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* * *

He woke up with a running conversation up front.

"So, why was he so hungry again?" Keith said.

"The transformation takes . . . I don't know. Strength. Power. It costs us what seem to be parts of ourselves. The muscle needs to recover."

"Would he really have . . . Would he have eaten someone or was he . . . ?"

"I don't know," Rafiel said. "I don't know Mr. Ormson that well. I don't know how many shape-shifts he'd had without replenishing himself. I guess it's . . . I mean . . . I guess it depends. I've never eaten anyone." There was a short silence, and Tom saw Keith look at Rafiel.

"Well, at least not that I remember," Rafiel said. "When you're very hungry or very tired, or scared, or in any other way pressed, the memory of when you're . . . the beast . . . changes. And we smell dead bodies a long distance away. So . . . I found a lot of corpses. Still do. I don't think I've ever eaten anyone, though. And since in my job I deal with unknown deaths and disappearances, I probably would have heard of it. Or, when I was too young to be in the force, my father would have. So . . ." He shrugged.

Tom sat up and rested his face on the front seat, between the driver and passenger sides. "I might have eaten some of that corpse in the parking lot . . ." he said, and looked at Rafiel, in the rearview mirror. "I don't know if I killed him."

Rafiel shrugged. "As to that, I can reassure you, at least. You didn't. The corpse had no tooth marks, certainly no marks of being killed by a dragon."

"The guy who died?" Keith asked. "In the parking lot?"

Rafiel nodded, at the same time Tom asked, "But you said he was killed by a Komodo."

"Oh, that's right," Rafiel said. "We never told you . . . Kyrie and I when we came back you two were high because of the beetle powder. Well, insect powder, but Kyrie says it was beetles."

"Beetles?" Tom and Keith said, at the same time.

"There was green powder all over Kyrie's back porch," Rafiel said. "And it seemed to be of insect origin and . . . well, I have the lab checking for some form of hallucinogenic properties. But the lab seemed to think that corpse at least had some traces of hallucinogenic in his blood. So, we think that the green powder caused both of you to get high and hallucinate."

"Oh," Tom said, and could say no more. Of course. It wasn't Kyrie's sugar. It was the things attacking them. He frowned as he tried to remember. He'd thought they were dragons, but looking back he wondered why. He could remember what seemed to be long, long limbs, with fangs at the end, and he remembered green wings, but they didn't in any way look like dragon wings.

"But you said something about Komodo dragons?"

"Well, yes. There have been a few deaths that seemed to be caused by Komodo dragons. Really large Komodo dragons. Because the victims were all Asian, I suspected it had to do with triad business, and now I'm almost sure of it. I suspect it's the dragon triad. Some way they punish their members. That seems to be totally unrelated to the thing going on with the beetles. You seem to be the only link, Mr. Ormson."

Tom groaned. "My father is Mr. Ormson. I'm Tom. Particularly . . ." He managed a tired smile but couldn't see if Rafiel responded because all he saw of Rafiel in the rearview mirror was his very intent eyes. "Particularly to people who've seen me wolf down two dozen over cooked convenience store hotdogs." He made a face. "They weren't even all that good."

"Oh," said Keith. "There were also two containers of cottage cheese while the man was cooking more hot dogs, and a couple of pepperoni."

"Pepperoni?" Tom asked, and felt a moan break through his lips. "I don't even like pepperoni."

"Well, if you're going to throw up," Rafiel said. "You'd best do it out the window. We're still in Raton and we have about two more hours before we get home."

"I'm not going to throw up," Tom said. "Now, if I had taken Keith's finger when he tried to pull the cold cuts away, then I might have."

"You growled," Keith said.

"Dangerous that," Rafiel said, and though Tom couldn't see his face, he was now quite sure there would be a smile twisting the policeman's lips. "Taking food from a starving dragon. Just so you know, it's not all that safe with a lion, either."

Keith made a sound that might have been a really fake whimper, then perked up and grinned at Rafiel. "Oh, well. Worth the price of admission just to have heard you explain to the cashier that Tom had an eating disorder. I don't know how they thought that related to the fact that his face was covered in blood. Why was your face covered in blood?" he asked, looking back.

"Well . . . I think I took Two Dragons' arm. Front paw. Whatever. But I think there was blood before." Tom touched a snaking pink scar that crossed his forehead. "They broke my skin there. And I think they might have broken my nose, though it looks the normal shape, so maybe they just hit it hard enough to make it bleed and tear the cartilage."

