Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Within the Flames (30 page)
Nikola tensed. Lyssa said, “Go on. Try and take her life. See the truth for yourself.”
“You’re only a dragon,” she said, but the obsidian blade wavered. “You’re just a shape-shifter. You cannot be her cousin.”
“But if I am?” Lyssa stepped toward her, and Nikola swayed. “You know what that makes me.”
Conflict filled her eyes. “No. We watched you for weeks. You live in a hole. You have nothing. If you possessed that power, you would never deny it. No one would.”
Lyssa barely heard her. Her blood was tingling.
Your mate is close,
whispered the dragon.
He is terrified for you.
She tried to bury her unease.
How do you know what he’s feeling?
How do you not?
The idea of Eddie being here, witness to what she was, what she was capable of becoming, made her insides turn to rubber.
“Is Georgene in that house?” Lyssa asked, proud her voice sounded sharp, strong.
Nikola’s jaw flexed. “Yes. She is waiting for you.”
“How many people are imprisoned?”
No response. Lyssa pulled off her glove, flexing her clawed hand and savoring the pull of the contorted muscles in her arm. The witch’s gaze settled on her hand and stayed there.
Lyssa wished she had Eddie’s skill with fire—to summon a flame and have it burn in her hand—but all she could do was let the woman look, anwomr="#000d imagine.
“That knife doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said softly. “Tell me how many people are there.”
Nikola gave her a hateful look, but there was caution in it, too. “Go and find out for yourself.”
As the tingling in her blood intensified, Lyssa turned on her heel and strode toward the house.
You could not run forever,
whispered the dragon, as pain throbbed down her arm.
You must fly or die, little sister.
Just as she reached the front steps, twin beams of light swung and bounced off the house. Lyssa listened to the low rumble of a car engine—watching as headlights flickered through the trees that lined the winding driveway. The vehicle that appeared was an older Cadillac, built like a tank. Lyssa couldn’t see the driver, but she knew who it was.
Eddie left the engine running as he climbed from the car, keeping his hands in plain sight. No sign of Jimmy.
“Lyssa,” he said, watching the witch.
“Get away,” she told him, heart in her throat, dying a little on the inside even as another part of her thrilled that he was here, with her.
Nikola tightened her grip on the knife. “Hello, puppy.”
Lyssa felt the power in her voice—an attempt to spread her infection of fear. But beneath that was a tremor.
Weakness. Uncertainty. Lyssa thought about the memories she had seen from Estefan’s death—this woman, slashing him with that blade. Torturing him simply because she could.
Eddie gave the witch another lingering glance, full of disdain. It made him seem decades older—those searing eyes in that young, hard face. He didn’t need some magical hoodoo to make someone feel uneasy. Just a look.
He walked right up to Lyssa and she braced herself, cut to the quick by the flash of concern and disappointment in his eyes.
“Of course I ran,” she said to him, before he could say a word. “That’s what I do.”
“You ran in the wrong direction. And you forgot someone.” Eddie took her hand, entwining their fingers. “Why do I get the feeling I’ll be chasIlor=ing you for the rest of my life?”
“You wish.”
“You’re trouble.”
“I won’t change.”
“I’ll just have to run faster to keep up,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “If you dislike me, that’s one thing. But if you’re trying to keep me safe, don’t bother.”
She started to shake her head, but before she could say a word he leaned in and pressed his mouth to her ear. A smoky scent washed over her—real smoke, drifting off his clothes, accompanied by sparks. The tremendous heat that flowed from his body into hers felt like a balm on her soul, stealing the worst of her fear and misgivings, and self-hatred.
“Being safe alone holds no appeal,” he whispered. “We haven’t known each other long . . . but trust me. I’d rather have no chance, with you.”
“You,” she said, but couldn’t speak all those words inside her. Eddie kissed her hand.
“I know,” he said.
Lyssa dragged down a deep breath and looked at Nikola, who was watching them with hollow eyes.
“You have a choice to make,” she told the witch. “Accept the truth that you’ve been lied to and that your friend is dead because of it . . . or continue to serve the lie. This”—and she waved to Eddie and herself—“is no illusion. If Georgene told you that I am merely a shape-shifter, then she did so thinking, perhaps hoping, it would get you killed.”
Nikola swayed. “She would not do that.”
“Then you really don’t know the heart of a
Cruor Venator,
” said Lyssa.
The witch’s gaze darkened, and she glided past them to the house to open the front door.
