Night Shifters (13 page)

A girl about Kyrie’s age, blond and cool and wearing what looked like a business suit in pretty salmon pink, gave her the once-over. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Kyrie said. “I’m meeting a Mr. Trall. Rafiel Trall.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly. And there was a gratifying look of envy.

What, thinking I can’t possibly be in his league, sweetie?
Kyrie thought, and reproached herself for her sudden anger and calmed herself forcefully, giving the woman a little smile.

“Mr. Trall is this way,” the hostess said and, picking up a menu, led her down a winding corridor amid wood-and-glass partitions and palms. From the recesses around the walkway came the sounds of talk—but not the words, the acoustics of the restaurant being seemingly designed to give tables their privacy—and the smells of food—bacon and ham and sausage, eggs, roast beef. It made her mouth water so much that she was afraid of drooling.

Then the hostess led her around a wooden partition, and stepped back. And there, getting up hastily from his chair, was Rafiel Trall. He was perhaps better dressed than the night before, when his pale suit had betrayed a look of almost retro cool.

Now he was wearing tawny chinos and a khaki-colored shirt. His blond hair still shone, and still fell, unruly, over his golden eye. The mobile mouth turned upward in what seemed to be a smile of genuine pleasure at seeing her. “Miss Smith,” he said, extending a hand. He tossed his head back to free his eyes of hair. There were circles of tiredness around his golden eyes, and creases on his face, as though he too had slept too little and not well.

He shook her hand hard, firmly. The hostess disappeared, silently, walking on the plush carpet as though gliding.

“Sit, sit,” Rafiel Trall said. “Relax. I was horribly hungry, so I ordered an appetizer.” He waved toward a platter on the table. “Seafood croquettes,” he said. “High on protein, though perhaps not the kind . . .” He grinned. The golden eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief of their own.

Kyrie sat down, bonelessly.
What am I doing here?
she asked herself.
What does he want from me?

And there, she knew the answer to the first one. She was here because he had blackmailed her into coming. Regardless of whether a threat had been uttered, regardless of what the threat he might actually mean, Rafiel Trall had mentioned those bloody towels in the bathroom.

Kyrie didn’t own a television, but she had watched enough episodes of
CSI
on the diner’s television, during slow times of the day, that she knew that on the show, at least, they could tell if someone had wiped someone else’s blood off their skin with a paper towel. There would be skin and hair and sweat. . . .

But she remembered Tom and the way Tom had looked. What else could she have done then? Short of ignoring the whole thing and pretending it had nothing to do with her? And then what would have happened to Tom? She wasn’t sure what she thought was worse—Tom eating the corpse, or Tom getting killed by ambush in his bedroom.

So she’d used the towels, and now Rafiel Trall held the towels over her head. And Tom’s head. Which had brought her here.

But why did Officer Trall want her here? And what was the point of it all? Did he want to blackmail her for favors? No. If he wanted to do that, he would demand she meet him elsewhere, wouldn’t he? However secluded the table might be . . . it wasn’t
that
private.

Besides—she looked up at Rafiel Trall and refused to believe that he had that much trouble getting dates that he needed to force a girl into bed. Even if she admitted she didn’t look like chopped liver.

She became aware that he’d said something and was now sitting, his napkin halfway to being unfolded on his lap, while he looked at her, expectantly.

There was no point lying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have no idea what you said.”

He smiled. “No. You were miles away. I said your outfit is very becoming.”

Before she could stop it, she felt heat rise up her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “But I would like to know why you asked me to come here.”

He grinned at her. “I would like to have breakfast with you and to discuss . . . some cases the Goldport police force has encountered recently.”

Her expression must have became frozen with worry, because he shook his head. “I do not in any way suspect you, do you understand? I just think you could—literally—help me with my enquiries. And I thought it was best done over a nice meal.”

Kyrie nodded and picked up her menu, then put it down again, as the prices dismayed her.

“Ms. Smith—I’m hoping for your help with this. I’ll pay for your meal.” He smiled, showing very even teeth. “This is a business brunch.”

She hesitated. She was aware that whatever he said, breaking bread with someone was an expression of friendship, an expression of familiarity. After all, throughout human history, enemies had refused to dine together.

