Night Shifters (100 page)

And just as he thought this he heard the voice in his mind.
Hey, Dragon Boy, come and be killed!
With the words came a flash—the view of Dire, in his animal form, waiting, down the street from Tom, in a little park, where pine trees covered in snow stood silent guard over a gazebo and stone boulders. In summer, the park was frequented by everyone in the neighborhood. But in winter no one ever went there, and the little lake in the middle was iced over—though not enough for anyone to skate on it.

It was the perfect place, Tom thought, for a duel. A shifter duel. But he was thousands of years younger than Dire. And he knew he couldn’t fight the mind powers.

Or did he? There was something Dire had said, about how the Great Sky Dragon himself had been defeated because he cared too much for his subordinate. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the way to fight with the mind, the way the Ancient Ones did, came from not caring.

Yes. It does,
Dante Dire said in his mind.
It comes from us having seen the generations unfold and caring for nothing. You love life, that’s your weakness. While we love only death, even our own, if it comes to that.

And something in Tom’s mind beat against the words. Denied them. He didn’t care if they were true. He would not accept them. That was no way to live.

He got up, undressed silently. On his way out the door, he opened Kyrie’s door a crack—enough to see her sleeping, under the moonlight, on her side, her face supported on her arm. Notty was nestled in her hair, purring. They looked peaceful. Domestic.

And Tom went out, into the cold dark night.

On his front porch, after closing the door carefully behind himself, he shifted.

He flew into the park. Dante waited for him, shifted, in the deepest dark, near where the trees clustered, just by the lakeside.

So good of you to come and die,
he said. And Tom could feel him casting cold binds of domination and power over his mind. Nets of cold control.

But Tom held on to what he knew was true. To what he loved. The image of Kyrie and Notty, sleeping in the moonlight. The George, shining like a neon jewel through the snow. Anthony at the grill. Conan tending tables. The images burned within him like warm fires. Like home fires, calling to his heart.

Mine, mine, mine,
he said, and while he caught Dire trying to hold on to these images, to threaten them, to tell Tom they were weaknesses, he couldn’t hold them.

Tom’s love for his family, his friends, his diner, shone through, warming his soul, and Dire’s cold thoughts slipped off. He had only hatred and barrenness to offer. And those were never very strong weapons.

After that, it was easy. The dragon, after all, could fly. The dire wolf couldn’t. He looked almost small, in the dark, amid the trees and the snow.

The vicious teeth tried to rend Tom’s wing, as Tom approached, but Tom flipped over, suddenly, and bit the dire wolf’s neck. Hard.

Tom grabbed it by the neck and shook it, as Dire started to shift, under his jaws—guessing Tom would have more trouble killing a human than an animal. A pitiful human fist hit the dragon’s scales. A forlorn human scream echoed. Again and again, Dire tried to cast his cold uncaring spell upon Tom’s mind—Tom pressed harder.

He tasted blood, and recoiled from it, but forced his jaws to close. The taste made him gag, but he persisted. Bone crunched. Dire’s head and body fell, two separate parts.

It was truth that Dire loved death and pain—or causing them. But Tom loved life. And while Tom lived he would keep those he loved safe. Which meant Dire must die.

Afterwards, Tom took the head, and the body, and swam with them, deep into the cold, dark lake—after breaking the ice covering on it. He found that there were caves, on either side of the lake, leading quite deep under the city, perhaps to what had once been mines and were now flooded. He put the head and the body in separate tunnels, and blocked the entrance with large stones. He didn’t want either ever found.

And then, half frozen, he swam back, and walked home.

After a shower, after rinsing his mouth with mouthwash, again and again, and again, Tom put his robe on and went to the kitchen, where he put paid to two packages of sandwich ham while the dozen eggs they had just bought boiled enough to not be repulsive.

When the craving for protein abated, still feeling chilled, Tom opened the door to Kyrie’s room and called, softly, “Kyrie?”

She opened her eyes, and Notty’s head shot up. “Yes?”

“Do you mind if I sleep here? Just sleep? I mean . . . I just . . . want to be with you.”

Kyrie sat up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just . . . I’m very cold.”

“Are you coming down with something?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just . . . I just need company.”

She shifted to one side of the double bed, taking Notty with her, leaving him space. Tom climbed in, and curled up on the mattress, looking at Kyrie and Notty, who was now parading back and forth between the two of them and purring, the contented purr of a cat with two body servants.

“Kyrie,” Tom said, wanting to talk, wanting to explain this feeling that wasn’t regret or guilt, but had shades of both. He’d taken a life. He’d killed someone who’d lived thousands of years. He’d had to do it. None of them would be safe till he was dead. So why was it that this thing he’d done made him feel so cut off from the rest of humanity?

He moved fractionally towards Kyrie. “Listen,” he said.

Notty jumped up, back arched and hissed towards Tom. His pose was so possessive of Kyrie that Tom laughed aloud. “Yes, yes, your girl cat, Notty. I’ll behave.”

He petted the ruffled kitten till Kyrie said, softly, “What is it?”

