Where The Heart Lives by Marjorie Liu Read Free Book Online Page A

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