"But . . . How long ago?" Keith said.

"We heal freakishly fast," Rafiel said. "But you might want to use the wipes back there, anyway, Tom. I'd suspect you rubbed some of it off on the seat back there, but you still look like you were in an accident. And if you don't clean up and we stop for any reason . . ."

Tom noted that his first name had been used, as he grabbed the baby wipes and wiped at the mess, using the rearview mirror, for guidance.

"And are you undead?" Keith said. "I mean . . . can you be killed, unless it's a silver bullet, or whatever?"

Rafiel shrugged. "I don't know. Tom, have you ever been killed?"

"I thought I was going to be," he said. "Out there, alone with the triad guys. I thought if they didn't kick me to death, they were going to kill me some other way. And if not, I thought I would be killed if I gave them what they wanted."

"And what did they want?" Rafiel said, very softly.

"Well," Tom said. "I brought the conversation around because I thought you deserved to know, but I'm not sure how to explain. Let me start by saying my dad was a lawyer."

"Ah, well, all is clear," Keith said. "No wonder you turn into a dragon."

Tom grinned. "He's a lawyer with a big firm, in New York. Or at least he was, five years ago. His firm represented some Asian families that had . . . contracts with the triads. It wasn't so much, I think, that the firm set out to represent a criminal organization. More like they started representing people at the margins of it, and then eventually, they were defending members of the triad in criminal trials. And my dad is a criminal lawyer. So . . ."

Rafiel nodded. "Yeah. I suspect a lot of lawyers end up having contact with less than savory creatures."

"Well, at one point, some people came over to my father's house. There was something that had landed from China, and they wanted him to keep it safe for them till the next day. He was the only person they trusted in New York, one of the very few people they'd had contact with. They came to our condo, which I remember my father was very upset about because he hadn't given them permission.

"I was . . . oh, probably five? My mom was working. My nanny was watching soaps. I was very bored. So I snuck around to hear what my dad was saying. These people were not like the people who normally came to visit, you know—they wore actual Chinese outfits in silk. I was fascinated."

He was quiet a while. He remembered the Pearl unveiling. He remembered . . .

"And then?" Rafiel said.

"And then they explained to my father that this was the Pearl of Heaven. It had been given to the Great Sky Dragon by the Heavenly Emperor. They said that many of their members, though not all, had the ability to shift shapes to become dragons. I didn't believe them, of course. And I could tell my dad didn't. And then they put this felt bag on his desk, and they pulled it down. And the Pearl appeared. It was . . . Imagine something that radiates light, that makes you swim with happiness.

"They said that it was needed to keep peace amid shape-shifters who were dragons part of the time, because the characteristics of the dragons remained in the humans, and there was too much strife otherwise. As a kid—and you realize I never had what could be called a good family life, back then—all I could sense and feel was the warmth and approval of the Pearl. And that's all I remembered."

"And?" Keith asked.

Tom realized he'd been quiet for a long while. "And then at sixteen I started turning into a dragon. I had a little trouble believing it at first, and then I thought that it was very cool. Like a superpower."

"That's what I think," Keith said.

"And then . . . My father caught me coming in as a dragon and transforming. I actually had this down to a science. I could kind of perch on the balcony outside my bedroom, and shift back to human, and then drop into the room through the sliding doors. Anyway, my dad caught me. He must have seen the dragon fly in. And he came to look. I only had time to grab my bathrobe. He thought . . . I don't know what he thought, but he looked terrified. He ordered me out of the house. I thought he was joking. He got a gun."

Tom laughed without humor. "My father who was a member of I don't know how many antigun organizations. He had a gun somewhere in his desk. He ran to grab it. I thought he was joking. I thought he would calm down. He ordered me out of the house at gunpoint and I went."

"Barefoot and in a robe?" Rafiel said. "In New York City. Amazing you survived."

Tom shrugged. "There are organizations for runaways. I wasn't, but I was the right age, the right profile, and all I had to do was say no when they offered to mediate my return home with my father." He shrugged again. "In a year I was lying about my age and getting jobs. But I hated the shift. I hated that it came when I didn't expect it. And because I fought it till the last possible minute, I often couldn't remember what I'd done when I'd shifted. I . . ." He looked at Rafiel. "I tried street drugs."

