Kyrie was not in a good mood. Oh, she was sure most of the reason for her feeling as down as she did was the fact that she really hadn't slept much.
By her calculations, she had slept exactly two hours in the last forty-eight. And even with the best of payment plans—the handyman had allowed her to pay in installments for her new windows and doors—she would not have any spare cash for the next few months.
So she'd been going from table to table, forcing her professional smile and longing—just longing—for the end of the shift. It didn't help that the night was exceptionally hot and the single air-conditioning unit labored, helplessly, against the dry heat that plunged through the windows patrons opened and clung around Kyrie in a vapor of french-fry grease and hamburger smell.
"It doesn't help that Frank is acting like someone did him wrong," Anthony said, as he passed her on the narrow isle between the plastic tables in the addition and gave her a sympathetic scowl. "Couldn't you get your friend Tom to show up?" he said. "I mean, Frank said if I wanted to continue working here, I'd do this shift too."
"I don't know where Tom is," Kyrie said, her voice sounding even more depressed than she felt.
Anthony—tonight resplendent in a ruffled red shirt and his customary tight black pants and colorful vest—looked very aggrieved. "Only, I'm missing my bolero dance group practice." And, at the widening of her eyes that she couldn't control, "Oh, Lord. Why did you think I dressed this way?"
Kyrie just smiled and looked away. There was an answer she had no intention of giving. Instead, she took her tray laden with dirty dishes to behind the counter, scraped them, and loaded them into the dishwasher.
Needless to say the diner was crowded tonight. Probably because people couldn't sleep with the heat—since most houses in Colorado didn't have air-conditioning—and had decided to come here and eat the night away instead. Normally, Kyrie and Tom, after six months of working together, had things down to a routine. Whichever of them went to bus one of his tables did the other's tables too, if they needed doing. They'd worked it out, and it all evened out in the end. When the night was busy, it kept the tables clear so people could sit down as soon as other people left. And that was good. But Anthony, though he was a very nice man, wasn't used to Kyrie's routines.
Kyrie hesitated, alternating between being mad at Tom for not being here, and a sort of formless groping, not quite a prayer, toward some unnamed power to grant his safety. She had as good as kicked him out . . .
No. She wouldn't go there. Of all the useless emotions in the world, the most useless was guilt. She slammed the last dish in the dishwasher, and checked the cell phone she'd slipped into her apron pocket.
Rafiel had said he'd call as soon as he had checked on Tom. He'd call even if he couldn't find Tom. He hadn't called yet. Why hadn't he called?
Kyrie turned from the dishwasher, expecting to see Frank glaring at her for slamming the dish in. But Frank was leaning over the counter, seemingly elated by intimate conference with his girlfriend—or at least the woman he'd been seeing. Kyrie was afraid the staff had decided she was his girlfriend partly as a joke. Which was kind of funny, because the woman was not much to look at.
She had to be fifty if she was a day, with the kind of lined, weathered skin that people got when they'd lived too long outdoors. And she had the sort of features that were normally associated with British women of a horsey kind. Her hair was flyaway, mostly white, and if it could be said to have been styled, she'd been aiming to look like popular pictures of Einstein.
But Frank was leaning forward toward her, to the point where there foreheads almost touched. It revealed his neck, above the T-shirt, and showed a bandage there. Ew. Had his girlfriend given him a hickey?
They'd been seeing each other for a while, but today they seemed cozier than Kyrie had ever seen them.
On the way back to her tables, coffeepot in hand for warm-ups, Kyrie noticed that, despite the woman's weathered features, she wore a very expensive skirt suit. Maybe Frank was interested in her for her money?
"Or maybe he has no taste," she told Anthony, as they met one coming and one going into the addition. "But see, you wished him to get laid and there . . ."
"Don't say it," Anthony said. "Don't even say it. I don't have the money to buy as much mental floss as I'd need to get that image out of my mind." He made a face, as he moved the tray the other way, to clear the doorway. "But it's been going on for a while, now, hasn't it? I hear she's the new owner of the castle. And there's talk she's going to renovate it and use it as a bed-and-breakfast. So, perhaps it is just for money." He looked hopeful.
