Within the Flames (13 page)

Because it wasn’t safe. Fire reacted to the heart.

His heart reacted to her.

Her gaze flicked to his mouth, sending a bolt of hunger from his throat into his gr [t idth=oin. Embarrassing, impossible to control. All he could do was keep his focus on her eyes, but if he looked at her delicate lips, the pale curve of her jaw . . .

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “Why are you trying so hard for a complete stranger?”

A million reasons tumbled through his head. She was a job, it was the right thing to do . . . if only someone had done the same for him all those years ago . . .

But shining through those thoughts was the memory of seeing her across Columbus Circle—that first sight when he hadn’t realized who she was, when
all
she was to him was a faceless, graceful woman—who had sparked a feeling of connection so powerful, so deep inside him, he could barely think about it, let alone try to describe it in words. He had wanted to take care of her, then. A complete stranger.

Now that he was face-to-face with her . . .

I don’t care what Lannes says.
I don’t care.

“I need to do this,” he told her, finding it difficult to say the words. “I don’t think I could . . . live with myself . . . if I didn’t make certain you’re safe.”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Eddie forced his hands to loosen. “I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“Just like you don’t understand the danger you’re in, being near me?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

Lyssa looked away, visibly swallowing.

Eddie let go of the jacket entirely though his fingers ached and felt stiff. “We could be on a plane in two hours.”

Her gaze darted toward him. “I thought you were determined to stay here.”

“Because of you.”

“So if I leave, you’ll forget about the
Cruor Venator
?”

He couldn’t lie to her, not about that. Lyssa waited a heartbeat, then gave him a bitter smile.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied, watching her carefully. “Does that mean
you’re
going after these witches?”

Again, she said nothing. Eddie sighed. “Fine. We go our separate ways. I’ll stumble along until these witches find me, or I find them. And you can do the same.”

“You’re serious,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’re manipulating me. That’s ridiculous.”

“We don’t have time to fight each other.”

She took a deep breath. Both of them, watching the other. Standing so still as the leaves rustled on the trees, and cars drove past. Far away, sirens. Far away, laughter.

But here, between them, it was quiet.

Lyssa’s mouth tightened. “The witches you encountered today are not the
Cruor Venator.
They’re her servants. But if you thought
they
were frightening . . . if just their
presence
was terrifying . . . then keep in mind that whatever you feel around the true
Cruor Venator
will be a hundred times worse.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “Understood.”

“No,” Lyssa said, with a hint of sadness. “You don’t.”

She looked away from him and took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll lose my nerve. Maybe I’ll run again. But if I do leave New York with you . . . there are some things I need to do first. Or else I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

“Again?” he said. “Just how long have you been running from these people?”

“Ten years,” she said, giving him a flat look. “Since the night my parents were murdered.”

T
hey walked toward Washington Square Park. Eddie didn’t know the way, but Lyssa had no trouble navigating the streets. No one paid attention to them. New York University was close, and they could have been just another pair of college kids.

Few words passed between them. Lyssa hadn’t elaborated about her parents and seemed uncomfortable having told him anything at all. Eddie understood her loss, which meant he knew better than to respond with anything more than a simple, “I’m sorry.”

Because he
was
sorry. Sorrier than he could express in words.

Daphne,
he thought, shivering as old memories filled him. Good and bad.

Lyssa glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

No,
he wanted to tell her, but that one little word refused to crawl from his throat. Her problems were big enough without him turning into some emotional victim. Maybe it was old fashioned, but while he could—while he was able—he wanted to be her broad shoulder. Her guy she could depend on. Her wall.

Walls did not hurt. Walls didn’t break.

Lyssa needed to feel safe with him. No matter what.

He focused on all the NYU banners hanging in the distance, and said the next thing that came to mind.

“Did you ever try going to school? All these years?”

Lyssa gave him a lingering look as though she knew he was changing the subject. Eddie’s cheeks warmed, but instead of calling him out—she hunched deeper inside the charred leather jacket.

“No. I was home schooled, and then . . . later . . . I spent a lot of time in libraries. You can learn pretty much anything you need to, that way.”

She sounded wistful. Eddie said, “That’s how I survived. My formal education ended when I was thirteen. I never went back. Sometimes I wish I could have had that experience. High school. College.”

“You still could,” she said. “Maybe not high school . . . but this, college.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Would you?”

Lyssa hesitated. “No. I have what I need. I’ve been . . . educated in my own way.”

“Yeah,” he said, remembering watching other kids with parents and money, and books—being less envious than sorry that he was no [hat he said,t home, where he knew he would be welcome, and needed.

None of which would have made his thirteen-year-old self feel less awful, or frightened.

“After the things I’ve seen,” he told her, “I’m not sure I could sit in a classroom. It might feel like the opposite of learning.”

Lyssa gave him a gentle, wistful smile. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he agreed.

They passed in front of a small café. The door stood partially open. Eddie heard a radio blasting the news and slowed to a stop as a harried voice detailed the explosion off Lexington. A police source had confirmed that investigators were looking for evidence of suicide bombers—a man and woman seen just before the detonation. So far, however, their bodies had
not
been recovered.

