Where The Heart Lives (5 page)

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
.

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.