"Go inside," Tom said, as he glimpsed the wing again, through the multiplying flakes. "It's a red wing. It's . . ." He didn't say it. He couldn't quite assemble words.
His brain, still fogged from his quick shift into dragon and back, still laboring under the guilt of what he'd done to the bathroom—let alone the terror of the precipitous drive here, which had felt less like driving than tumbling down a chute—could not manage to describe the wing. But he was sure, from his two brief glimpses, that it was a Chinese dragon. An Asian dragon like the Great Sky Dragon and his cohorts.
Feeling for the door handle with half-frozen, still aching fingers, Tom managed to grasp it and throw the door open against resistence of what he hoped was stiff wind, and not a dragon tail or claw, as he yelled over the howling storm at Kyrie. "Go inside. I'll deal with it."
He plunged out of the car, his hair and his unzipped black leather jacket whipping about in the howling storm, just in time for his feet to go out from under him, and to reach, blindly, for the car door for support, and bring himself upright, and stare into . . .
He was big and red. No. As he blinked to keep his eyes from freezing, he thought he wasn't that big. Smaller than Tom himself in dragon form. But he was also horribly familiar—more familiar as Tom focused on the details and noted that the dragon's front left paw was much smaller than the other. He was . . . Red Dragon. Not only was he was one of the Great Sky Dragon's cohorts, but when Tom had last seen him there had been a big battle, and Red Dragon had ended with his arm ripped out at the roots. Or rather, Tom had ripped Red Dragon's arm off, then used it to beat Red Dragon with.
Tom knew—from experience—that his kind was hard to kill. But this was a particular foe he'd never thought to see again; one he was sure had more reasons for vendetta against him than anyone else alive.
He felt his throat close and the panic he'd—barely—managed to control in the car surged through his body like electric current, seeking grounding. Not finding it, it twisted in a sparkle through his flesh. He felt his bruised, battered limbs wrench, and his body bend, and a hollow cough echoed through his throat mingled with a scream of pain that he could no longer keep back. His mouth opened, and he swallowed an aspiration of snow, cold and suffocating. He knew, absolutely knew, that if he shifted he would attack Red Dragon and probably try to eat him. He was that protein-starved. A protein-starved Tom ate uncooked meat and whatever else he could get his hands on. A protein-starved dragon would hunt live prey.
"Run," he told Kyrie with what was left of his human mind and his human voice, already sounding slurpy and hissy as his teeth shifted position. "Run inside, Kyrie."
He could just tell in the periphery of his beclouded vision that she was not obeying. Not even considering it, and he wondered if his voice had already changed too much. If perhaps she couldn't understand him. His body twisted again, the pain of shifting unbearable on his bruised flesh and caked bones, and he kept his eyes on the other dragon, in case he should have any ideas of flaming or striking. Dragons were hard to kill but not impossible. This Tom knew. If you severed the head from the rest of the body, if you divided the body in two. If you incinerated the body. Possibly if you destroyed the brain. Those deaths even a dragon could not overcome.
Tom had to think of how to inflict them on his foe, and he had to protect himself from them. He felt his fingers lengthen into claws and—
"No," it was Kyrie's voice, decisive sounding. And Kyrie—slim, unshifted, very human Kyrie—stood between the two dragons, her dark blue ski jacket making her just slightly bulkier than normal as she yelled at both of them. "No. You're not going to change, Tom. Deep breaths. I'm not having you pass out or worse when you shift. Don't you dare."
There had been a time when Tom had sought out cures for his condition. He'd tried to prevent his shifting with illegal drugs and with will power, with perfect diet and with lack of sleep. He'd visited places where people said native tribes had once worshiped. He'd taken yoga and tried to meditate. None of it had worked.
In times of stress, or when the moon was just right, causing some change in the tides of his being; when panic or excitement overcame him, he would change. And he couldn't control it, any more than a human being can stop sneezing by wishing to stop. But Kyrie standing in front of him and saying "no" tore to the very center of his being and stopped the already started process.
He groaned as he felt his muscles return to their normal position, his bones resume proper human shape. In this state, it was like being filleted, his body sliced by a thousand sharp knifes, but it was needed and he willed it to happen.
