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* * *

Lung nodded, then shrugged at Edward Ormson's question. "I don't pretend to know why he wants you here, though I'm sure he has his reasons. However, you don't need to stress too much in search of your son. As I said, he is . . . We have him. And he will talk."

A cold shiver ran up Edward's back at those words. They had Tom? "What do you mean by having him? Do you . . . are you keeping him prisoner?"

Lung seemed puzzled by Edward's question—or perhaps by the disapproval that Edward had tried to keep from his voice, but which was still obvious. "He stole from us," he said. "Some of our men have captured him. They will find out where he put the Pearl of Heaven one way or another."

One way or another. Edward found his hand trembling. And that was stupid. All these years, he'd gone through without knowing if Tom was dead or alive, or how he was doing. He hadn't worried at all about him. Why should the thought that he was being held prisoner by a dragon triad disturb him so much? Why should he care?

Oh, he could hear in the way Lung said that Tom would tell them the truth eventually that they probably weren't being pleasant with him. He doubted they were treating him very well. But in his mind, with no control from him, was the image of Tom on that last night. Barefoot, in a robe.

Edward had thought . . . well, truth be told, he couldn't even be very sure what he'd thought. He'd seen the triad dragons in action often enough. He knew what they could do. He'd seen them kill humans . . . devour humans. He'd seen the ruthlessness of the beasts. Seeing his son become a dragon, himself, he'd thought . . .

He'd thought it was an infection and that Tom had caught it. He'd thought his worthless, juvenile delinquent of a son had now become a mindless beast, who would devour . . .

His throat closed, remembering what he'd thought then. He didn't know if it was true or not. He assumed not, since Tom wasn't a member of the triad and lacked their protection. If he'd been making his way across the country devouring people, he'd have been discovered by now. He would have been killed by now. So Edward was forced to admit that his son must have some form of self-control. Well. Clearly he had to have some form of self-control if he'd not given in to whatever persuasion they were using to make him talk.

He looked up at Lung, who was staring at him, obviously baffled by his reactions. "What are you doing to him?" he asked. In his mind, he saw Tom, that last night he'd seen him. He saw Tom who looked far more tired and confused than he normally was. He hadn't even attempted to fight it. He'd opened his hands palm up to show he wasn't armed—as if he could be, having just shifted from a dragon. He'd tried to talk, but he didn't make any sense. Something about comic books.

These many years later, Edward frowned, trying to figure out what comic books had to do with the whole thing. Back then he'd found the whole nonsense talk even scarier, as though Tom had lost what little rationality he had with his transformation. And he'd got his gun from his home office desk and ordered Tom out of the house.

Tom had gone, too. And, somewhat to Edward's surprise, he hadn't made any effort to get back in.

"I thought you hadn't seen him for years?" Lung asked. "That you didn't care what happened to him?"

"I don't. Or at least . . ." But Edward had to admit that this last recollection he had of Tom as a sixteen-year-old youth in a white robe, and looking quite lost was an illusion. A sentimental illusion. It was no more real, no more a representation of their relationship than the picture of Tom in the hospital, two days old, with a funny hat on and his legs curled toward each.

It was a pretty picture and one that, as a father, he should have cherished forever. But Tom had been very far from living up to the picture of the ideal son. And in the same way, at least five years had passed since Tom had been that boy of sixteen, and even if Edward had done him an injustice then—had Edward done him an injustice then?—the man he was now would have only the vaguest resemblance to that boy.

Back then, Tom hadn't known anything but his relatively sheltered existence. And though he'd been popular and had the kind of friends who had got him in all kinds of trouble, his friends were like him, privileged. Well taken care of.

Suddenly Edward realized where his uneasiness was coming from about Tom and who Tom was, and what he had assumed about Tom for so many years. "It's his girlfriend, Kyrie," he said.

"Girlfriend?" Lung asked.

"Yes . . . or at least, I think she is. She said they were just coworkers, but there is something more there. She seems to care for him. She was furious at me for . . . I think she realized I was working for you, and she was furious at me."

"The panther girl?" Lung asked.

"I'm sorry?" Edward asked confused.

Lung smiled. "The girl who was with him two nights ago. The one who shifts into a panther."

