Focusing on him always made the nightmare go away. Usually. Sometimes, she just needed to burn.
Seeing those eyes today, recognizing them — was like being hit by lightning.
Now, though, with some distance, the memory of that moment inspired a different feeling.
Homesickness.
Fear, she understood. But homesickness was inexplicable, and specific: She felt sick for the old days, when she was safe and loved. It hit her hard, with a fresh, raw tenderness that made her want to press her clawed hand over her heart and dig in.
It’s him, she thought, suffering deep unease. He makes me feel this way.
No way Estefan could have known. But if that was help. .
If that’s help, I can’t take it. . no matter how curious I am. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do to help me.
Not while I’m being hunted.
Lyssa saw a bank of pay phones near the intersection at Forty-first, and started digging through her pockets for change. She needed to call Estefan and find out exactly who he had contacted, and why. He had to have a good reason, after all these years of so carefully leaving her alone.
Her skin crawled when she thought of what that reason might be.
She slipped some quarters into the pay phone, careful to use her left hand — claws not being great for picking up small objects — and dialed his home number, which Estefan had made her memorize before she’d left Florida.
When the call went through, however, all she heard was a busy signal.
Lyssa tried three more times, but the call never connected. She tried the café, but the phone rang and rang — and no one picked up.
Unease crept. Lyssa hung up but didn’t move. The heat throbbing through her blood only grew stronger. Pins and needles pricked her thighs and shoulders, between her breasts.
Something’s wrong.
But no, that was stupid. Paranoia. Lyssa always thought something was wrong. A busy signal and an unanswered call was not a big deal. Besides, she never called Estefan. Ever. She didn’t know the first thing about his phone habits.
Don’t leave the city tonight, she told herself, massaging her right arm. Take a couple days to plan. Talk to Estefan first. You don’t want to run blind.
But even as that thought passed through her, the prickling in her skin intensified, accompanied by a crawling sensation on the back of her neck. Like spider legs.
Someone was watching her.
Lyssa turned, and found herself face-to-face with the man.
The man from her dreams.
Chapter Five
Everything stopped. Heart, lungs, the world. Sounds died. Lyssa went numb.
Those eyes.
In all her dreams — a month of nights, lost in fire — those eyes had been her constant companions. Eyes that belonged to a face she could never see, or remember. Eyes that stared at her with an intensity that burned and made her feel lost, dizzy, as though she were falling.
She was falling now.
Lyssa blinked, and the spell broke. No longer just eyes, but the man from Columbus Circle. She hadn’t looked closely at him, before.
He was young, which surprised her. When she looked at only his eyes, she thought of him as old.
Instead, he seemed close to her age. He was tall, but not much taller than she. Lean, lanky, but broad in all the right places. He looked strong, fast. Dressed in black, with scruffy dark hair that framed a pale, chiseled face that would never be called boyish or weak.
I know you, she thought. I dreamed you.
But that was no comfort. Terrible heat burned beneath her skin, flowing into her right arm in a wild, uncontrolled rush that made her clawed hand close into a fist. Pain tingled, simmering in that heat, and the muscles running from her neck into her shoulder twitched so violently she sucked in her breath and gripped her shoulder hard with her left hand.
The dragon stirred beneath her skin.
The dragon opened an eye within her heart and looked at the man in front of her.
Lyssa felt it, as though she carried a second life within herself. Terror fluttered. The dragon could not be allowed to wake. Not here. Not ever. It had been years since she had felt its presence.
She backed away. The man followed, holding up his hands. “Miss. Don’t run. Please.”
His voice was soft but filled with a quiet, gentle strength that tugged at her heart. It was the same voice she had heard in her mind, flowing through her with the most intimate of touches.
I would take care of you. I wish I could.
Lyssa didn’t trust her voice to speak. Every instinct told her to run. Running was what she knew. Running was safe and empty, and kept the fire at bay, and all those dark memories that haunted, and tempted her.
This was dangerous. This man was dangerous, even if he meant her no harm. The harm would come, somehow.
Lyssa gave him a long, searching look. He let her look, though he didn’t make it easy. She was used to studying people from a distance, or while distracted. . anytime, anywhere, so long as no one realized what she was doing.
But she didn’t have that luxury with him. He stared back with unflinching eyes, as though taking her measure as much as she was taking his. There was no place to hide in that gaze. Lyssa had never felt more naked.
“Who are you?” she asked.
His jaw tensed. “My name is Eddie.”
Eddie. A scruffy name, with an edge. Sort of like him.
Lyssa backed away, wary. “How did you find me here?”
He did not follow, but she sensed that if he wanted to, he could be at her side in a heartbeat. He was just like her dream. Intense, dangerous, and real.
Completely real. Flesh and blood, staring at her as though he was ready for her to try and slip away. It unnerved her. Made her feel as though she couldn’t trust her own perceptions of dream and waking.
“Estefan sent a list of places to search for you,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. “That Starbucks behind us was one of them. He said you like to use the Internet there.”
Damn, she thought, giving him a sharp look. “How do you know Estefan?”
Discomfort flickered in his eyes. “I don’t. Your friend sent a letter to my employer. He explained you needed help. So I’m here. To help.”
It sounded too good to be true. Who was he, a Boy Scout? Like those existed anymore. Lyssa had seen too many good people who needed help, shut out and ignored, treated as though invisible — simply for being homeless, or a little different. Even she, at her lowest, had been an untouchable. Except from those who wanted to use her.
“Estefan shouldn’t have gotten you involved,” she said, wondering why she was still standing here.
“Miss—”
“I am none of your concern.”
“You need help.”
“Starving kids in Africa need help. I don’t. Not even a little.”
He studied her — as though actually listening to what she was saying and digesting each word. It set her off-balance. Again.
Frustration warred with curiosity, and a bone-deep need to understand why the hell this man had been in her dreams. Had he dreamed of her? The possibility was almost as unsettling as his presence.
“You really came here because you were told I needed help?” she asked him, and what was intended to be a genuine question turned derisive when her voice came out too sharp. “Is that your job? Do-gooder?”
His brow lifted. “What’s your job? Professional cynic?”