"Anything in the last six months?" Rafiel asked. "Since you've been in Goldport?"

"Only whatever the triad boys injected into me," Tom said.

"Ah. We don't regulate marinade. The rest is really none of my business. It's all hearsay, anyway. I have no proof. You might just be nuts and think you used and sold drugs."

"I never sold it," Tom said.

"Good. That's harder to give up, sometimes," Rafiel said. "What with connections . . . So, you tried some funny stuff, to control it. Did it?" His interest sounded clinical.

"Not so you could notice. I was using mostly heroin because of its being a depressant. I thought it would stop the shift. Since the shift came with big emotions and such."

Rafiel nodded.

"So I wanted to give it up, but I was scared," Tom said. "The one thing the drugs did was make me forget. And make me calmer when I wasn't a dragon. They . . . simplified my life. I couldn't obsess about being a dragon shape-shifter or about the fact that my own father had kicked me out of the house, or any of that, because I was too worried about getting enough money for the next fix."

Rafiel nodded. "Weirdly, I've heard other addicts say that this was more important for them than the physical effects. The simplification of life and of choices."

"It was for me," Tom said. "And then one day, I was in a small city—I don't even remember where—and I felt . . . I felt the Pearl. And I got the bright idea that if I had the Pearl I wouldn't need the drugs. So I followed the feeling. And I came to this incredible meeting of dragon shape-shifters. It was dark and the little town was asleep. The parking lot was filled with men . . . And many dragons. And there was . . . The Great Sky Dragon. I don't know how to explain this.

"He's like a dragon god. Not like God, the God above, the one God, but like a god. Like . . . like the Roman gods would be to humans. That's how the Great Sky Dragon was to the rest of us. I could imagine people offering sacrifices and . . . virgins to him. Like in the legends. And he had the Pearl."

Tom heard himself sigh. "I wanted the Pearl. I'm not stupid. Not when I don't want to be. They were all basking in the glow of the Pearl and stuff. And they were all scared of the Great Sky Dragon. I'm not very good at being scared," he said, and watched Rafiel nod.

"I was impressed by the Great Sky Dragon," Tom said. "But not scared as such. So I paid attention to who took the Pearl, and it was another dragon in attendance. He put it in a wicker basket. And I loitered till the dragon shifted shape. He was the owner of a small Chinese restaurant in town. I followed him there. And then . . . I . . . well . . . I waited. And I watched. And I planned. And then I ran in, got the Pearl and got out of there fast."

Tom frowned. "I must have taken them completely by surprise, because they didn't even think to follow me for a while. And meanwhile I found out they couldn't sense or follow the Pearl by sense if it was submerged in water. I couldn't follow it if it was submerged in water. I brought it out West inside an aquarium packed in foam peanuts in a cardboard box, in the luggage hold of various busses."

"Did it help with the addiction?" Rafiel asked.

"It helped with controlling myself, not necessarily the addiction—though perhaps the two are related. When I got it out and looked at it, I felt . . . calm, peaceful, accepted. And then even if I shifted, I didn't feel like it was a terrible thing or that I should be shunned or killed for it. Does it make sense?"

Rafiel nodded. He was frowning. Keith was looking back, and his eyes were wide—and was that pity in them? Tom didn't want Keith's pity.

"Anyway," he said, looking out the window at the mostly deserted landscape they were crossing, "anyway, I kicked the habit. It wasn't as difficult as I thought. Rough moments, but I think that the fact we heal so easily . . ." He shrugged.

Rafiel nodded. "It would help, wouldn't it? The tendency to reassert balance. And Keith, when you asked if we were, I guess, immortal? I don't know, not more than anyone else. It's hard to say. Until you die you don't know, and then it's academic. I try to stay away from people trying to shoot me with silver bullets."

"Or any bullets," Tom said, wryly. "And before you ask, I brought the Pearl with me to Goldport. And it's stashed in water. They want it back. To be honest, I wouldn't mind giving it back, but I can't. Because I think once I give it back to them, they kill me."

Rafiel made a face. "There has to be a way of giving it back." He was quiet a while. Then he said, "But I guess it doesn't have anything to do with the beetles, then?"

Tom shrugged. "I didn't know about the beetles till tonight."