Kyrie gave her warm-ups and then started taking orders. Went back and gave the orders to Frank, whom, she was sure, was ignoring them. Or didn't even notice the new handful of orders spiked through the order wire.
Then she went back again, having caught movement by the corner of her eye, and the impression someone had sat in the enclosure. It wasn't until she was at the corner table, near the outer door, facing the guy who had just sat down, that she recognized Tom's father.
He looked like he'd been dragged through hell. Backward. By his heels. He looked like he hadn't slept in more hours than she'd been awake. His suit was rumpled, his hair looked like he'd washed it and not given it the benefit of a comb—or clergy, since it tossed in all directions, as if possessed of a discordant spirit.
His dark blue eyes stared at her from amid bruised circles. "Don't say it," he said. "I know what you think of me, but don't say anything. I think . . ." He swallowed. "I think that there's reason. Oh, hell. I think they're going to kill Tom. I need help."
That he needed help was a given. That he was so worried about their killing Tom was not. She glared at him. "You didn't seem to be worried about him at all before," she said.
"I . . ." He swallowed again. "I've been thinking and . . . I don't want them to kill him."
Well, and wasn't that big of him? After all, Tom was only his son. She narrowed eyes at him. The shock, when she'd realized he was working for the people who'd already tried to kill his son once, had turned her stomach. She still didn't feel any better about Mr. Edward Ormson. She'd be less disgusted by a giant beetle. "What will you be eating, sir?"
He looked as surprised as if she'd slapped him. "What . . . what . . . I need to talk. Seriously. They're—"
She took her notebook out of her apron pocket, and tapped the pencil on the page. "I'm at work, Mr. Ormson, and my job is to get people food. What can I get you?"
"I . . . whatever you want . . ."
"We're all out of rat poison," Kyrie said, the words shocking her as they came out of her mouth.
His eyes widened. "Coffee. Coffee and a . . ." He looked at the menu. "Piece of pie."
She wrote it down and walked away. She really, really, really needed to convince Frank to start making Brussels sprout pies. Or cod liver oil ones.
Tom woke up from a sort of formless dream. He didn't remember falling asleep. His last memory had been of Crest Dragon and Other Dragon having a picnic of sorts in front of him.
Now he opened his eyes to an empty building. He didn't know how long he'd slept, but his nose no longer hurt, and it seemed to him like the pain in his tied arms had eased a little too. Perhaps he'd gotten used to being tied up. Or perhaps his arms had been without circulation so long that he could no longer feel them.
The last should have been alarming, except it wasn't. Everything seemed very distant, as if a great sheet of glass made of indifference separated him from the world and his own predicament.
He lay there, and listened to his own breathing. He would assume he still hadn't talked, though it was—of course—possible he had said something while he was in a half awake state. And if he had . . .
Well, it was possible that the three dragons had gone off to get the Pearl and would presently come back and kill him. Tom could shift now, of course, but what if they were still here? Perhaps just outside? First, as tired as he was, he couldn't fight all three of them at once. Second, what if he ate them?
His mouth felt so dry—his tongue glued to his palate by thirst, that he was sure he would bite them just for the moisture. And yet, there was an off chance. Would he lay here and wait for death? No. He would shift. As difficult as it was, as tiring as it was, he would shift.
Before he could collect his mind enough to concentrate on the shift, though, he heard sounds outside. A couple of cars, a lot of voices. Speaking Chinese. He closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.
A group of people came in, babbling in Chinese. Several men, by the sound of it. Tom half opened his eyes, just enough to look through his eyelashes, without anyone realizing that he was actually awake. He forced himself to keep his breathing regular.
And then from the middle of the babble a voice emerged. "Hey. Hey, what's the idea?"
Keith. The voice was Keith's. What was Keith doing here, though?
"You're okay, you're okay," one of the other voices answered, in accented English. "As soon as your friend answers questions, we'll let you go."
And then two men came in, breathing hard, carrying a sack with something very heavy in it. "Where do we put her?" they asked.
"Here," another voice answered. The forest of legs in front of Tom parted enough for him to see, on the ground, a trussed-up human, and the big sack being laid down behind it.
"She's starting to wake up," one of the men said.
