Rafiel shrugged. "I can't answer that. Perhaps something like your triad friends. Didn't Ormson say that the triad had been shifters for centuries? That it ran in families? That they know what it means and even have a shifter god?"
She looked at him. A monstrous idea was forming. If someone was killing shifters, and if it was another shifter, wouldn't it make sense for it to be someone who . . . oh, worked for the police? Who could keep an eye on people without anyone getting suspicious? He could smell someone—once—and then realize . . .
She shook her head. "Why were you at the diner?" she asked. "Last night?"
Golden eyes widened. "I was coming for a cup of coffee," he said. "I was off work."
"You were coming for a cup of coffee in lion shape?"
He chuckled at that. Audibly chuckled. "No. Of course not. I only shifted when I smelled . . . I was in human form when I first saw you. When I saw you pull Ormson inside. Of course, I knew you were shifters."
"How?"
He looked at her as if she'd taken leave of her senses. "He was a dragon," he said.
"But then why did you shift?" Kyrie asked. "Why wouldn't you just call the crime in?"
"And catch you still shape-shifted?" he said. "I had to make sure you were out of there before I called it in."
"But why shift, then?"
He sighed. Something like a shadow crossed the serene golden eyes and he mumbled something.
"Beg your pardon?" Kyrie said.
"The smell of blood, all right? Combined with the moonlight it caused me to shift and it took effort to get back to my form. Because then . . ." He turned very red. ". . . then I smelled you."
Kyrie thought of the smell of him, rising in the night with all the blatant come-on of a feline-seeking-female ad.
She nodded once. She could believe that. But she still had a question, "Why come to the Athens for coffee? Pardon me, but I know even late at night there are better places open, and dressing as you do, surely you can afford better."
He shrugged. "I don't know, okay? Started going there about a year ago. I like . . . It's homey, okay? Feels homey. And there's you. You're . . . I could smell you were a shifter. And I like looking at you."
Kyrie frowned. "Fine," she said. But she wasn't convinced. For one, she couldn't remember having seen Rafiel at the diner, ever. Of course, considering how busy it got there at times, like the five a.m. rush just before she went off shift, he could have been dancing naked on a table and she would not have noticed.
She looked at him, and, involuntarily, pictured that. No. If he were dancing naked on the table, she would have noticed.
"Fine," she said again. "You can follow me home."
At the back of her mind, she thought that if all else failed, Tom would be there. And Tom could always help defend her against Rafiel. Okay, Tom might not be exactly a superhero. But it would be two against one.
* * *
Tom had just kicked the door, and felt something—something giant and pincerlike reach for him when . . .
"What in hell?" came from the direction of the living room in a very male voice. A vaguely familiar male voice. And then there were strides—sounding echoey and strange through his distorting senses, advancing along, toward him.
Past the kitchen. He felt more than saw as two pairs of green wings took flight, from the backyard, into the dark night sky above.
And he turned in the direction of the steps to see Kyrie look at him, her mouth open in shock, her eyes wide, her face suddenly drained of color.
Keith was still doing fake kung-fu moves in the direction of the utterly broken windows. But Kyrie stood in the middle of the room, gulping air.
Behind her, stood the policeman lion, golden eyes and immaculate linen clothes, all in a vague tawny color. And he looked . . . disgusted.
Tom summoned all his thought, all his ability to speak, and came out with the best excuse he could craft. "It wasn't me," he said. "It was the dragons."
* * *
Kyrie stood in the middle of her demolished sunroom. The windows were all broken. As was the sliding door. And there was Tom—and he looked very odd. Tottery and . . . just strange. And there was another guy—his neighbor, she thought, from the apartment.
"I'm sorry," Tom said, again. "It was the dragons." He pointed at the backyard. "They were attacking."
His voice sounded odd. Normally it was raspy, but now it sounded like it was coming out through one of those distorters that kids used to do alien voices. And there had to be something wrong with him. He was walking barefoot on shards of glass. It had to hurt. In fact, she could see little pinpricks of blood on the indifferent beige carpet. But he didn't seem to be in pain.