad things.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
Lannes studied him a heartbeat too long.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Eddie pretended not to care. “I haven’t said it yet, but thank you. It was good of you and Lethe to come down from Maine for this investigation.”
“Witches are hunting a girl,” said Lannes simply.
It was a short walk. The leaves in Central Park had turned golden and red, and a long line of horse-drawn carriages was parked alongside Fifty-ninth. Tourists surrounded them, taking pictures. The drivers stood off to the side, in small groups, smoking cigarettes.
Just past Merchant’s Gate, Lannes and Eddie left the path and cut between the trees to a small grassy clearing still within sight of the Time Warner Center. It felt quiet. Private, even. Dead leaves crunched beneath them. No one else was around.
“Where will you go after this?” Lannes asked.
“We were given a list of places she likes to visit, but there’s a second list that Roland put together, on his own. I have a photo of the girl when she was young. I’ll be showing it around.”
“Needle in a haystack.”
“We’re close. That’s what Roland and the others say.”
“Psychics.” Lannes said the word like some would say,
kids.
He fumbled at a spot above his chest. His fingers shimmered, as though immersed in a heat wave or the watery light of a prism. Eddie watched closely, searching for a break in the illusion.
It never came. He heard the distinctive sound of leather creaking, and the gargoyle’s chest expanded several inches—as though he had been holding his breath. He let out a quiet sigh.
“Better,” he said, and looked at Eddie. “What did my brother tell you about witches?”
Not enough.
His brother, Charlie, was another agent of Dirk & Steele, and lived in San Francisco. Asking about witches had
not
elicited a positive reaction—more like suggestions to run for the hills and never look back.
“A witch imprisoned you and the rest of your family,” he ans" hy,” hwered. “Charlie said he was the only one not turned to stone.”
Lannes closed his eyes. “I thought he was lucky at first. But then the witch began carving up his body. Every night, like a slaughtered hog. We had to watch her eat his flesh. There was nothing we could do to stop her.”
Eddie didn’t speak. Charlie had not told him that part.
Lannes took a breath, then exhaled slowly. “Imagine being imprisoned inside your own skin for years, unable to move or breathe, existing only as a thought. Forced to watch someone you love be tortured, over and over again. And the only way to stop it is to sell your soul.”
Eddie didn’t need to imagine. All he had to do was think of his sister.
I watched.
I was helpless.
I couldn’t move or breathe.
In the end, I sold my soul.
I did something I could never take back.
He remembered, and heat suffused his skin, rolling through him in a slow wave that poured from his head down to his toes. Eddie breathed slow and deep through his nose, trying to maintain control.
Lannes didn’t seem to notice. “The witch who captured us was incredibly powerful. And she loved that power. She wanted more of it. She wanted to
flaunt
it.”
“You’re warning me,” Eddie said in a strained voice. “I get it.”
“You better.” Lannes gave him a flat, empty look. “There’s a tipping point. It’s different for everyone. I don’t know if the witch was born without compassion, but somewhere in her life, she forgot it. She began enjoying the pain she caused. She fed off the agony of others.”
