Within the Flames

Chapter Four

Lyssa did not make Jimmy go to school, after all.

They took a roundabout path to his home, first on the A train, heading south. But at Forty-second, she yanked the boy off his seat and forced him onto the crowded platform — timing it so the doors almost closed on them.

Lyssa made Jimmy hustle up to the street, where they caught a cab outside the Port Authority. She had never ridden in a cab with him because those were expensive. Even though she had the money, money and the tunnels didn’t mix. She hadn’t wanted him, or his mother, to ask questions.

It didn’t matter so much, now. It was more important to make certain they weren’t followed.

They exited the cab after ten minutes and walked three blocks to another subway station, where they boarded a second train. She didn’t look to see where it was going, but after three stops, she pushed Jimmy off. He didn’t protest until they reached the street, and she hailed another cab.

He had not said a word the entire time. He had barely looked at her. But he settled his clear, unflinching gaze on her face, and his expression was older than his years, and sharp.

“You knew that man,” he said.

“What man?” she asked dully, stepping back onto the sidewalk as a cab slowed.

Jimmy gave her a dirty look. “My mom does the same thing. She sees men that remind her of my dad, and she runs. When I ask her why, she plays dumb.”

Lyssa frowned and opened the cab door. “Okay, fine. He reminded me of someone.”

“He called you Lyssa,” said the boy accusingly. “You told us your name is Liz.”

She stilled and looked at him. “I’m sorry I lied to you. But don’t ever say that name again. I’m Liz to you. If anyone ever asks, I’m Liz.”

No twelve-year-old should have been capable of the look that Jimmy gave her. “He hurt you, so you ran away and changed your name.”

“No. It’s more complicated than that.”

“That’s what Mom always says when I ask why she didn’t leave my dad right away.” Jimmy crawled inside the cab. His voice was muffled as he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Lyssa stared, an unexpected catch in her throat.

It did not take long to reach his home: an old apartment that Jimmy shared with his mom and an elderly woman named Estelle, who worked days in a small store that sold art supplies.

More than six months ago, Estelle had asked Lyssa if she knew anyone nice who might want to share her home. She’d had a scare with her heart and didn’t want to live alone anymore. Rent wouldn’t be much, and the apartment was roomy. Plenty of sunlight. Near the subway. A laundry room in the basement.

Jimmy and his mother moved in two days later. Lyssa asked Estelle not to tell them that she’d paid for their first three months of rent.

Lyssa entered the apartment first. She heard a kitchen faucet dripping, but that was all. No scents that didn’t belong.

“Is Estelle still in Ohio visiting her children?”

“Mmm. We’re safe, right?” Jimmy peered around her, fidgeting with the sleeves of his huge sweatshirt. Nervous, she realized with regret.

Of course he was nervous. She was nervous.

“Of course,” she told him, as gently she could. “Just be careful. Don’t go anywhere until your mom comes home. And don’t come visit me again. Not alone. Promise.”

“Okay.”

“Say the words.”

“I promise.”

“I might not always be there, you know.”

“Okay.”

“It’s dangerous, Jimmy.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry if I scared you today.”

Lyssa hugged the boy. He stiffened, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I worry about you, that’s all.”

“Mmph,” he muttered.

Lyssa started to pull away. Jimmy surprised her by flinging his arms around her waist and hugging her back.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered again. “I’m sorry someone hurt you.”

Her heart broke. “Jimmy.”

“That’s why you live in the tunnel. Because of someone who looks like that man.”

She held silent, unable to tell him the truth.

She lived in the tunnel because of a woman.

The man, however, was a different kind of danger. He was part of a dream, a portent of profound change. . and that was why he frightened her. Because he represented the unknown, and she was a coward. Her life was so carefully structured, made up of habits that cut her days into manageable pieces. Structure made her feel normal. Structure made her less afraid for her life.

But surely there’s nothing to fear from a gargoyle?

Gargoyles were known for their honor, for their moral strength and trustworthiness. No gargoyle would associate with, or practice, magic of dark intent. It simply was not in their natures.

The witches who wanted her dead would never leave a gargoyle alive.

Which meant that if the gargoyle knew the man. . that man whose eyes had filled her dreams. . maybe she had run for no good reason.

No, she told herself. I’m a danger to be around. Especially for a gargoyle.

As for that man. .

Icky whined and pawed at her ankle. The little mutt had never been scared of her, which was more than she could say for most dogs. Lyssa patted his head, then hugged Jimmy again.

“Gotta go,” she told him. “Be good.”

Jimmy followed her to the door, looking like an urchin from some Charles Dickens novel. Lyssa could barely see his eyes beneath his hair.

“Remember what I told you. Be careful.”

He didn’t say anything. When Lyssa reached the end of the hall, she turned around one last time. He stood in the doorway, watching her. Icky peered around his legs.

She tried to smile for him but couldn’t make it last. She’d never been much of a liar. She didn’t want this to be the last time she saw him. She didn’t want to live never knowing how he turned out, if he was okay, if he or his mom needed help.

