Kyrie wasn't sure what she was going to tell Frank. She had some idea he'd already be on simmer from what he would see as her sudden disappearance. In the ten steps between the bathroom and the diner proper, she ran her options through her mind—she could tell him she felt ill. She felt ill enough after the mess in the parking lot and the more specific mess in the bathroom. And the last thing any greasy spoon owner wanted was to have a sick employee—visibly sick—tending to tables. On the other hand, if she did that, she was going to be some hours short this month. Because there was no way she could come back again tonight. And there was rent to pay.
She didn't know what she going to say at all until she emerged from the corridor into the yellowish light of the diner and said, "Frank, I need a few minutes, to go to Tom's." Which made perfect sense as she said it. A few minutes should suffice to go to Tom's house, because Tom walked here, and if Tom walked here, he couldn't live very far away. That meant a couple of minutes would also see him back to his home with no problem at all. And her back here, pretending she'd just dropped by his place.
Frank was attending to the students' table and had the sort of look on his face that meant he was trying very hard not to explode. Kyrie had worked for him for a year and she'd been a reliable employee, never late, rarely sick and trustworthy enough to be left alone with the register on occasion. None of which were easy to come by in a college town in Colorado for the late night shift and considering what Frank was willing to pay.
He looked over his shoulder at Kyrie, and his brows beetled together, nonetheless, and he managed, "What? More minutes?"
"Tom is sick," she said. "He called me." Let Frank wonder why and how she'd given Tom her cell phone number. "He wants me to buy him some stuff at the pharmacy and drop it by. Over the counter stuff," she added, thinking that most of what Tom probably took was not over the counter.
Frank looked like he was going to say something like that, for just a moment, but he gave it up. Probably he couldn't imagine Kyrie buying illegal drugs. And in that he would be right. She got enough lawlessness in her everyday life, enough to hide and disguise, that she did not need any more adrenalin.
So Frank shrugged, which might be taken for agreement, and Kyrie rushed back down the hallway, hoping to find Tom, hoping Tom hadn't shifted, hoping that for once things would go well. For just this once.
Tom was where she expected him—at the back of the diner, facing the door to the parking lot. He was pale and had started trembling again, and there wasn't much she could say or do for that. She wondered if he'd killed the man. She didn't want to think about it. It didn't matter. If he had, could she blame him? She knew the confusion of mind, the prevalence of the beast-self over every civilized learning, every instinct, even. How could she accuse someone else who'd given in perhaps further?
Of course she could, a deeper voice said, because she didn't give in. She'd fought her—as she'd thought—hallucinations tooth and nail and she'd held onto a normal life of sorts. No friends, no family, no one who might discover what she'd thought was her hideous madness, but she made her own money, she lived her own life.
She managed a weak smile at Tom by way of reassurance, as she turned the key and opened the door.
She took a deep breath to steel herself against the smell of blood, the light of the moon. She must stay in control. She must.
But she wasn't ready for the other smell—the hot, musky and definitely male smell that invaded her nostrils as she stepped onto the parking lot.
Dizziness and her mouth went dry and her whole body started fluttering on the verge of shifting shape, and she told herself no. No. Regained control just in time to see it, at the edge of the parking lot, under one of the lights.
Not it. Him. The smell was clear as a hallelujah chorus in her head. He was at the edge of the parking lot, and he was tawny and huge and muscular.
A lion. He was a lion. Was he a lion like she was a panther and Tom was a dragon, or. . .
Or what? An invader from the vast Colorado savannah outside Goldport? Where lions and zebras chased each other under the hot tropical sun?
She shook her head at her own silliness.
Behind her, Tom drew breath, noisily. "Is it?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"But—" He drew breath again and something—something about the movement of his feet against the asphalt, something about his breathing, perhaps something about his smell (since when could she smell people this way?) made her think he was about to run.
She put out a hand to his arm. "Do not run," she said. "Walk steadily."
His arm felt cold and smooth under her hand. Light sprinkling of hair. Very little of it for a male. Perhaps being a dragon. . . She didn't want to think of that. She didn't want to think of Tom, muzzle deep in blood.
Which of course, meant the lion could smell them. Smell the blood on them. "You mustn't run," she said. "We. . . Cats are triggered by motion. If you run he will give chase. Walk slowly and steadily towards my car. The small white one. Come."
They made their way slowly, steadily, across the parking lot, in the reek of blood. Perhaps the lion wouldn't be able to smell Tom in the overwhelming smell.