"What would you estimate the percentage of shifters in the population is?" Rafiel said. "From your travels?"

"I don't know," Tom said. "Not very high. Considerably less than one percent. Even if we go on legends."

"Even if we go on legends . . ." Rafiel said, as an echo. "But you know, we know three at least, in our immediate sphere, and then there's the beetles, at least two. From their size, there's no way they can be nonshifters. And there's one of their victims who smelled like a shifter—though I only caught a bit of blood. And another that was definitely a shifter. The corpse in the parking lot." He nodded at Tom. "His wife said he was a coyote shifter."

"Lucky bastard," Tom said feelingly. "A coyote would be much easier."

Rafiel laughed and for a moment there was a bond. "Tell me about it," he said. "Here's the thing, though, Tom, why so many of us? And why is all this activity around the Athens?"

Tom shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Except," Keith said, "except maybe there's something like the Pearl of Heaven? Something that calls shifters there? That works on shifters?"

"Perhaps the Pearl?" Rafiel asked.

Tom didn't think Rafiel was working for the triad, but you never knew. "Not the Pearl," he said. "At any rate, where I have the Pearl, it's submerged. So it's not exerting influence on anyone. If the dragons who know what it feels like can't feel it, then neither can anyone else."

"Um . . ."

"Speaking of the triad," Tom said. "How come we're driving their car, and they're not hot on our trail?"

"Well . . . you flamed them pretty thoroughly," Keith said.

"Yeah, but . . . come on? No one has checked? And don't forget they have aerial transportation."

"Well," Rafiel said. "Two things. While you were in the bathroom at the station, I called some friends in New Mexico and told them the old station was a triad hangout and I'd heard from a friend that it had just gone up in flames. At a guess, any of them that got out is in too much trouble to talk, much less count the car wrecks in the parking lot. It's genuinely possible they think you burned."

Tom nodded. "And the other thing?"

Keith chuckled. "We bought three cans of spray paint. While you were in the restroom, we spray painted the top of the car. Just the top. So that aerial surveillance . . ."

"Painted? What color?"

"Mostly bright orange," Rafiel said. "It was what they had. The front is still black. We ran out of paint." He grinned at Keith who was still chuckling. "People did look at us like we were nuts."

"I bet."

"So what do we do now?" Keith asked.

"Well, first we get to Goldport," Rafiel said. "I'd like to change clothes . . ." He frowned down at himself. "And I probably should call in and figure out the news on the case. Also tell them I didn't drop from the face of the world, since I was supposed to be at work a few hours ago."

"And then?" Keith said.

"And then I think Tom and I, and Kyrie should get together and figure out what we're going to do. Both about the Pearl of Heaven and the triad and about the beetles." He looked back at Tom. "They attacked Kyrie's house, you know, after you left."

"Damn. Is she okay?"

"She's fine."

"My fault," Tom said. "I shouldn't have stayed there. They were probably after me."

"Don't be a fool. I think they were after her. She had seen them in the parking lot, dragging a corpse, and it was clear they knew she saw them."

"Hey," Keith said. "Why you and Tom and Kyrie? Why am I being left out of this? What have I done wrong?"

Rafiel frowned. "Well, you're not . . . one of us, are you? I mean . . . we have to police our own and help our own, because if one of us is discovered, the others will be too. But you don't have to help us. You're not . . ."

"Yeah, but I want to help," Keith said. "Can I like be an honorary shape-shifter or something?"

"Why?" Tom asked, puzzled.

"Oh, hell. You guys are cool. It's like SF or a comic book."

"Except you could get hurt. Quickly," Tom said.

"I could get hurt very quickly anyway. Look, they knew you were my friend, they came to my house to get me. Surely that means I'm already not safe. I might as well help."

"Tom, he has a point," Rafiel said. "Kyrie's house is clearly not safe. Your apartment is destroyed. I doubt that Keith's apartment is safe. And I . . ."

"You?"

"I live with my parents," Rafiel said. "They know I'm a shifter. They help me if needed. It's convenient."

"I didn't say anything," Tom said.

Rafiel shrugged. "But I can't bring you guys there. If we're tracked . . . I can't risk them. Dad isn't doing so well these days."

"So you're saying you don't know where we can get together?"

