Gentleman Takes a Chance (12 page)

Kyrie shrugged. "Or just, perhaps, three people who happen to be shifters and who walked through the aquarium."

Rafiel grimaced, but nodded. "Oh, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but . . ."

"But our situation encourages paranoia?" she said. "Hiding from the world, unable to reveal what we are. Even in this multi-culti time, when every minority gets a pass simply for being a minority, we will never, ever, get such a pass. Because we are . . . dangerous?"

Another grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile. "I was going to say that sometimes paranoia is right, however little we like to admit it."

"Uh." Kyrie shrugged. "I would say we have insufficient data to say."

She started walking away from the bathroom area, and out of the monitors and clearly fake, Victorian-looking submarine hardware area, towards the stairs. The stairs were broad and spiral and surrounded by glass—giving them rather the look of an aquarium designed to contain people.

"Come on, Rafiel," she said, staring out at the blizzard's magnificent raging whiteness. She would guess during one of Colorado's many unclouded days, one would have a magnificent view from here of the city of Goldport, such as it was, sprawling at the base of the Rockies. Now you couldn't even see the office tower across the street. It was just white and more white, blowing and swirling as far as the eye could see.

And just as she thought this, she realized she was wrong—because in the middle of the storm, a flash of green and gold showed, at her eye level, three stories up from the ground.

"What the—" Rafiel blurted out from behind her. "Is that—"

And in the next second, Kyrie was sure that that was indeed her errant boyfriend in dragon form, because Tom, all of him, emerged from the storm, as close to the glass as he could fly and not crash into it. His expression looked alarmed as he stared in at them. If alarmed at his proximity to the glass, or with flying in a storm, or something else, it was hard to tell.

There was just a flash of terrified blue eyes, the dragon's mouth open in silent protest. And then . . . Tom flying away.

"Tell me he didn't just fly here through the storm to check on us?" Rafiel said.

And part of Kyrie wanted to tell him exactly that, except it depended on what Rafiel meant by checking on them. Kyrie was willing to bet that Tom wasn't jealous of their being out, alone, together. She was willing to bet that, because Tom had all but encouraged them to go out, even Tom wasn't that . . . paranoid as to change his mind so quickly. Besides . . . besides, if he didn't know he'd won that contest and won it for good, then Kyrie would give up on the whole relationship right now.

But it had looked to Kyrie exactly as though Tom had been checking up on them. Not in jealousy or fear that they were about to betray him, but in confused fear for them . . . Fear of something happening to them.

Where had he got that idea? And was he right?

Flying in the snow was far easier to talk about than to do. The part of Tom that remained Tom at the back of the dragon's brain was fairly sure that the dragons—if they'd ever existed except as shifters—could never have been creatures of cold climates.

A string of complaints came from the dragon's body, penetrating Tom's mind. Cold might make him ache less, but cold hurt by itself. And he couldn't see. And the wings got no traction against this air laden with snow, which kept accumulating on their broad and outspread surface, thereby multiplying the cold and the lack of movement.

It felt as though the dragon's wings and his toes would presently freeze so absolutely that they would fall off, like so many enigmatic pieces of flesh raining on urban Goldport. Rain of dragon parts. That would be a new one at least. Forget rains of fish.

And yet, Tom's mind, deep within, like an implacable rider on a restive horse, insisted with all his will power that they must—
must
—go to Kyrie. They must protect her. And Rafiel too. The big lump might have been Tom's rival at some point. He was still, doubtlessly, a big lump. Also, generally speaking, a pain in the behind, always appearing so relaxed and laid back and comfortable with himself, while Tom most of the time felt that his personality and mind were sort of like one of those statues kindergartners sculpt: made of itty bits and pieces too mishandled to ever cling together properly, and forming no more than a suggestion of a shape, rather than the shape itself. But still, Rafiel was a friend. Pain or not, he would stand—had stood by Tom—when it was down to kill or be killed. And also, Tom suspected, deep within, Rafiel was a more honorable man and a more noble one than he liked to admit even to himself.