"She . . ." Edward's mind was filled with the image of the attractive girl shifting, shifting into something dark and feline. He could imagine it all too well. There had been that kind of easy, gliding grace in her steps.

"Oh, you didn't know. Yes, she is a shifter. But I never knew she was his girlfriend."

"I just thought . . ." Perhaps what had bound them was their ability to shift shapes? But what would a dragon want with a panther? The images in Edward's mind were very disturbing and he found himself embarrassed and blushing. "There are other shifter shapes? Other than dragons?"

Lung smiled. "Come, Mr. Ormson, you're not stupid. Your own legends talk about other shifters . . . werewolves, isn't it? And weretigers too? And the legends of other lands speak of many and different animals?"

Edward felt his mouth dry. "This has been going on all along? People shift, like that." He made a vague gesture supposed to show the ease of the shifting. "And they . . ." He waved his hand.

"We don't know for sure," Lung said, seriously. "He who brought you here says there have always been shifters, and as you know he's not the sort of . . . person, whose word one should doubt. He is also, not, unfortunately, someone one can question or badger for details. He says that there have always been shifters. But that shifters are increasing."

"Increasing?"

"There are more of them."

"How? Is it . . . a bite?" He'd thought that back then. He remembered being afraid that Tom would bite him. He remembered having gone through the entire house, trying to think whether he'd touched anything Tom had touched. Tom's clothes, his toothbrush had all been consigned to the trash at his order.

The man laughed. "No, Mr. Ormson. It is . . . genetic," he pronounced the word as if to display his knowledge of such modern concepts.

Edward felt shocked, not because the man knew the word—he spoke without an accent—but at the idea that such a thing could be genetic. "But there is no one in our family . . ."

Lung shrugged. "In our families, which intermarry with each other quite often, even then only one child in four, if that many, will have the characteristic. In other families, in the world at large, who knows? It could be not one in twenty generations." He frowned. "I have often wondered if it is perhaps that people travel more now, and meet people from other lands, carrying the same rare gene. And if that's the only reason there's been an increase. Although . . ." He frowned. "I don't know that this is entirely natural—or explainable by simple laws of science. We seem to heal quicker than normal people and unless we are killed in certain, particular ways—traditional ways like beheading, or burning, or destroying the heart, or with silver—we're nearly impossible to kill. And we seem to live . . . longer than other people. I don't know how long. Himself is the oldest among our kind. I've never enquired as to those of other kinds and other lands."

Edward swallowed. That gun, that night, wouldn't have killed Tom anyway. Good thing he hadn't fired it. It would be horrible to have to live with Tom after firing on him.

But beyond that, something else was troubling him. The thought that Tom had received that curse from him—and presumably from his mother—and yet, he'd thrown him out. And now . . . "What will you do to Tom, if he tells you where the Pearl is?" he asked.

"He will no longer be . . . a problem," Lung said.

Edward nodded feeling relief. So, they'd let Tom go. "Pardon me if I'm asking too much. You don't need to tell me. I know something of the working of the triads in this country and I know the Dragon Triad is not that very much different, but I must ask . . . Why the Pearl? You're the only ones who have it, right? It was shown to me, years ago, in my apartment, and I remember thinking it was very pretty. But I thought it was a symbol."

Lung smiled, a smile that seemed to have too many teeth and to slide, unpleasantly, over his lips. "It is not a symbol," he said. "Our legend has it that the Pearl was sent down with the Great—with him. The Emperor of Heaven, himself, is supposed to have given it to him."

"Why?" Edward said, asking why the man believed his legend when he had dismissed all others.

But Lung clearly misunderstood him. He shrugged. "Because dragons are by nature bestial, competitive, and brutal. The beast in us overrides the man. We could never band together, much less work together without the Pearl of Heaven. We must find it soon," he said. "Or we will destroy ourselves and each other."

It wasn't until Edward had left and stood outside the restaurant that it occurred to him that saying Tom would no longer be a problem was not a reassurance. On the contrary. Unless it were a reassurance that Tom would soon be dead.

Stopped, in the parking lot, he felt as if ice water were running through his veins. He took a deep, sudden breath and almost went back inside. Almost.