“Didn’t anyone see me carrying you away?” he asked, mostly to himself. “Or see me stealing that car, or speaking with Nikola and Betty?”

He didn’t really expect a response, but Lyssa seemed to seriously contemplate those questions.

“Maybe not,” she said. “If the
Cruor Venator
’s women wanted me—and, by extension, you—it would have been in their interest to obscure our presence.”

“Like the illusion that Lannes casts on his body, except over a wider area?”

“Exactly.”

“But how?”

She frowned. “You imagine and will it to be. It’s not quite that simple, but that’s the essence. All you need is the power to back up the desire.”

“But there are limits.”

“That depends.”

Eddie’s cell phone rang. Both of them flinched.

He checked the screen. The call was from his mother. Another kind of dread filled him. A million little nightmares.

When he answered, she didn’t wait for him to say hello.

<
“I know this is a bad time,” she said in a low voice that reminded him so much of his sister. “You’re at work.”

“It’s okay,” he said, as Lyssa looked down at her feet, pretending to give him privacy. “What’s happened?”

She laughed, but it sounded like a sob. “Nothing new. I just needed to make sure you’re okay. Now that . . .
he . . .
is free, I’m afraid . . . I think he might . . .”

“I know.” Eddie bowed his head, staring at the scars on the back of his left hand. “I asked some friends to keep an eye on things. But . . . you be careful, okay? Doors locked. Security system on. Tell Grandma the same.”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry I did this to you, Edward.”

“You didn’t.” Eddie closed his eyes. “I have to go. Call if you need anything. If it’s an emergency, 911 first, then Roland. You have his number.”

“Yes, and yes,” she said, but with a trace of sadness—and perhaps, disappointment—that made him feel terrible. He was an awful son. He’d abandoned his mother after Daphne’s murder, and even if his reasons were good . . . he’d never told her why. She had blamed herself for losing him. Blamed herself for bringing Matthew Swint into their lives.

Deep down, Eddie still blamed her, too.

Hanging up exhausted him. He stared at his phone, heartsore, helpless. What was he doing
here,
with Matthew Swint on the loose?

Lyssa said, quietly, “That was your mother?”

He glanced at her. Embarrassment flickered over her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I know you must have . . . sharp ears.”

“Too sharp, maybe.” Lyssa gave him a hesitant look. “Is she okay?”

“Been better.”

“She sounded scared.”

“There’s a man,” began Eddie, but after that, he didn’t know [dididth="1 what else to say . . . how much to tell her. He wasn’t even certain he
could
talk about Matthew Swint. Or his sister. The wound was too raw.

“There’s a man,” he repeated himself, hoping she would understand.

Lyssa gave him a long, thoughtful look. “That’s the worst kind.”

He swallowed hard and nodded.

Both of them stayed silent for the remainder of the walk. Eddie watched the city: neighborhoods that transformed from one block to another—gritty to chic, to sleek, then back again.

But the people never changed. Everyone walked fast, expressionless, lost in their own worlds. No one looked anyone else in the eye.

He studied them all, and noticed Lyssa doing the same: quick assessing glances that never stopped, never looked down. She was, he thought, completely aware of everything around her. Including him.

Only once did he get an odd feeling. A prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced around but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“So these women have been sent to retrieve you,” he said, uneasy. “Why not the
Cruor Venator
herself?”

“She’ll come eventually.”

“That’s it?”

Lyssa’s silence went as deep as her eyes: reserved and thoughtful. “If you’re looking for logic, don’t. A
Cruor Venator
lives for death, but the slower the death, the better. The same is true when hunting. Prolonging the chase just means more pleasure in the end. Games are part of it.”

“That’s sick.”

“Yes,” she said, and there was no end to the pain he glimpsed in her eyes before she ducked her head, hair falling down around her face and obscuring her gaze.

He had no defense against that. His heart bled for her. But more than that, the mystery of
why
all this seemed so personal, haunted him.

Eddie reached out, very carefully, and grazed his fingertips against her gloved left hand. Lyssa’s own fingers twitched, curling toward his. But just before she touched him, she pulled away and shoved her hand in [ heed the jacket pocket.

He let out his breath, slowly. “Lannes said he . . . sensed something different about you.”

“Did he?” Her voice was strained. “I suppose it made him uncomfortable.”

“His wife is a witch,” he said, watching her flinch. “Or at least . . . she has that potential. Her family lives in this city, and they’re definitely . . .”

“I get it,” Lyssa said. “And since the gargoyle brought it up . . . no, I’m not a witch. Not exactly. I suppose I have . . . that potential, too. But it’s nothing I’m interested in exploring.”

“Why not?”

“Some powers aren’t safe to want.”

“Specifically?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Maybe you don’t ask enough.”

“Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just want to mind my own business and be on my way before anyone gets hurt.”

“Or you get hurt,” he said, unable to stop himself. “It’s more convenient not to feel anything, isn’t it?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Are you talking about yourself or me?”

“Fair enough.” Eddie held up his hands as heat shimmered around his skin. “People are fragile. It’s easier to be alone than worry all the time about hurting someone. But then one day you wake up, and you realize you’ve been alone for—”