Rafiel nodded. "Drop me off at home first. Then call Kyrie and tell her to meet you somewhere. Then pick me up in her car. We should leave this one in a public park or something. I don't think they'll report it stolen, but you never know." He drummed his fingers on the side of the wheel. "And then we'll figure out where to go. Perhaps a hotel room? A hotel would be good, wouldn't it? It's so public that I don't think even the triad would risk it."

Tom nodded.

"And I'm in? I'm in, right?" Keith asked.

"You're in," Rafiel said.

"There's a distinct possibility you're too addled to be left on your own," Tom said.

"Hey," Keith said, but he was smiling.

Tom felt odd. There was a weird camaraderie. He hadn't had friends in a long time. He hadn't ever had friends, truly. Not real friends.

He only hoped he could keep them all alive by the end of this.

* * *

Kyrie was standing at the counter, adding up her hours, when her cell phone rang. She dipped into the apron pocket, and brought it out. "Yes?"

"Kyrie?"

It was Tom. Until she felt relief flooding through her, she didn't realize that she couldn't be absolutely sure he was still alive till she heard from him.

She almost called his name, but then realized that Anthony was behind the counter doing something and that she didn't know if Frank was hanging out somewhere. So, instead, she said, "Yes?"

"Thank God it's you," he said. There was a sound like coughing. "You didn't say anything and I wondered if I'd done something wrong and called the police department in New Mexico."

"What?"

"Later. Rafiel said he'd told you that you might need to pick us up."

"Yes."

"Well, can you come? We're in the parking garage for the zoo. We've parked on the third level, and we'll come down to meet you up front. In front of the zoo."

"We?"

"Keith and I. We'll swing by Rafiel's place on the way, okay?"

"Sure."

She hung up and found Anthony staring at her. "Was that Frank?"

"No."

"Damn," Anthony said. "I don't know where he's gone. I'm going to have to stay here and wait for the day-shift people. Will you wait with me?"

"I can't," Kyrie said. "I've got to meet a friend."

"The guy you were talking to?" Anthony asked, gesturing toward the enclosure. "He looks an awful lot like Tom."

"It's his father," Kyrie said, as she headed for the door. She'd parked up front again. She didn't think she could ever park in the parking lot again. Not for all the money in the world.

"Oh," Anthony said, just as she opened the door and went out.

Kyrie realized a little too late that Anthony might think that she was having an affair with Tom's dad. But she didn't think so. Anthony was a rather conventional person, other than the bolero thing, and was more likely to have her engaged to Tom in his mind—and to assume that his father's visit had something to do with finalizing the arrangements.

The drive to the zoo wasn't long. Just a few blocks down Fairfax and then a turn into a tangle of streets named after presidents.

It didn't really matter which you took, since they were all parallel. Either Madison or Jackson took you to a sharp turn at Taylor and then up Wilson where the street namers had run out of presidents and offered, instead, Chrisalys Street, which in turn, exhausted by all these flights of fancy ended in Main Parkway, where the zoo, the library, and the pioneer museum were all located.

Finding Tom and Keith at the entrance wasn't hard either. She simply took a long turn around the parking lot, and—circling by the door—saw the two only people standing there, since the zoo was still closed.

She very much doubted it would have been hard to find them even if there had been crowds streaming by the door, though. Tom looked like he'd been put through a shredder. There was blood on his face, his hair was a mess, and he looked like he was about to fall over of tiredness.

But he smiled when he saw her, and she couldn't help smiling back as she opened the door. For some reason, she expected him to be mad at her, for throwing him out—for thinking he'd gotten high. But he didn't look resentful at all. He sat in the passenger seat, while Keith took the backseat. And Tom strapped himself down with the seat belt, too, she noted.

"We have to call Rafiel and go get him," Tom said.

"We do?"

"Yes. He went home to change. His clothes were shredded sometime . . . around the time they captured him." He gave her a quick rundown of everything that had happened and Kyrie listened, eyebrows raised, trying not to show just how harrowing the account was. Particularly the torture.

When he was done she thought how strange he was that he should have endured all that torture and yet have roused himself to action when he thought Keith—and herself—were in trouble. She took a sidelong glance at Tom, who was dialing his cell phone. There was someone there, she thought. Someone salvageable despite whatever his upbringing and his unexpected shifter nature had done to him.

"Rafiel," Tom said into the phone. Followed by raised eyebrows and, "I see." Which was, in turn, followed by, "Sure."

