WHERE THE HEART LIVES

By Marjorie M. Liu

***

Copyright © 2007 by Marjorie M.
Liu

***

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CONTENTS

Where The
Heart Lives

Within the
Flames, Sample Chapter

The Mortal Bone,
Sample Chapter

WHERE THE
HEART LIVES

By Marjorie M. Liu

When Miss Lindsay finally
departed for the world beyond the wood, it meant that Lucy and Barnabus were
the only people left to care for her house and land, as well as the fine
cemetery she had kept for nearly twenty years outside the little town of Cuzco,
Indiana. It was an important job, not just for Lucy and Barnabus, but for
others, as well, who for years after would come and go, for rest or sanctuary. Bodies
needed homes, after all—whether dead or living.

Lucy was only seventeen, and
had come to the cemetery in the spring, not one month before Miss Lindsay went
away. The girl’s father was a cutter at the limestone quarry. Her brothers
drove the team that hauled the stones to the masons. The men had no use for a
sister, or any reminder of the fairer sex; their mother had run away that
previous summer with a gypsy fortune-teller, though Lucy’s father insisted his
absent wife was off visiting relatives and would return. Eventually.

When word reached the old
cutter that a woman named Miss Lindsay needed a girl to tend house, he made his
daughter pack a bag with lunch, her comb, and one good dress from her mother’s
closet—then set her on the first wagon heading toward Cuzco. No good-byes, no
messages sent ahead. Just chancing on fate that the woman would want his
daughter.

Lucy remembered that wagon
ride. Mr. Wiseman, the driver, had been hauling turnips that day, the bulbous
roots covered beneath a burlap sheet to keep off the light drizzle: a cool
morning, with a sweet breeze. No one on the road except them, and later, one
other: an old man who stood at the side of the dirt track outside Cuzco,
dressed in threadbare brown clothes, with a thin coat and his white hair
slicked down from the rain. Pale eyes. Lost eyes. Staring at the green budding
hills as though the woods were where his heart lived.

In his right hand, he held a
round silver mirror. A discordant sight, flashing and bright; Lucy thought she
heard voices in her head when she saw the reflecting glass: whispers like
birdsong, teasing and sweet.

Mr. Wiseman did not wave at the
man, but Lucy did, out of politeness and concern. She received no response; as
though she were some invisible spirit, or the breeze.

“Is he sick?” Lucy whispered to
Mr. Wiseman.

“Sick and married,” said the
spindly man, in a voice so loud, she winced. He tugged his hat down over his
eyes. “Married, with no idea how to let go of the dead.”

“His wife is gone?” Lucy
thought of her mother.

“Gone, dead. That was Henry
Lindsay you saw. Man’s been like that for almost twenty years. Might as well be
dead himself.”

Which answered almost nothing,
in Lucy’s mind. “What happened to her?”

A sly smile touched Mr.
Wiseman’s mouth, and he glanced sideways. “Don’t know, quite. But she up and
died on their wedding night. I heard he hardly had a chance to touch her.”

“That’s awful,” Lucy said, not much caring for the
look in Mr. Wiseman’s eye, as though there was something funny about the idea. She
did not like, either, the other way he suddenly seemed to look at her; as
though she could be another fine story, for him.

She edged sideways on the wagon
seat. Mr. Wiseman looked away. “People die, Miss Lucy. But it’s a shame it
happened so fast. I even heard said they were going to run away, all fancy. A
honeymoon, like they do out East in the cities.”

Lucy said nothing. She did not
know much about such things. In her experience, there was little to celebrate
about being husband and wife. Just hard times, and loss, and anger. A little
bit of laughter, if you were lucky. But not often.

She twisted around, looking
back. Henry still stood at the bend in the road, his feet lost in deep grass,
soaked and pale and staring at the woods, those smoky green hills rising and
falling like the back of some long fat snake. Her heart ached for him, just a
little, though she did not know why. His loss was a contagious thing.

Honeymoon,
she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not
fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word entered her mind, familiar,
and she murmured, “Lindsay.”

Lindsay. The same name as the
woman she was going to see. Lucy looked inquiringly at Mr. Wiseman.

“His sister,” he replied
shortly, and smiled. “His very pretty sister, even if she’s getting on in
years.” He stopped the wagon and pointed at a narrow dirt path that curled into
the woods. “There. Follow that to her house.”

Lucy hesitated. “Are you
certain?”

“There isn’t a man, woman, or
child in this area who doesn’t know where Miss Lindsay lives.” He reached
behind him, and pulled out a bulging cloth sack. “Here, give this to her. Say
it was from Wilbur.”

Lucy clutched the sack to her
stomach. It felt like turnips. She slid off the wagon, feeling lost, but before
she could say anything, Mr. Wiseman gave her that same sly smile and said,
“Stay on the path, Miss Lucy. Watch for ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” she echoed, alarmed,
but he shook the reins, tipped his hat, and his wagon rattled into motion. No
good-byes. Lucy watched him go, almost ready to shout his name, to ask that he
wait for her. She stayed silent, though, and looked back the way they had come.
Home, to her father and brothers.

Then she turned and stared down
the narrow track leading into the woods. It was afternoon, but with the clouds
and misting drizzle it could have been twilight before her, a forest of night. Birdsong
rattled; again, Lucy thought she heard whispers. Voices airy as the wind.

Ghosts.
Or nothing. Just her imagination. Lucy swallowed hard, and walked into shadow,
the wet gloom: dense and thick and wild.

She thought of her mother as
she walked. Wondered if she had been this frightened of leaving home, or if it
had been too much a relief to unburden herself of husband and children. Then
Lucy thought of the old man, Henry Lindsay, and his lost eyes and lost wife and
lost wedding night, and wondered if it was the same, except worse—worse,
because her mother had chosen to go, worse because her father did not have eyes
like that man, or that sorrow. Just anger. So much bitter anger.

The path curled. Lucy walked
fast, stepping light over rocks and vines. In the undergrowth, she heard
movement: a blue bird broke loose from the canopy, streaking toward the narrow
trail of gray sky; to see it felt like she was watching some desperate escape,
as though the leaves on either side of the track were walls, strong as stone
and insurmountable. She half expected a hand to reach from the trees and snatch
the bird back.

A chill settled between her
shoulders. Lucy heard a whisper, wordless but human. A hush, heart-stopping. She
paused in mid-step and turned. There was no one behind her.

Lucy heard it again, and terror
squeezed her. Ghostly, yes; a voice like the wind, high and cool. She caught
movement out the corner of her eye—cried out, turning—and saw a face peering
from the shadows of the underbrush.

A woman. A woman in the wood,
pale and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers. Lucy stared, trying to make
sense of it—unable to speak or move as she met that terrible gaze, which was
lost and so utterly lonely, Lucy felt her heart squeeze again, but softer, with
a pang.

“Help me,” whispered the woman.
“Please, help me.”

Lucy tried to speak, and
choked. Around her, other voices seemed to seep free of the wood; whispers and
hoarse cries and birds screaming into the cool wet air, a rising wind that
blasted Lucy with a bone-chill to her heart, swelling like her insides were
growing on the hum of the wood, engorged on sound.

She heard a shout—a man—but she
could not turn to see. Her voice felt far away, lost, and the woman cried, “She’s coming.”

Something broke inside Lucy: she
could move again. She tried to run—heard another shout, desperate, and turned
in time to see a brown flailing blur, a streak of silver, a shock of white
hair.

Arms caught Lucy from behind. She
cried out as she was lifted into the air, screaming as the sky and trees spun
into a blur, so sickening she closed her eyes. She heard the woman sobbing, a
man crying a name—Mary, Mary—and
then nothing except a heartbeat beneath her ear, sure and steady as a hammer
falling.

Her heart hurt. Lucy opened her
eyes and found the world changed.

She was no longer caught on the
path in the woods. A meadow surrounded her, small and green and lush with grass
and wild daisies, scattered with heavy oaks; somewhere near, a creek burbled
and goats bleated. Lucy saw a small white house behind a grove of lilac trees,
and beyond that, the rising forest; only gentler, without the dense shadows
that seemed to live and breathe. No women lost in the leaves.

There were arms around her
body, and movement on her left. Lucy struggled, managing to pull away until she
could dance backward, staring.

Two men stood before her, one
young, the other older. The elder man was Henry Lindsay. Lucy remembered his
face. Up close, however, he did not look quite so aged. His body was straight
and hard and lean; he had few wrinkles and his eyes were bright, startling, the
color of gold. His white hair was the only symptom of age, but that seemed a
trivial thing compared with the fire in his gaze, which was so alive, she
thought she must have imagined the man who had stood at the side of the road,
with a face as slack and dead as a corpse.

The young man with him had
quieter eyes, but just as bold. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt that had been
patched with bits and pieces of rags, the stitches neat, made with thick red
thread, a complement to his color: blue eyes, skin brown from the sun, hair
dark and wild like a scarecrow. He glanced at Henry, just before the older man
lurched toward Lucy: a half step, the edge of a full run, stopping before he
reached her as though pulled back by strings. His hands clenched into fists. The
silver mirror jutted from his coat pocket.

“She spoke to you,” said Henry,
his voice deceptively controlled: quiet, easy—frightening, because Lucy could
tell it was a lie. She said nothing, uncertain how to answer him. In her head
she could see the woman in the wood, her pale face and lost eyes: a mirror to
how this man had looked while standing on the road.

Henry said it again, louder: “She
spoke. Tell me what she said.”

Lucy stared, bewildered, and he
rocked toward her with a low cry, hand outstretched. She staggered back,
holding up her arms, but the young man stepped between them and caught Henry
before he could touch her, holding him back with his size and easy strength. Lucy
readied herself to run.

“Stop this,” said a new voice. “Henry.”

Lucy turned. She had to steady
herself—all of this was too much—but she dug her nails into her palm and gazed
at the newcomer: a woman who stood a stone’s throw distant, her mature face a
reflection of Henry Lindsay, who quieted and stilled until the young man let
him go.

Black hair, threaded with
white; golden eyes and an unlined face; a small narrow body dressed in a simple
dark red dress, finely mended. The woman stood barefoot in the grass, hair loose
and wild; proud, confident, utterly at ease. Lucy felt drab as a titmouse
compared to her. In the trees, crows shrieked, raucous and loud.

“Miss Lindsay,” she whispered,
following her intuition. “Ma’am.”

The woman tilted her head. “I
don’t know you.”

“My father heard you were
looking for a girl,” she replied, hoarse.

