And then . . . He had a fleeting thought he could go back to Kyrie then, and maybe . . . But no. That avenue was closed and he knew it.
The human brain in control of the dragon body, guided himself down and down and down, to land between two mesas, on rocky ground, where no one would see him.
He shifted, an effort even greater than shifting into dragon had been the evening before. When it was done, he was weak and pale and trembling, standing naked in between the two rock spires, holding onto the handle of the backpack.
How he managed to get dressed, he didn't know. It involved a lot of starts and stops. Even the times he'd run away from other cities, from other states, he'd never made himself fly eight hours straight, through the night.
Las Vegas could not be more than a mile away. He'd gauged it well when he'd landed. He didn't want to land so close to the populated area that someone would see him shifting. And he was right by the only road into town coming from the direction of Goldport.
He put his backpack on and summoned strength from determination. He must make it to town. It was the only way he was going to get eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee. He could almost taste the cup of coffee. Not to mention the orange juice. Hell, anything wet would do.
With the dry desert air stinging his nostrils and his parched throat, he headed toward Las Vegas.
* * *
That she'd gone to the parking lot instead of up front where she'd parked her car was the least of Kyrie's worries because in the parking lot there was . . . She swallowed hard, trying to comprehend it and unable to. They were . . .
They were green and huge and glittering like jewels in the full light of day. And they were some sort of Amazonian beetle. At least, Kyrie remembered, vaguely, having seen much smaller versions of these creatures at the Natural History Museum in Denver, pinned solidly through their middle, against a background of black velvet. In a glass case.
But those were small. And dead. The legend had said something about them being used for jewelry, and she could kind of see that, from the way the green carapaces glowed with blue highlights, in the light of the morning.
It would be five-fifteen, she thought, or possibly five-thirty, and soon there would be people coming to breakfast at the Athens, and yet in the parking lot of the building, there were two giant . . . insects dragging something.
She couldn't even look at the something. She didn't need to look at the something. She could smell the symphony of blood sharp and clear as day from where she was standing.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a steady and very worried voice was intoning, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, almost in the tone of someone praying.
The little voice was prescient. Or more in tune than Kyrie's body and the rest of Kyrie's mind, which stood, amazed and immobilized, staring at the insects.
She didn't know when they first saw her—where were the eyes in those things?—but she noticed a little start and their leaning into each other, communicating—with what? Antennae?—somehow, and then they turned. They advanced on her.
At this moment the little voice that had been intoning oh crap, grabbed the rest of Kyrie. It turned her around. It sent her running, in broad strides, around the Athens and to her car. She had a vague impression of people inside the diner turning to look at her as she ran by at full speed. Would the beetles follow? Out here, up front? In front of everyone?
They wouldn't if they were shifters, but what if they weren't?
What, she thought, as she put her hand in through the open window to release the latch, pulled the door open, and, without pause, dove headlong into her car. They're the result of some nuclear accident? Or some exterminator's bad dream?
She stuck the key in the ignition, started the car, and headed down the street. It wasn't until she was headed toward home, speeding as much as she dared in this zone, that she realized her moment of frozen panic couldn't have taken much more than a few seconds. It seemed much longer, subjectively, but as she pulled away from the curb, in her car, she saw Edward Ormson on the sidewalk, hands on sides, slightly bent over, in the position of someone who's run too fast, too far.
He had just—almost caught up with her. As for the beetles, they were nowhere in sight. Had she imagined them? She wasn't about to drive around the back of the Athens to find out.
* * *
Edward Ormson stared at the girl, his mouth hanging open in wonder.
She'd run away from him. She'd looked at him as if he were something profoundly disgusting, and then she'd left without warning. This was not something that happened to him normally, when he was trying to ask someone questions.
Why had she run? What had he said that was so terrible?
Confused, he walked back up in the direction of the coffee shop, where the area was much better. His head ached and he felt very tired. Dragon-lagged, he thought. Whatever magic the dragon had used to get here had left Edward feeling as if he'd been beaten.