Gentleman Takes a Chance (11 page)

He adjusted his hands, trying to remove one, to rub at his forehead, and stopped short when the kitten emitted a vaguely threatening purr and put out a paw to hold Tom's hand in place. He was so much like Kyrie, asleep, on the sofa, putting out a hand to hold Tom back when he tried to walk off, that Tom smiled. A smile that died quickly, when he heard Old Joe say, in an almost singsong voice, "They want to kill you, you know?"

It was all Tom could do, not to look over his shoulder at where Conan was talking to a customer. "Who?" he asked, instead. "The Ancient—"

Old Joe nodded. "You see, they formed"—he wrinkled his forehead—"many years ago." He waved a hand with short, broken, dirty nails. "To punish those who hurt shifters. And to create a law for shifters. And they know about the deaths. At the castle." His voice was raspy, and he looked one way and another as if to make sure he couldn't be overheard.

"Many years ago?"

"Before cars. Or airplanes or . . . gaslight." His eyes seemed to be looking far away into the past. "Or horses."

"I see."

"I was young, you know? And they said that shifters needed rules and laws to protect them, and to rule themselves, that they needed to defend themselves against the others . . . the ones who would hunt them. And then they formed a . . . a group."

"I see. And why do you think this group is after us? Just because so many young shifters died?"

Old Joe shook his head, then shrugged. "He came to me, when I was outside. Dante Dire did. He came to me. He's the . . . killer for the Ancient Ones, the . . . how do you call it, when someone kills the condemned for a king? The executioner!" He looked very proud of himself for having come up with the word. "That's what he is. He punishes those who hurt shifters. And he came to me and said that many young and blameless shifters had died, and that it was all your fault, and . . . yours and . . . your girl and the policeman. And he wanted to know your names."

"How could he know we did it, and not know our names?"

"He can feel it. Many people can. Well, ancient shifters can."

"And he wanted to know who we were?"

"Yeah. He tried to get me to change," Old Joe squinted. "But I wouldn't. And then, you know, your manager came out, and he went away, but I was hit with a cantaloupe."

Tom tried to think through the confusion of articles, then shook his head. It didn't matter if it was all a dream of Old Joe's. Or rather, of course it did, since dreams couldn't possibly kill them, and real, pissed-off shifters on a rampage could. But . . . but for now, not knowing to which aspect of Old Joe he was addressing himself, he had to treat the thing as if it were deadly serious. "Is there some way they could figure out who we are? Since you didn't tell him? And why did he come to you?"

"He didn't come to me," Old Joe said, somewhat defensively. "He came to the diner because of the smell that attracts shifters, you know. And then he figured this is where all shifters came. And he recognized me. So he asked. I didn't tell him." He folded his gnarled hands in front of him, on the formica table, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who expects a reward, then looked up and smiled a little. "I wouldn't worry. You're safe. I saw Dante Dire again, just a little later. When your girl and that policeman . . . what's his name? When they went out, he got in a car and followed them." He patted Tom's hand, reassuringly. "So, you see, you are safe."

Tom didn't feel at all reassured.

"So . . . what have we learned, children?" Kyrie said, in a singsong voice, as she dressed herself in the chilly bathroom. "We've learned that shifters piss."

She and Rafiel had gone all over the aquarium. Much to her chagrin, she had confirmed Rafiel's smelling of a shifter around the aquarium and up the stairs to the little observation area over the shark tank, where the smell became far more intense, as though the shifter had lingered there.

But that was all she'd learned. The only thing she could contribute—as she walked out of the ladies' room, to meet the again-human Rafiel, outside his bathroom—marked salmon, according to some bizarre logic where all salmons were male, she guessed—was, "I could smell it strongest in the ladies' room."

"Really?"

"Really. So I'm guessing that shifters piss," she said, with an attempt at a smile.

But Rafiel frowned at her, as though lost in intense thought. "And that it's a female."

Kyrie immediately felt like slapping her forehead. That hadn't even occurred to her. "Or that. Or of course, it comes in after hours and isn't sure whether it's shad roe or salmon. Not that I can blame him . . . er . . . her . . . it there."

This got her a very brief smile. "I'm more worried that it lives here."