“Look.” He stared at her, across the table, and, for the first time since last night, didn’t smile. “I’m sorry I mentioned the bathroom, which I meant to make you think of the paper towels. It was unworthy of me. And stupid. In fact, I . . . got rid of them, okay? I risked my position. But I’m sure . . . Just, I’m sorry I mentioned them. I didn’t know any other way to make you help me, and we must talk. About . . . dragons and what’s going on.”

His voice was low, though Kyrie very much doubted anyone overhearing them would have any idea at all what they were talking about. But his expression was intense and serious.

She nodded, once. Not only was she starving, but she had left Tom in charge of the kitchen, with bacon and eggs at his disposal. Considering how many times he’d shifted the night before and how tired he’d looked, she was sure that he would have eaten all of it and possibly her lunch meat besides, before he could think straight.

Besides, what did Trall mean,
dragons
? He’d mentioned crimes. More than one? What had Tom done? Before she threw her luck in with his, she had to know, didn’t she?

“Very well, Officer Trall,” she said. “I’ll have brunch with you.”

He smiled effusively. At that moment, the server reappeared and he informed her they would be having the buffet. He also ordered black coffee, which Kyrie seconded.

The buffet spread was the most sumptuous that Kyrie had ever seen. It stretched over several counters and ranged from steamed crab legs, through prime rib, to desserts of various unlikely colors and shapes.

Kyrie was interested only in the meat. Preferably red and rare. She piled a plate with prime rib, conscious of the shocked glares of a couple of other guests. She didn’t care. And at any rate, back at the table, she was glad to notice that Rafiel Trall’s plate was even more full—though he’d gone for variety by adding ham and bacon.

They ate for a while in silence, and Rafiel got refills—how long had he been shifted the night before? Could a lion have killed the man?—before he leaned back and looked appraisingly at her. “How long have you known your friend? The . . . dragon?”

Kyrie, busy with a mouthful, swallowed hastily. “About six months,” she said. “Frank hired him from the homeless shelter downtown for the night hours. He told me he was hiring him from the homeless shelter and that he thought Tom had a drug problem, so I’m guessing that Frank thought he was doing the world a favor, or was trying to garner a treasure in heaven, or whatever.”

Rafiel was frowning. “Six months ago?”

Kyrie’s turn to nod. “No, wait. A little more, because it was before Christmas when we were really crunched with all the late shoppers and people going to shows. And the other girl on the night hours had just left town with her boyfriend, so we were in the lurch. Frank got a couple of the day people to fill in, but they don’t like it. Most of them are girls who think this part of town is unsavory and don’t like being out in it at night. So he said he was doing something for community service, and he went and hired Tom.”

Rafiel was still frowning. “And is he? On drugs?”

Kyrie shrugged. She thought of Tom, so defenseless last night, she thought of Tom, looking . . . admiring and confused this morning. And she felt like a weasel, betraying him to this stranger.

But she didn’t seem quite able to help herself. Something was making her talk. His smell, masculine, feline, pervasive, seemed to make her want to please him. So she shrugged again. “Not on work time, that I’ve noticed,” she said. She didn’t find she needed to mention the track marks. To be honest, they might be scars. She hadn’t looked up close. It seemed more indecent than staring at his privates. Which she hadn’t done, either. Well, maybe she’d seen them by accident yesterday, but no more than to note he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“His name is Thomas Ormson?” Rafiel asked. “Thomas Edward Ormson?”

Kyrie shrugged again. “I’ve never known his middle name. I know he’s Ormson because he introduced himself as Tom Ormson.”

Rafiel made a sound at the back of his throat, as though this proved something. “If you excuse me,” he said, standing up.

She ate the rest of her roast beef in silence, wondering if, by confirming Tom’s name, she had given something essential away and if Tom would now be arrested. But Rafiel simply came back with yet another plate of meat. “How long have you known he was . . . a shifter?” Rafiel asked, cutting a bite of his ham.

“Not . . . not until last night. He was late. I heard a scream and I went to look. And he was . . . shifted.” Why couldn’t she stop herself talking? Why would she trust this stranger?