"That's fine," another one answered. "With the tranq she'll be weak as a kitten for a while."
A kitten. Tom blinked, trying to focus his gaze. A kitten. The sack—some kind of rough burlap—was large enough to contain a heavy feline. She. Kitten. Kyrie. Not Kyrie.
"Oh, look, he's awake," one of the men who'd come in—and who looked far smarter than the three reverse geniuses—said and grinned. "Yes, that is your girlfriend, but don't worry. So long as you tell us where you hid the Pearl of Heaven, she'll be just fine."
Kyrie. Tom didn't want to shift. If he shifted, he was going to eat someone. But he couldn't tell them where the Pearl of Heaven was, either. Because then they'd just kill him. And Keith. And Kyrie.
He felt his heart speed up and his body spasm. And there was no turning back.
There was blood. There was blood and screams and panic. Tom's vision—the dragon's vision, was filled with people. He flamed. There was the smell of fire, and of cloth burning. People with clothes on fire ran to either side of him.
The dragon wanted to feed. To the dragon's nostrils, all flesh was food. The smell of humans, the smell of fodder so close was more than he could endure. The dragon tried to nip left, right . . .
But Tom knew once the dragon started feeding, it wouldn't stop till all humans around it were eaten. He knew from some deep instinctive feeling that having reached the depths of hunger, the dragon would now eat past satiety. And he couldn't let it happen. He couldn't.
If he ate a human, he'd never be able to live with himself. And if he ate Kyrie . . . No.
Tom—what there was of Tom in the huge scaley body with the flapping wings and the tearing claws and the flaming mouth, controlled the body and the wings and the mouth. Forcefully, he walked forward slashing with his claws at all opposition. Taken by surprise, the others ran out of the way. Tom could hear, to his side, the cough-cough-cough like laughter of a dragon shifting. He would deal with that later.
Before the dragon shifted, before he had to battle others of his kind, he would free Keith. And Kyrie.
Disciplining the dragon, he bent over Keith, and, with a sharp claw, burst the ropes that bound his friend's legs and hands. Keith was looking at Tom with huge eyes and, for a moment, Tom thought he would run away. He remembered that Keith had no idea who the dragon was. But Keith was looking intently at him and said, "Tom?"
Tom nodded, rapidly, and managed to get out, through a mouth not well adapted to speech, "Run."
Then he bent and ripped the burlap bag open. He couldn't see the feline—definitely a feline shape—inside move, though. He felt more than saw movement from it, and then he heard a stumping step from the side, and knew that a dragon had shifted shape near him.
He turned, just in time to find Crest Dragon launching himself at Tom.
Tom jumped aside, enough to avoid Crest Dragon's slashing and then turned around. Then he bent low and slashed across Crest Dragon's belly with a claw.
Bright blood spurted, and there was something like a scream that sounded all too human. The blood made the dragon's thirst worse, but Tom wouldn't let it drink, and, instead, hopped back, to slash at Two Dragons who had shifted shape also, and was trying to sneak up on Tom with all the stealth of an elephant in a very small china shop.
Tom's dragon kicked out at Crest Dragon, who was coming at him again, his back claws leaving red stripes of blood on Crest Dragon's muzzle, even as his muzzle clamped tight on Two Dragon's arm and pulled, ripping it out of its socket.
"Look out, look out, look out," Keith screamed from beside Tom. And he'd grabbed something—Tom couldn't quite see what, but it looked like an ancient and rusted tire iron. Keith was looming with it behind Other Dragon, who had, in turn been sneaking out behind Tom.
Tom clashed jaws at Other Dragon, but Keith hit Other dragon a sideways blow with whatever the thing was. It must have been a hell of an implement, and heavy enough, because Other Dragon gave a high-pitch scream and fell forward.
But there were other dragons. Too many dragons. A lot of the people who had come in had been severely burned by Tom's original flaming, and lay fallen, some in various stages of shifting shape, but seemingly out of action. But then there were others. Many others.
As a dragon, Tom wasn't particularly good at counting. There was something in the reptilian brain that tended to simplify things down to the level of one, two many. But the human inside that brain could tell there were at least eight dragons. Maybe more. And Tom was tired. And weak.