Be it how it may, Kyrie was Tom's girlfriend and Rafiel was one of his very few friends. They would not be allowed to stand alone as they faced whatever and whoever that executioner creature might be.

His purpose impelling him, he flew as fast as he could through downtown, sometimes descending to the top level of the high buildings, where the houses and offices formed a sort of sheltered canyon. He wondered if someone would see him, out of a window or a door—or rather if they'd see the suggestion of a dragon flying in the storm. He wondered what cryptozoology rumors would rise from it—like the Lizard Man in Denver, or all those black panthers and black dogs that appeared everywhere.

By the time he reached the aquarium, minutes later, he'd almost convinced himself that Old Joe had dreamed the whole thing. It was all a nightmare conjured from the old shifter's brain and whatever memories remained in that confused amalgam of personality. There would be no one there with Rafiel and Kyrie, and he would be in trouble with Kyrie for having left the diner for no reason at all. He almost looked forward to that monumental scolding, because if Kyrie was scolding him, that would mean that she was all right. And that all his fears were unfounded.

And yet, dipping towards the parking lot of the aquarium, as he approached, to check how many people might be within and if he might have to shift form and hide, before he exposed them all, Tom saw that Rafiel's big, black SUV was not alone there. Parked just across from it—in what might have been, had the lines under the snow been visible, the immediately opposing space—was a low-slung Italian sports car.

Tom-the-dragon blinked at the red car, in confusion. It looked like a dormant beast that would, at any minute, fling up and fly or attack. Definitely attack, judging by the look of the vehicle.

Perhaps it is the car of an aquarium employee,
said Tom's more reasonable human mind.

Right. Right,
Tom's unreasonable human mind answered.
I'm absolutely sure it is. Scientists and fish-feeders often own cars that look like that.

Well, the place has a restaurant, too. Perhaps it's the car of the owner.

To this, even the doubting Thomas within could not have interposed any serious rebuttal. Instead, it settled into a non-verbal response—a prickling at the back of Tom's long dragon neck . . . a feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. And it was no use at all his telling himself that he was being silly. He flew around the building and thought he caught a glimpse of Rafiel and Kyrie on the third-floor stairway, but it was not something he could swear to. The glass was thick and curved, and probably designed to ensure the privacy of those within at the expense of the curiosity of those without.

He flew around again, hoping they would come out, because then he could change and warn them. But there was nothing, except a suggestion of movement in a room where the aquariums seemed filled with the spindly forms of crabs. Tom had visited the aquarium with Keith once, a month ago—because one of Keith's would-be girlfriends worked there—and seemed to remember just such a room, right next to the restaurant. He and Keith had joked that the crabs were all probably terminally neurotic and tormented by dreams of drawn butter. But the movement—what seemed like a woman or a small man flitting around a corner was too brief to make sense of.

And yet, he worried. What if the executioner, whoever he was, was already inside, getting ready to ambush Kyrie and Rafiel around the corner of some tank, or push them into the shark tank? What could Tom do from out here?

He decided to land somewhere and shift, then see if he could break into the aquarium. In his misspent years as a transient, he'd often broken into places. Mostly into cars, when he absolutely needed transportation for a short period of time. Sometimes, into garden sheds, carriage houses or garages, in the coldest nights, to get some protection from the weather.

He'd never stolen anything in those break-ins and he'd felt positively virtuous about that, until Kyrie had made him understand the damage he caused, however minimal, still disturbed the lives of innocents.

Still, he had experience breaking into places. Granted, a garden shed was bound to have a flimsier lock than . . . well, a municipal aquarium, even—or perhaps particularly—a municipal aquarium run by a seafood restaurant chain. But all the same, he should be able to break in. And he should be able to find Kyrie and Rafiel. And warn them. Before they got pushed into the shark tank.

He took a half-circle flight away from the windows, looking for a place to land and shift, where he would be less likely to be seen from nearby buildings. This objective was made only slightly more difficult because he could not see into any of the buildings around, and therefore could not tell if anyone might be looking out of a window, and have enough visibility to survey the parking lot of the aquarium. He kind of doubted it, though.