Perhaps they could make it to the car. Perhaps. . . Perhaps the moon was made of green cheese and it would rain pea soup tomorrow.
He smelled powerful, musky. She could hear him draw breath, was aware of the touch of paw pads on the asphalt. She felt those movements as if they were her own, her heart accelerating and seeming to beat at her throat, suffocating her.
Paw touching asphalt, and paw touching asphalt, and paw touching asphalt. Measured steps. Not a run. Please don't let it be a run.
And her movements matched his -- slow, measured, trying to appear unconcerned, escorting Tom to the car, guiding him.
Tom walked like a wooden puppet. Was he that terrified of the lion? Didn't he know in his dragon form he was as big? Bigger? Stronger? Why was he afraid?
But her rational self understood. He was afraid because he was in human form. And every human at the back of his mind feared the large felines who lurked in the shadows and who could eat him in two bites.
Kyrie herself was sweating and cold by degrees, and felt as if her legs were made of water, as she concentrated on following the beast's movements by sound.
They hit the moonlight, out of the shadow of the diner and into the fully illuminated parking lot. The heat of it felt like fire playing over Kyrie's skin and she kept her head lowered. She took deep breaths. Her heartbeat echoed some old jungle rhythm but she told herself she would not, she would not, she could not shift.
And the smell of him—of the lion—enveloped her, stronger than ever. Her senses, sharpened from wanting to transform, gave her data about him that a mere nose should not be able to gather. That he was young. That he was healthy. That he was virile.
She pulled Tom forward, and the lion followed them at a distance -- step, step, step, unhurried, unafraid. She prayed he wouldn't start running. She prayed he wouldn't leap. And inside, deep inside, she felt as if he was toying with her. Playing. Like a cat with a mouse.
She was not a mouse.
Sweat formed on her scalp, dripped towards her eyes, made her blink. The car loomed in front of her, white and looking much bigger than it usually did. Looking like safety.
Kyrie pushed her key fob button to unlock it, and felt as if her fingers slipped on the smooth plastic, as though she had claws and unwieldy paws.
No. She must not. She must remain human. She must.
Breathing deeply and only managing to inhale more unabashed male musk, she shoved Tom, slightly, and said, "Go around to the passenger side. Get in."
Go, give him a divided target. Go, but for the love of all that's holy, don't stop. Don't stop. Don't let him catch you. She didn't know which she feared most. The idea of being attacked of the idea of seeing Tom attacked, of seeing Tom torn to pieces. Of shifting. Of joining in.
She shuddered as her too clumsy fingers struggled with the car handle. She saw Tom open the door on the other side. Get in. She struggled with the handle.
And the lion was twenty steps away, crouching in the full light of the moon, augmented by the light of a parking lot lamp above her. He was crouching, front down low and hindquarters high.
Hindquarters trembling. Legs bunching.
Jump. He was going to—
He jumped, clearing the space between them, and she leaned hard against her car, her heart hammering in her chest, her body divided and dividing her mind. Her human body, her human mind, wanted to scream, to hide. Her human body knew that the huge body would hit her, claws would rend her. That she was about to die.
But her other mind. . . Her other mind practically died in the ecstatic smell of healthy young male. Her other mind thought the lion knew her, guessed her, smelled her for an equal. That the lion wanted—Not to eat her.
She realized she'd closed her eyes, when she felt him landing near her—landing with all four paws on the asphalt. Not on her, but so close to her she felt the breeze of his falling, and smelled him, smelled him hot and strong and oh, so impossibly male.
She felt her body spasm, wish to shift. She fought it. She struggled to stay herself.
Through half-open eyes, she saw a lion's face turned towards her, its golden eyes glowing, its whole expression betraying. . . smugness?
Then it opened its mouth, the fangs glowing in the light and a soft growl started at the back of its throat. She didn't know if it was threatening her or. . .
Something to the growl—something to the sound crept along her nerves like a tingle on the verge of aching. If she stayed—If she stayed. . .
The car door opened, shoving her. She leapt aside, to avoid being pushed into the lion. A hand reached out of the car, dragged her. She fell onto her seat. Blinked. Tom. Tom had pulled her into the car.
"Drive," Tom said. "Drive."
He reached across her, as he spoke and slammed the door. From outside, the lion made a rumbling sound that might have been amusement.
She didn't remember turning the ignition. She didn't remember stepping on the gas. But she realized she was driving down Fairfax. Tall, silent apartment houses succeeded each other on either side of the road, lighted by sporadic white pools of light from the street lamps.