He was surrounded by dragons, on all sides, snipping and biting at him. He could feel wounds, even if he couldn't stop. If he stopped, he would die. And though that seemed—eventually—inevitable, he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
He circled and nipped. Until his back was to a wall and he was surrounded by dragons. Truth was, he thought, they could already have killed him. They were holding back. They probably just wanted to hurt him enough that he wouldn't be able to resist—he wouldn't be able to stop them from making him answer . . .
But if they didn't want to kill him, that gave him the advantage. He kicked and bit with renewed vigor, and realized that he had allies. On the outer ring, at the edge, Keith was dancing, like a mad monkey—which was exactly how Tom's dragon brain thought of him—repeatedly bashing the dragons at the periphery with whatever heavy implement he'd grabbed.
Oh, they turned, and tried to flame him, but Keith was too quick for them, jumping and running into the darkness, only to appear again somewhere unexpected, and bash another dragon over the head.
And from the other side, another . . . person? Had joined the fray. Only it wasn't in person shape, but as a large feline.
In the semidarkness of the station—was it dark out now?—Tom couldn't see very clearly, but he could see that it was a feline shape. And it was roaring and clawing and biting.
Suddenly, Tom realized he had an open way out of there, to the front door. Awkwardly, his legs streaming blood, Tom ran for it, flaming everything that got in his way. The door had been left open. From carrying the hostages in? Outside in the parking lot there were a lot of cars, and two men who ran at the sight of Tom. Tom flamed the cars. They caught and some exploded. And then, as Tom slowed down, he felt a hand on his front leg. A human hand. Touching him.
He turned ready to flame, and saw Keith, who was physically pulling him forward, toward one of the cars. An undamaged one. "Dude," he said. "You have to change, or you'll have to go on the roof rack."
Tom was already shifting. It was the only way to stop from flaming Keith. He became human, and tired and in pain, in mid-stride, and it was only Keith's determination that pulled him forward, that shoved him into a car—huge car. Like a limo—from the driver's side, and pushed him over to the passenger side.
He threw something on the floor at Tom's feet. Tom was too tired to notice what and just leaned back, breathing hard. Keith waited, his hand on the ignition. Waited. Waited. And then something—Tom couldn't see very well, he was that tired and in that much pain—heavy hit the backseat.
Kyrie. Tom turned around, even as Keith reached back, grabbed the back door, pulled it shut, then started the car and took off, in a squeal of tires, weaving between the other parked cars on the way to the road, and then down it, at speeds that were probably forbidden in this neighborhood.
The feline looking at Tom from the backseat was not Kyrie. It was a lion. Tawny and definitely male.
As Tom watched, it morphed into police officer Rafiel Trall.
Edward Ormson didn't know what to say to this woman. Kyrie brought him back a cup of coffee and a slice of pie, and he actually reached forward and grabbed her wrist, before she could walk away.
"They have him prisoner," he said. "They have him prisoner and you must help him."
"I must help him?" Kyrie asked. She shook her hand, pulling it away from his grasp. "I must help him? How? Aren't you the one who has been trying to catch him, to get him to tell you everything for the benefit of the triad?"
Edward felt exasperated. The woman was beautiful. Her skin was just the tone, her features just exotic enough to make her look some ancient statue of a forgotten civilization—remote and admirable and inhuman. The tapestry-dyed hair only contributed to the impression. But she clearly didn't understand. "You're young," he said. "You haven't got any children. You wouldn't know what—"
"No," she said. And it sounded like an admission, but then she leaned forward on his table, her hands resting on it. "No, I don't have children. But if I did I am sure I wouldn't assume a . . . criminal group was in the right and he in the wrong."
"You don't understand," Edward said. "You don't understand at all. Why would he . . . Why would Tom mess with them? Doesn't he know better? Doesn't he understand? They're dangerous."
"Oh, I'm sure he knows that," she said. "And I'm sure I understand better than you do. I'm sure he had his reasons. They might have been wrong, but I'm sure he had his reasons. I've known Tom too long not to know that he had to have reasons for what he did. He's neither stupid nor crazy, though he is, perhaps, a little too reckless."