Henry swayed. Lucy forced
herself to stay strong, to look him in the eye as her father had always said to
do, that eyes were important when dealing with strangers, especially men.

He said, “She spoke to Mary. She
spoke to Mary in the woods.”

“Did she now?” said Miss
Lindsay slowly, her gaze sharpening. She moved close, hips swaying gracefully. “Did
you speak to someone in the woods, child?”

“No,” Lucy said softly. “But
the woman…the woman in the trees spoke to me. And I heard…”

She stopped. Miss Lindsay stood
near, her golden gaze like fire: hot, burning. She reached out and touched
Lucy’s forehead with one finger, just between the eyes, and whispered, “What
did you hear?”

“Voices,” Lucy replied,
compelled by those eyes, that searing touch. “Many voices.”

“Mary,” said Henry, in a broken
voice. “Tell me what she said.”

Lucy looked at him, and finally
could see again the man from the road, lost and dull. She was sorry about that,
and said, gently, “The woman asked me to help her. And then…then she
said…someone was coming.”

She’s
coming, echoed that urgent voice, inside her head. Lucy felt a chill
race through her body. Miss Lindsay flinched, and moved away. She turned her
head until her hair shifted and Lucy could not see her eyes.

“You’ll do,” said the woman
softly. “Yes, if you like, I’ll hire you.”

“If she wants to stay,” said
Henry, also turning away, his voice rough, shoulders bowed. His hand was in his
coat pocket, clutching the mirror. A wedding ring glinted on his finger.

Lucy stared at them, helpless,
unsure what to do. Her gaze finally fell on the one person who had said nothing
at all—the young man, who was calm and steady, who watched her with that same
straightforward regard. Lucy imagined a clear pure tone when she looked at him,
and it was an unexpected comfort.

“I’ll stay,” she found herself
saying—two words that could have been a leap off a cliff for the falling
sensation she felt on uttering them. It was dangerous, something was not right;
there were ghosts in the woods and spirits unseen, and here, here, these people
knew of such things. And she was joining them, would cook and clean for them.

But it was better than going
home.

Lucy imagined a whisper on the
wind. Miss Lindsay briefly closed her eyes, then held out her hand and gave the
girl a long piercing look.

“Come,” she said, in a voice
gentler than her eyes. “I’ll show you the house.”

And that was that.

***

Nothing happened that first
week, except for the fact that afterward, Lucy’s life felt irrevocably changed.
The sensation crept on her slowly, nudged along by little things that she had
never had a chance to experience: reading as a leisure activity, for starters
(Miss Lindsay insisted on it, in the evenings); or being treated as a thinking
person, something more than a girl or daughter or sister or future wife. Something
beyond drudge. An equal, perhaps.

It was a fine house, much
larger than anything Lucy was accustomed to, with a second floor and an actual
parlor and fireplace just for sitting and warming the feet. There were books
shelved against the walls, more than she had ever seen—a library of them, all
around—as well as journals and odd paintings, and stacks of newspapers bound
with string. Most of those were crumbling and yellow; Lucy was careful as she
cleaned around them, gazing as she did upon faded images of President Lincoln,
as well as cramped headlines about the War, some fifty years past.

Lucy had her own room with a
lock on the door, just off the kitchen. Miss Lindsay slept upstairs, as did her
brother, Henry. The young man, Barnabus, kept his bed and belongings in the
work shed off the garden. He was like her—there for odd jobs—although unlike
her, he was treated more like family, though Miss Lindsay explained that he was
not. Or rather, not by blood.

“A child of the forest,” the
woman called him, that first night. “Found in the woods as a boy, living wild
as the coyotes and foxes. Folks brought him here. It was that or the circus,
with those men. So I raised him. Taught him. Oh, he’s a good one, that
Barnabus. Talk to him as you like—he’s as smart as you and I—but don’t expect a
word from his mouth. He can’t speak. Not like us. The forest stole his voice.”

Given what Lucy had
experienced, she thought that might be the literal—if not fantastical—truth. And
it disturbed her greatly. She did not know what to make of it. The forest was
dangerous—she knew that in her heart—and while it went unspoken that she should
not walk near the tree line, ever, the others did so all the time.

No one ever explained the
threat she felt so keenly. She tried asking, but Miss Lindsay always managed to
change the subject—so smoothly, Lucy hardly realized what she was doing until
it was too late and she was off scrubbing a floor or cooking or weeding, and
thinking hard about why she was here, and how Miss Lindsay had managed, yet
again, to deflect a question about a situation that Lucy found dangerous and
frightening and undeniably odd.

She dreamed of the woman at
night, the woman in the wood, and listened to her pleas for help beneath a wail
of wind and whispers, endless and cold and pained. Sometimes she sensed another
voice beneath the other—Mary,
Mary, she would hear Henry cry—and something else, bells and the pound
of hooves, and music playing high and wild like a storm of thunder and fiddle
strikes.

And sometimes in her dream she
would open her eyes and Miss Lindsay would be sitting by her bed, with that
cool hand pressed against her forehead and her golden eyes shining with unearthly
light. And in those moments of fantasy Lucy would think of her mother, and stop
feeling afraid, and slip into softer, gentler, dreams: buttercups and horses,
and afternoons by the river with her feet in the sun-riddled water. Sometimes
Barnabus was there, holding her hand. She liked that, though it scared her too.
In a different way.

There were several surprises
that first week, the biggest one being that Miss Lindsay had a cemetery on her
land, only a short walk away along a narrow wagon track. Her family was buried
there, but mostly other folk—from town, the surrounding areas—anyone who did
not have the money to be planted in one of the church plots near the bigger
towns. Miss Lindsay called it a service to the public, and several times Lucy
saw strangers exit the trail through the forest bearing gifts of cloth and
food. Payment served.

Folks never lingered, though. They
visited the graveyard, then left quick, hardly looking around, as though afraid
of what they would see. Lucy wondered how they managed to make it through the
forest unmolested, and said as much to Henry, whom she found one afternoon in a
rare moment of responsiveness—sitting in the sun, reading a book by someone
with a long, rather familiar, name. Shakes Spear, or something of the kind.

She settled down beside him
with a pile of mending in her lap. Barnabus was nearby, chopping wood. His
shirt was off, draped over a low tree branch.

“The forest has a mind of its
own,” Henry replied, after some deep thought. He gazed at the tree line, and
his eyes began to glaze over, lost. Lucy pricked him—accidentally, of course—with
her needle. He flinched, frowning, but his expression cleared.

“You were saying?” Lucy
prodded.

“A mind, a spirit. This the
forest primeval,” murmured Henry, “darkened by shadows of earth.” He looked at
her. “Longfellow. Do you know him?”

“We never met,” she said, and
then blushed when she realized that was not at all what he meant.

Henry smiled kindly, though,
idly tapping the book in his hands. Lucy, in part to hide her embarrassment—but
mostly because she was suddenly quite motivated to educate herself—pointed and
said, “What are you reading?”

“The Bard.” Henry handed her
the book. “Specifically, Romeo
and Juliet. A great and tragic love story.”

Lucy made a small sound,
savoring the smooth feel of the slender red volume in her hands. “Seems like
tragic is the only kind of love there is.”

Henry tilted his head. “Broken
heart?”

She frowned. “Oh, no. Not me,
sir. Never been in love. Just…I’ve seen things, that’s all.”

“And I suppose you’ve heard of me,” he said with a hint of
darkness in his voice. Lucy felt a moment’s panic, but then she looked at him
and found his eyes thoughtful, distant—but not lost. Not angry.

“I heard something from
someone,” Lucy said slowly. “First time I saw you on the road, coming here.”

“You saw me?” Henry looked
surprised. “Ah. Well.”

“You were…distracted,” Lucy
told him, not wanting him to feel bad. “Staring at the forest.”

A rueful smile touched his
mouth. “That happens.”

Lucy hesitated. “Because of the
woman? Mary?”

She knew it was a mistake the
moment that name left her mouth. Too much said, too fast. Henry’s expression
crumpled, then hardened; shadows gathered beneath his eyes, which seemed to
change color, glittering like amber caught in sunlight. Lucy had to look away,
and found Barnabus watching them with a frown. He put down his ax and began
walking toward them.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said to
Henry. “Please, I’m –”

He cut her off, leaning close. “You
saw her. In the forest. What did she look like?”

Barnabus reached them. He sat
beside Lucy, the corner of his knee brushing her thigh. He was big and warm and
safe, and she was glad for his presence.

“She was beautiful,” Lucy said
simply, and then, softer: “She was your wife.”

“My wife,” echoed Henry,
staring at his hands. “She is still my wife.”

Lucy stared. “I thought…I
thought your wife was dead. What I saw…just a ghost.” The ghost of a woman lost
in the forest; the walking, speaking, dead; an illusion of life. Nothing else
made sense. Even the forest, a forest that had almost captured her—a terrible
dream full of ghosts, spirits.

Barnabus went still. Henry
exhaled very slowly. Lucy felt a whisper of air against her neck, a chill that
went down her spine. Miss Lindsay was behind her. She could feel the woman,
even though she could not see or hear her. Lucy always knew when she was close.

Miss Lindsay said, “Perhaps
you’d like to walk with me,” and Lucy rose on unsteady legs, and joined the
woman as she turned and strode away toward the cemetery.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said.

Miss Lindsay raised a fine,
dark brow. “Curiosity is no crime. And you have a right to know.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m
just the house girl. You didn’t hire me for –”

“Stop.” Miss Lindsay quit
walking and gave her a hard look. “Close your eyes.”

Her demand was unexpected, odd.
Lucy almost refused, but after a moment, Miss Lindsay’s gaze softened and she
said, “Come, I will not hurt you. Just do as I say. Close your eyes.”

So Lucy closed them, and
waited. Miss Lindsay gave her no more instructions, which was curious enough in
itself, though the girl did not break the silence between them. The darkness
inside her mind was suddenly fraught with color, images dancing; not memories,
but something new, unexpected. Like a daydream, only as real as the grass
beneath her feet.

She saw a thunderstorm, night;
felt herself standing in a doorway, staring at the rain. A warm hand touched
her waist.

And then that touch disappeared
and she stood in the forest, within the twilight of the trees, and the woman
was once again in front of her—Mary—hands
outstretched, weeping.

Gone, again, gone. Other
visions flashed—feathers and crows, golden glowing eyes—but it was too quick
and odd to make sense. Except for one: Henry, younger, standing beneath a bough
of flowers, holding hands with the woman from the wood.

Mary. Smiling. Staring into his
eyes like he was where her heart lived.