"Where do you live?" she managed, glancing at Tom. Part of her wanted to tell him she hadn't been afraid, she hadn't been. . .
But she wasn't even sure she could explain what she'd been. She had been afraid. That was a huge beast. But also, at some level, she was afraid she would end up shifting, cavorting with him. Over a half-devoured human carcass.
"Two blocks down," Tom said, and swallowed, as if he'd had the same thought at the same time. "Audubon apartments. On the left."
She remembered the place. Not one of the graceful Victorian remnants, but half a dozen rectangular red-brick boxes sharing a parking lot. During the day there were any number of kids playing in the parking lot, and usually one or two men working on cars or drinking beer.
Now, in the dark of night, it was silent and ill lit. As she pulled into the parking lot, Tom asked. "It was one of us, wasn't it?"
"Pardon?" she said. She knew what he meant. She knew all too well. He was asking if the lion was like them. If the lion too had a human form and one not so human. But Kyrie had managed, until very recently to convince herself she only had one form and that everything else was hallucination. Mental illness.
Now this whole thing felt like mental illness. She parked the car, turned the engine off.
"You know. . ." Tom said. His blue eyes were earnest, and he plucked at her sleeve like a little kid seeking reassurance. "You know, a shape-shifter. Like us."
She shrugged. "Seems unlikely it escaped from a zoo," she said. "Someone would have given the alarm, wouldn't they?"
Tom nodded, as if considering this. "What.. . . what did it want?"
Kyrie shrugged. She wanted to say he wanted everything but all she had to go on was the smell. And she didn't wish to discuss her response to the smell with Tom.
"Do you think it killed the. . . person?"
Did you? Kyrie thought, but only shrugged. How did you ask someone who looked as bewildered and shocked as Tom if he'd committed murder? And was she really feeling sorry for Tom? Must be going soft in the head.
Tom got out of the car, patted down where the pockets would be in normal pants and Kyrie realized he wouldn't have keys.
But he turned around and said, "Thank you for driving me," and pushed the door as if to close it.
"Wait, do you have keys?"
He shrugged. "The neighbor usually keeps them," he said. "For me. I keep his."
His? For some reason it had never occurred to Kyrie that someone like Tom could entrust his key—or anything else—to a male. If she'd thought of his social life outside work at all, she imagined a never-ending succession of sweet things across his mattress. But now she realized she was probably wrong. It was unlikely there was anyone on his mattress. He had come from a homeless shelter. And he was a dragon.
"Keith keeps my key and I keep his. . . So if we lose it while we're out," Tom said, an edge of impatience in his voice. "He's a college student. They lose their keys." He hesitated a minute. "Gets stinking drunk too." He said it as if he, himself, never took any mind-altering substances.
And out of nowhere, an altruistic impulse, or perhaps the thought that he'd saved her—from what?—with the lion in the parking lot, made her get out. "I'll come with you," she said. "To make sure you get in okay."
She had a feeling, a strange feeling something was wrong. Wrong with this parking lot, with this entire area. There was a feeling of being watched and not in a friendly manner, but she wasn't sure by whom, or how. Any other day, any other time, she would have shrugged it off. But now. . . Well. . . perhaps she was picking up smell or something. Something was definitely wrong.
She got out of the car, unsteady on her legs, glad that the moonlight was hidden by the shadows of the buildings. The pressure of the full moonlight was all she needed now. At the same time, she felt as if the buildings themselves were looming shapes waiting to jump her.
It wasn't possible, was it? For the buildings to be shifters? With a human form? What was this? How many people did it afflict? And why was she afraid?
She wasn't sure of anything anymore. Sweat trickled down her back and her legs felt like water while she followed Tom to the steps outside the door of the nearest building.
"Keith might not be home," Tom said, pressing the button. Actually, it was damn bloody sure that Keith Vorpal would not be home. Keith was a film student at Goldport College and somewhat of a ladies' man. One or the other tended to keep him out of the house on warm summer nights. He always assumed Tom had the same sort of life and only seemed somewhat amused Tom managed to come home naked so often. He took Tom's mutters of some good beer or a glass too many and asked no questions. Which in itself would be worrisome, except that Keith's own life was such a mess of perils and odd adventures that he probably took it for granted everyone else's life was that crazy. And no worse.
Their arrangement with the keys rested on a vague hope that one of them might be home when the other needed a key. So far it had worked out, more or less. But there was always the chance. . .