"What do you mean . . . Oh. You mean one of the sharks?"

He nodded. "I tried smelling the covering to the tank at the top, where they open to feed them and to go in and clean, but couldn't smell anything. Hell, the smell through half of this place is faint. But I think I detect a trace of whatever it is they use to clean the aquariums with, and I wonder . . ."

"But wouldn't they go nuts, staying shifted and in the aquarium the whole time?" Kyrie asked.

Rafiel shrugged. "I have no idea. Truly. You see . . . sometimes I think that if I lived somewhere in Africa, I'd just walk out one day into the savannah, and become a lion, and never, ever, ever change back."

Kyrie stared at him, shocked. She'd always thought of the three of them, Rafiel was the best adjusted. He had a family who knew what he was and collaborated in hiding him. He had the job he wanted to have, the job he'd dreamed about as a little boy. If anything he'd seemed in danger of being conceited and full of himself, not lost and full of doubt. But as he said those words, she felt as if he'd undressed. His expression had for a moment become innocent and vulnerable, making him look like a confused young man faced with something he couldn't understand nor deny.

"Never mind," he said, and managed a little smile. "It's just sometimes it's so hard being both, you know, living between worlds. I've tried to be human, and I can't—not all the time. And it just occurred to me, if I could
just
be a lion—be a lion all the time and stop . . . stop thinking like a human, stop caring about what humans think . . . it would be easier."

There were many things Kyrie wanted to say. That she understood—though she wasn't sure she did. She relished her rationality too much to let it go in exchange for a promise of simpler thinking. That she felt for him. That she could think of what it all must mean to him. But instead, what came out of her lips, was, "There's always the zoo."

As soon as she heard it, she was afraid he would be offended. And that was a heck of a thing to do to him, anyway. He'd just revealed an inner part of himself—at least she didn't think he was playacting, though with Rafiel, it was sometimes pretty hard to tell—and she'd answered with a joke.

To her surprise, he gurgled with sudden laughter. "Oh, yes . . . But if I couldn't control the changing even then, it could get a little embarrassing, no? Not to mean dangerous, right there in the feline enclosure."

"Yes," she said. Then changed the subject quickly. "But you think one of the sharks might have done it?"

Rafiel shrugged. "It still doesn't make any sense, does it? I mean, they get fed, as sharks. Why would she . . . or whatever . . . feel a need to come out and push humans into the tank?"

"Perhaps she has a taste for human flesh," Kyrie said. "Or perhaps there was someone who saw her shift, and had to be eliminated."

The refrain in Tom's mind had changed to
oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
, and he jumped up from the seat. Kyrie and Rafiel were being stalked by someone called the executioner for whatever the Ancient Ones were.

He ducked into the storage room and dialed Kyrie on his cell phone. There was no answer. It rolled over much too fast, in fact. He bit his tongue, thinking. Kyrie never charged her cell phone. Which meant, he had to get to her—somehow.

Oh, maybe Old Joe was dreaming it all up, but this seemed a bit complex, and the man's hesitations about time and place were much too realistic, and unless Old Joe's dreams came in technicolor and surround sound, Tom didn't think it was a dream at all. No. Tom thought that Old Joe was somehow trying to reassure him and claim loyalty points for not having turned him in.

Had he not turned them in? Who knew. Maybe he had. Or maybe he had turned Kyrie and Rafiel in. His primary loyalty seemed to be to Tom, who fed him and looked after him. Everyone else was a distant concern. He might care for Kyrie because Tom did. On the other hand, Kyrie thought that Tom encouraged Old Joe to hang around, and endangered them, and she made no secret of her feelings.

Tom came out of the storage room and dove behind the counter, kitten in hand. "Here," he told Keith, handing over the small, orange fluffball, and ripping off his apron over his head.

"What am I supposed to do with him?" Keith asked, holding the puzzled creature, who was meowing and hissing at having his sleep disturbed. "No matter how much Old Joe wants him, I'm not grilling him."

"No," Tom said. "He's not dinner. Just put him somewhere. I have to go out . . . uh . . . for a few minutes. I'll be right back, I swear."