But she couldn’t let him get hurt because of her.

Outside, she caught another cab, and told the driver to take her to Midtown, near Fortieth and Lexington. It was a twenty-minute ride, and Lyssa spent the entire time thinking about gargoyles and strange young men with familiar eyes.

Today had been fate.

She loved Central Park, but had not intended to walk down Fifty-ninth to the subway. Something had tugged her there, though.

A nagging instinct that felt too much like premonition. She had needed to walk toward the park. When she tried to go a different direction, a sense of profound dread had fallen over her.

Lyssa knew better than to fight her gut. And it had paid off.

Gargoyle.

The memory still thrilled her — despite everything that had followed. A gargoyle in New York City. It was like spotting a dead rock star. Elvis, maybe. Impossible, crazy, and wonderful.

She had seen the illusion first — but the shimmer of light around his body, the otherworldly glow of energy, had made her stop and look deeper. Deeper, to wings. Silver skin. A craggy face and long hair, and a coiled set of horns upon his head.

Lyssa had never seen a gargoyle. Her father had known them, had a friend who was a member of that race. . but had not seen him for many years. She remembered that he always seemed sad about that. Regret in his eyes.

He never discussed any of his old friends in front of her mother. It had taken Lyssa a long time to understand why.

But that doesn’t explain the man with him.

Lyssa pressed her forehead against the cab window, savoring the coolness of the glass. Memories flashed, a mixture of dream and life, life and the young man, running across the road toward her. Staring at her with those eyes.

His voice, whispering in her head.

I would take care of you. I wish I could.

She knew the difference between reality and fantasy. The man’s voice was not her imagination. It was real. A real mind, touching hers for one brief, unexpected — and terrifying — moment.

You’re overreacting. What did you hear? Nothing threatening.

No. His voice, inside her mind, had been wistful and sad, and full of compassion. Perhaps, even, wonderment.

He was talking about me.

She’d felt that, too. His focus on her. That was what had made her look around. Only she’d seen the gargoyle first. And thought, briefly, that it was his voice inside her mind.

But none of that mattered. She had been found.

Ratted out by her only friend.

I’m gone. Now. Tonight.

Right after she did one thing.

The cab let her out in front of Blooming Nails, which made Lyssa think of her mother. She had liked to paint their nails crazy colors, different on each finger: glossy purple and pink, turquoise and red, tossed with glitter.

Like jewels, she would say. Like magic.

“Magic,” Lyssa murmured, rubbing her gloved right hand. No claws, back then. Controlling her shifts had always been troublesome, but at least she’d managed to return fully to her human body.

Starbucks was just a few steps away. Lyssa ducked inside. The place was crowded and hot, and smelled good. Long line, filled with jazzy people her age who were looking down, up, sideways — anywhere, but at each other. No one ever really looked, in the city.

She checked her scarf, but it still covered her throat — just like the other hundred times she’d touched it. Her glove was firmly in place. Loose sleeve hanging well over her wrist. Nothing showing.

Lyssa didn’t buy a drink. Just weaved to the back of the coffee shop, near the bathroom, and snagged a chair from an occupied table — inviting surly looks from two young men dressed in black, surrounded by laptops, stacked paper, and Macbeth, Cliffnotes: Macbeth, and Shakespeare for Dummies.

She gave their books a wary look and thought about grabbing a different chair. “I just need ten minutes to check my mail.”

“You have five,” said the guy on the right, hunching forward to slide his arm across the table — between her and his laptop.

“Don’t talk,” added his friend, tugging his computer closer to him.

“Mmm,” she said, already bent over her worn canvas backpack. She used her right hand to undo the strap, but had to stop when a sharp, stabbing ache flowed from her wrist to her elbow. Her fingers stiffened, paralyzed and hot.

Lyssa gritted her teeth as the muscles in her right arm tightened and contorted, shifting against her will: a fraction, a breath, but enough to make her afraid. She grabbed her shoulder with her left hand, squeezing. Begging her body to listen.

Slowly, it did. Trembling, sweating, Lyssa cast a quick look around. No one was watching her, not even the guys at the table, who were flipping through Macbeth and snarling at the pages. She might as well have been alone in her tunnel, in the dark, for all that people saw her.

Good and bad. Lyssa wished she had a friend here. Someone to lean on who wasn’t a thousand miles away.

She fumbled one-handed to pull free her laptop, and powered it on, connecting to the coffee shop’s free Wifi. She logged on to her Webmail account.

There was a new message from Estefan, as well as one from her editor. Lyssa chose her friend first.

The e-mail said:

When you get this, contact me. I haven’t heard from you in some time, and it’s important we talk. I know you’re obsessed with being on your own, but kid, that can’t fly forever — especially now. So I did something you’re not going to like.

I found you some help.

And it’s coming.

Lyssa leaned back in her chair, staring at those words. Help? What the hell was Estefan thinking? Who could help her? And why would anyone even want to try?

