Night Shifters (18 page)

He sighed. He was never going to remember. And he had no idea what had got him so high. And Keith too. For all his attitude with the girls, the one thing Tom had never suspected Keith of doing was getting involved in drugs. In fact, he would bet his neighbor had never got high before.

So . . . How had they got high?

The sugar. It had to be the sugar. He’d drunk nothing but the coffee. No one, absolutely no one would put drugs in eggs or bacon. So, it had to be the sugar. He’d put three spoons in the coffee. Kyrie. Kyrie kept drugs in the house.

He blinked in amazement. Okay, so he’d stolen the—he’d stolen
it
—he forced his mind away from what
it
was—so he could give up drugs. There had been one too many times of waking up choking on his own vomit, struggling for every breath and not sure he was going to make it to the morning. There had also been the ever-present fear of being arrested, of shifting in a jail cell. Of eating a bunch of people.

So, he’d stolen
it
and tried to use it to control his shifts, so that he would stop waking up in the middle of the day dreaming he had eaten someone the night before and not being sure if it was true or not. The drugs weren’t working so well for that, anyway. Or to make him stop hurting.

But, even with the . . . object in his possession he hadn’t been able to give up on drugs, not entirely, until he’d started working at the diner, and he’d been . . . He’d seen Kyrie, and he’d seen the way she looked at him. And . . . he chuckled to himself. He’d tried to change. He’d really tried to change his ways to impress her. And all the time, all this time, she was doing drugs, too. Perhaps all shifters did them, to control the shift? Or perhaps she disapproved of him for other reasons. But, clearly, a straight arrow she was not.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked. He’d stopped the car—a beat-up golden Toyota of late Eighties vintage—in front of Tom and rolled down the window.

Tom realized he was laughing so hard that there were tears pouring down his face. He controlled with an effort. “Oh, I’m fine. I am perfectly fine.”

He had, in fact, been an idiot. But not anymore.

When the office was empty like this, late at night, and Edward Ormson was the only one still at his desk, sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have someone to go home to.

He hadn’t remarried because . . . Well, because his marriage had blown up so explosively, and Sylvia had taken herself such a long way away, that he thought there was no point trying again.

No. He was wrong. He was lying to himself again. What had made him give up on family and home wasn’t Sylvia. It was Tom.

He looked up from the laptop open on his broad mahogany desk, and past the glass-door of his private office at the rest of the office—where normally his secretaries and his clerks worked. This late, it was all gloom, with here and there a faint light where someone’s computer had turned on to run the automated processes, or where someone had forgotten a desk lamp on.

He probably should make a complaint about the waste of energy, but the truth was he liked those small lapses. It made the office feel more homey—and the office was practically the only home Ormson had.

The wind whistled behind him, around the corner of the office, where giant panel of window glass met giant panel of window glass. The wind always whistled out here. When you’re on the thirtieth floor of an office building there’s always a certain amount of wind.

Only it seemed to Ormson that there was an echo of wings unfolding in the wind. He shivered and glowered at the screen, at the message one of his clerks had sent him, with research details for one of his upcoming trials. Even with the screen turned on, he could still see a reflection of himself in it—salt-and-pepper hair that had once been dark, and blue eyes, shaped exactly like Tom’s.

He wondered if Tom was still alive and where he was. Damn it. It shouldn’t be this difficult. None of this should be so difficult. He’d made partner, he’d gotten married, he’d had a son. By now, Tom was supposed to be in Yale, or if he absolutely had to rebel, in Harvard, working on his law degree. Tom was supposed to be his son. Not the constant annoyance of a thorn on the side, a burr under the saddle.

But Tom had been trouble from the first step he’d taken—when he’d held onto the side table and toppled Sylvia’s favorite Ming vase. And it hadn’t got any better when it had progressed to petty car theft, to pot smoking, to the school complaining he was sexually harassing girls. It just kept getting harder and harder and harder.

He thought he heard a tinkle of glass far off and stopped breathing, listening. But no sound followed and, through the glass door, he saw no movement in the darkened office. There was nothing. He was imagining things, because he had thought of Tom.