Then, later: Henry and Mary,
riding away in a buggy. Henry and Mary, kissing. Henry and Mary, in the dark,
his hands shaking against the clasps of her wedding gown, the white of the
cloth glowing beneath the dappled moon. On a blanket, in the forest.

Lucy saw a shadow behind them,
something separate and unnatural, creeping across the forest floor. She tried
to shout a warning, but her throat swelled, breath rattling, and all she could
do was watch in horror as that slither of night spread like poison through the
moonlight, closer and closer—until it nudged Mary’s foot.

And swallowed the rest of her. One
moment in Henry’s arms—in the next, gone. Gone, screaming. Henry, screaming.

Lucy, screaming. Snapping back
into the world. Curled on her side in the thick grass. Arms around her. A large
tanned hand clutched her own and Miss Lindsay crouched close, fingers pressed
against Lucy’s forehead.

“You’re safe,” said the woman,
but that was not it at all. Henry and Mary were not safe. Henry and Mary had
been torn apart and Lucy could not bear to think about it. Not for them, not
for herself—not when she suddenly could remember so clearly the night her own
mother had disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Her choice to go—but with
the same pain left behind.

“Ah,” breathed Miss Lindsay,
and her fingers slid sideways to caress Lucy’s cheek. “Poor child.”

Lucy took a deep breath and
struggled to sit up. The world spun. The arms around her tightened—Barnabus—and she closed her
eyes, slipping back into darkness.

***

She woke in her bed. A candle
burned. Outside, strong winds rattled the house; rain pattered against the roof
and window. Miss Lindsay sat in a chair. Her hands were folded in her lap and
she wore a man’s robe that smelled of cigar smoke.

Lucy tried to speak, found her
voice hoarse, hardly her own. “What happened?”

A sad smile edged Miss
Lindsay’s mouth. “Impatience. I pushed you too fast.”

The girl hesitated. “Was it
real, then? What I saw?”

Only after she spoke did she
realize the foolishness of that statement; Miss Lindsay could not possibly know
what she had seen. But the older woman denied nothing, nor did she look at Lucy
as though her mind was lost.

“Real enough,” she replied
softly, and then, even quieter: “Did you understand what you saw?”

“Some of it. Except at the
end…what took Mary…” Her voice dropped to a whisper as a chill swept deep. “That
was not human.”

“So little is,” murmured Miss
Lindsay, but before Lucy could ask what that meant, she said, “The woman you
saw in the forest the day you came here is my brother’s wife, Mary. She did not
die, as others have said, but was stolen away. Captured, with the woods as her
cage. She cannot leave, and my brother…my brother cannot enter. He cannot see
her. He cannot speak to her. But he knows she is there and so he stays and
watches, for just one glimpse.” Miss Lindsay looked at her hands. “He loves her
so.”

Lucy curled deeper under the
covers, staring. “I don’t understand how any of this could happen. It’s
not…normal.”

“Normal.” Bitterness touched
Miss Lindsay’s smile. “Some would say the same of the moon and stars, or the
wind, or a flight of birds, but all those things are natural and real. We
accept them as such, without question.” She leaned close, candlelight warming
her golden gaze. “You should know, Lucy, that I hired you on false pretenses. Not
merely to cook and clean and stay silent in your room. You live here, my dear,
because you are the first person in twenty years to see my brother’s wife. And that, if one wished to
speak of such things, is not
normal.”

Lucy shook her head against the
pillow. “The driver, Mr. Wiseman, told me about ghosts. That’s all I thought
she was.”

“Ghosts.” Miss Lindsay’s
fingers flexed. “To tease a child about ghosts is simple because of the
cemetery I control. Because of the dead that people bring. Not because of Mary.
Those in town think she’s buried here. And she is, in a way. But the woman you
saw is flesh and blood.”

“How?” Lucy breathed, thinking
of Mary—Mary in the forest, so lost—Mary in the forest twenty years past, so in
love. “Why?”

Miss Lindsay closed her eyes. “Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I will tell you that story.”

“No,” Lucy protested, but the
older woman stood.

“Tomorrow,” she said again, and
blew out the candle. Lucy reached out and caught her hand. Miss Lindsay gently
disengaged herself, swept her fingers over the girl’s brow, and walked from the
room. She closed the door behind her.

Lucy rested in the darkness for
a long time, listening to the old house, the rumbling storm. It occurred to
her, briefly, that she could leave this place and go back to her father and
brothers, but the idea made her heart hurt and she realized with some surprise
that this place, despite its mystery, felt like home. A better home than what
she had left behind. What she had been forced from by her father.

Mother
was forced to leave, in a different way, whispered a tiny voice inside
her mind, but that was too much, and Lucy pushed back her blankets to rise from
bed. She still wore her clothes from that afternoon, but did not bother with
her shoes.

The house was quiet. Lucy
walked silently through the kitchen. She wanted water, but as she reached for
the pump above the sink she noticed a warm glow against the wall in the parlor,
and heard the sound of pages turning. She peered into the room.

Henry and Barnabus sat before
the small fire, reading. Her heart jumped a little at finding them; she was not
quite certain she was ready to face the older man, not after what she had seen
inside her head. And Barnabus…

The young man looked up from
his book. He had not been long from the rain; his hair was damp, as was his
shirt, which strained against his shoulders. She tried to imagine him as a
child, wild in the forest—still wild, maybe—and it was easy, as simple as
looking into his eyes. She felt shy, looking at him. He was handsome,
breathtakingly so.

Barnabus stood and gestured for
her to take his seat. When she did not move, he held out his hand to her, and
she let him take it and guide her. His skin was warm. His touch, gentle. Her
heart beat a little faster.

Henry closed his book. “Are you
better?”

“Yes,” she said, hardly able to
look at him. But she did, and though she found terrible sadness in his eyes,
there was also compassion. Barnabus very quietly settled himself on the floor
beside her chair, the edge of his hand brushing her foot.

Lucy fidgeted, staring at the
fire. Henry said, “You want to ask me something.”

She hesitated. Henry frowned,
laying his book on the floor. “I’m sorry for earlier. I scared you this
afternoon. I didn’t mean to.”

Barnabus sighed. Lucy glanced
down at him. “I’m sorry, too.”

“So? Ask me what you want.” He
smiled gently. “I am here, Lucy.”

You
are with your wife, she thought, and summoned up her courage. “Please…why
was Mary taken?”

Henry paled. Barnabus’s hand
shifted against her foot. A warning, perhaps. Lucy ignored him, refusing to
take her gaze from the older man’s face. She watched his struggle—battled one
of her own, resisting the urge to take back her question—and thought instead of
Mary. Mary in her wedding gown. Mary in the forest, begging for help.

Lucy thought of Miss Lindsay,
too. She was defying the woman; she doubted that would end well. But she needed
to know.

Henry looked at the fire; for a
moment his eyes seemed to glow. “Mary did nothing. It was me. I was…foolish. I
had a temper, and there was a woman who had too much interest in me. I rejected
her, badly. And because she could not hurt me…”

He stopped. Lucy forced herself
to breathe. “Does this woman live in the forest?”

Henry closed his eyes; a bitter
smile touched his mouth. “She is
the forest. She is a witch and its queen.”

“A witch,” Lucy murmured,
thinking of fairy tales and crones, women in black hats with cats in their
laps, cooking children for supper. “How do you stop a witch?”

“You don’t,” Henry said
heavily, and picked up his book, tapping his fingers along its spine. “None of
us are powerful enough.”

“She couldn’t hurt you,” Lucy pointed out, and
Barnabus once again touched her foot—yet another warning.

Henry’s jaw tightened; his eyes
were quite bright. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Just one,” Lucy said softly,
thinking of her mother. “What is it like to be married?”

Barnabus went very still. Henry
glanced at him and said, “It is a sacred art. A union of souls. To be together
is the grandest adventure.”

Lucy shook her head, trying to
picture Henry and Mary as her father and mother, to imagine what that would be
like, to have parents who loved. It was difficult to do, and disheartening. “It
seems like a lot of work.”

Henry studied her. “And?”

“And, nothing,” she said, but
hesitated, still chewing on her memories. “I heard a word once, talking about
such things. Honeymoon,
someone called it. I liked the word, but I still don’t know what it means.”

“It doesn’t mean much by
itself,” Henry replied slowly, with a distant look in his eyes. “It’s a symbol,
I suppose. You’re married, so the both of you run away where no one knows you,
no one can find you, and you make a world that is just your own. For a short
time, your own.” He smiled gently. “A month, the span of the moon. Sweet as
honey. And if you’re lucky, perhaps you turn that honeyed moon into something
longer, a lifetime.”

“But I still don’t see how it
makes a difference,” Lucy said, feeling stubborn. “If you’re married, you’re
together anyhow. Happy or not. You don’t need to be all…sticky about it.”

Barnabus shifted slightly, but
not before she saw his small smile. Heat flooded her face; she felt deeply
embarrassed to have said so much in front of him. She had forgotten herself—was
far too comfortable in his presence—far too at ease with all these people who
were supposed to be her employers. Not her family.

As
if you were ever made so welcome by your own flesh and blood.

Lucy stood. Barnabus caught her
ankle in a loose grip. The contact seared her skin.

“The heart loves,” Henry said
softly, so gentle, it made her chest ache. “Listen to your heart, Lucy. Don’t
be afraid of it.”

“I’m not,” she whispered,
feeling captured, trapped; Barnabus’s hand felt too good. She nudged her foot
and he released her.

“Good night,” she said, not
looking at either man, and fled the parlor for the kitchen. She almost went
straight to her room, but she needed air and flung open the kitchen door that
led into the garden. Wind blasted her, as did rain. She worried about others
feeling the draft and began to close the door behind her. It caught on
something. Barnabus.

Thunder blasted. Barnabus
touched her waist, drawing her back until heat raced down her spine, and her
shoulders rubbed against his hard chest. His hand closed over hers and they
held the door together, blasted by white lightning and tremors of sound.

Barnabus shut the door when the
rain began coming in. Cut off from the storm, the air inside the house felt
closed, uncomfortably warm. No lightning, no candle, no way to see except by
touch and memory.

Barnabus still held her hand. He
guided her across the kitchen until she touched the door of her room, and there
he eased away. Lucy listened to his soft retreat, the creak of the floorboards,
the rustle and whisper of his clothing, the faint hiss of the wind as he left
the house for his bed in the work shed. Her hand tingled with the memory of his
fingers. Her waist still felt the pressure of his palm.

