“I know the type,” he replied, still struggling with the heat gathering beneath his skin. “I won’t hesitate.”
Lannes paused. Eddie realized he was rubbing the scars on his hands. The gargoyle was looking at them.
Eddie stilled. Lannes dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. “It’s been years since I heard of the Cruor Venator. I had to ask my brothers about them. I had to go outside the family. Everyone says the same thing.”
Lannes finally looked at him. “When they want you, all you can do is run.”
“Not an option. And nothing I haven’t already heard.”
“Then you know their power comes from blood. Blood obtained through death. The slower the death, the better. And not just any blood. A true Cruor Venator will absorb the essence of the victim, and so they choose only those whom they perceive to be strong, vibrant. The ones with the most to offer.”
“Shape-shifters,” Eddie said. “That doesn’t explain why everyone is so afraid of them.”
Lannes gave him a hard look. “Really?”
Eddie didn’t back down. “Really. You talk about magic and witches, and it means nothing to me. Just more people with strange gifts.”
“Gifts that alter reality. In small, personal doses.”
“So how do you fight that?”
“With luck and a strong sense of free will.” Lannes leaned forward, holding his gaze. “What creates a witch is nothing more than desire and power. That, and a particular bloodline that makes it possible to manifest that desire. What makes the Cruor Venator different is the way they harness power.”
“It doesn’t seem as though it should make them special. Anyone can spill blood.”
“You’re wrong. But that’s not something I can explain in words.”
Eddie jammed the toe of his boot into the grass, and dug in, frustrated. “I spoke to someone else. Long Nu. She’s a very old shape-shifter. . old enough to remember the Cruor Venator. But she didn’t explain any of this.”
“I’ve heard of her. Dragons are like that.”
Great, he thought. “Do you know how to kill these witches?”
“Maybe. But it’s not good.” Lannes leaned against a tree and, despite the illusion, suddenly looked tired. “I’ve been told they can only be killed by one of their own. The magic that gives them power. . is the only magic that can take their lives.”
Eddie didn’t immediately respond. He couldn’t. It was all too overwhelming and strange.
He listened to the dull thrum of the city beyond the trees, a mix of voices and honking cars and birdsong. He imagined himself younger, hungry and homeless, craving a normal life. Free of violence. Free from the dead.
“Fire,” he said. “Will fire kill them?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a hundred years since the last Cruor Venator. A lot could have been forgotten.”
“But not the magic that made them. Who killed the Cruor Venator a hundred years ago?”
“One of her own kind. It had to be.”
“But after that, no sign of them. No deaths.”
“The last Cruor Venator was famous for her cruelty. She hunted nonhumans specifically, because they made her so much stronger. She could. . adopt some of their powers. But the one who stopped her was either better at hiding her nature—”
“Or she just wasn’t a killer.”
“She killed at least once,” Lannes replied. “No reason to think she stopped.”
Eddie wasn’t so sure. “Could she still be alive?”
Lannes arched his brow. “You want to find her, too?”
“Well?”
“Maybe. Witches can live a long time. But there’s always a price.”
“Someone had to teach the current Cruor Venator.”
“Or maybe it’s the same witch who killed the last one.”
“We need to know.”
“You don’t look for a Cruor Venator.”
“Apparently you do if you need one dead.”
Lannes stared. Eddie ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. Silence fell around them.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Lannes finally said, quietly.
“Thank you.” Eddie had trouble meeting his gaze, too aware of what he was asking of the gargoyle. It was one thing to put his own life on the line for a stranger, but Lannes and his family had already suffered too much.
The gargoyle bound his wings again, then both men walked from the park. A large group of tourists mingled in front of them. Eddie and Lannes kept their distance. His gaze roved over open purses and backpacks, taking in expensive cameras and other small electronics belted to waists or tucked inside pockets. Out there, exposed. Like blazing targets.
“You’re frowning,” Lannes said. “Still thinking about witches?”
“I’m thinking that people never expect they’ll get hurt.” Eddie tore his gaze from the tourists and looked across the street, assessing, watching. His neck prickled. He felt exposed and uneasy, like something big was about to hit him. Big, like a fist. Big, like a wave.
His gaze continued to rove left, where it stopped at the red light just before Eighth.
A boy was marching across the intersection.
Like a little soldier, his legs kicking out, each foot pounding the pavement with hard, decisive, steps. He wore an oversized sweatshirt and jeans and had dark floppy hair that he kept pushing away from his face. With his other hand, he clutched a backpack to his chest. A tiny, ugly, dog with huge eyes peered out.
The boy held Eddie’s attention. There was something small and lost about him. The way he held that dog, with tenderness and desperation — heartbreaking. He reminded Eddie too much of himself at that age: clinging to pride, defiance, but always afraid. Always, and doing his best to hide it.
It hurt Eddie to see. He wanted to know if the boy needed help, but there was no way. No way that wouldn’t come off as creepy or strange.
And then he realized the boy wasn’t alone.
A woman was with him. Eddie couldn’t see much of her. From his vantage point, just her profile: pert nose, rosy cheeks, a small, delicate mouth. She was wrapped in an oversized green sweater, patched together with hearts and stars made of multicolored satin and velvet scraps. It stood out, compared to all the black, monotone colors worn by every other New Yorker around her.
The tail of a pink-checkered flannel shirt peeked from beneath the sweater’s hem. Her jeans were tight, tucked into heavy boots, and a brown newsboy hat covered her head. Loose strands of auburn hair flew out from beneath the long red scarf wrapped around her throat, a scarf that she kept touching and tightening with slender gloved hands.
Eddie stared.
He couldn’t see her face, but the way she moved was beautiful — a dancer, graceful and certain of each light step. Everyone around her seemed like a clod in comparison, weighted down, hard and gray — while she flowed through them, around them, in a patchwork of color. Warm and sublime, and welcoming.
Confident, he thought. . but a heartbeat later she bowed her head, just so, and touched her covered throat. The gesture was pained and vulnerable, in the same way the boy was vulnerable.
As though she felt lost. Out of place.
It cut Eddie again, right in the heart. Deeper, even. He felt an instant, and inexplicable connection to the woman, as though she was a page out of his own book — someone whose pain mirrored his own.
Which was ridiculous, of course. He didn’t know her. She was just one woman out of eight million people in this city — and here he was, making up a story for her. Pretending that he understood her. A stranger.
It all makes pathetic sense. I’ll never know that woman. I’ll never hurt her, and she’ll never hurt me. Of course I’m attracted.