Hell, even Sylvia hadn’t wanted Tom. She’d started having an affair with another doctor at the hospital and taken off with her boyfriend to Florida and married him, and set about having a family, and she’d never, never again even bothered to send Tom a birthday card. Not after that first year. And then Tom . . .

This time the noise was more definite, closer by.

Edward rose from his desk, his fingertips touching the desktop, as if for support. He told himself there were no such thing as dragons. He told himself people didn’t shift into dragons and back again.

Every time he told himself that. Every time. And it didn’t make any difference. There were still . . . Tom had still . . .

No sound from the office, and he drew in a deep breath and started to sit down. He’d turn off the computer, pack up and go . . . well, not home. His condo wasn’t a home. But he’d go back to the condo, and have a drink and call one of the suitably long list of arm candy who’d been vying to be Mrs. Ormson for the last few months, and see if she wanted to go to dinner somewhere nice. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to sleep alone.

“Ormsssson.”

His office door had opened, noiselessly, and through it whistled the sort of breeze that hit the thirtieth floor when one of the windows had been broken. It was more of a wind. He could hear paper rustling, tumbling about, a roaring of wind, and a tinkle as someone’s lamp or monitor fell over.

And the head pushing through the door was huge, reptilian, armed with many teeth that glimmered even in the scant light. Edward had seen it only once. He’d seen . . . other dragons. Tom not the least of them. But he hadn’t seen this dragon. Not more than once. That had been when Edward had been hired to defend a triad member accused—and guilty—of a particularly gruesome and pointless murder.

This creature had appeared, shortly after Edward had gotten his client paroled, and while Edward was trying to convince him to go away for a while and not to pursue a bloody course of revenge that would have torn the triad apart—and, incidentally, got him dead or back in jail.

This dragon—they called him the great something dragon?—had flapped down from the sky and— Edward remembered his client’s body falling from a great height, the two pieces of it tumbling down to the asphalt. And the blood. The blood.

He swallowed bile, hastily, and stood fully again. Stood. Ready to run. Which was foolish, because the thing blocked his office door, and his huge, many-fanged head rested on its massive paws. There was nowhere Edward could run.

The dragon blinked huge, green eyes at him, and, as with a cat’s secretly satisfied expression, he gave the impression of smiling. A long forked tongue licked at the lipless mouth. “Ormson,” it said, still somehow managing to give the impression that the word was composed mostly of sibilants.

“Yes?” Edward asked, and found his voice wavering and uncertain. “How may I help you?”

“Your whelp has stolen something of mine,” the dragon said. Its voice was only part noise. The other part was a feeling, like a scratch at the back of the brain. It made you want to flip up your cranium and scratch.

“My . . .?”

“Your son. Thomas. He’s stolen the Pearl of Heaven.”

Edward’s mouth was dry. He opened it to say this was entirely Tom’s business, but he found himself caught in an odd crux. If Tom had stolen something, then Tom was still alive. Still alive five years after being kicked out of the house. Had he learned something? Had he shaped up? He almost had to, hadn’t he, or he would be dead by now? No one could continue going the way Tom had been going and still be alive after five years on their own, could they?

He swallowed hard. But Tom had stolen something. This seemed to imply he’d learned nothing. He’d not changed.

He clenched his hands so tightly that his nails bit into his palm. How could Tom still be a problem? How could he? Didn’t he know how hard he made it on his father? Didn’t he care?

“I don’t know what my son has done,” he said, and his voice came out creditably firm. “I haven’t seen him in more than five years. You cannot hold me responsible for what he has done.”

“He has stolen the Pearl of Heaven,” the dragon rumbled, his eyes half closed and still giving that look of a secret smile.

“So, he’s stolen some jewelry,” Edward said. “Get it from him. I don’t care.”

Did he care? What if they killed Tom? Edward didn’t know. He didn’t even know if it would grieve him anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. He’d been saying that since Tom was one. And it hadn’t got any easier.

“It’s not that easy,” the dragon said. “The Pearl is . . . dragon magic. Ancient. It was given to us by the Emperor of Heaven. It will not do him any good, but it is the center of our strength. We need it, or we shall fall apart.”