But then he thought it would only get him killed. How could he go up against almost immortal shape-shifters? How could he? He would only get killed. And for Tom?

He needed help. He needed help now.

* * *

Kyrie locked her front door as best she could, which in this case involved sliding the sofa in front of it, because the beetle had pulled the handle and the lock out of it.

If Kyrie survived all this mess, she would be so far in debt for house repairs that she would be arrested. Or die of trying to pay for it. Or something.

The back door was impossible to close, having splintered in a million pieces. She should have got a solid wood door, after all. And on that thought she got out the phone book, called her bank for her balance, which ran to the middle hundreds. Then she went back to the phone and started calling handymen, finding it somewhat difficult to reconcile her urgency in getting the doors fixed with the price any craftsman would accept for this.

She had just discovered an elderly handyman, who only worked two days a week, who could do both glazing and carpentry, and who thought her situation desperate enough to warrant immediate response when Rafiel came in through the ruined back door.

"Dragons?" he asked her, as she was hanging up the phone.

"No," she said. "As it turned out, beetles. Huge, green and blue and iridescent. If you go to the Natural History Museum in Denver, you'll find that the much tinier versions of the creatures are used as jewelry by some rain forest tribe or other."

He grabbed blindly for one of the overturned chairs, pulled it upright, and collapsed on it, looking at her. She'd put the kitchen table and the other chair up, and that was where she'd been making her calls. "I've just got hold of a handyman, who will be coming by to fix my porch and my two doors. I gave him the dimensions and he says he has some surplus, older doors he removed from a house and I can have them for nothing. Which only means I'll be broke, not in the red. At this rate I do not dare miss work for six months, but I will probably survive the experience."

But Rafiel only looked at her, the golden eyes dull and uncomprehending. "Beetles?" he said.

She nodded. "Very much so."

"So it wasn't a hallucination in the back of the Athens?" he said.

"Did you find a corpse?" Kyrie asked.

He shook his head slowly. "No. But I found . . . I could smell blood. I didn't want to shift to verify it, but I could smell blood. And death. Fresher than . . . two nights ago. So I'm sure you were telling the truth. Only till this moment I had hoped that you had seen it wrong and that it was actually dragons. Do you mean to tell me we have dragons and beetles?"

"It's worse than that. The green powder? I think it has hallucinogenic properties, that it's supposed to make the victim unable to fight. I think that's why I managed to fight them back. I tied a towel over my mouth."

"Ingenious," he said. "I could go back to the Athens tonight in . . . lion form and try to follow the trail of the blood. It's probably fresh enough and because there was no body, I wasn't forced to call out the rest of the force, so the scent won't be diluted." He paused for a moment. "I would have done it then, but I was afraid it would bring too much attention."

He nodded, as if satisfying himself of something. "Then as we were heading for the station, there was the report of a panther. Fortunately it turned out to be a sort of mass hallucination." He cleared his throat. "As you know, these are quite common. Seeing black panthers, I mean. There's whole counties in England afflicted by it."

He looked at her, and reached for her hand, where it rested on the table. "How did you escape them?"

For a moment, for just a moment, Kyrie had a feeling of misgiving. Was it that Rafiel wanted to know how she'd escaped so that he could warn the beetles? But no. The beetles already knew how she had escaped. He wanted to know. It made sense.

"I stabbed one with my umbrella." She nodded toward the umbrella resting a few feet away against the wall in the hallway. "Between the head and back carapaces. And it was immobilized. Which allowed me to jump over it and escape."

"So, the shift to panther was . . ."

"I thought its mate would chase me."

"It probably would have, except for its being daylight and a busy area." He sighed. "I don't like to think creatures like that have such control. They are shifters, they must be. But what kind of insane nature or magic or evolution could have caused such a thing as shifter beetles?"

Kyrie shrugged. "Whatever it was, it created dragons. Which brings me to Tom."

"Ormson? Must you?" Rafiel looked pained and vaguely put out, as if she were insisting on speaking about a distasteful subject.

"Tom Ormson," she said. "I have reason to believe I did him an injustice. If that powder from the beetles causes hallucinations, I think that might have been all he was high on. On top of that, there is his father."