"He wants to know where we're going to be. He says he'll meet us. He's looking up some data on missing people. He says there's a spike over the last two months. He wants to know what the chances are those people are shifters. Something in the family interviews might give it away, he said. And he definitely wants to figure out how many people were headed for the Athens or vicinity when they disappeared. So he says he'll meet us wherever we're going. And he asks which hotel."

Hotel. Kyrie had been thinking about this. There was an off chance the triad—or the beetles, whoever they were—would decide to call around to hotels for their names. But the hotels they would call around to—if they got around to that—would be in their price range. Not the Spurs and Lace.

"We thought it would be better to meet at a hotel," he said into the phone. "Particularly a large hotel. Lots of guests. No shape-shifter even one not quite in his right mind would want to have that kind of public revelation."

"Where are we going?" he said. "Rafiel says he'll meet us wherever."

"Tom . . . What do you think of your father?"

Tom's eyes widened. His face lost color—which she would have thought impossible before. "Why?" he asked.

"Because he's in town and he—"

"Hang on a second," Tom said into the phone. "I'll call you back in a couple of minutes." He hung up the phone and set it in his lap, then looked at Kyrie. "My father?" he said, not so much as though he were verifying her words, but as though he were in doubt that such a thing as a father existed.

"Your father came to town two days ago and he—"

"Oh, shit," Tom said. "You realize he's probably working for the triad?"

"He was," Kyrie said.

"And? What did he do? Where did he go?"

"He came to me."

Tom's hand clenched so hard on the phone that his knuckles shone white through the pale skin. His face remained impassive. "What did he ask you?"

"Many things. But most of all he seemed to be concerned with where you were, and I couldn't have helped him even if I wanted to."

Tom nodded. "And?"

"And I realized he was working for the triad and I was so shocked that I . . . I left."

"Good," Tom said, and picked up the phone again. "Now, where should we go to that Rafiel can meet us?"

"Tom," Kyrie said, speaking in a low voice because she felt as though Tom were something very unstable on the verge of an explosion. Should not be shaken, stirred, or even looked at cross-eyed, as far as she could tell. "Your father has a hotel room. At the Spurs and Lace."

She expected the silence, and it came, but then she expected a flip remark, and that didn't come. Instead, Tom's face seemed set in stone, his eyebrows slightly pulled together as if he were puzzled, his face expressionless, his eyes giving the impression of being so unreadable that they might as well have a blind pulled down in front of them.

"He said to call him if we needed anything."

"Kyrie," Tom said. It was a slow, even voice. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No." She was prepared to be firm. It was the best solution, and yes, she realized it would disturb Tom, but she was determined to keep them safe. By force if needed. "No. I'm not. He said to call him, and we can meet him at the Spurs and Lace. Our names won't be on the register and I don't think anyone will think that he and you will be under the same roof."

"And there are reasons for that," Tom said, his voice still even. "Kyrie, he's working for the triad."

"No, he's not. He realized that they wanted to . . . kill you. And he came to me. He wanted me to save you."

"No. That might have been what he said. But he was just trying to find me, to—"

"Tom, I am not an idiot," Kyrie said, and saw something flicker in his eyes and for just a moment thought that Tom was going to tell her she was. But he didn't say anything, and she went on. "I saw what he was doing first, but he changed. He said that he didn't want you dead. He came to the Athens in the middle of the night, looking like the walking dead. And he begged me to help him."

"Kyrie. He's a lawyer. Lawyers lie. It's right in the contract."

She shook her head. "He wasn't lying."

"No? How not? What sign did he give you of his amazing turnaround, Kyrie? Tell me. Maybe it will convince me. I know the bastard far better than you do." He left the phone resting on his knees and crossed his arms on his chest, in a clear body-language sign that like hell he'd listen.

"If he shifts into a dragon in the car, I'm jumping out," Keith said, quietly, from the back.

Kyrie ignored Keith. "I know he's changed in his view of it, because he tried to convince me how bad you are."

Tom's eyes widened. "All right, Kyrie. I was the one who was hit on the head, but you seem to be the one affected by it. He's always said how bad I was."

"No," Kyrie said, and shook her head. "Not like this. He stopped just short of saying you botched your spelling bee in third grade. Your father, Tom, realized suddenly that he messed up big with you. And he's trying to justify it to himself by telling someone in increasingly more ridiculous terms how nasty a person you are."