Lyssa and Eddie shared a quick look, then followed. Hands tightly clasped, fingers knotted. Inseparable. Her heart pounded too hard, and she forced herself to breathe through her nose. Blood scents crowded, though. Too much blood, bitter and rusty, mixed with perfume.
She saw a dark red footprint on the hardwood floor. Red, as in blood.
More than one print. A rusty trail, leading across the foyer to the front door where Nikola stood. Nearby, a bloodstained towel.
“I was busy, earlier this evening,” she said, and slipped off her shoes. Traces of dried blood covered her feet.
Lyssa’s knuckles cracked as her hand curled into a fist. Eddie quivered.
Tracks covered the floor, leading through a home that would have fit nicely in the architectural magazines she sometimes bought for reference and daydreams. Big open rooms, huge windows, dark slabs of stone and wood fitting into the walls and floors, creating a space that felt as much outdoors as in: rustic, rough, rich.
She caught the cool clean scent of freshwater—and clung to it as something better than blood. She heard water, too—a low gurgle that seemed to come from below, and in front of her.
A few more steps revealed an actual creek running through the house, surrounded by artisan-laid rock. In some spots, thick glass sheeting that had been laid on top as a clear floor, but other areas were exposed.
Blood covered the glass, too. Fresh drops. A normal person might not have noticed, but it practically glowed in her vision. It seemed different, somehow, than the blood on Nikola’s feet. Golden, even.
She glanced at the witch, but her gaze was almost immediately drawn back to the blood on the floor.
“What is it?” Eddie asked, also watching Nikola, who studied them with thoughtful, uncertain eyes. The front door stood open. Lyssa wondered, with enough motivation, whether Nikola would walk out into the night and abandon her
Cruor Venator.
“This blood,” she told him. “It’s not human.”
Nikola’s gaze sharpened. “You know that?”
“I know the blood on your feet is human,” she snapped, anger making her throat thick. “But this . . . this right here is not.”
“Whose blood is this?” Eddie demanded.
Nikola was silent a moment. “I don’t know. I
was given a vial and told to scatter it.”
Lyssa wanted to walk away from that blood. She feared it with a cold desperation that made her break into a nauseated sweat.
But when she tried to take that step back . . .
“Lyssa,” Eddie said quietly, and a reckless hopelessness rose inside her.
Still holding his hand, she knelt and swiped her finger over the blood. A quick glance showed Nikola watching her with a deep frown.
“Eddie,” she whispered, hoarse.
“I have you,” he replied, and she licked the blood off her finger.
A blast of heat hit her, and then a sharper sensation, focused behind her eyes. Her psychic connection with Eddie bloomed, allowing her to feel his concern.
Then, in almost the same instant, she felt three dull blows inside her head—like a hammer striking softly, without pain.
On the third strike, a door opened.
And Lyssa found herself in her mother’s memories, breathing her mother’s last breaths.
This was her blood.
T
hree knocks inside his skull. Eddie felt them like knuckles made of thunder as he struggled to watch Nikola through that terrible distraction.
But it was impossible. His vision wavered, cut with threads of crimson light, and inside his head he heard a sinuous voice whisper:
Do not be afraid.
You are in her blood.
You are of us now, forever.
Dragon bound.
And there are things you must see.
Eddie choked, trying to breathe, but the air was sucked out of his lungs with terrifying force. He found himself falling into a terrible darkness. The only thing he could feel was Lyssa’s hand in his, but even that became fluid and hard to hold.
Until, suddenly, the world shifted again—
—and he found himself kneeling in snow, naked and bleeding, staring at a sobbing girl with golden eyes. Her hands and feet were bound, two obsidian blades digging into her throat. Two women, holding her down, laughing and nuzzling her soft hair as she stared at him with eyes that showed a blistered, burning soul.
Lyssa,
he thought, fighting to reach her—but he was bound in place, an iron collar around his throat.
“Let her go,” he said, but it was a woman’s voice that left his mouth, low and quivering with fury. “Let her go. You promised.”
“I lied,” murmured a soft voice. “Blood murders blood. That is how it works. You know this better than anyone.”
“Your mother deserved to die,” Eddie said. “She was a monster.”
“But she was mine.” Pain flashed against his back, making him stiffen with a gasp. In almost the same instant, a hot tongue raced across the wound—and he felt part of himself drift away as though tugged by a string. “Just as you will be mine . . . and your daughter and husband, as well.”
“No,” he said, just as the blade sunk through his back, barely missing his heart.
The pain was beyond words—but not as terrible as seeing Lyssa’s tortured gaze—or hearing her scream for him.