“And there was a dead person?” Rafiel asked.

Kyrie nodded.

Rafiel frowned. “Has he been late other nights?”

“No,” Kyrie said.

“Are you sure? Not last Thursday? Does he work on Thursdays?”

Kyrie frowned. “He works on Thursdays, and he wasn’t late.”

“And he’s been in town for more than six months?”

She nodded.

Rafiel Trall ate for a while in silence. Kyrie was dying to know what this was all about.

“Why do you ask?” she said. “You said there had been crimes, not one crime.”

Rafiel nodded. “What I’m going to tell you is not known much outside the police department. There have been a couple of reported cases, but no one has put two and two together.”

Alone in the house, Tom showered. He felt guilty about it, because it was Kyrie’s shower. Her water. Her soap. Her shampoo. But at this point he owed her a bunch of money, and he just added to it mentally.

Most of his time on his own, he’d found shelters for runaway kids and, then, when he was older, homeless shelters. He hadn’t been homeless as such. He’d just moved from shelter to shelter in between bouts of getting in trouble and running away. He’d only slept outside when the moon was full. Shortly after leaving his father’s house—even now his mind flitted away from the circumstances of that leaving—he’d thought it best to abandon New York City altogether. There were too many opportunities, there, for a rampaging dragon to do serious damage. And far too many people who might see him do it.

He’d drifted vaguely south and westward, moving when he thought someone had caught a glimpse of him in shifted form and, once, when a picture of him, as a dragon, in full flight, was published on the front page of the local rag. It had been syndicated to the
National Enquirer
, too. If his father caught a glimpse of it, on a supermarket line, would he have— But Tom shook his head. If he’d not actually given up on his father, he should have. Long ago.

But running or settled for a while in a town, he’d never had an apartment until these last five months. And all showers at these institutions had been rationed and far from private. All the soap had smelled of disinfectant, too.

The last five months, the showers had been heaven. And he’d bought the best soap he could find. His one luxury. But now he was homeless again, adrift. And, with the triad pressing down, he might have to leave.

He only hadn’t left already because Kyrie had insisted he stay. And Kyrie was . . . the only one of his kind he’d ever got close to. Oh, he might also have quite a huge crush on her. But that didn’t count. He’d had crushes before. He’d moved on. But Kyrie . . . He bit his lower lip, standing in her tiny bathroom and turning on the water.

Kyrie was something he didn’t know what to do about. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to lose the only kindred feeling and fellowship he’d ever known. But with the triad chasing him, what else could he do?

He showered, enjoying the water, then dried his hair and put the jogging suit Kyrie had lent him back on. He didn’t own anything else. He didn’t even own this. Nothing but his own skin.

A look outside, through the kitchen window, showed him a paper in the driveway. He wondered if Kyrie would mind if the neighbors saw him. But considering she hadn’t told him anything about it, he’d assume she didn’t.

He walked out to get the paper. It was noon, or close to it. The earliest he’d wakened in a long time. The air, though already suffocatingly hot, felt clear and clean, and he smelled Kyrie’s roses, and the neighbor’s profusion of flowers that spilled over the lawn and around the mailbox, in an array of pastel colors.

The neighbor, an elderly lady, sat on the porch with a tall glass of something, her white hair in curlers. She smiled pointedly at Tom and waved at him. Tom waved back and found himself grinning ridiculously. Bending to pick up the paper, he felt as if he were living something out of a movie. A domestic morning. And he wished madly that he could live that life and have that kind of morning. That kind of life. Just be a normal person with a normal life.

But, who was he kidding? Judging from all the trouble he’d got into before he’d started transforming into a dragon, his life wouldn’t have been any different had he been perfectly normal. He’d probably still be running from town, a drifter. He probably still would have used. He probably . . .

He put the paper on the table, while he nuked himself a profusion of bacon and fried some eggs in a frying pan on the gas stove. He left half the eggs and bacon in the fridge. He could have eaten them all, easily enough, but he didn’t want to do that to Kyrie. Yeah, she’d probably get lunch bought for her today, but what if she shifted again tonight and needed breakfast tomorrow?