"Ormson has a father?" Rafiel asked.

"Till this moment you assumed he reproduced by fission?"

"No, I mean he has a father around here, a father who is in some way involved in his life?"

Kyrie shrugged. "I don't think he is. Involved in Tom's life, I mean. I think he came from New York on purpose to find Tom. I think at the request of the triad."

Rafiel's eyebrows rose.

"I think he's a lawyer of some sort," she said. "I . . . vaguely remember Tom telling me that. And I think he is involved with the triads in some way. Well, with the shifter dragon triad, most of all."

"This family just keeps getting better and better," Rafiel said. "I suppose I'll look up the elder Mr. Ormson's background. And his name is?"

"His given name? Edward."

Rafiel nodded. "I'll check him out."

"Wait," Kyrie said. She didn't know she was going to say it, till it came flying out of her mouth. "Wait. I need to ask you a favor. Please. Would you . . . Would you check on Tom?"

"Check on . . .?"

"I think he's staying with his friend, Keith, who lives in the same building, third floor. Because he left with Keith. Keith would at least know where he was going."

"But why do you want me to check on him? Isn't he a grown-up and able to look after himself?"

Kyrie frowned. She had a sense of deep uneasiness and was quite well aware that a lot of it might be due to her guilt in having misjudged him over the drug stuff. "I . . ." She waved at her house and the destruction. "Until today I would have said I was able to look after myself, too, but it is not that easy, as you see. And then he had the triad looking for him too. And apparently his father, working for them." She took a deep breath. "Last night he missed work completely. I'd like to know he's okay."

She stood up. She had some vague idea that the gesture would encourage Rafiel to go. She didn't want to be so rude as to ask him to leave, not when she was asking him for a favor. But the handyman should be here any minute. And as soon as she had locking doors—with a few extra locks—she was going to have to shower and go work. On virtually no sleep.

Rafiel got up too and she was optimistic that he would leave now. But he was still holding the hand he covered with his own when they sat at the table. And now he leaned forward and said, "You don't need to go it alone."

And before she knew what he was doing, he'd covered her lips with his and was pulling her to him.

She'd never been kissed, not even in high school. Any boy smart enough to be interested in her was, presumably, smart enough to realize this was not exactly a safe course of action. Having her lips covered by his, his hands moving to her shoulders was novel enough to stop her from reacting immediately.

His hands were warm on her shoulders, and his body felt warm and firm next to hers. And his tongue was trying to push between her lips.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not . . . I'm not prepared. I don't think . . . Let us get through this first, and figure out what it's all about?"

He started to open his mouth, as if to answer, but at that moment a white-haired man, in impeccable work pants and T-shirt showed at the kitchen door. "Miss Smith? I'm Harold Keener. Ready to start work."

"Well," Rafiel said, looking perfectly composed as if just seconds before he hadn't been attempting to shove his tongue into her mouth. "I'll be going then, and check on Ormson."

Was it Kyrie's imagination, or had he pronounced Tom's family name with particular venom?

And what had Rafiel thought he was doing, she wondered, as she walked the handyman back to the porch to discuss the double-glazed versus single-glazed options and costs. Was he so used to any girl he came onto melting with pleasure that he didn't even bother to check for some signs of interest before jumping the gun? Or had she been giving signs of interest? She doubted that very much, as she wasn't even sure what the signs were.

On the other hand perhaps he just thought with both of them shifting to feline forms, they were perfect for each other? Was this all about creating a litter of kittens? Or was he trying to distract her from something in the conversation? Had he said anything he didn't want her to remember?

* * *

Edward Ormson had left the Three Luck Dragon feeling less assured of himself than he was used to feeling. Something in the conversation—perhaps the way these strangers spoke casually of holding Tom prisoner, of interrogating Tom, made Edward feel inadequate and ashamed of himself.

These were not feelings he normally entertained about himself, and he didn't feel right about entertaining them now.

