"Right," the cabby said, but dubiously, as though he couldn't really believe there would be a trip back.
The truth was neither did Edward. As he walked away from the cab—already peeling rubber out of the parking lot—and toward the silent door of the Three Luck Dragon, with the closed sign on the window, he would have given anything to run away.
But instead he fumbled off the backpack as the door opened a crack and Lung's face appeared in the opening. "Ah, Mr. Ormson," he said. Then he stepped aside and opened the door further. "Come in."
"There is no need," Edward said. "I have what you want, here. Take it and I—"
But the door opened fully. And inside the room were a group of young men, all glaring at him. They all looked . . . dangerous. In the sort of danger that comes from having absolutely no preconceived notions about the sanctity of the human life.
"I said, come in," Lung said.
It wasn't the sort of invitation that Edward could refuse. For one, he was sure if he did those dark-haired young men glaring at him out of the shadows would chase him down and drag him back. The only question was whether they would shift into dragon form first.
Edward suspected they would.
* * *
Walking away from Goldport by the shortest route did not require going near Kyrie's house. However, walking away from Goldport and not heading out of town via the route to New Mexico did lead Tom down Fairfax Avenue, in the general direction of the castle and Kyrie's neighborhood. Though those were a few blocks north from his path.
Kyrie. The name kept turning up in Tom's mind with the same regularity that a sufferer's tongue will seek out a hole in a decaying tooth. It hurt, but it was the sort of hurt that reassured him he was still alive.
Kyrie. The problem was that he'd actually had hope. He'd seen her look at him. She'd patted his behind. She'd smiled at him. He'd had hope, however foolish that hope might have been. If he'd never hoped for anything, he wouldn't have been so shocked and wounded at seeing her with Rafiel.
And, yes, he was aware that the fact he couldn't bear to see them together was a character failing of his, not of theirs. He was also aware she hadn't betrayed him. Looks and even pats on the bottom are not promises. They certainly are not a relationship. They are just . . . Lust.
Perhaps, he thought, as he walked in front of closed-up store doors and dismal-looking storefronts in the grey morning daylight, perhaps she lusts after me—though who knows why—but when it comes to love, when it comes to a relationship, she's a smart girl. If she were interested in me, it would only be proof of either stupidity or insanity.
But . . . but if it wasn't her fault, why was he punishing her?
He scowled at his own thought. He wasn't punishing her. If anything, he was keeping himself from being punished daily by the sight of her with Rafiel.
It hurt. No, it wasn't rational, but it hurt. Badly. And Tom didn't do well with hurt. He wasn't punishing Kyrie. He'd go out of town, through Colorado Springs. Probably buy a bus ticket there. Maybe go to Kansas for a while. It had been a long time since he'd been in Kansas.
But, the relentless accusing voice went on in his mind, if he wasn't trying to punish her, why was he leaving Kyrie to face the beetles alone? Why was he leaving her when she couldn't even sleep in her house?
Because it wasn't his problem. Because she wasn't his to worry about. She could always bunk up with Rafiel, couldn't she? And she was sure he'd keep her safe. She wasn't Tom's to keep safe.
If she had been, he would have given up his life for her, happily enough.
But what kind of love was that? He minded seeing her with Rafiel? He minded her being happy? But he didn't mind leaving town while she was in danger?
No wonder she'd picked Rafiel. Tom's love was starting to sound a lot like hate.
As the last few thoughts ran through his mind, Tom's steps had slowed down, and now he stopped completely in front of the closed door of a little quilting shop, just one crossroad past where he would have turned up to go to Kyrie's place.
Maybe he should go and check on her. See if she was home. See if she was well . . . Then, if she told him she was fine and that Rafiel would take care of her, he could leave town with a clear conscience and never worry.
He turned around, in front of the shop—the window screaming at him in pretty red cursive that summer was the ideal time to quilt—and headed back toward the crossroad. He'd just turned upward on it, when he saw, ahead of him, just scurrying out of sight on a bend of the road, a giant beetle, its blue carapace shining in the sun.
Kyrie, Tom thought. He knew there were other places they could be headed. But right then he thought of Kyrie. He thought only of Kyrie.