Lucy lay down on her bed and
closed her eyes. She dreamed of a world that was her own, and a sweet moon made
of honey in the sky.

***

Lucy rose early the next
morning. Barnabus was already awake; she could see him in the distance, in the
cemetery, digging a grave. Lucy vaguely recalled Miss Lindsay mentioning a
death in town. She watched him work, and then went about her business, feeding
the chickens and milking the goats. Crows gathered along the eaves of the
house, watching her.

They made a ruckus only once,
and Lucy looked up at the sky just long enough to see a streak of golden light
in the shape of a bird fall behind the work shed. She did not know what to make
of it—again her imagination, perhaps—until she heard a rustle of clothing and
Miss Lindsay walked out from behind the small structure, buttoning the top of
her dress.

She did not appear surprised to
see Lucy, but merely said, “Good morning,” and walked into the house. The girl
stared after her, perplexed. So much was odd about this place. Or perhaps Lucy
was just odd herself. That did not bother her as much as it should. As much as
it would have, not so long ago.

The funeral took place that
afternoon. Few people came, but one of them was Mr. Wiseman, hauling a coffin
in the back of his wagon. Lucy did not feel any great pleasure in seeing him. He
was a very real reminder of the world beyond the wood—a world that felt like a
distant place—and the sight of his face made her stomach twist with dread.

“I see the ghosts didn’t get
you,” he said loudly, with that same sly smile.

“Ghosts are for children,” said
Miss Lindsay, coming up behind his wagon. She stood beside Lucy, and rested her
hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t you have something better to do with your
time, Wilbur, than tease young girls?”

Mr. Wiseman tipped his hat. “Helena,
you’re still as handsome a woman as I’ve ever met. I don’t suppose your brother
would consent to me courting you?”

“I believe my brother would
have very little say in the matter,” replied Miss Lindsay dryly, “nor would
your wife be all that pleased with the arrangement.”

His smile was all teeth. He
tore his gaze from Miss Lindsay and looked at Lucy. “Got a message for you,
girl. Your father’s come down with some kind of sickness. He wants you to come
home straightaway to care for him.”

Lucy stared. “He was fine when
I left.”

“But he’s not now. You’re to
ride with me after I’m done here.”

“No,” she said without
thinking.

Mr. Wiseman’s smile slipped. “Maybe
you didn’t hear me.”

“I heard you.” Lucy drew in a
shaky breath, swept away by such hard emotions that she almost quivered with
tension. “No, I won’t go.”

“He’s your father.”

Desperation rode over guilt. “I’m
doing a job. He wouldn’t give up his place at the quarry for me. I know that. He
told me often enough.”

Mr. Wiseman’s jaw flexed. “You’ll
do as you’re told, girl.”

Miss Lindsay’s hand tightened
on Lucy’s shoulder. “Wilbur. You and I will discuss this later.”

“No time for that,” he snapped,
eyes narrowed. “You been twisting this girl’s mind, making her turn from her
family?”

“I like working here,” Lucy
told him, voice rising. “And my brothers are still at home. They don’t need me.
They don’t even want
me.”

“Go on, now,” Miss Lindsay said
to Mr. Wiseman, drawing Lucy away. “There are people waiting on that body.”

He looked ready to argue, but
it was true—there were mourners dressed all in black standing at the little
cast-iron gate in front of the cemetery, and they were watching Mr. Wiseman
with a question in their eyes. The old man grunted, giving Lucy a baleful
glare.

“You be packed by the time I
get back,” he told her. “Or else I’ll take you as you are.”

Lucy flinched. She saw Barnabus
running toward them, and caught Mr. Wiseman staring at the young man.  Something
passed through his gaze, and he slammed the reins against his horses, jolting
them into motion.

“Coward,” Miss Lindsay
murmured, but Lucy hardly heard her. All she could do was stare at Barnabus. He
looked dangerous, furious—like he was ready to fight, something she had never
imagined of him. He touched the small of her back, his mouth set in a grim line
that only grew deeper, darker, as he gazed past her at the old man’s retreating
wagon.

And then he looked at her, and
in his eyes, a question. Uncertainty.

“If I go, I won’t be back,”
Lucy said, speaking to them both, but looking at Barnabus. “I know it.”

Knew it like the truth. Just as
with those visions of the day previous, she could feel inside her head the
future tumbling away into a dark cold place, and if she went with Mr. Wiseman,
that would be her fate. Something lonely and awful. Like having her wings cut
after a taste of flying.

Miss Lindsay’s eyes flashed
golden, and this time Lucy was certain it was not her imagination. “You want to
stay here? You’re sure of it?”

Lucy nodded, struggling with
her fear. She knew it was terrible—she
was terrible—and her father, her father would think she was just like her mother—but she did not
care. She had to stay. Something would break inside her if she left this tiny
world within the forest—this dangerous forest—this little place with these
strange and wonderful people who made her felt safe and welcome. If her mother
had felt this way, all those years ago, then Lucy could forgive her. She
understood now, what could drive a woman to abandon all. She understood, and if
it was selfish, then so be it. She would be selfish, and happy.

“Barnabus,” said Miss Lindsay
crisply, “take Lucy to the pond at the bottom of the hill. I’ll handle Wilbur. When
he’s gone, I’ll come fetch you both.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said,
suddenly regretting the trouble she was causing the woman. “If you don’t want me -- ”

“No.” Miss Lindsay brushed her
fingers across the girl’s forehead. “You are no trouble to me or this family. This
is your home.”

And with that, she turned and
strode away toward the cemetery, where Mr. Wiseman was helping the mourners
unload the coffin. Barnabus tugged on Lucy’s hand. It took her a moment to
follow; she kept hearing those words, seeing those golden eyes, and felt inside
her a flush that could have been what Henry spoke of, that sense of running
away. The grand adventure. Making a new world from the old. She was not
married, but it felt the same: a union, in its own way.

She and Barnabus crossed the
meadow, chased by crows. They climbed a gentle slope through scattered oaks,
and at the crest of the hill gazed down upon a body of still water, blue from
the sky and filled with lily pads and brown ducks. The forest nudged the
northern edge of the pond, but the sun chased back the shadows and the grass
was tall and green.

A rough dock jutted from the
shore. Barnabus and Lucy sat at the end of it, careful of splinters, and
dangled their feet in the water. After a short time, he reached over and held
her hand.

She liked that, and felt a stab
of fear that she might have to give it up. But then she remembered Miss
Lindsay’s calm strength and said, “They’re good people, aren’t they? Henry and
Miss Lindsay. But they’re not…like other folk. Regular, I mean.” She had been
about to say normal,
but recalled Miss Lindsay’s feelings about that word.

Barnabus nodded, squeezing her
hand. He did not appear at all perturbed by her question or the implication,
but rather, seemed comfortable with the truth: that Henry and Miss Lindsay were different,
inexplicably so, and that it was natural. Like the wind or the moon. She liked
that too.

“How long have you lived here?”
Lucy asked him, jumping slightly as fish nibbled on her toes.

He spread out his fingers. Five,
then two. Seven years.

“And before that? Did you
really live in the forest?”

Barnabus shrugged, gazing past
her at the dense tree line. His mouth moved, but not a sound emerged except the
whistle of his breath. He looked, for a moment, frustrated—and Lucy wondered
what it would be like to have no voice, to have a lifetime bottled up inside
her without words or sound. She reached out, unthinking, and touched his lips
with her fingers. She only meant to tell him it was all right, that he did not
need to explain, but his face was so close and his eyes were so deep and blue,
that she found herself leaning, leaning, until she felt the heat of his breath
and her fingers slipped away, only to be replaced by her mouth.

Lucy had never kissed a boy. His
taste was sweet and hot—toe-curling, a delight. It frightened her, but not
enough to give it up.

It did not last. Lucy heard a
weeping cry, and broke away, staring at the woods. She heard it again, a voice
calling out, and it took her only a moment to find that pale feminine face,
luminous in the rich green shadows of the forest. Lucy leapt to her feet and
ran. She felt Barnabus behind her, but did not look back, afraid if she did the
woman would disappear.

Mary.
A crow shrieked above her head—an animal caw that sounded very human.

She reached the edge of the
forest just as Barnabus caught up with her. She thought she heard Henry
shouting, but Mary was there—right in front of her—and the woman whispered,
“Please, help me.”

Lucy sucked in her breath—fighting
for courage—and jammed her hands through the underbrush toward Mary. Barnabus
grabbed her waist—another set of hands joined his, as well—but it was too late.
Something took hold of her wrists, yanking hard—and the face in front of her
changed. It stopped being Mary, and became instead a shadow, a gasp of night,
like that slithering tendril of nothingness she had witnessed in her vision.

Raw terror bucked through her
body. She tried to pull back, fighting with all her strength. Whispers rose
from the trees—all those voices she had almost forgotten, soaring into her head
like a scream.

Lucy was pulled into the
forest.

***

The first thing she noticed,
when she could see again, was that the world around her seemed quite ordinary. She
was in the forest, yes, but she had been inside forests before, and this was no
different. The shadows were long and the canopy thick, and the twilight that
filled the air was neither gloomy nor particularly menacing. It was simply
dense—with vines of wild rose and new spurting growths of seedlings; poison
ivy, ferns, tiny bowing cedars and those massive trunks of oak that spread fat
like squatting giants all around her. She smelled the earth, something else—like
rain—and the air was still and warm and humid.

Lucy turned in one slow circle,
trying to find the edge of the forest. She was close, she knew she should see
Barnabus or Henry—at least hear voices—but even the birds did not sing, and all
she could see was leaf and branch and shadow.

“Hello?” she called out, thinking
of that creature who had pulled her inside the wood. Fear clutched her throat,
pounding against her heart, but she steadied herself, fought herself, and
regained control. She thought of Mary, too. Trapped here for twenty years. She
wondered if the same would happen to her.

She heard something, and turned
in time to see an immense pale figure part the gloom. A white stag. Tall and
broad, with a deep chest and a long neck that glittered as though sprinkled
with dew. Its hooves had been polished to the sheen of pearls, and its eyes
glowed with a wild raging light. Tiny bells hung from its silver antlers, and
the sounds they made were those same whispered voices Lucy had heard in her
head—now louder, cries and sorrow ringing with every delicate knell.

A woman sat upon the stag. She
was divine: pale and slender, sparkling as though spun with stars and diamonds,
her hair so long it almost swept the ground. A Snow Queen, with a manner that
begged a bow. White furs and silks crisscrossed her high breasts, which were
quite nearly exposed, though covered with faint lines of pale rose, curling
like poems and wings upon the skin below her throat.