He looked at her. Her eyes were half closed. He smiled. The talk would wait. Tonight was not the night to try to explain what he’d done or how he felt. He wanted more than anything to hold Kyrie, to love her. But tonight was not the night for that, either.

Let the night close itself upon its horror. Let wonders unfold another time. “Nothing,” he said quietly.

He petted Notty till he passed from wakefulness into a dream where he was holding Kyrie in the midst of a field of snow. And it was very warm.

When they got into The George, in the evening, they found Conan and Anthony sitting at the back booth, in front of what looked like a veritable mound of bread. Sitting across from them was a young woman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a blade of a nose. She looked towards them and extended a hand and spoke, in a pleasant contralto, “Hi. I’m Laura Miller. You must think I’m the most unreliable person alive, but I simply couldn’t come in before. I had to take care of some family matters . . . But I’m here now, and I’m free to interview for the job, if you still want to consider me. And I brought some samples of my baking with me.”

“Consider her,” Anthony said. He picked a roll from the confusion of bread. “She makes this Italian bread . . . My mom would weep, I tell you.”

Tom, grinning, turned towards her. “Well, as you can see, I have to consider you. And we were taking care of family matters, too. I have no idea how to interview you, just now, my mind is still in a whirl. So . . . is there anything you want to tell me?”

The woman blinked at him, then looked toward Kyrie, then, perhaps having decided that if they were crazy they weren’t, at least, unpleasant, rattled off quickly, “I can do gourmet cooking, but really, I don’t like it as much as a variety of good plain cooking. I truly do need to bake, though. Cookies, biscuits, breads, muffins, scones, pies, fancy pastries, whatever. I like making breads and pies and biscuits and muffins most of all, though. Cornbread’s fun to make, both Northern and Southern. So’s gingerbread. With or without rum sauce. Fresh pitas are like a miracle, puffing themselves up like little balloons. Stews and soups and prep cooking are satisfying, too. But not as good as baking. But I can get the bucket of scrams ready for morning rush, and get the onions and peppers for morning and lunch rush, and chop the salad, and mix up the tsatsiki.

“I can do a lot of prep cooking. I can do quantity cooking. I can run an industrial dishwasher. But I really love baking. Just don’t ask me to do gourmet dinners where everything needs to be perfectly plated. My idea of decorative plating is to put the juice with the cherries and onions over the pork loin rather than beside it. And maybe to have carrots and green beans by the pork loin instead of potatoes and corn. But fancy plating with everything all pointing in perfect directions and swirled sauces? It all tastes the same in the mouth, anyway. And unless it’s someone’s birthday, I don’t frost cakes fancy. Just tasty. I like to do one-offs, but that’s why I don’t like fancy frosting every day. Special should be special. And pies are either lattice, pierced, open, or have a couple of shapes out with tart cutters. If The George wants Martha Stewart, you can hire her. But I do use my grandma’s pie crust recipe. And she won blue ribbons.” She stopped, giving the impression that she’d run out of breath.

And Kyrie looked at Tom and found him looking at her. And she wondered how the woman would do with shifters and madness, but, hell, Anthony seemed to do well enough even while being totally clueless. And frankly, the list of breads was enough to make her want to drool.

She winked at Tom. He winked back and they said at the same time, “You’re hired.”

Just at that moment, she thought she smelled a vague shifter’s scent beneath the smell of all the baking. Was their new employee a shifter?

But Tom was saying, “We’ll discuss terms, okay? But we’re flexible, since one of the really important qualities I wanted was someone who could bake.” He’d somehow got hold of a little curlicue of a roll sprinkled with what looked like cheese, and was eating it, merrily. “And you certainly can do that.”

Laura smiled, and at that moment the bell behind the front door tinkled. Edward Ormson, whom Kyrie always thought looked like an older and better-dressed version of Tom, came in. He was pulling a flight bag, and looked up at the group of them with a quizzical smile. “Oh, good,” he said, to no one in particular. He looked at Tom, “I assume everything is well and you still haven’t eaten anyone?”

Did Laura’s eyes widen just a little? Kyrie couldn’t tell, and Tom was laughing. “No, Dad. I haven’t. And yeah, everything is fine.”

“First day they opened the passes, so first day I could get here. I will go and check in at the hotel later, but I thought I’d come and see how you were doing, and make sure everything was okay.”

Tom felt . . . oddly amused and tender. His father had driven here, as soon as the snow stopped for two days and the mountain passes opened, to make sure everything was okay. He could have called. He could have asked someone else to check on them. But no. Edward Ormson, who hated making himself uncomfortable, had driven a mountain road that would still have patches of ice and which was probably crowded with long-delayed travelers, to come here and check on his son.

They’d all come a long way.

But Tom still had no idea whatsoever how to express his affection for his father. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He stepped behind the counter, and took off his jacket, putting it on the shelf under there. Then he put on his apron and his bandana, and said, “Okay, Dad. I’ll make you dinner before you go to your hotel. What would you like?”