Tom didn't answer. He was biting the corner of his lower lip.

"Look—I—" She stopped short of telling him she had done the same. Just. "I tend to do what he was doing, so I understand the process. Besides, when I told him you were safe, when Rafiel called, he went all slack. I've never seen someone so relieved."

"Okay, so maybe he didn't want me to die. Maybe he was relieved at that. Doesn't mean he won't change his mind again when he actually sees me."

"I don't think so," Kyrie said. "I don't think he will. And Tom, we could use his room. I'm indentured for the next six months, you can't have that much money. We'd have to get Rafiel to pay for it. I'd . . . I'd rather not." The last thing she wanted to tell Tom was that Rafiel had kissed her. Oh, Tom had no reason at all for jealousy, nor did she know if she had any interest in Tom's kissing her—Okay. So, she had to stop lying to herself, she thought again, looking at his face— Yeah, she wanted to kiss him. She just wasn't sure where it would go and that she wasn't sure if she wanted. But Tom had no reason for jealousy and she doubted he would have any, but she would still prefer not to tell him about it.

"Kyrie, I don't believe in big turnarounds. I don't believe people change that much."

Oh, she was going to hate to have to say this. "I don't believe it either, Tom, but . . . You're no longer a hard-core drug user who would steal cars for joyrides without a second thought, are you? So there must be change."

Tom's mouth dropped open. For a moment she thought he was going to ask her to stop the car so he could get out. His hand actually moved toward the door handle. And then he seemed to realize she wasn't insulting him. The meaning of her words seemed to actually penetrate through his thick head.

He took a deep breath and held the phone out to her. "You call Daddy Dearest."

It would have been easiest to tell him she was driving and couldn't, but Kyrie was aware of the victory this represented. So, instead, she pulled over into a vacant parking space on the side of Polk Street and grabbed the phone. Pulling Edward's number from her purse, she dialed.

The phone rang, and she asked for the room number from the bored-sounding receptionist. Then his bedroom phone rang. Once, twice, three, four times. She expected the message to come on, when the phone was picked up, and clearly dropped, and picked up again.

"Hello," a sleepy male voice said from the other side.

"Mr. Ormson?" Kyrie said.

"Kyrie." The name came out with force, as though it would be more effort to keep it in. "Tom. Is Tom all right? Anything wrong with—"

"No. Tom is right here. He's fine. We were wondering if we could camp in your hotel room for a few hours."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Tom and I, and a couple of friends. We're . . . in danger from . . . your friends and . . . other people. We wondered if we could hide there till we find a plan of action."

There was a silence from the other side. And then a voice that sounded as if he didn't quite know what he was saying. "Sure, of course. Sure." A small pause. "And Tom is with you?"

"Yes."

"Oh." A deep breath, the sound of it audible even through the phone. "Sure. Of course. Anything you need."

"Thank you," Kyrie said and hung up the phone. She handed the phone to Tom and said, "Call Rafiel."

"Daddy Dearest is even now calling the triad bosses," Tom said. His mouth set in an expression of petulant disdain. "They'll be there when we get there."

"I doubt it," Kyrie said.

"And if they are, we fight them," Keith said, leaning forward.

* * *

Okay, so being "scared" didn't even begin to describe the state of Tom's emotions as they pulled into the parking lot of the Spurs and Lace.

The problem wasn't being scared. He was used to being scared at this point. In the last three days, he'd been scared so often that he thought he wouldn't actually know what to do if he weren't in fear of someone or something. But this time he didn't even know what he was scared of.

Okay—so, if the triad members were there, Keith was right. They fought. And if Tom had to sacrifice himself so Kyrie and Keith got out of this unscathed, he would do so. He'd been prepared to do it before, in the abandoned gas station. So, why not now?

So . . . that wasn't the big source of his fear. The big source of his fear was that his father would be there, without the triad, and that all would be seemingly nice between them. He couldn't imagine talking to his father as if nothing had happened, as if . . . Worse, he couldn't imagine his father talking to him like that. But he'd been worried about Tom. Tom couldn't understand that either.

He settled for thinking that his father had been exchanged by aliens. It didn't make much sense and it wasn't very likely, but heck, what around here was likely? He'd just think that this was pod-father, and with pod-father, he had no history.