She held herself with such
lightness, Lucy imagined she might float to fall, and as the stag stepped near,
Lucy saw that the woman was perched on a fine dainty saddle shaped like a frog.

“Witch” was not the right word
for this woman, Lucy thought. A witch was human. And this…creature…most
definitely was not.

“You are trespassing on the
land of the Sidhe,”
said the woman, her voice strong, ringing. “What say you?”

“I say no,” replied Lucy
awkwardly, fighting for courage. “You brought me here. So I was invited.”

A faint smile touched the
woman’s mouth. “You thought you were saving a heart that belongs to me. So you
are a thief. Much worse, I think.”

Lucy steeled herself. “You’re
talking about Mary. Mary doesn’t belong to you.”

The stag shook its head and the
bells wept. Lucy thought she heard Mary’s voice within those tones. She closed
her eyes for just a moment, searching. Listening hard, but when she looked
again at the woman, she was gone from the stag.

A cold hand caressed the back
of Lucy’s neck, and she flinched, whirling. The woman stood before her,
impossibly tall. Her eyes were as green as a spring leaf in morning sun: crisp,
sharp, ageless. She peered at Lucy like she was a snowy owl, and the girl a
mouse, and there was a hunger there that was implacable and terrifying.

“All that enter the forest
belong to me,” said the woman softly. “And now you, as well.”

“No,” Lucy said. “I want to go
home.”

“Home.” The woman smiled. “This
is home.”

“There are people waiting for
me. For Mary, too.”

“Mary,” she said quietly. “Mary
betrayed my trust. She tried to fetch help. You. Quite shocking that you were
able to see and hear her. I find that fascinating.”

Lucy did not. “Let us go. Please.”

“For what reason?” The witch
smiled, tilting her head. “Shall I tell you a riddle and have you guess the
answer? Or perhaps have you perform three impossible tasks, each more harrowing
than the other. Oh, better still, tell me stories to keep me amused. Be my
fool, my jester of the wood, and perhaps
in a year or twenty I will release you.”

Lucy doubted that. So she said
nothing, instead waiting, watching, refusing to let herself feel a moment lost.
The woman’s smile faltered, just slightly, and that momentary weakness
humanized her presence in ways that made her seem less regal than ridiculous—as
though her shocking appearance was nothing but an attempt to impress, awe, and
intimidate.

Lucy suddenly felt stronger. “I
won’t beg you. I won’t be a fool.”

“You already are,” said the
woman darkly. “You are nothing.”

“No more than you,” Lucy
replied recklessly, following her intuition. Perhaps too well: a cold hand
grabbed her chin with crushing strength, yanking up until she stood on her
toes, forced to look the woman in the eyes.

“You love,” she whispered
harshly. “I can smell it on you. Should we test that love? Do you truly think
the one your heart cares for would wait? That handsome young man who used to be
mine?”

“Barnabus,” Lucy said, hoarse.

“Barnabus,”
she hissed. “I raised him long before that old crow sank her claws into his
heart. He was mine. My
son, in every way but
one. But that one…he
remembered.”

“He did not love you.” Lucy
could feel it, see it: a little boy with blue eyes running naked and wild,
engaging with the woman, but never with emotion. Never with affection, or a
smile.

The woman glanced away, and
then, softly, almost to herself: “He would never call me mother. He refused. And
so I punished him.”

“You took his voice.”

“I could not have him calling
another by the name he refused me.”

“So if someone refuses you, you
hurt them? What good does that do?”

The woman gave her a sharp
look. “Respect must be shown. I am a queen.”

“You are a queen who is alone,”
Lucy said, and the woman released her so quickly, she staggered, rubbing her
aching chin.

The woman—the queen, the Sidhe, whatever that might
be—watched her with cool steady eyes, a gaze Lucy now knew Barnabus copied
well. She met those ageless eyes, letting her thoughts roam, picking up as she
did tendrils of some alternate vision: the woman in her finery, wandering the
endless expanse of forest, alone. So very alone.

“You wanted Henry to love you
as a man loves a woman,” Lucy whispered. “You wanted Barnabus to love you as a
mother. And there have been others, haven’t there? People who caught your eye. You
brought them here, and then you hurt them because you couldn't understand why
they didn’t return what you feel.”

“Love,” whispered the woman. “It
is a myth that belongs only to humans, and those who pretend to be like them. It
cannot last.”

“I used to think that,” Lucy
told her. “Until I met Henry, and I saw how he loves.”

“Henry will give up his wife.”

“Henry will love her forever.”

The woman smiled coldly. “Forever
does not exist for mortal love.”

“It doesn’t exist for
immortals, either,” Lucy said, still listening to that little voice inside her
head. “Or maybe that’s just you.”

The woman sucked in her breath;
the stag backed away, eyes keen on its mistress. Lucy did not retreat. She took
a step, overcome, as though she could hear her soul humming, as though the
world was in her veins, alive and strong. Her heart, full to burst—and she
thought of Barnabus, Henry, Miss Lindsay. People who cared for her. People she cared for, in ways she
had not known possible.

She loved them. She loved. And she knew what
that was now, even if it was never returned. Even if one day, it all fell away.

The woman flinched, staring at
her. She began to speak, then stopped. Light burned in her eyes, but Lucy did
not falter, nor did her heart dim. The woman turned, and in a muffled voice
said, “Go. Leave.  You have your freedom. I give you my word.”

Lucy blinked, startled. “And
Mary.”

The woman stiffened, her back
still turned. “I have blessed Henry with a gift. I would have returned Mary
sooner, but she stopped loving him as she should. She is not worth his heart. He
will be hurt, he will be broken. He has loved an ideal for all these years.”

“Because of you,” Lucy said,
and then, softer: “Henry loved the woman before the ideal. Let him find his own
way.”

The woman’s light dimmed, her
radiance faltering beneath the gloom. Lucy, in a moment of pity, said, “You
could leave this place if you’re so lonely.”

That flawless head turned just
a fraction, enough to see the corner of an eye, the curve of a high cheek.

“We all have our homes,” she
said quietly. “The ability to choose yours is not a gift to take for granted.”

The woman plucked a silver bell
from the stag’s antlers and tossed it at Lucy’s feet. A heartbeat later she was
perched high on the fine saddle, her composure fixed and utterly regal.

“Give my regards to Barnabus,”
she said coldly. “The crows, as well.”

And then she was gone. Vanished
into the forest twilight.

Lucy picked up the bell and
shook it. Mary’s voice echoed, like an eerie chime. She held it tight after
that, steady in her hand—scared somehow of hurting the woman, no matter how odd
it was to think of a woman as a bell—and chose a direction to walk in. Voices
whispered all around her, and what filled her ears and head tasted like music,
a delightful mix of laughter and argument, lilting into a bustle that burst and
billowed like bubbles, or birdsong. The queen—the woman—alone. Or not. There
were things living in this place, in this entire world, that Lucy imagined she
would never understand.

Twisting trees grew before her,
and after a moment it seemed a path appeared, grass rimming its edges. Ahead,
light. Lucy ran.

She pushed out of the forest
into a sunlight that felt like holy fire, bright and hot and clean. She was not
beside the pond any longer, but on the meadow across from the old house. She
saw Barnabus in the distance, with an ax in his hands. Miss Lindsay and Henry
were with him. Above her head, in the branches of the trees, crows began to
shout. And, after a moment, so did Henry.

The bell in her hand rattled. Lucy
released the silver charm, unable to hold it. She instantly felt light-headed
–closed her eyes to keep her balance—and when she opened them, there was a
woman on the ground.

Mary. Still in her wedding
dress. Looking not one day older.

Again, Henry shouted. Lucy was
not able to see the reunion. She staggered, eyes closing. Inside her head,
voices, bells, a woman whispering. The dizziness was too much; her muscles
melted.

She fell down and did not get
up.

***

Lucy dreamed. Of women and men
who turned into crows, and other creatures with burning gold in their eyes; of
beings who grew tails like fish, and dragons that breathed fire; dark figures
with green shining eyes, and the woman, the queen herself, with a similar gaze,
effortlessly regal and unrelenting in her stare.

“Truce,” said the woman, in
Lucy’s dream. “Never ask me why, but between us, a truce. For one who loves.”

And Lucy woke up. She was in
her bed. Miss Lindsay was seated beside her, as was Barnabus. There were
shadows under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. She wondered,
fleetingly, if he might speak to her—if perhaps there were other gifts in her
release—but when he picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth with that
silent gentle strength, she knew instantly that was not the case.

“Henry?” Lucy breathed. “Mary?”

Miss Lindsay briefly shut her
eyes. “Gone. Already gone. Henry wanted to stay to see you wake, but Mary…” She
stopped, hesitating. “Mary wanted away from this place, immediately. She said
to give you her thanks.”

Miss Lindsay made the words
sound flat, cheap. Barnabus looked unhappy. Lucy did not know what to think. She
felt an aching loss for Henry. She wanted to see him, but thought of Mary,
twenty years trapped, and knew why the woman had run—and that where she went,
so would he. No choice. She was his home.

Miss Lindsay seemed to read her
mind—she was good at that, Lucy mused wearily—and said, “For both of us, thank
you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you, always.”

“It was her, not me,” Lucy
pointed out. “She gave us up.”

Miss Lindsay looked sideways at
Barnabus. “She does that, sometimes.”

Lucy shifted, uncomfortable. “What
is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss
Lindsay. “She is old, though. Her kind always are. So old, they don’t have
children anymore. Not with each other, anyway.”

“She’s lonely.”

“Tell Henry that.”

Lucy held up her hand. “He and
Mary have their time now. Time to make their own way.” Time to finish what they
had started, if such a thing was possible. To have their honeymoon, their
marriage, their life.

Miss Lindsay murmured,
“Patience. I told Henry—both of them—to have patience. They’ve been through so
much. Neither is the person the other married. Not anymore.” She glanced away,
bitterness touching her mouth. “Is it wrong to wonder whether I should be happy
for them?”

Lucy closed her eyes, savoring
the warmth of Barnabus’s hand. “Did you ever marry?”

Silence, long and deep. Finally,
Miss Lindsay said, “A woman like me rarely does.”

Lucy opened her eyes and gave
her a questioning look. The woman sighed. “I’ll tell you some other time,
perhaps.”

Some
other time, Lucy thought. Like
how you read minds? Or how sometimes you are a woman, and sometimes a crow?

Miss Lindsay stared at her,
startled, and then laughed out loud.