Edward snorted at this. "Look, I don't know how good my son is in bed, but—"
The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said entirely the wrong thing. She drew herself up. Her face became too impassive, too distant. "Mr. Ormson," she said. "I think you've said enough."
"No, listen, I know he appeals to women, he always has, but he—"
She pushed her lips together and looked at him with an expression that made him feel as though he were something smelly she had just found under her shoe. She opened her mouth. "Mr. Ormson," she said. "I have no idea what you think my relationship with your son is, but—"
At that moment, a phone rang. Kyrie plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron. "Rafiel," she said.
"Can I borrow your cell phone," Rafiel asked, all polite from the backseat.
"My . . .?" Tom asked. Couldn't the man see Tom was naked? Where did he think Tom kept a cell phone, exactly?
"The cell phone," Rafiel said.
"From your backpack, dude. All your stuff is in there," Keith said, looking aside from his driving, even as he took perilous turns at high speed on the country road. Behind them, in the rearview mirror, Tom could see a blaze going up.
"The other . . . aren't they chasing us?" he asked.
"Nah. You set fire to their cars and the station."
"I did?" Tom asked.
"Yep. As you came out. You were flaming all directions. I grabbed you to prevent you from flaming this car. Don't your remember?"
Tom shook his head. He didn't. But he'd been running on adrenaline.
"And Rafiel stayed behind to keep them in there, until the fire caught. Some must have escaped, but I don't think they're in a state to follow us." He looked at Tom, even as he took a sharp turn onto the highway toward Colorado. "That was awesome," he said, and grinned.
"Your cell phone?" Rafiel asked from the backseat. "If I may."
Tom forced himself to open his backpack. And almost wept at the sight of his black leather jacket, his boots, his meager possessions. He rifled through them, till his hand closed on the cell phone. He passed it to Rafiel, without even asking why or what was so urgent about a phone call.
"You could dress," Keith said. "You know . . ."
And Tom, obediently, without thinking, pulled out his spare T-shirt and pair of jeans and put them on. Then he slipped on his jacket and boots.
Rafiel was talking to someone on the cell phone. "No, damn it, he's fine. Well, he's bleeding, but you know we heal quickly. Don't worry. We'll be there in six hours or so."
"I have to drink something," Tom said. "I have to."
"Um . . . we might stop at a convenience store," he said. He leaned forward, toward Keith, and spoke urgently. "In this area, some of the convenience stores at the rest stops have everything. I could use a pair of shorts and a T-shirt."
Keith looked back, still driving, and grinned. "Yeah, you sure could."
"So," Rafiel said, into the phone. "Don't worry. We'll be there. Yes, I understand. We'll . . . discuss it later."
He turned the phone off and handed it to Tom, then leaned back in his seat.
Tom could only see him from the waist up, of course, but he seemed relatively unscathed by the ordeal. And he was . . . well, everything Tom was not. Much taller, much more self-assured. And a lion. Kyrie was a panther. Tom didn't have a chance.
"So," Keith said, oblivious to his friend's thoughts. "How long have you guys been able to change into animals, and how do I get in on this?"
Kyrie stood, holding the phone, not quite sure what to do or say. Edward Ormson was looking at her, attentively.
"Look," he said. "I know I have said the wrong thing." His expression changed as if he read a response she wasn't aware of expressing in her features. "Okay, many wrong things. But look, however misguided, however wrongheaded, your . . . your reaction to what I was trying to do, to my trying to obtain the Pearl from Tom woke me, made me realize how bizarre all of this was. I haven't seen Tom in five years, and I'll confess I was a horrible father. But I don't want him to die. Can you help me?"
Kyrie looked at him a long time. She'd taken his measure the first time they'd met. Or at least she'd thought so. He was cold and self-centered. A smart man and probably well-educated and definitely good-looking, he was used to having his own way and very little used to or interested in caring for anyone else.
He would have, Kyrie thought, viewed Tom as an accessory to his lifestyle. He'd have the beautiful wife, the lovely home and, oh, yes, the son. Tom—if Tom's personality had always been somewhat as it was now—must have been a hell of a disappointment. They must have clashed constantly—supposing Edward paid enough attention to his son to clash with him.
