Night Shifters (31 page)

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 Red Dragon 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 Red 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 you 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.