Keith looked closely at the kitten who was wearing the universal kitten expression that means
let them come, all together or single file. I have my claws.
"How am I supposed to keep him from wandering around? Let me tell you how many health violations—"

"Oh, I'm sure. But if we let him go, Old Joe is likely to eat him. Just tie him up or something. Some sort of a leash."

"A leash? A cat?" Keith asked, in the vaguely horrified voice of someone who's just been instructed to confront a savage creature.

"Well, something," Tom said. "Please? And mind the place. I need to go out. Truly." He looked doubtfully at the kitten trying to claw at Keith. "Give him some food or something. Cats stay where they're fed, right?" And to Keith's look of incredulity, "Look, just try."

Tom had wanted a pet. The closest he'd come to having a pet was having fish. But those were more like animated swimming plants, as far as he was concerned. From the ages of five to ten, he had spent hours dreaming of various pets, from cats to horses. But his parents' lifestyle did not include time for animals. Truth be told, it barely included time for Tom. So he didn't have much idea what one did with pets, beyond a vague idea you told them what to do and they did it. At least, that seemed to be the interaction of owner and dog that he observed at various parks and in various streets. Except perhaps in the matter of bodily functions, dogs pretty much obeyed. It was all go here, come here, and stay. And by and large, the various mutts did. Surely cats couldn't be that much different. He had a lurch of doubt when he realized that save for a very old lady with a hairless cat on a leash, he'd never seen a cat be walked. "Er . . . just don't let him poop anywhere, okay?"

"Right . . ." Keith said in that tone of voice that indicated that as soon as Tom left the diner, he was calling the men in white coats to go after him. And Tom thought he very well might, but it didn't matter. He ran down the hallway to the back door, and out in the blinding storm where, more by instinct than by sight, he found the car where Kyrie had parked it. Fishing in his pocket, he found the car keys. He undressed, shivering under the snow and shoved his clothes and shoes into the car trunk, and shut it with a resounding thud, even as he felt his skin bunch and prickle with cold. He hooked the keys to a link in a bracelet that Kyrie had made for him. It was silver, but made of the sort of elastic weave—somewhat like chain mail but not really—that adjusted to his changes in size as he shifted from man to dragon and back again.

A brief thought of Conan came to him, with a sharp stab of annoyance. Don't let Conan see him. Don't let Conan realize he was gone. The last thing he needed, right now, was Conan's intervention, or to have to drag Conan with him on this dangerous expedition. Conan was a complication he didn't need. He wished with all his strength, with everything he could, that the Red Dragon shifter wouldn't realize he was gone until Tom was well away.

And then he forced his body—unwilling and fighting and screaming with pain and begging for more time to recover—into the series of spasmodic coughs and twists that changed the shape of bones and muscles, and made wings grow from the middle of the shoulders.

Wings that spread and flapped, once—twice—powerfully, lifting the dragon aloft in the blinding snow.

"Nasty way of getting rid of your exes," Rafiel said. And shook his head. "Or of course, perhaps we are completely wrong. The smell wasn't continuous. At least for me, it wasn't. You?"

"No, I couldn't follow it from the bathroom to the shark tank. Also, I thought there was a faint trail in the jellyfish and crab area, and all the way to the seafood restaurant." Which she privately thought was the height of bad taste to have attached to an aquarium, though right now, after shifting, those fishies in the tanks were starting to look startlingly like protein packs with incidental fins. "But it wasn't truly contiguous, and it . . . well, it didn't feel quite the same to me. I'd say there were two trails. Maybe three."

It was only as she saw the sudden look of alarm cross Rafiel's face, that Kyrie realized this was probably not the right thing to say.

"Three?" he said. "Are you sure?"

She shrugged. "Rafiel," she said, unable to fully keep her impatience out of her voice. "You know very well that you are the best sniffer of us all, when it comes to shifter-scent. I can only tell you what I smell . . . and it's probably less than you can sniff out."

But he shook his head, and swallowed hard. "No, the problem is that when you said it, it made sense, it clicked. Not one interrupted trail, but three trails. What the hell does that mean? A cabal of shifters, ready to kill people at the aquarium? What are we looking at here? A mob of shifters who have turned on all non-shifters? A shifter religion sacrificing the non-shifters?"