Weirdly, it was that resentment he felt toward Tom, the fact he talked about Tom as having been insufferable that gave her a feeling that, however hidden, however denied even to himself, the man must care for his son. Because if he didn't truly give a damn about Tom, Tom wouldn't get under his skin so much.
Then she realized she could very well be speaking about herself. She had spent an awful lot of the last six months reassuring herself of how impossibly annoying Tom was.
Of course, he was annoying. Tom was quite capable of sulking through an entire work shift, for reasons she never understood. And he had this way of looking at her, then flinching away as if he'd seen something that displeased him. Particularly on those silent, sulking days. He was also quite capable of doing exactly the opposite of what you asked him to do, if he thought you hadn't asked him nicely enough. But . . .
But Tom was also unexpectedly generous. He would cover for her if she needed it, not complaining about the extra work. He would cover her tables, too, if she was moving slow because she was tired or not feeling well. He would bus a disproportionate number of tables and not call her on it. He had a way of smiling and shrugging and walking away when she offered to give him part of her tips after he'd helped her with the tables. And once when she'd pressed him, he'd said, "Oh, it all evens out, Kyrie." She remembered that.
And he had a way of appreciating the funniest of their diners. Sometimes, while enjoying a particularly funny interaction between a college-age couple, Kyrie would look over and find Tom smiling at them, in silent amusement. And, of course, he was—she remembered him naked, in the parking lot—distractingly handsome. As disturbing as the circumstances had been . . . it couldn't be denied that he was attractive. Despite his height, she'd often seen college girls batting eyes and displaying chests and legs at him.
So, her constant annoyance at him might very well have been a defense.
She realized she was grinning, as well as blushing because Edward Ormson was looking at her as if she had just taken leave of her senses.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just realized why your son annoys me so much," and was gratified to see him look puzzled at this. "But you don't need to worry about him right now. He is . . . fine now."
"He is?" Edward Ormson started to get up, then sat down. He looked as though someone had cut all his strings, or whatever had been holding him up. He visibly sagged in his chair.
He looked so relieved that she had to smile. She picked up his coffee cup. "Let me get you another coffee. Warmer."
But he got up and handed her a twenty-dollar bill. "No," he said. "No. I don't think I need the coffee. Or the . . . pie. I just need to go to bed. I'm . . ." He rubbed his hand across his forehead. "I find I'm very tired." He pulled something else from his wallet and wrote rapidly in the back of it. "This is my card. There's my cell phone on the front and I put my room number at Spurs and Lace." He handed it to Kyrie. "If Tom should . . ." He swallowed. "If you tell Tom . . ." He shrugged. "I don't want . . . Let him decide."
"I owe you about ten, twelve dollars change," Kyrie said. "Even with tip."
But he waved it away. "I don't want to waste time. I don't care. I'm very tired. I haven't slept in . . . much too long."
Kyrie almost argued, but then she saw him stumble to the door. She put the bill in her apron pocket. She would ring it up later.
She wondered where Tom was and how he really was. And what was happening.
When they stopped at the convenience store, Keith went in first.
"I forgot to ask if he had any money," Rafiel said from the back.
Tom had been dozing. He opened his eyes and looked back at Rafiel, then at the front of the brightly lit store and grinned. "I'd tell you that he probably does, but since we're talking about a man who thinks driving while looking backwards to talk to you is a perfectly safe practice, I can't really be sure."
Rafiel nodded. He looked . . . less than composed and was hiding behind the backseat. Fortunately though even at this time of night the convenience store/rest stop was full of people, Keith had parked in a place with two empty spaces on either side. Of course, the store was brightly lit in front and even with the tinted windows, Rafiel had to feel awfully exposed.
"I don't think anyone can see in," Tom said, in what he hoped was a friendly voice. He was still starving and his mouth felt dry as sandpaper, but the brief doze had made him feel much more human, much more in command of his own faculties. He felt . . . almost like himself. Enough to feel sorry for the guy. Even if the guy had a lot more chances with Kyrie than Tom himself.
Rafiel raised his eyebrows at Tom's comment, and nodded. "I hope not, I would never live down being arrested for indecent exposure. Even if I explained it—somehow—and went free. It's not something police officers are supposed to do, walking around naked."
