Draw One In The Dark(14)

She felt a horrible sense of betrayal, a letdown at this, and her extended paw faltered, and the dragon above her reared.



It was the center dragon—who in human form had artificially smooth and immovable hair. In dragon form he had a tall crest, red and gold. Well, it had been red and gold, it was now much darker red in spots, thanks to Kyrie's claws. And blood ran down its cheek from one of its eyes. But the other eye was unblinking fixed hatred as it opened its jaws wide, wide, fangs glistening.



Kyrie needed to jump. She needed to. But her muscles felt powerless, spent. Stretched elastic that would not spring again.



So this is how it ends . . .



The big head descended to devour her, teeth ready to break her neck. And a taloned paw grabbed her roughly around the middle, swept her back.



She turned. She turned with her remnant of strength, her very last drop of fury, to snarl at the dragon behind her.

* * *



She snarled at him, Tom thought—amazed he could think clearly in dragon form. He'd willed himself into being a dragon. Willed himself into it.



He desired it and pushed. He knew she was going to have problems leaving. He knew she couldn't fly.



And he knew she was an idiot for even fighting. They had no chance. But then, neither could he leave her to die alone. She had taken care of him, when she'd found him in suspicious circumstances. She'd shown him more kindness than his own father had. And she was a shifter like him. They were family: bonded deeper than any shared genes, any joint upbringing.



He shifted suddenly, unexpectedly, leaping in the air, and out of his corner so quickly the other dragons didn't seem to register it. He had only the time to see that she was cowering, that the dragon above her would finish her. And then he was reaching for her, grabbing her, jumping out the open window, even as she turned to snarl at him.



But the snarl—lip pulled back from vicious fangs—faltered as she recognized him.



He held her as gently and firmly as he could. He mustn't drop her. But neither must he hurt her. He could smell blood from her. He could smell fear.



He unfurled his wings—huge parachutes. Above him, the other dragons hadn't appeared yet. Perhaps she'd done more damage than he'd thought. Perhaps they had a few minutes. A very few minutes.



Down in the parking lot, her car was a small abandoned toy. Her keys would be in his apartment, he thought, and shook his huge head, amazed at the clarity of the human thought in beast form. Normally he didn't even remember what he'd done as a dragon. Perhaps because he was responsible for another? He'd never been responsible for anyone but himself.



But they must run. They must get out of here very fast. And as beasts, he could not explain to her what danger they were in. He couldn't even think, clearly think, of where to run.



The dragon wished to crawl under a rock, preferably by a river, and hide.



But Goldport was not so big on rivers. There was Panner's Creek, which in the summer became a mere trickle winding amid sun-parched boulders.



He flew her down to the parking lot, slowly, landed by the car, and wished to shift. He didn't dare reach for the strength of the talisman to allow himself to shift. No. The dragons would sense that.



Instead, setting Kyrie down carefully, he willed himself to shift. He thought himself human, and shivered, as his body spasmed in painful change.



He was naked. Naked, sitting on the warm asphalt of the parking lot, next to Kyrie's car and a panther. No. Next to Kyrie. In the next minute, she also shifted, and appeared as a naked, bloodied young woman, lying on the pavement next to him.



"The car," he rasped at her, his voice hesitant, difficult, like a long-neglected instrument. "We must leave. Soon. They will pursue."



She looked at him with confused, tired eyes. Her chin was scratched, and there was too much blood on her everywhere. He wondered how much of it was hers. Did they need to go to the hospital? They healed very quickly. At least Tom did. But what if these wounds were too serious? How could they go to the hospital? How could they explain anything?



"I don't have keys," she said, and patted her hips as though looking for keys in pockets that were no longer there.



Tom nodded. He got up, feeling about a hundred years old after two shifts in such a short time. His legs hurt, as did his arms, and his whole body felt as though someone had belabored him with sticks.



But he was human now and he could think. He remembered.



One eye on the window of his apartment, wondering how long he had, he said, "I'm sorry. I'll pay." Then he grabbed one of the stones on the flower bed nearby—a stone-bed, to tell the truth, since he'd never seen flowers there. He smashed the window with the stone, reached in, unlocked the door.