Tom rang again. A buzz he recognized as Keith's voice came through the loudspeaker. He couldn't actually understand what Keith said, but he could guess. "It's Tom, man," Tom said. "Lost my key, somehow. . ."
Another buzz that Tom—with long practice—understood to mean that he should ring Keith's door and Keith would give him the key. Then the front door clicked open.
"Sorry there's no elevator, but—" Tom started, and shut up. Most apartment buildings in Goldport, much less most apartment buildings in Downtown Goldport didn't have elevators. He must be having flash backs to his childhood in an upscale NY condo.
As it was, the Audubon was more upscale than the places he'd lived in the last five years even when he'd been out of the shelter. There were no rats. The cement stairs covered in worn carpet were clean enough and didn't smell of piss. And if, now and then, like on the third floor, you could hear a baby cry through the thin door of an apartment, you could be sure the little tyke had just awakened and needed to nurse, and not that he was being beaten within an inch of his life.
These were solid working class apartments, where people scrimped and saved to get by and might wear clothes from thrift shop racks, but where most families had two parents and both parents worked, and where kids went to school and played, instead of doing drugs. Or selling them.
Yeah, it could be much, much worse. Tom rubbed his hand across his face as he climbed, as fast as his feet would carry him up to the third floor. He hated with shifting shape—particularly shifting shape when he didn't mean to and staying shifted for. . . hours, he guessed as his last memory was from when the moon first appeared in the sky, around maybe nine. He wondered what he'd been doing. It had been months since shifting had come with such total memory loss.
If he could find his clothes, he would know what had happened, but right now he only had a memory of fear—of fleeing. And then nothing at all until he'd come to himself in that parking lot, with Kyrie staring at him and the bloodied corpse at his feet.
They'd reached the landing on the third floor and he lurched to Keith's door on the left, and pushed the doorbell. Despite his having called, he didn't expect a fast response and didn't get it. From inside came Keith's voice and a higher, clearly female voice, and then the sound of footsteps, something falling, more footsteps.
Tom smiled despite himself, guessing that Keith had still been explaining to his visitor why the doorbell had rung from downstairs, when it rang again up here.
When the door opened, Keith looked disheveled and sleepy. He was a young kid—although to be honest he might be older than Tom. Tom just perceived him as much younger than himself -- perhaps because Keith didn't shift. Keith was blond and generally good looking. Right then, he was blinking, his blue eyes displaying the curiously naked look of the eyes of people who normally wore glasses and suddenly found themselves without.
His hair was a mess and he looked confused, but he was grinning as he handed Tom a set of keys. Though the student held the door almost closed, Tom glimpsed a redheaded girl behind Keith. He felt a little envious. It had been years since he'd even dreamed of sharing his bed with anyone. He could never guarantee he wouldn't shift and scare a date halfway to death. Or worse.
Then he realized Keith was looking enviously at him. Tom followed the direction of Keith's gaze, and saw Kyrie standing just behind him, hands on hips, as though daring Keith to make a comment. And Tom felt at the same time ridiculously pleased that Keith thought he could be involved with someone like Kyrie and a little jealous of Keith's admiration for her. Keith didn't even know her. He didn't even know who she was. He didn't know that she shifted, as well.
"Thanks," Tom said, a little more dryly than he should. He snatched the key from Keith's hand and started up the stairs at a faster clip than he should, considering how he felt.
Keith grinned. "No problem. But I have to go back. This girl is something else. She swears she saw a dragon flying over the building. A dragon." He shook his head.
A dragon. Tom managed a noncommittal sound of empathy. Probably Tom. But Tom didn't dare ask questions about what he'd been doing or what direction he'd been flying. Instead, he turned and started up the stairs. Up and up and up, to his fifth floor landing, Kyrie's steady gait keeping pace with his.
His door was. . . locked. He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding in. After all, he did not know how or when he'd shifted and all he had was the memory of fear, of running away. It was possible they had found him in his apartment. It was possible. . . If they'd figured out his name, and they must have by now, it would have been easy.
But the door was locked, his doormat looked untouched. Everything was as it should be. No light came under his door. Everything was normal at least to human senses and he didn't want to use his dragon senses. He didn't want to reach for that other self, for fear it would bring them. And for fear of what he might do. He swallowed hard, thinking of the corpse.
There could be nothing odd in his apartment. The only reason his hand trembled was because of his being so tired. And the corpse and everything.
He slid the key in and turned it.