"Must be a bitch," Tom said, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. He wanted to go in and get water and food. All his money was still in the backpack. He'd checked. But he would prefer to go in with one—or preferably—two people who could grab him if he passed out. Or started shifting and tried to eat one of the tourists.
"Yeah," Rafiel said, quietly. "I have clothes hidden all over town." He was silent a minute. "I just never thought I needed them in the neighboring towns too."
Tom smiled in acknowledgment of the joke, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
"I don't think we've been formally introduced," Rafiel said. "My name is Rafiel Trall. I'm a police officer of Goldport."
Tom opened one eye to see a hand extended in his general direction. He shook it, hard. "Thomas Ormson," he said. "Troublemaker. Broadly speaking of Goldport, also."
Rafiel nodded. "I haven't thanked you for saving my life," he said.
"You don't need to," Tom said. "I thought you were someone else."
Rafiel smiled. "At least you had the excuse of darkness. Apparently other . . . dragons have trouble telling a female panther from a male lion. In full light."
"Ah . . . how did . . .?"
"Kyrie had sent me to check on Keith," Rafiel said, then frowned. "No. To tell you the truth, Kyrie sent me to look for you. She thought Keith might know where you were. So I was at his place when dragons came in. Through the window. So I . . . shifted before I knew what I was doing. And they tranquilized me. With a dart gun."
Tom nodded. "They really weren't very polite," he said, thinking how much preferable a dart gun would be than what they'd done to him. "I think they injected me with marinade."
Rafiel's face went very puzzled, but at that moment, Keith opened the door and threw a bundle at Rafiel. "Shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops. All in the best of taste and the cheapest stuff we could get and still make you decent. Enjoy."
Tom turned back to look at the clothes while Rafiel unfolded them. The T-shirt was white, with a mountain lion on the front and it said "Get Wild In New Mexico." The shorts were plaid and managed to look like a cross between bad golf clothes and a grandpa's underwear. And the flip-flops managed to combine green yellow and a headachy-violet in the minimal possible amount of rubber.
Looking at Rafiel staring aghast at the getup, Tom realized he really liked Keith an awful lot.
But Rafiel recovered quickly. "I'll pay you back, of course," he said.
Keith nodded. Tom, not sure Rafiel meant that as a threat or a promise, raised his eyebrows. Then he said, "Look, I'm dying of thirst. And hunger. I have some money and I want to go inside, but I want one of you to come with me. Or both, preferably."
"Why?" Keith asked.
"Well . . ." Tom shrugged. "I haven't eaten in very long. I also haven't slept much. When I eat I might pass out or . . . as soon as I'm a little stronger, I might try to shift and . . . eat tourists."
Keith's eyes went very wide.
Rafiel, moving frantically and, from the bits visible in the rear view mirror, dressing, in the back seat, said, "Even in Colorado that seems a bit drastic. And I don't even know if New Mexico's tourists are as annoying as ours." There was a sound of flip-flops thrown about, and then Rafiel opened the door. "Come on then. We'll escort you to the food and water."
Anthony had moved behind the counter and was turning burgers on the grill. That Frank didn't even seem to have realized he was cooking, was worrisome.
Anthony turned around, putting plates on the counter for Kyrie to pick up. "Those are your orders," he said. "And would you cover table fifteen for me? And table five?"
Kyrie nodded. She assumed that Frank hadn't responded to Anthony's requests that he cook. Considering that he normally wouldn't let them behind the counter for more than dishwasher-filling, coffee-pot-grabbing stints. But Frank was still bent over the counter, staring into the eyes of his dowdy girlfriend and whispering who knew what sweet nothings to her.
When had this become so serious? Kyrie had seen the woman around before, but never actually interfering with Frank's work.
They touched a lot, Kyrie noticed. More than they talked. Her hand was on his, her fingers beating a slow tattoo on the back of his hand. And his were on the side of her other arm, also beating some weird rhythm.
Ah, well. Dating for the speech impaired. And sight impaired, Kyrie thought, looking back at Frank's Neanderthal profile, and his girlfriend's faded lack of beauty.