He told himself that Tom had been a difficult child, a delinquent adolescent. But the words of Lung echoed in his mind, telling him that people who shifted into dragons had problems of that sort. That the beast often overruled the human. And if Tom had been born that way, if it was blind genetic accident, then it wouldn't be his fault, would it? He'd been difficult, but then he couldn't have been otherwise. Would parents who were more interested in him and less interested in—what? his career, himself, Tom's mother's devotion to medicine? all of those?—have done better for him? Could anything have prevented getting to this point where a criminal organization composed of shape-shifters was intending to eliminate Edward's son? And Edward could do nothing about it? Except perhaps help them?

The wrongness of it, the wrongness of his having worked for the group that was intending to kill his son, made bitter bile rise to his throat. But why should he care? Where did all this anguish come from? Hadn't he washed his hands of the boy five years ago?

Five years ago. Damn, the boy had only been sixteen. And Edward had ordered him out of the house. At gunpoint.

Edward had been walking along the road leading toward town. Not a pretty road—a place of warehouses and dilapidated motels—and it seemed to be making him things he'd never thought before. This was all wrong, these unexpected feelings, the sudden guilt over Tom. It was all very wrong. He'd been fine with this for five years. Why should it torment him now?

He was tired. That was all. He was very tired. He hadn't slept at all the night before, and now it was afternoon. He'd hail the first cab that came by. He would ask to be taken to the best hotel in town. He would go to sleep. When he woke up, he would feel much better about this. He would realize that Tom had made his own bed and now should damn well lie in it.

His briefcase was heavy, pulling down on his arm. And no cab came by. Heck, no car came by. He walked on, into the Colorado night.

He should have rented a car, only he didn't think it would take him this long to . . . To what? Make Tom give back whatever he had stolen, like a naughty boy caught with another kid's lunch box?

What did he know of Tom now, really? He would be twenty-one. How he had lived the last five years was beyond his father's knowledge and probably beyond his father's understanding. Who was he, this creature he'd seen growing up till the age of sixteen, and then let go and not seen again?

Tom worked nights in a diner, he could shift shapes into a dragon. And he had the affection—or at least the interest—of that exotic beauty who did not look like the type to be easily rolled by some patter. And Ormson should know that, he thought, with a rueful grin. I tried.

He'd walked a few blocks and was near an intersection when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the yellow glimmer of a taxi.

Waving frantically, he got the cabby's attention, and moments later was sitting on the backseat of an air-conditioned taxi heading downtown.

"Downtown?" he said. "Really."

"Oh, yes," the cabby said. "Spurs and Lace is the best hotel in town."

Edward leaned back against the cool upholstery and hoped they had room. He just needed to sleep. Just . . . sleep. And then all would be well.

* * *

"Kyrie," Tom called, and the sound of her name woke him from a nightmare of half-defined shapes and half-formed thoughts in which he'd been, seemingly stumbling without direction.

He didn't know what they had given him. He suspected it was supposed to be some form of truth serum. At least they had expected him to answer questions while under.

He suspected he hadn't. Part of it was because he had the feeling that he'd been touring random recesses of his mind, which, for some reason, featured not only an up-close and personal view of Kyrie's bared breast, but also repeated reruns of Keith's conversation about his problems at college.

And part of it was because, as he became aware of who he was, where he was, and what was happening around him, he heard the three . . . Oh, he must not call them the three stooges, not even mentally. The way he was feeling, it might come flying out of his mouth next thing, and, who knew, they might actually understand the reference. No. He heard the three geniuses arguing loudly in what he presumed was their native tongue. It didn't sound like an argument about which one would go for the Pearl and which one would wait until the order came to cut Tom's throat . . . or however they intended to dispatch him.

With a final scream, Two Dragons ran out the door. The other two shrugged, went to the corner, and came back with sandwiches and drinks.

The smell of food made Tom hungrier than ever. If it weren't for the fact that he was using all his concentration to keep himself from turning into a dragon, he might very well have broken down and told them where to find the Pearl.

* * *

The room was acceptable, though it was close to downtown and, from his fifth-floor window, Edward had a view of the area where Tom worked.

Standing there, looking out the window, he wondered if Tom had lived in one of those rectilineal streets that radiated from Fairfax Avenue and which were lined with tiny houses and apartment buildings. Probably, since Edward very much doubted that waiting at tables at night in a diner was a job that paid enough for a car. And then he realized he'd thought of Tom in the past tense.