“Yes,” she said, still smiling.
“Just like that.”

But she never did. At least,
not for a long while. One morning soon after, she approached Lucy and Barnabus
as they were weeding the garden, and said, crisply, “I think I will go away for
a time. There’s a world beyond the wood, you know. I’ve been here my entire
life, already.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, though she
herself had no desire to go elsewhere. Barnabus put down his rake and regarded
the older woman thoughtfully, with no small amount of compassion in his steady
gaze. He nodded once, finally, and held out his arms. Miss Lindsay fell into
them, hugging the young man so tightly, Lucy thought his bones might break. And
then Miss Lindsay did the same for her, and she was quite certain that was
indeed the case.

“Tend this place for me,”
whispered Miss Lindsay, her eyes glowing golden as the sun. “For all of us. We’ll
be back. And we might bring others. There is so much in this world I have yet
to explain to you.”

And then, with no shyness or
hesitation, she did a shocking thing—stripping off all her clothes, right in
front of them, with hardly more than a smile. Golden light covered her body. Feathers
black as jet, thick and rich and hot, poured up from her skin and rippled like
water. Lucy could not help but gasp; her knees buckled. Barnabus caught her,
and she glanced at his face. He did not appear at all surprised by what he was
seeing, and there was an appreciation in his gaze that was from the heart.

He nudged Lucy, gestured for
her to look again—and she found Miss Lindsay shrinking, narrowing—until she was
no longer a woman, but a crow.

A crow who stared at them with
golden eyes—cawed once—and leapt into the air, followed by a flock of
companions that shrieked and beat their wings in raucous sympathy.

Quite a sight. But it was not
the last time Lucy ever witnessed it.

Time passed. Lucy and Barnabus
did as Miss Lindsay asked—maintaining the house and land, as well as the
cemetery—though they married soon after to keep local tongues from wagging. She
kept the name of her birth, since Barnabus had none to give. Lucy Steele. They
called their son William, who also, on occasion, exhibited peculiar talents.

And sometimes Lucy would take a
book and sit on the edge of the woods, and read out loud. She never knew if the
woman, the Sidhe
queen, was listening, but she liked to think that the trees were, and that
through them the immortal could hear another voice, speaking just for her.

It was a good life for Lucy and
Barnabus, a happy life. A life together, a grand adventure, and one that lasted
many moons, over many secret stories—each as sweet and golden as honey.

***

Thank you for reading WHERE THE
HEART LIVES, a prequel to the New York Times bestselling Dirk and Steele series
-- in which shape-shifters, mermen, gargoyles, and other creatures out of
legend, walk this world in secret, united with a common purpose: to help
others.

READ ON for more of Marjorie’s
work, from the latest Dirk and Steele novel (about a dragon shape-shifter
hunted by witches) -- to an excerpt from the Hunter Kiss series, which follows
the adventures of a woman covered in living tattoos that peel off her body at
night to form her own demonic army…

***

Marjorie Liu is an attorney and
a New York Times bestselling author of urban fantasy and paranormal
romance—as well as comic books for Marvel. A nomad at heart, she divides her
time between Beijing, the American Midwest, New York City, and Boston. To learn
more, please visit her website at www.marjoriemliu.com.

Or, follow her on Twitter: @marjoriemliu.

WITHIN THE FLAMES

A Dirk and Steele Novel

Joining the Dirk and Steele
Agency turned Eddie’s life around. A pyrokinetic and former car thief, he
cannot refuse an assignment to cross the continent in order to rescue an
extraordinary woman in peril…even though he fears losing control of the destructive
power of flame at his fingertips.

The last of her shape-shifting
kind, Lyssa hides in the abandoned tunnels beneath Manhattan, seeking refuge
from those who murdered her family a decade ago and would now destroy her as
well. Like Eddie, fire is her weapon, her destiny…and her curse. For beneath
Lyssa’s extraordinary beauty are dangerous secrets…and even darker, nearly
irresistible urges.

CHAPTER ONE

A dragon slept beneath New York
City.

Her dreams were fitful. Her
dreams always were. She had been hiding a long time, and had run a great
distance with no home, no place to rest her head.

Her home now was humble and
small, but it was hers. Filled with light and color, and glass. Small jars of
paint, and a canvas to stretch her wings upon.

Others shared her underworld. Men
and women, and children. The dragon protected them, when she could. Some, she
considered friends. But always from a distance, where it was safe. Safe, for
them.

Safe meant being alone.

The dragon had been alone a
long time.

But sometimes, like tonight,
she dreamed of a man.

And he was made of fire.

***

More than twenty-five hundred
miles away, Eddie knelt on the polished concrete floor of a glass-walled cage,
trying very hard not to catch on fire.

The cage was an eight-by-eleven
block of concrete and fire-resistant glass, and the door was made of thick
steel, framed in that same concrete. No furniture. No blankets. The space had
once been part of the dining room, and the double-paned glass wall usually
offered Eddie an unobstructed view of the kitchen. There was, however, a
privacy curtain that he could draw over the exterior of the cage.

He had used it tonight. There
was a guest upstairs.

It was over, thought
Eddie, putting his back to the wall as sparks danced off his clothes.  I was
sure it was over.

He had not lost control in
almost a year.

He had not needed the cage.

Until tonight.

You know why.

Eddie closed his eyes, haunted.
Every inch of him, so tender that the softest touch of his clothes hurt as
though he was being dragged naked, on gravel.

Breathe, he told
himself. Breathe.

Eddie breathed, but each breath
was hot in his lungs—the same heat burning in his bones, rising through his
skin. Smoke rose off his body, singeing his nostrils. He tried to think of cool
water, ice, this morning’s silver fog around the Golden Gate Bridge. He
imagined the flow of the salt-scented breeze on his face as he’d walked to his
favorite coffee shop…

Everything, good and normal. Part
of the life he had made for himself.

But it meant nothing. His mind
kept returning to his mother’s sobs, the broken rasp of her voice -- the sound
of his grandmother in the background, trying to calm her. Trying, and failing—because
she was crying, too.

Tears sizzled against his
cheeks. Eddie held his stomach, overwhelmed with grief and anger. So much
anger.

He pushed it down. Then he kept
pushing, and pushing, methodically bottling his emotions: frustration,
unhappiness, regret. He hid them all in a cool dark place inside his heart. He
buried them, far away and deep, until he felt raw, empty.

Empty, except for the
loneliness. An isolation so profound it bordered on despair.

Flames erupted against his legs
and hands, flowing up his arms to arc over his shoulders -- down his back like
wings. Eddie tried to stop the fire—struggled with all his strength—but it was
like trying to catch the wind. The flames slipped around him, through him, and
all the control he had so carefully cultivated once again meant nothing.

He was powerless. Helpless. And
he hated himself for that.

His spine caught on fire, a
deep burn born in his bones, born deeper, rippling from his heart. Eddie closed
his eyes, listening to the crackle of flames eating through his jeans and
t-shirt, turning them to ash.

He didn’t make a sound, not
even when the burn of his skin made him feel as though he would split apart. He
pretended not to feel the soaring waves of heat moving around him, wrapping him
in a nest of fire that brushed against the walls of his cage.

He tried so hard not to think
about his sister’s murderer walking out of prison.

But in the end, it was easier
just to burn.

***

When Eddie left the cage, a
woman was waiting for him.

He happened to know that she
was in her early fifties, though she hardly looked it with her loose red hair,
creamy skin, and long supple body clad in black. A patch covered her right eye,
and the other was golden, pupil slit like a cat. She leaned on the kitchen
counter, arms folded over her chest—and even standing still, there was a
lethal, inhuman grace about her.

Eddie froze, and clutched the
curtain around his waist. None of his clothes had made it through the blaze.

“Ma’am,” he said, a little too
hoarse.

Her gaze traveled down his
body, cold and assessing. “You make me feel so old. How many times will we
meet, Edward, before you call me Serena?”

Eddie waited. Serena gave him a
slow, dangerous smile, and picked up a cloth bag on the counter behind her. She
tossed it to him. When he looked inside, he found sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Roland told me where you keep
your things,” she said. “He also mentioned that your skin is
sensitive….afterwards. I chose what seemed soft.”

“Thank you,” Eddie said. “Ma’am.”

Serena tilted her head, golden
eye glinting. Eddie stepped back into the cage, letting the curtain fall behind
him. The process of dressing made him feel more human—more grounded in his own
body—though his skin still ached, and when he moved too quickly, lights danced
in his eyes.

When he reemerged, Serena stood
at the foot of the stairs.

“They’re waiting,” she said.

Eddie did not move. “No one
mentioned that you would be here.”

“Shocking, I know.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a bad
sign. What else has happened?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” Serena
gave him a faint, mocking smile, and turned to climb the stairs. “If it’s any
consolation, no one told me I’d be in San Francisco tonight. But here I am. I
go where there’s trouble.”

“You make trouble,” he replied.
“With all due respect.”

She laughed, quietly, and kept
climbing.

Eddie did not follow. He
watched until she disappeared around the landing, and then looked down at his
hands. Small, circular scars covered his skin. He rubbed them, and shivered.

He was always cold after he
lost control. Cold as winter, in his bones. When he felt like this, he couldn't
imagine losing control ever again. Drained of fire, burned out. Safe.

If only.

Eddie took a deep breath, and
climbed the stairs.

He entered an immense room
filled with overstuffed couches and low tables sagging with books and
newspapers. The top floor, the penthouse suite of an entire building owned by
one man, one organization—converted into a home and office. Nine floors that
could be traversed by stairs and hidden elevators.

It was night outside. Only a
few lamps had been turned on, but the floor-to-ceiling windows let in the
scattered light of downtown San Francisco, and that was enough to illuminate
the room, softly, as though with starlight.

Two people stood near the
windows. Serena still had her arms folded over her chest. The man who stood
beside her was taller by half a foot, and broad as a bear. His rumpled flannel
shirt strained against his shoulders. Thick brown stubble, peppered with gray,
covered his jaw. The scent of whiskey clung to him, but that was no surprise. Not
for months now.

Roland’s bloodshot gaze was
compassionate and sad as he studied Eddie. Edged with doubt, too. And pity.

Eddie tamped down anger. “Don’t
look at me like that.”

Roland grunted. “Like what?”

“Like I’m broken,” he said
hoarsely. “Like I’m you.”

Low blow. Eddie received no
satisfaction from the surprise and hurt that flickered through the other man’s
face -- but he wasn’t sorry, either. He had never thrown a first punch, hardly
ever used his fists at all, but for the last year he had wanted to -- against
the man in front of him. Words were a poor substitute.