For her mother, he realized, and suddenly he could feel her hand again in his, clutched so tight he barely knew where one began and the other ended. Lyssa’s scream clawed through him, changing in pitch from young girl to woman, and in his mind Eddie squeezed her hand until he thought it would break, pulling with all his strength until a hard, warm presence slammed against him—and fire exploded behind his eyes.
When he could see again, he was back in his own body, crouched on the floor beside Lyssa. Hands clutched, white-knuckled, fingernails drawing blood from one another. His head throbbed, lights dancing in his vision, but when he looked up, he saw Nikola staring with hunger and fear.
I’m on fire,
he realized dimly, noting the flames crawling up his arms as though far away, distant as a star. Lyssa was burning, too, the claws of her right hand flickering with a golden light that licked the air with threads of hungry fire.
Eddie tried to stand, dragging her with him. From the corner of his eye, he sensed Nikola take a step toward them—and without thinking, he set her jacket on fire.
Namely, to where Jimmy’s mother was being held. Though he hoped fervently that the blood wasn’t hers.
Lyssa choked down sobs as they ran. Part of Eddie was still inside that vision, and each time her voice broke inside her throat, some of his heart broke with her. Fire skipped down her body, crossing their joined hands and riding up his arm. Fire shimmered in the air. Fire, in his blood. Rising, rising into an explosion. Not yet, but soon. His control was fraying. No calm. Nothing but thunder in his head and the feeling of a knife stabbing his back.
His life, licked away by a hungry tongue.
No, not his life, he reminded himself. Lyssa’s mother.
“Down,” whispered Lyssa, surprising him. Her tears still flowed, but there was a look in her eyes that was a pure stubbornness, and that eased some of the tightness in his chest that was making it so difficult to breathe.
“Basement?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and gave him a searing look. “You were there in my mind. I could feel you.”
He knew what she was referring to. “Yes.”
She looked away, wiping her running nose. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“My mother was a good person,” she replied, which under different circumstances might have seemed like a random response—but in this case made sense. Especially given what he knew: truths he had figured out for himself, on top of what Lannes had told him.
“She loved you,” he said.
“She gave herself up for me. And my father.” Lyssa shot him a pained look. “I couldn’t save her.”
Eddie knew there was more to it than that, but there was nothing he could say to comfort her. He hadn’t saved his sister. No words or sympathy would ever lessen the pain.
Ahead of them, the blood-sticky tracks led to a massive oak door that stood partially open. Stairs on the Stajustify">other side. Lyssa inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Light leaked from beneath her lids.
“This is it,” she said, trembling. “I need to tell you something. About what I am.”
“No,” he replied, nudging her aside as he peered down the stairs. “You really don’t.”
Empty stairwell. No sounds. Eddie didn’t trust it. This had been a trap from the start, and nothing would change that. On the other hand, he had the feeling that both of them were wanted alive. No one went to this much trouble to play mind games—literal and otherwise—just to put a bullet in someone’s head.
Down the stairs, silently. Breathing controlled, and soft. Lyssa stayed behind him, her back pressed to the wall. No more tears. Nothing but cold, sharp stone in her eyes.
They still held hands: wrapped together, anchored. Heat between their palms. Fire, building in their tangled fingers. Eddie wasn’t certain he could have let go, even had he wanted.
Bloody footprints covered the stairs. A trail that led to a dark hall with a stone floor and rough rock in the walls, lit in intervals by track lights that hung from the ceiling. The air was cool and held a scent that reminded Eddie of caves he had explored with his friends: a vein inside a hill always had its own scent, like air was blood and the earth the flesh.
Lyssa pulled back on his hand. “I hear pain.”
Pain. Eddie studied the hall ahead of them, which curved. “What kind of pain?”
“The cutting kind,” she murmured, and edged ahead of him with her right hand held up, palm out, clawed fingers flexing as though she was feeling the air.
It wasn’t until they were around the curve in the hall that he heard the whimpers.
There was a door in front of him, standing ajar. It was as if seeing it opened his other senses: He could hear pain, he could smell blood. He didn’t want Lyssa anywhere near those things.
Not up to you,
he told himself, beginning to sweat.
She needs to do this.
And he needed to watch her back. No blade was going to touch her. Not while he was breathing. Her mother’s stabbing still made his shoulders tingle, and the idea of anyone doing that to her—
Edd="#ng stillie tugged on Lyssa’s hand and made her look at him. Before she could say anything, he leaned in and kissed her—with all his strength, every ounce of passion he could muster, throwing open his heart.