But Anthony was moving the burgers and fries, mixing the salads, and generally cooking like a demon, and she didn't have much time to look at her employer as, over the next few minutes she carried trays back and forth, fulfilling long overdue orders for both her tables and Anthony's.
When she was caught up, she came back to get the carafe and the pitcher of iced tea for refills. Frank's girlfriend had got up and was heading out of the diner via the back hallway. Either that or going to the bathroom, of course.
And Frank had seemed to wake up. "No," he yelled at Anthony. "What are you doing?"
Uh-oh. Now the explosion came, Kyrie thought. But as she approached, she realized Frank wasn't storming over the fact that Anthony had been manning the grill and the deep frier. Instead, he was throwing a fit because there was a little insect on the counter, and Anthony had been about to squish it with a paper towel.
"What?" Anthony said, his hand poised above the little creature—who looked like a beetle of some sort, only too small to be any of the normal ones found in diners. "It's an IPS beetle, man. It lives in pines. It must have come in because the windows are open."
"There's no need to kill it," Frank said, pushing Anthony's hand away and taking the paper towel from it at the same time. With infinite patience, he coaxed the beetle onto the paper towel.
Anthony shrugged and turned the burgers. "It's not like it's endangered or anything, you know? They spray for them up in the mountains. They kill spruce."
But Frank didn't seem to care. He got the beetle all the way into the towel, then walked out back, along the hallway.
Half fascinated, wondering what could have turned Frank, purveyor of burgers to the masses, into a lover of the small and defenseless, Kyrie followed him part of the way. Enough to see him open the back door and put the beetle out, on the ground, close to the Dumpster.
Then he waved at his girlfriend, who was walking across the parking lot.
"Is she an animal lover?" Kyrie asked as Frank came back in.
"Debra? No. Why?"
Kyrie wasn't about to explain. Instead, she said, "Is it quite safe for her to walk home alone at night like that?"
He looked at her surprised. And behind the surprise something else. As if he were wondering why she was asking him the question. "Sure. She lives just at the castle. She'll be fine."
It didn't seem to admit further discussion.
"No more hot dogs," Keith told Tom. He handed him a thin pack of something cold. "Sliced ham."
Tom grabbed at it, trying to focus. He was vaguely aware that he'd eaten something like twenty-six hotdogs. And drunk something like four huge cups of something sickly sweet with a flavor vaguely reminiscent of cherries.
Somewhere at the back of his mind was the awareness that he was going to need to use the restroom soon. Even a shifter's bladder couldn't possibly hold that much.
But much closer at hand was a need for protein. Lots of it. He grabbed the pack Keith gave him and was about to bite it as Keith pulled it away.
"Whoa, you need to unwrap it."
Tom was aware of growling. Or rather he was aware of several faces of tourists roaming around turning to him in shock. He was aware of Keith jumping, then shoving the pack—now peeled halfway—back at him.
He shoved the ham into his mouth and ate it, becoming aware, halfway through, that his manners left much to be desired. And that the burning pit of hunger at the center of his being was . . . calmer, if not completely filled.
Rafiel, to whom Tom had handed a hundred dollars to deal with the damage, because he couldn't think and eat at the same time, approached them, carrying a bag of food. Tom could see a block of cheese and a couple of containers of what might be yogurt through the bag.
"Ready?" Rafiel asked. "You seem to have slowed down some."
Tom finished the last crumbs of meat, resisted an urge to lick the package. "I'll use the restroom," he said. "And I'll be right out."
"Good point," Rafiel said. "We grabbed you snacks but no drink. Keith, get us a six-pack of water." He passed Keith some money. "Tom, can I use your cell phone? In the car?"
Tom nodded.
When he got back to the car, Rafiel was behind the wheel and Keith next to him. "You get in the back," Keith said. "We figure you'd want to sleep some."
"There's cheese and cold cuts and stuff in the bag," Rafiel said. "If you're still hungry. And there's water. You can lie down. I drive better than him."
"And there's a bag of baby wipes," Keith said. "Your face is caked with blood. I didn't even think how weird it looked till we went in there."
Tom climbed into the back. He was about to tell them he wasn't that tired, when he stretched out on the broad and comfy back eat. And then his eyes closed. And he didn't know anything more.