Draw One In The Dark(35)

"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.