“Shit,” she muttered to herself.

Her right hand ached too much to type with. One-handed, pecking at the keyboard, she replied:

Got your message. Will try calling later. Does your help include a gargoyle? Because I saw one outside Central Park today. Coincidence or not? Need to know.

She almost ignored her editor’s e-mail, but there was no way to know how long she’d be off-line. The man was already prickly about only being able to contact her via the Internet.

Even if her world was going to hell, she still needed work.

In front of her, one of the guys slammed Macbeth on the table. “Unchecked ambition. I say we write the paper on that.”

“Bullshit. We need something better.”

“Better? This is due tomorrow.”

His friend got the middle finger in response.

Lyssa muttered, “Ambition and violence. Focus on that.”

Both men stared at her. One of them might have said, “What?” but she was distracted by her editor’s e-mail. A note about cropping and deadlines, and an inquiry about the possibility of taking on another illustrating job — this time for a friend who worked at a children’s magazine. He wanted some dreamy, surreal image for an upcoming short story. Not a bad gig.

One of the guys rapped his knuckles on the table. Lyssa tore her gaze from the computer screen, annoyed.

“What do you mean, ambition and violence?” he asked.

“Read the play,” she told him, looking back at her e-mail — telling her editor that, yes, she was interested in the job — adding that she’d be on the road for a week, away from her computer. She cc’d her agent.

Lyssa began packing up. The guys bounced in their seats.

“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to help us right now,” said the one on the right, stabbing his finger at her. Like that would seal the deal.

“Ha,” she replied.

“We’re desperate,” added the other. “We’ll love you forever. Just give us something more.”

Grow a pair, she wanted to tell them, and slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Fine. Think about this. Once you decide to use violence to get power, it’s difficult to stop.”

The young men gave her blank looks. She shook her head and left.

A cold wind blew down Lexington, sweeping bits of loose trash against her boots. She walked fast, hat pulled low over her brow. Her right arm was better. When she flexed her fingers, they worked. Not well enough to hold anything, but at least they weren’t cramping. She dug her thumb into her palm, massaging her hand.

Not Boston, she thought, considering where to go next. Philadelphia?

The idea of leaving made her ill. For better or worse, she felt comfortable in New York. Giving that up, just because Estefan had reached out to find her help. .

Help for what? Lyssa thought again. A home I can’t use? Money I don’t need? Estefan knows all that. So why now? Why after all these years would he suddenly become so protective?

Lyssa thought again about the gargoyle — but also the man with him. A shudder raced through her, but not one of disgust. Just warmth. So much heat, in fact, that she stopped walking and looked down at her feet and legs to make sure she was not shedding sparks.

A month ago, she had started dreaming of his eyes. Always, during her nightmares. Her mind, wrapped in fire — screaming, terrified — so very alone — until, like a ghost, she would see someone watching her. A male presence, within the inferno. Just standing there: intense and dangerous, and more real than the flames.

Focusing on him always made the nightmare go away. Usually. Sometimes, she just needed to burn.

Seeing those eyes today, recognizing them — was like being hit by lightning.

Now, though, with some distance, the memory of that moment inspired a different feeling.

Homesickness.

Fear, she understood. But homesickness was inexplicable, and specific: She felt sick for the old days, when she was safe and loved. It hit her hard, with a fresh, raw tenderness that made her want to press her clawed hand over her heart and dig in.

It’s him, she thought, suffering deep unease. He makes me feel this way.

No way Estefan could have known. But if that was help. .

If that’s help, I can’t take it. . no matter how curious I am. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do to help me.

Not while I’m being hunted.

Lyssa saw a bank of pay phones near the intersection at Forty-first, and started digging through her pockets for change. She needed to call Estefan and find out exactly who he had contacted, and why. He had to have a good reason, after all these years of so carefully leaving her alone.

Her skin crawled when she thought of what that reason might be.

She slipped some quarters into the pay phone, careful to use her left hand — claws not being great for picking up small objects — and dialed his home number, which Estefan had made her memorize before she’d left Florida.

When the call went through, however, all she heard was a busy signal.

Lyssa tried three more times, but the call never connected. She tried the café, but the phone rang and rang — and no one picked up.

Unease crept. Lyssa hung up but didn’t move. The heat throbbing through her blood only grew stronger. Pins and needles pricked her thighs and shoulders, between her breasts.

Something’s wrong.

But no, that was stupid. Paranoia. Lyssa always thought something was wrong. A busy signal and an unanswered call was not a big deal. Besides, she never called Estefan. Ever. She didn’t know the first thing about his phone habits.

Don’t leave the city tonight, she told herself, massaging her right arm. Take a couple days to plan. Talk to Estefan first. You don’t want to run blind.

But even as that thought passed through her, the prickling in her skin intensified, accompanied by a crawling sensation on the back of her neck. Like spider legs.

Someone was watching her.

Lyssa turned, and found herself face-to-face with the man.

The man from her dreams.