And he needed to hit someone
right now. Right now, more than anything, he needed to inflict some pain.

Roland cleared his throat. “You
little shit.”

“I only look like shit. Don’t
confuse the two.”

“In your case, it’s the same
thing.” Roland tilted his head, watching him. “Are you going to be able to do
this? Handle New York?”

Eddie hadn’t told him about his
mother’s phone call. He hadn’t needed to. Roland had known from the moment
Eddie entered the penthouse, heading for the cage. Some telepaths were like
that.

“According to you,” Eddie said,
“there’s no one else.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He set his jaw, warmth finally
trickling back into his hands. “It’s the only answer I need. You taught me
that.”

Roland stilled. Serena
murmured, “Generous praise. Given that you’re speaking to a man who hasn’t left
his home in over a decade.”

Roland blinked hard, tearing
his gaze from Eddie. “You’re certainly free to go.”

“I wish I could. I have a
grandchild I could be visiting right now, and you smell like a drunk.” Serena
swung away from Roland to stare out the window. “But the new alliance stands. A’Priori
wants me here, and I work for them. Not Dirk & Steele.”

Eddie was already tired, but
hearing those words stole the last of his strength -- whatever was left in his
heart. He couldn’t keep the bitterness off his face, and it made him feel like
a different man. A worse man. Too much like the man who had burned those scars
into his hands.

“It’s all the same,” he found
himself saying, even though he wanted to stay quiet, and hold in that
bitterness and bury it, again and again as he had been burying it for months. “A’Priori.
Dirk & Steele. It’s just family.”

Family and lies. And that was
hardest of all to reconcile.

A’Priori was one of the
largest, most powerful corporations in the world. Run by a tight-knit family of
men and women who possessed singular gifts of a paranormal nature, gifts that
had been used almost exclusively for material gain.

But more than sixty years ago,
members of that same family had broken away to form another, much smaller
organization, one founded on values that had nothing to do with money or
power…but instead, helping others.

That organization had
become Dirk & Steele. To the public, it was nothing but a high-powered
detective agency—but in private it functioned as a refuge. For people like
Eddie. And others, who weren’t human by any stretch of the imagination.

Until recently, however, almost
no one at Dirk & Steele had been aware that A’Priori existed, or that its
connections to the agency ran so deep.

And no one, certainly,
had known that Dirk & Steele’s worst enemy, the Consortium -- responsible
for human trafficking and experimentation, bio-terrorism, mass murder—was part
of that same family.

Your brother, Eddie said
silently, looking at Roland, knowing he could hear his thoughts. Your
brother runs the Consortium. You knew all along that it existed, and why. You
never warned us, not even after it was too late.

Too late for me.

Roland flinched, but those
bloodshot eyes showed nothing. And Eddie felt nothing except a dull ache when
he looked at him.

At the other end of the room, a
shadow detached from the wall: a slow, sinuous flow of movement made of
perfect, dangerous grace.

Eddie had been aware of that
presence from the moment he entered the room, but he still tensed; and so did
Serena and Roland. It was impossible not to. The old woman who emerged from the
shadows was deadly, in more ways than one.

Little of her face was visible,
but her eyes glowed with subtle, golden light. She was Chinese, but so old—and
so inhuman—that definitions based on ethnicity held no value.

“Ma’am,” Eddie said, with
careful respect.

“Boy,” she replied, and the air
seemed to hiss across his skin with power. “I’ve met immortals with younger
eyes than you.”

He said nothing. Roland
muttered, “Long Nu. Get on with it.”

The old woman’s hand flashed
out, trailing light, and touched the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Not with a
finger, but a claw—cool as silk, sliding across his lips, down his jaw. He
smelled stone and ash, and a hint of sandalwood.

“You know what you have to do?”
Long Nu said to him quietly.

“You want me to find a girl. A
girl who can control fire.”

“A shape-shifter,” she
murmured, as golden light continued to shimmer over her hand, and her flesh
rippled with scales. “A dragon.”

Eddie reached up, very slowly,
and pushed her hand away from his face. “I don’t understand why you don’t go
yourself. One of your kind to another.”

“It would draw the wrong kind
of attention. More than what is already focused on the child.” Long Nu glanced
at Roland. “She is being hunted.”

Hunted. A girl, hunted. Eddie
felt a cold, visceral disgust when he heard that. It made him think of his
sister.

“No one told me,” he said.

“We were not sure. Now we are.”

“Who’s after her?”

Long Nu hesitated, and that was
enough to convey to Eddie just how bad it was.

“They are called the Cruor
Venator,” she said, in a cold, heavy voice. “Blood Hunters. Witches who
steal power from blood.”

Serena sucked in her breath, a
startling sound because it was filled with fear, dismay: two emotions Eddie had
never, once, associated with her.

Eddie shared a quick look with
Roland. “Witches?”

“Not just any witches,” Serena
said sharply, continuing to stare at Long Nu. “Killers. Vicious, ruthless. They
live for death. It’s their first, and only, pleasure.” She moved even closer to
dragon woman, as though stalking her, hands flexing at her sides. “But it’s impossible.
That magic hasn’t been seen in a hundred years.”

Long Nu shook her head. “I know
what such a death looks like. A shifter in Florida was lost to a group of them
only two weeks ago. The same shifter who contacted Dirk & Steele about the
girl.”

A hard knot of unease hit
Eddie’s gut. “I didn’t know he was dead.”

Roland rubbed a hand through
his hair, and closed his eyes. “I only just found out. Long Nu discovered
Estefan’s murder through different channels. When he stopped emailing me, I
thought maybe he’d changed his mind about asking for our help in finding the
girl.”

“I suspect he reached out to
you because he had an idea of what threatened her. Except the Cruor Venator
got him first,” said Long Nu in a cold, blunt voice—looking directly at Eddie
as she spoke. “Estefan was ripped apart. Drained of blood. Part of his heart
eaten. Skinned. It was a very bad death.”

Eddie did not blink or flinch. Long
Nu, still watching him, added, “His wife is human, and was away when he was
murdered. She explained that just before her husband died, Estefan told her that
three women had been asking locals about a girl with golden eyes. It concerned
him a great deal…especially when he learned that they were using her real
name.”

“You think those women are
witches,” he said, “and that they found the shifter, and murdered him, because
they were looking for the girl.”

“I know it,” Long Nu replied,
with chilling certainty. “And even if I am wrong, the mere possibility makes it
urgent that we find her as quickly as possible.”

Serena’s eyes narrowed. “Did he
know that she was headed to New York?”

“Yes. And everything he knew,
the Cruor Venator now knows.”

Deep, dangerous, waters,
thought Eddie, feeling that old familiar shift inside his skin, as though he
was a shape-shifter himself, transforming into a different person.

That transformation had begun
as soon as Long Nu said the girl was being hunted. After all these years, it
was natural as breathing. Part of him was always quiet, always waiting, beneath
the fire. A mindset, where nothing could be depended on, where violence was
expected, promised, and always lethal. He had the scars to remind himself, if
he ever forgot. But he never had.

His heart donned a cold armor:
where he would feel nothing. Nothing, until this job was done.

Because it was obvious this job
was going to require doing things he was going to regret.

“Just find the girl,” Roland
said heavily, clearly reading his thoughts. “Serena, talk to your contacts. I’ll
do the same here.”

Eddie didn’t need to hear more.
He didn't want to.

He turned and walked away, descending
the stairs to the kitchen. He did not look at the cage. He strode down a long
hall, and then took another flight of stairs to the seventh floor.

He had an apartment half-a-mile
from here, but a spare room had been given to him several years ago, after
contracting an artificially constructed virus: the prototype of a bio-weapon. The
infection had almost killed him, with one additional side effect.

Eddie had lost all control over
his powers.  All those hard-earned years of focus, sacrifice, and isolation—gone,
meaningless. Literally, up in flames.

The way he lived his life until
then had revolved around his ability to protect people from himself. Suddenly,
in an instant, that was no longer possible. For almost a year he had needed to live
in that glass cage, where he would be safe from others.

Confidence, shattered. Heartbreakingly
alone.

Those first few times venturing
beyond its glass walls -- terrifying. After that, months where Eddie did
nothing but stay indoors or sit on the roof of the building, staring at
downtown San Francisco. Watching people. Watching the world.

It had taken another six months
for his confidence to return…but only because he’d had no choice. A friend
needed help. That had been motivation enough for him to test the limits of his
new control, and after that…it had gotten easier.

Taking back his old life had
felt like a miracle.

Now he wondered if he needed to
return to the cage again.

The spare room that Roland had
given him was nearly a thousand square feet in size. No interior walls. Just
windows, overlooking the city. His bed was a mattress on the floor, and his
clothes were stored in plastic bins. Stacks of travel books, language study
guides, and science magazines surrounded his bed, along with a small lamp and a
box full of bottled water.

Eddie found a backpack, and
began stuffing it with underwear, a pair of jeans, and some t-shirts.

He found a small leather wallet,
covered in stains and worn so thin with age it almost broke when he handled it.
No money inside. Just photos. He hesitated, but placed it in one of the bins,
carefully. He had enough distractions.

Free. He’s free. Good
behavior. They let him out because he was a model prisoner.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God, baby.

He’s free.

Eddie closed his eyes, and focused
on his breathing. With a great deal of effort he pushed away the memory of his
mother’s stunned, grief-filled voice.

But there was another voice
inside his head. His own.

Don’t go to New York City.
Go after Malcom Swint, instead.

Kill him.

For Daphne.

It would be so easy. All it
would take was a thought.

Just one, little, thought.

Eddie shook his head in
disgust. No. This was the perfect time to leave San Francisco.

He kept the lamp off. Old
habit. He preferred working in the dark, unseen. The city lights were more than
enough for going through the motions. He had packed this bag so many times he
could do it in his sleep. It gave his brain time to sort through everything he
had been told.

Find the girl.

Air moved across his neck. Eddie
turned. Long Nu stood behind him, silent as a ghost. He was too surprised to
speak—and then he was too busy keeping himself calm as heat flooded his bones
and muscles, rising through his skin. The air warmed around them.

“One more thing,” she said.

Eddie never saw the old woman
move. Suddenly he was falling, falling and falling until he hit the mattress so
hard he bounced. Golden light flashed, and he heard a rough, rubbing sound;
like the belly of an alligator dragging over the floor.

A huge clawed foot settled on
the mattress beside his head. Heat washed over his body, but it was not from
him.