She'd made him think even if what he was thinking was that they were both in great trouble. The red dragon had come back to seek vengeance. And, being a triad member and therefore an outlaw, he would stop at nothing. Tom's life, Kyrie's life, their friends, the diner—all of it would be in danger. And behind Red Dragon stood the powerful, mysterious figure of the Great Sky Dragon, who had taken Tom's life only to give it back again, and whom Tom didn't even pretend to understand. But Tom stopped and thought long enough to realize that if he were to shift now he would, probably, as Kyrie had said, lose consciousness. And that would not solve anything. Even if Red Dragon didn't take advantage of his weakness to behead him, an unconscious dragon in the parking lot becoming hypothermic would only add to Kyrie's troubles.
Through clenched teeth he asked Red Dragon, "What do you want?" But Red Dragon only glared and bobbed his neck up and down, waving his head like some deranged bobble-toy, his mismatched limbs rearing, his wings flaring.
"Go inside," Kyrie answered, looking at Red Dragon, but speaking to Tom, impatiently. "Go inside, Tom. We can't have you here. Not weakened. I'll find out what this . . . what he wants."
"But—" Tom said, and stopped as he realized he was about to say "I'm the man. I'm supposed to protect you." He could not say that. Man or not, he was in no state to protect anyone.
Feeling his cheeks heat in shame, he retreated. He retreated step by step, while staring at Kyrie. He walked backwards, through the blowing snow, till Kyrie and the red dragon were no more than outlines of themselves, patterns of shadow drawn on the surrounding whiteness. He felt his heart beat, hard in his chest. He was sure it was beating hard enough that if he looked down he'd see it pound even through the shirt and his black leather jacket. His mouth was dry and tasted vaguely of blood as though the hoarse cough that normally heralded his transformation had stripped it of its lining. He cleared his throat, more because he wanted to remind Red Dragon and Kyrie that he was still there—more because he felt like a coward and a fool, backing away from confrontation and leaving his girlfriend to face evil alone. But he didn't know if the sound carried that far, and besides, what good was it to remind them he was there, when he could do nothing to defend the woman he loved?
Oh, sure, Kyrie was a were panther. Oh, surely, she could defend herself. She had fought these creatures before but . . .
But if he'd not helped Kyrie then, she would have died. And now he was going to leave her alone with one of these—a creature that was bigger than her feline form, a creature that could burn her to cinders. Everything that was Tom—normal and human and responsible—wanted to stay and protect Kyrie. But he knew better, he knew how sensible Kyrie was. And he knew his body would not stand another shift.
He wished there was someone he could call to, but all the shifters he knew for a fact were shifters were a homeless man and Rafiel—who might or might not be inside. Was Rafiel inside? He'd called Tom. Had he had time to get here, yet?
Tom must check. He stepped back faster and faster. He couldn't see so clearly through the snow anymore, but Kyrie seemed to be circling the dragon, or the dragon seemed to be circling Kyrie. It couldn't be good, but at least he saw no flame. That at least was better than it could be.
He stepped back. As he walked into the purple glow of the sign at the back door he felt the warmth of the diner behind him. Even through the glass door at the back, enough heat escaped that, without looking, he could tell where the door was.
Stepping back towards the warmth, he heard the key in the lock, and then the door opened, right behind him.
He turned. "Anthony!" he said, or rather gasped in surprise, turning back to look and see if Anthony—who had no idea shapeshifters or dragons existed—would see the dragon through the snow before the door closed. But there was nothing out there, just the briefest of shadows, and did he hear Kyrie's car trunk open? What was she doing? Stashing the defeated body of her opponent? Well, it could be worse. If she was opening a car, then she had to be alive. Probably.
"Tom?" Anthony asked. He was slim and Italian or perhaps Greek or maybe some flavor of South American. Or maybe he had all those in his ancestry somewhere. Olive skinned, with curly dark hair, and a Roman nose, Anthony was a local boy, grown up in this neighborhood. He was Kyrie's and Tom's guide to local stores and events. And every small business owner seemed to know Anthony, whose approval counted for more with them than their better-business-bureau rating. He was also the leader of a bolero dancing troupe and newly married. And the one person they trusted enough to let him manage the daytime shift unsupervised.
"Yeah."
"You guys came in."
"You're open."
"I was going to close, but then people started trickling in and kept coming in. Cold, you know. Or just wanting to see people." He shrugged. "And there's freaky stuff around here, and . . ."
But Tom was listening, wildly, for the sound of the car door, for the sound of Kyrie, for what might be happening out there, in the howling snow.