Draw One In The Dark(105)

Of course, if Tom should shift to a dragon . . . Edward peered around the door at the young man and Kyrie, who were now talking to each other, while Tom had closed his eyes and appeared to be dozing.



Neither the young man nor Kyrie looked scared that Tom would shift into a dragon, so it couldn't be that frequent an occurrence.



The coffee was made, and Edward had a sudden flash of inspiration. Everything that he might offer Tom would be refused. But if he handed it to Tom as a matter of fact, there was at least the off chance that Tom wouldn't know how to refuse. He'd looked many things, none of them at ease.



So, testing his theory, Edward poured himself a cup of coffee, and then one for Tom, surprising himself with retrieving, from the mists of memory, how Tom liked his coffee. The boy had only started drinking it when he'd . . . left. But Edward remembered ribbing him about liking three spoons of sugar in it.



He now poured in three packets of sugar and then crossed the room, trying to look completely at ease. For all his appearances in uncertain cases, in courtrooms presided over by hostile judges, this was probably his greatest performance. "Coffee is ready," he told Kyrie and the other young man. "If you wish to help yourselves." Then he walked up to Tom.



The armchair the boy was sitting in was right next to a side table, and on the other side of that was the straight-backed chair normally used at the desk.



Edward put his own coffee cup down on the side table, and leaned over, touching Tom's shoulder, lightly. "Tom, coffee," he said.



Tom woke up immediately, and sat up, fully alert. Edward remembered that he used to sleep late and sometimes miss first period at school. When had he learned to wake up like this, quickly, without complaint. How had he been living that a moment's hesitation between being asleep and full alertness might make a difference?



He couldn't ask. "I put three packets of sugar in. The way you like it."



Tom looked surprised. He reached for the cup, took it to his lips without complaint. And Edward sat at the desk chair, and took a deep draught of his coffee, feeling ridiculously proud of himself. It had worked. If handed things straight off, Tom was too confused to refuse. It was the first time in years . . . No. It was the first time Tom's lifetime that Edward had set himself to learn how to get around his stubborn son without a confrontation. And it had paid off.



It was all he could do to keep himself from smiling in victory. Fortunately, at that moment, someone knocked at the door and Kyrie opened it.



"Mr. Edward Ormson, this is Rafiel Trall, a police officer of Goldport."



Officer Rafiel Trall was tall and golden haired, with the sort of demeanor one would expect from a duke or visiting royalty. He shook Edward's hand, but there was a slight hesitation, and Edward wondered what Tom had told him about his father.



But then, as the young people pulled chairs together to talk, Edward slipped out the door, quietly.



He didn't know if they were all shape changers, and he didn't know how they'd react to what he was about to do.



But he knew he had to do it.

* * *



Tom smiled at seeing Keith immediately assume the role of secretary of the organization. Sometimes people defied all categorization. He'd never expected his wild neighbor, of the late nights and the revolving girlfriends to be this . . . neat.



But Keith grabbed the pad and turned to them. "As far as I can see it," he said, "we're facing two problems. One is the beetles. Kyrie is the only one who's seen the beetles—right?"



"No," Tom said, amused. "We've seen them also. We just didn't remember. I think you thought they were aliens."



Keith looked wounded. "Whatever that powder was . . ."



"Yes," Tom agreed not particularly wanting to go there, not wanting to explain that he'd thought Kyrie's sugar was drugged. He looked at her out the corner of his eye, and realized that Rafiel was also looking at her with an intent expression. Well, if she had to go to someone else . . . But Tom very much hoped she wouldn't.



"They are blue and green and refractive," Kyrie said. "And they look somewhat like the beetles I've seen in the natural history museum in Denver. I vaguely remember they said they were made into jewelry, and I could believe it because they were so pretty. The little ones in the museum. Not the large ones."



"You don't know what their genus is, do you?" Keith asked, looking up. "Because we could look them up and figure out their habits."



Kyrie shook her head. "I never really thought knowing the name of a beetle would be essential to me," she said.



"Ah, but see, that's where you go wrong," Keith said. Scribbling furiously. "Beetles are always essential. You let them run around unnamed they start music groups and what not." He looked up. "Well, I'll call the museum later, or look it up on line. So . . . we have these huge beetles. Are we sure they're shifters?"