Great. Tom would manage to steal some cultic object. Hell, if he found an idol with an eye made of ruby, he’d dig the ruby out just to see what would happen. And Edward remembered all too well the incident in the Met Museum with Tom and the mummy when Tom was five. Other kids just never thought of this kind of trouble to get into.

“So get it. From him. I know nothing of it.”

“Ah,” the dragon said. And the sound, somehow, managed to convey an impression of disapproval, an impression of denial. “But the child is always the responsibility of the parents, isn’t he? Your son has hidden the Pearl of Heaven. It is up to you to find it and give it back to us.”

The
or else
remained unspoken, hanging mid-air, more solid, more certain than anything the dragon had said.

“I don’t even know where he is,” Edward said.

“Goldport, Colorado.”

“Fine,” Edward said, nodding and trying to look businesslike. He scooped up his laptop, picked up his case from the floor, started pushing the laptop into it. “Fine, fine. I’ll call tomorrow. I’ll make enquiries. I’ll try to figure out where he—”

A many-clawed paw lifted. With unreal, careful precision, it rested atop the briefcase and the laptop and just touched the edge of Edward Ormson’s hand. The claw shimmered, like real gold, and ended in an impossibly sharp talon.

“Not tomorrow,” the dragon said. “Now.”

“Now?” Edward blinked, in confusion, looking down at the talon on his hand, the tip of it pressing just enough to leave a mark, but leaving no doubt that it could press hard enough to skewer the hand through sinew and bone. “But it’s what? Nine at night? You can’t really book flights at this time of night. Well, not anymore. You can’t just show up at the airport and book a flight on a whim. With the security measures that simply doesn’t happen anymore.”

“No airport,” the dragon said, his paw immobile, the pressure of his talon palpable.

“Driving?” Edward asked, and would have sat down, if he weren’t so afraid that some stirring, some careless gesture would make the creature stab his hand with that talon. He didn’t know what would happen if he did that. He didn’t know how Tom had become a dragon, but if the legends were right, then it was through a bite. Or a clawing. “Driving would take much longer. Why don’t I book a flight tomorrow. I’ll fly out before twenty-four hours. I promise.”

“No driving. I’ll take you. Now.”

“You’ll take me?”

The claw withdrew. “Pack your things. Whatever you need to take. I’ll take you. Now.”

There really wasn’t much choice. Less than ten minutes later, Edward was straddling the huge beast’s back, holding on tight, while they stood facing the place where the dragon had broken several panels of glass to get in.

There was a moment of fear as the dragon dove through the window, wings closed, and they plunged down toward the busy street.

A scream caught in Edward’s throat. Not for the first time, he wondered why no one else saw these creatures. Was he having really vivid hallucinations while locked up in some madhouse?

No. No. He was sure other people saw them. But he was also sure they forgot it as soon as they could. He, himself, tried to forget them every time he saw them. Every time. And then they appeared again.

They plunged dizzily past blind dark offices and fully lit ones, toward the cars on the street below.

At maybe tenth-floor level, the dragon opened his wings, and turned gracefully, gaining height.

Edward was never sure how they flew. He’d always thought thermals . . . But these wings were flapping, vigorously, to gain altitude, and he could feel the back muscles ripple beneath his legs.

He’d put his briefcase’s shoulder handle across his chest, bandolier style. And that was good because the dragon’s scales were slicker and smoother than they seemed to be, and he had to hold on with both hands to the ridge that ran down the back of the dragon, as the dragon turned almost completely sideways, and gained altitude, flying above the high-rises, above Hudson Bay, circling. Heading out to Colorado. Where Edward was supposed to convince Tom to do something he didn’t want to do.

Oh, hell.

“What?” Kyrie asked, looking at Rafiel who stood by the windows, frowning at them.

“This window was broken from the outside,” he said. “Something ripped the screen aside, and hammered that window down. From the outside.”

“How do you know?” she asked. She was looking at her patio door and wondering how she was going to be able to pay for all that glass. Safety glass, at that, she was sure. “How could you tell?”