He got out of the car, and followed Kyrie and Keith up to the elevator and up in the elevator to the room, only slightly gratified by the puzzled looks the staff gave him. Up at the fifth floor, they walked along the cool, carpeted hallway toward room 550.

Tom took in the trays with used dishes at the door to the rooms, and the general atmosphere of quiet. There were no detectable odors in the air. Down the hallway, an ice machine hummed and clunked.

The classiest place he'd been in before this was Motel Six. Oh, he supposed he'd been in hotels as a child. In fact, he had vague memories of a trip to Rome with mother and father and, of course, his nanny, when he was ten. But most of the stuff before he'd left home now seemed to him like scenes from someone else's life.

And perhaps that was the best way to think about it. The Tom who'd been ordered at gunpoint from his childhood home was dead and gone. This new Tom was a stranger to the man in the room.

But when Kyrie knocked, the door was open by a man who looked far too much like the father Tom remembered for Tom not to take a step back, shocked—even as his father's gaze scanned him indifferently once, before returning, and then his eyes opened wider, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again in silence and, instead, stepped aside to let them in.

He was wearing the pants and a shirt for the type of suit that Tom remembered his father wearing—fabric good enough to look expensive without looking ostentatious. But this one looked like hell—or like he'd been sleeping in it. His hair too, was piled up in a way that suggested a total disregard for combs.

But the strangest thing was that, as he stepped aside, so they could enter the room, Tom's father stared intently at Tom.

Tom let his gaze wonder around the room, instead. It was . . . dark red. And opulent. There was a dark red bedspread on the bed and from its sheen it might have been real silk. Someone had pulled it up hastily and a bit crookedly, so Tom's father had probably been in bed when they called, and had tried to make the bed in a hurry. Tom felt a strange satisfaction about this. To his knowledge, it was the first time his father had engaged in housekeeping for Tom's benefit.

Besides the bed, there were a loveseat and three armchairs and two chairs, a huge desk, where his father had a laptop, resting. And a lot more empty space than there should be in a room with all that furniture.

Over the bed was an abstract collage that brought the art form completely out of the realm of nutty Seventies fads—a thing in deep textures and gold and bronze colors.

The bathroom, glimpsed as Tom was going past, was all marble and actually two rooms, the first of which contained just a sink with a hair dryer and various other essentials of toiletry. Tom ached for a shower with an almost physical pain, but he went in to the bedroom, quietly.

"Mr. Ormson," Kyrie said. "Thanks for letting us come in at such short notice."

He shook his head. "No problem. Make use of . . . whatever you want. Tom? Are you . . . There's blood on you."

Tom shook his head. "I'm fine." And then, as though betraying that he wasn't, he walked over to the most distant armchair and sat down, as far away from his father as he could get.

His father frowned at him a moment, but didn't say anything.

"I wonder if Rafiel is going to be much longer," Tom said, pretending not to feel the weight of that gaze on him.

Keith sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs, and Kyrie, after some hesitation, took the armchair next to Tom's.

She looked at him, too, but her gaze was not full of disapproving enquiry. Unlike his father's expression, Kyrie's was warm and full of sympathy.

He wanted to smile at her, to pat her hand. But just because the woman didn't want him dead; just because the woman didn't think he was dangerous or a criminal, it didn't mean that she had any interest whatsoever in him.

So instead, he fidgeted in the chair and looked out of the window into the parking lot. But he kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked good enough to eat—and not in the sense he'd threatened to eat tourists. That cinnamon skin, those heavy-lidded eyes. He looked away. If he allowed himself to contemplate the perfection of her lips, or the way her breasts—one of which he remembered with particular fondness—pushed out her T-shirt, he wouldn't be able to answer for his actions.

Instead, he looked again, at her tapestry-dyed hair, falling in lustrous layers. And he remembered he had something of hers.

Digging frantically in his jacket pocket, he brought it out. He saw her eyes widen, and her smile appear, as he offered her the earring on his palm.

"You found it," she said.

"My landlady did," he said. "And I took it. I was hoping . . . I was hoping I would see you again, to be able to give it to you."

He felt himself blush and felt like a total idiot. But Kyrie put the earring on and was smiling at him. He'd have been willing to go a long way for that. Coming to his father's hotel room seemed like a minor sacrifice.

Even if Daddy Dearest ended up selling them up the river.

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Framed