“Look at me,” Long Nu
whispered, her voice deeper now, almost a growl.

Eddie turned his head. It was
too dark for details, but he glimpsed scales rippling over the muscles of a
long, serpentine throat…the hard line of a jaw, the shine of a sharp white
tooth. Golden eyes shone like fire.

“The Cruor Venator don’t
just take the blood of shape-shifters,” she said, each word softly hissed. “Any
blood will do. But yours…your fire…” A deep rumble filled the air, caged
thunder, born in her throat. “Fire is elemental. Only dragons have fire in
their blood. You will stir their hunger.”

“I’m no dragon,” Eddie
whispered. “I’m human.”

Long Nu leaned away from him, a
slow retreat, revealing a massive body that in the darkness resembled a sinuous
coil of muscle and claws, and draped leather. Eddie did not look too closely. He
began breathing again. His heart pounded so hard he was dizzy -- and that was
dangerous.

Staying calm kept him cool. Staying
calm was the key.

“You’re wrong,” said Long Nu.
“What you bury only grows stronger, in time. This is true of what sleeps in
blood.”

Eddie swallowed. “Stay out of
my head.”

“I can’t,” she said simply. “You
hide so much of your heart, even from yourself. Hide too long, and you will
forget it’s there.”

He sat up, but had to shield
his eyes as golden light flared bright as the sun, blinding him.

When he could see again, he
found Long Nu on her knees, human and mostly naked. Her clothes were torn,
hanging off her in rags. Eddie averted his eyes, and dragged the blanket off
his bed. He handed it to her.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly.

Long Nu’s hand touched his
fingers as she took the blanket. Her skin was hot -- just as hot as his. Even hotter,
when she grabbed his wrist with her other hand, and held him tight. Smoke rose
between them. Eddie set his jaw, and met her golden gaze.

“There are so few left of my
kind,” whispered Long Nu. “Find the girl.”

“I will,” Eddie promised, and
found himself adding, “Whatever it takes.”

Long Nu gave him a mirthless
smile, and the smoke between them suddenly became fire. It did not burn him,
but the flames flickered up both their arms, like tiny deadly fingers.

“If the Cruor Venator is
hunting her,” she said softly, “it might just take everything you have.”

***

To read more of WITHIN THE
FLAMES, and to learn about the Dirk and Steele series, please visit my website
at www.marjoriemliu.com.

THE MORTAL BONE

The 4th Book in the
Hunter Kiss Series

Nomad born and bred, demon
hunter Maxine Kiss has always relied upon herself to fight the darkness that
surrounds her, the predators—human, zombie, and otherwise—who threaten the
earth. Haunted by the past, determined to change the future, Maxine soon
understands that to save the man she loves, she has only one choice—to lose
control and release her own powers of darkness…

CHAPTER ONE

What
happens in Texas, stays in Texas. Except when demons are involved.

I
was sitting on the sagging porch of the old farmhouse, sipping an ice-cold
ginger ale, when a red pickup truck appeared around the last bend of the long,
curving, driveway. I stood, shielding my eyes against the late-afternoon
sun—noticing, as had become my habit, the gold glimmer of my wedding ring
standing out in stark relief against the obsidian, mercury-streaked tattoos
that covered my entire left hand.

Dust
kicked up behind the truck, but not much. The driver was taking a slow
approach.

I
hadn’t lived on this land in years. Maybe it was a nosy neighbor coming to
visit. Or a social worker who had heard that a teenage boy was in residence and
not attending school. Could be someone lost—but the driveway was almost three
miles long and blocked by a heavy gate. A bit out of the way, just to ask
directions.

I
felt a tug against my tattooed skin. A persistent ripple that traveled like a
small shock wave from my toenails to the base of my neck, as though an
electrical pulse was moving through Zee and the boys.

I
set down my drink. Against my neck, the tip of Dek’s tattooed tail thrummed,
like the quiet warning of a rattlesnake. When I flexed my fingers, the organic
silver armor covering my right hand tingled. Everything, coming alive as that
red truck rolled and rumbled down the driveway.

The
driver parked in front of the barn, surrounded in a swirling cloud of pale, hot
dust. I couldn’t see much behind the tinted windows, so I listened to the
engine pop and groan as I stepped off the porch.

The
door opened, and a foot dangled out. Fortunately, it was attached to a leg. I
wasn’t always that lucky.

I
saw a simple white sneaker with a thick sole, and an equally thick ankle that
was so swollen the flesh seemed to sag over the top of the shoe. I walked
sideways, peering into the truck to see what else that limb was attached to.

What
I found was a demon having a heart attack.

That’s
what it seemed like at first. The unfortunate host was a woman well over three
hundred pounds, who wore a sleeveless blue sundress that clung to her round
stomach and heavy breasts. Her arms were thick and wide, as was her soft neck,
which was almost lost in her sagging jaw. She had pale skin—around her
hands—but the rest of her was pink and red as a lobster, and dripping with
sweat.

Soaked
brown hair clung to her face, along with a thunderous aura that marked her as
demon-possessed. Somewhere, deep inside, a human soul still
resided . . . but it was impossible to tell just how long it had
been buried beneath that seat of darkness. Some demons, the young ones, clung
with only a light touch, a whisper. Others dug in, latching onto the flesh,
sliding into lives and pulling every string.

Those
clinging shadows rose and fell off the woman’s shoulders with each heaving
breath, and she sat—half-in, half-out of her truck—with her eyes closed and
mouth open, panting and clutching her chest.

It
would be easy for me to exorcise the demon. Even a year ago, I would not have
hesitated. Those gutter rats who regularly escaped the prison veil had no
business possessing humans and feeding off their pain. Nothing had changed my
opinion about that.

But
I’d learned a thing or two about demons—and myself—that blurred the lines
between good and evil. I could no longer cast stones. Not without asking
questions first. Any demon looking for me was either very desperate—or
coerced—and that was bad news, in more ways than one.

So
I waited, silent. Wishing I had gum to chew. The aftertaste of that ginger ale
had gone sour, right along with my stomach. I hated this so much. All the
possibilities of all the bad things this demon might tell me, crowding my head,
making my pulse thicken.

The
possessed woman finally caught her breath and opened her eyes to look at me.

She
didn’t seem to know where to settle her gaze, which flitted above and around,
and on me, with such rapidness it made me dizzy. Finally, she settled on my
eyes, then danced down to the tattoos covering my arms: an unbroken tangle of
obsidian muscle and scales, knotted, curling, shimmering with veins of mercury
that caught the light—though not nearly as much as the glinting crimson eyes
that always remained open and staring.

I’d
found some of my mother’s old white tank tops in the closet and hadn’t seen
much point to leaving them there—or hiding the boys. I had few, if any, secrets
from the people in my life. Which was another dazzling departure from the way I
had been raised.

“Boo,”
I said to the possessed woman, and felt sort of bad when she flinched from me,
like I’d hit her.

Silent,
and with agonizing stiffness, she reached sideways into the passenger seat and
dragged a red plastic bowling bag across her stomach. Her breathing roughened
again, and sweat dripped off the ends of her thin hair.

“Take
it,” she whispered. “Hurry.”

Licking
a bad case of herpes sounded more appealing than taking a gift from a demon.
Safer, too.

I
did not move. “Why are you here?”

“Come
on, it’s fragile.” Her demonic aura twitched and fluttered, tendrils of shadow
flirting with escape. “Please. I was told to come.”

“Who
told you?”

She
flashed me a hard, frightened look. “A voice in a dream. I was ordered to give
you something that belongs to my host.”

I
frowned. A voice in a dream? Really?

Unfortunately,
it sounded too strange to be a lie. And that demon was genuinely terrified.

I
reached for the bowling bag. I wasn’t worried about its being a bomb. I’d
survive a nuclear blast—or bullets, knives, fire. Sending me to the bottom of
the ocean wouldn’t kill me, either. Not while the sun shone, somewhere above
me.

The
possessed woman snatched back her hand before I had a full grip on the
oversized handle, and I almost dropped it—partially because it was unexpectedly
heavy. The shape as it bumped my leg felt round and hard.

“This
better not be a human head,” I muttered.

She
shuddered. “Close.”

I
flashed her a hard look and unzipped the bowling bag.

No
hair or bone inside. No blood. The afternoon light gleamed off a round, smooth,
surface—clear as glass. I reached inside, bracing myself as the armor encasing
much of my right hand and forearm began tingling again, like pins and needles.

Nothing
happened, though. The armor quieted. I slid my hand under the cool, hard
object—and lifted it from the bowling bag.

I
stared, for a moment unsure what I was looking at. I saw depressions for eyes,
a hard jaw and rows of teeth . . . but it was all wrong, and
eerie.

Yes,
there was a head in the bowling bag. A skull.

But
it was carved from crystal. And it did not look human.

“Groovy,”
I said. “But what the hell?”

The
demon tore her gaze away, trembling. Moments later, I also started
quivering—unable to help myself as a tiny tsunami rolled over every inch of my
skin. Zee stretched and rippled, as did the rest of the boys, all of them
tugging, pulling, struggling toward the crystal skull in my hand.

The
truck’s engine roared. I jumped back as the vehicle jolted forward, spitting
dust in my face. The driver’s side door was still open, swinging wildly, but
the possessed woman had pulled her leg inside and was twisting at the steering
wheel, her aura flaring wild and dark. I dropped the skull inside the bag, and
ran after her.

Too
slow, too late. The front bumper hit my knee as she accelerated past, but the
boys deflected the impact. I tried to grab the door, but all I caught was
air—and a glimpse of her determined, terrified expression.

I
stopped running and watched the truck tear down the driveway in a choking cloud
of dust. Bewildered, feeling stupid. Would that possessed woman have been able
to pull off the same escape a year ago? Was I that
sloppy?

Or am I getting too used to letting
demons go?

I
hated both possibilities. Might as well stick one foot in the grave. I was
losing my edge.

That,
or the edge had shifted sideways. Demonic possession didn’t mean the same thing
anymore. It didn’t feel like the same threat I’d always thought it to be—not
now, not after being exposed to far more immediate, and terrible, dangers.

I
had lived my life believing that I was supposed to kill demons—all demons.

But
the truth was worse.

I
was the very thing that needed to be feared most. My body, a prison for five of
the most dangerous demons ever to exist.

Reaper
Kings. Devourers of worlds.

And
I was their Queen.

***

To read more of THE MORTAL
BONE, and to learn about the Hunter Kiss series, please visit my website at www.marjoriemliu.com.