His memories of the location of the aquarium, gathered during his visit, in sunnier—if briskly cold—weather, was that it sat on a corner, bordering two fairly well-traveled streets—Ocean Street, where the aquarium's postal address was—and Congregation Avenue, which led straight to the convention center in less than a mile. On the other side of those roads were office buildings. The chances of anyone being in one of those buildings, on a snowy evening, were very low. In fact, possibly, nonexistent. He'd just land somewhere.

Down below him, in the parking lot, a car door banged. Somehow, in his mind, a voice echoed—not the Great Sky Dragon's voice, but a voice just as immense, just as overpowering—
Hey, Dragon Boy!
it said.
Come and be killed.

Tom looked down. By the Italian sports car stood a slim, dark-haired man, his head thrown back in defiance. He was naked, but he didn't seem to either realize it or care. He wore his nudity like others wore expensive suits. His head tilted up, he favored Tom with a wide and feral smile.
What is it, little one? Afraid of me? I'll take you in fair combat. As fair as it can be when pitting an adult against an infant.

Tom wasn't afraid—at least the dragon Tom had become wasn't afraid. The human, locked within the dragon's mind was not afraid either, or not exactly. He was not afraid of that creature down there, even if he was the vaunted executioner. For all he knew, the man would also change into a dragon, and come after him. And then he might be afraid. And then he might find a reason to kill this creature. But not yet.

And he didn't react to the voice in his head, as he had first reacted to a similar intrusion by the Great Sky Dragon. Finding someone in your mind once—like any other type of event that is supposed to be impossible but isn't—could hurtle anyone into a panic. The human mind was an amazing instrument, though. The second time of someone
speaking
in his mind didn't make Tom feel as violated, or as scared. It was just a voice. Just a voice in his mind. Nothing more.

He took a slow pass over the parking lot, looking down at the person standing by the car. All too human and weak-looking. If Tom was worried about anything, it was not the possibility this person might kill him. No, it was the fear that he might kill this person.

For years, while Tom was a transient, without friends or a fixed place, one fear had pursued Tom relentlessly: the fear that he would shift and lose self-control, and kill someone. It had been his first fear when he'd shifted into a dragon.

And he'd managed to control it—most of the time. The only people he'd ever killed were shifters who were trying to kill him. And even then, if there had been another way, he'd have used another way to stop them. He didn't think he'd ever eaten anyone—not even in the drug-haze days of his past.

He didn't want to kill anyone now. Not even this creature—whether or not he was the executioner that Old Joe had gone on about. Tom swooped again, around the man, slightly lower, trying to think of what to do.

His instincts told him he should leave now, but if he did he would leave Kyrie and Rafiel unprotected.
That
he couldn't do. That would negate his coming here to protect them. He had to, at least, warn them.

He swooped down again, closer. There had to be something he could do, without killing the man. Grab him by an arm and throw him away from the aquarium, perhaps. Then, while he took time to return—or while he shifted into a dragon and came after Tom, Tom would have a chance to warn Kyrie and Rafiel.

But as Tom got close, he saw the man was smoking a cigarette, completely impassive, disregarding the huge dragon closing in on him.

Tom could have bit off his head with a single motion. He could have rent it from his body with his claws. But he couldn't do either, not to a defenseless-seeming human.

Instead, he flew by so close the tip of his wing almost touched the man, but he sheared off, sharply, and executed a circle, coming back, still aware that he couldn't kill the man—that his own self-control wouldn't allow it—but hoping, hoping against hope that the man would be scared.

Oh, are we playing a game?
a laughing voice asked in his mind. And suddenly Tom had no control over his body. None. He fell from the sky, like a pebble, unable to stop himself.

Hurtling towards the parking lot, Tom saw the man shift. Not into a dragon. The creature who stood in the parking lot hadn't been seen on Earth for millennia uncountable. Tom recognized it, immediately, from its display in Denver's Natural History Museum, though. It was a dire wolf: tall of shoulder, massive of bone, its teeth huge, unwieldy daggers flashing in the light.