Angry with himself, he took a shower, put his underwear back on, and got in bed. He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.

And he was fully awake, staring at the ceiling a few minutes later, while thoughts that shouldn't be in his head insisted on running through it. Thoughts such as—shouldn't Tom's father do something to save him? no matter how unworthy the boy was—and really, what had he ever done while living in his father's house that wasn't done by kids of his age and set? He'd gone joyriding. He'd been caught with pot, once. And he'd committed minor acts of vandalism. He'd been naked in public twice, both in his last week at home—after he'd started shifting. Nothing that other kids he ran with didn't do. Kids who were now, for the most part, at Yale and Harvard.

But Edward had kicked Tom out of the house. And never even stirred himself to find out what exactly the boy was doing. Or even if he was alive.

"He was a shape-shifter," he said to the cool air of the room. "He was a dragon."

But the empty room seemed to sneer disdainfully at this excuse, and he sat up in bed, furious at himself. The truth was that since his marriage had broken apart, Tom had been more of a burden than anything else. A hindrance to just living the life of an unattached adult, with a job and a few casual dates and no significant attachments. Because, if Edward hadn't been around for a while, then Tom took it upon himself to get parental attention by getting himself arrested or by—and suddenly Edward smiled remembering exactly what that had looked like—shaving half of his head and dying the rest of his hair bright orange. Why was it that at a distance of eight years that memory seemed funny and endearing.

Fully awake, he dug into his briefcase and brought out his cell phone. He called information in Palmetto, Florida. And then he called Sylvia.

A kid answered the phone, speaking in the endearing lisp of a child whose front teeth are missing and when Edward asked for Sylvia, screamed at the top of his lungs, "Mom."

This was followed by the click of pumps on the floor, and finally Sylvia's voice on the phone. "Hello."

"Hi, Sylvia, this is Edward."

"Who?"

"Edward Ormson?"

There was a short silence, followed by "Oh." And, after a longish pause. "How may I help you?"

Exactly like the waitress at an impersonal restaurant, Edward thought, but then they hadn't seen each other in over ten years. She had another family. It was foolish of him to resent it. Well, it was foolish of him to call too, but he felt he had to. She had never even sent Tom a birthday card. Not that Edward had seen.

"I just wanted to know if you've heard from Tom?"

"Who?"

"Thomas. Your son?"

"Oh. Tom?"

Was she not sure who her oldest son was? Edward should have felt revolted, but instead he felt more guilty than ever. What a pair they had made. Poor boy. Poor screwed up boy who'd ended up with them.

She seemed to collect herself, from a long ways away. "Isn't he living with you?" she said.

Edward took a deep breath. "No." And he hung up.

He didn't know what he had expected. That Sylvia was secretly a great mom? After all, she'd turned Tom over to a nanny as soon as she could, and returned to her job before he was one month old.

He walked over to the window and looked out again. No. He knew what he had hoped for. He had hoped that Sylvia would behave like a responsible, caring parent and thereby redeem all his memories of Tom's childhood. Prove to him that the boy had had at least one attentive parent till the divorce. And that if he'd gone wrong it was entirely his fault and his parents couldn't be blamed.

If that could be proved to be true—well, then Edward would feel if not justified at least slightly less guilty in washing his hands of Tom.

But his ex-wife's behavior, his own memories of his behavior only proved to him that Tom had never had a chance. Not even the beginning of one. And yet, he was still alive, five years after being kicked out. And Kyrie Smith liked him. That had to count for something. He couldn't be completely lost to humanity if he'd engaged the interest of an attractive and clearly smart young woman.

Kyrie Smith. She was a panther in her other form, Lung had said. Perhaps she knew other shifters. With their help, perhaps Edward could go up against the triad. Perhaps he could rescue his son.

He wasn't sure he could have Tom move back in. He wasn't sure he could endure Tom for much longer than a few hours. He wasn't even sure that he should ever have had a son, since he seemed to have approached the enterprise with the idea that children were sort of animated dolls.

But he was sure the least he could do was save his son's life. Or not cooperate with his murderers.

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