She leaned into him, her lips soft and hot as she grabbed the front of his sweatshirt. Desperate longing filled his chest—swelling, rising, until it was hard to breathe. He had never felt so lost in another person. He hadn’t thought it could happen to him—not so fast, with such intensity.
Alone, for so long. Alone, with friends. Alone, in a crowd. Alone, in his heart, because some pain couldn’t be shared, much less spoken out loud.
“Remember,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in there, you’re not alone.”
Lyssa loosened her fingers from his sweatshirt. “When you say things like that . . .”
But she stopped, and a hard look flickered in her eyes as she looked at that door at the end of the hall. For a moment, Eddie lost himself in memories not his own, and saw knives pressed to her twelve-year-old throat. A chill raced over him.
He heard a low groan, thick and heavy with pain. Dread prickled, a sickening anticipation. The bloodstains on the floor caught his eye. Nikola’s feet had been red and sticky. Walking through that much blood . . .
Lyssa took a deep breath and strode toward the door. Eddie followed.
A cold rush of power rolled over him just before they reached the end of the hall. Like water, a river, flowing against his skin. Lyssa glanced at him and pushed open the door.
Blood, everywhere. For a moment, it was all he could see. A small circular room, made of stone, and a floor that was crimson and wet, and reeking of death. He saw lumps in the blood-pool. It took several seconds for his mind to register them as bodies.
Horror wasn’t big enough for what he felt in that moment. Some primal, primitive force clawed through him, tearing at his heart, ripping his soul. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn’t work. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. Part of him died, looking at that room.
Something moved, on his right.
It was a leopard.
Again, shock filled him. The cat was huge, sitting on its haunches and grooming its massive, blood-soaked paw. Blood covered its entire coat, crimson streaks obscuring its spots. Its tongue made a tohuge, sitt low rasping sound—though it stopped, once, to stare at him with black eyes.
Lyssa stepped past him, her shoes making squelching sounds.
“How dare you,” she said to the leopard, in a deadly soft voice. “How dare you wear his skin.”
The leopard blinked, and its mouth opened in a panting grin.
Eddie heard another groan, turned—and his heart collapsed.
Jimmy’s mother was slumped against the wall. Head hanging, chest rising and falling. Unconscious, but alive. Seated in blood, though it didn’t seem as if any of it were hers. Hard to tell if that was the truth.
“You’ve grown,” said a rough voice, behind him. “I suppose I imagined you as a child, all these years.”
Eddie turned, and watched as that leopard shifted shape: fur disappearing into flesh, bones lengthening, human features becoming prominent in a feline face.
Lyssa stood beside him, very still, tense, as the leopard became a brown-haired woman: pale and slender, with small breasts and narrow hips, and deep scars across her torso that looked like claw marks.
She seemed very young, hardly eighteen—until he saw her eyes. The pits of her eyes were black as a winter lake, bottomless and cold with death. He was afraid to look too long into that gaze, as if it would consume him—starting with his heart—swallowing his dreams, down to the last drop.
He had managed to push away the crippling fear that Nikola and Betty had tried to infect him with, but Lyssa was right: the
Cruor Venator
was something else entirely.
Her presence felt like a vacuum, sucking away on the edges of his soul—nibbling and tearing, and tugging with sharp teeth all the bits of himself that mattered. He wanted to scratch his skin and twitch. His heart pounded. Cold waves of power rushed over him, tendrils breaking through his immunity.
It made him sick. Fear crept. He wanted to cringe.
Instead, Eddie forced his spine even straighter and met her gaze. This woman, he told himself, was nothing but another Matthew Swint—a monster hiding in a human shell—and he was
not
going to be a coward again.
He was not going to be cowed.
The
Cruor Venator
smiled faintly. “You have balls, young man.”
“Don’t look at him,” Lyssa whispered.
“If I were not too old to breed,” replied the witch, ignoring her, “you would tempt me. I like how you stare into my eyes, as though it is a challenge.”
An imaginary tongue raced across an imaginary wound in Eddie’s back, and he fought down the shudder that crawled up his spine into his throat.
Lyssa stepped in front of him. “You found me. I’m here. I got your messages.”
The
Cruor Venator
rolled her shoulders, dark eyes glittering. “You’re here, but you’re hardly ripe. Or perhaps you’re far more coldhearted than I gave you credit for being.”
Lyssa quivered. “Ripe.”
“You haven’t killed. I can see it in your eyes. You have not yet embraced your blood,” said the
Cruor Venator
, giving her a look filled with curiosity and disdain. “Your mother was never so stupid, but we were from a different age. Death was once a quiet thing, as accepted as water and air. To kill was to survive.”
“I survive,” she whispered.
