Draw One In The Dark(8)

He looked over his shoulder at Kyrie, and his brows beetled together, nonetheless, and he managed, "What? More minutes?"



"Tom is sick," she said. "He called me." Let Frank wonder why and how she'd given Tom her cell-phone number. "He wants me to buy him some stuff at the pharmacy and drop it by. Over-the-counter stuff," she added, thinking that most of what Tom probably took was not over-the-counter.



Frank looked like he was going to say something like that, for just a moment, but he gave it up. Probably he couldn't imagine Kyrie buying illegal drugs. And in that he would be right. She got enough lawlessness in her everyday life, enough to hide and disguise, that she did not need any more adrenaline.



So Frank shrugged, which might be taken for agreement, and Kyrie rushed back down the hallway, hoping to find Tom, hoping Tom hadn't shifted, hoping that for once things would go well. For just this once.



Tom was where she expected him—at the back of the diner, facing the door to the parking lot. He was pale and had started trembling again, and there wasn't much she could say or do for that. She wondered if he'd killed the man. She didn't want to think about it. It didn't matter. If he had, could she blame him? She knew the confusion of mind, the prevalence of the beast-self over every civilized learning, every instinct, even. How could she accuse someone else who'd given in perhaps further?



Of course she could, a deeper voice said, because she didn't give in. She'd fought her—as she'd thought—hallucinations tooth and nail and she'd held onto a normal life of sorts. No friends, no family, no one who might discover what she'd thought was her hideous madness, but she made her own money, she lived her own life.



She managed a weak smile at Tom by way of reassurance, as she turned the key and opened the door.



She took a deep breath to steel herself against the smell of blood, the light of the moon. She must stay in control. She must.



But she wasn't ready for the other smell—the hot, musk,y and definitely male smell that invaded her nostrils as she stepped onto the parking lot.



Dizziness and her mouth went dry and her whole body started fluttering on the verge of shifting shape, and she told herself no. No. Regained control just in time to see it, at the edge of the parking lot, under one of the lights.



Not it. Him. The smell was clear as a hallelujah chorus in her head. He was at the edge of the parking lot, and he was tawny and huge and muscular.



A lion. He was a lion. Was he a lion like she was a panther and Tom was a dragon, or . . .



Or what? An invader from the vast Colorado savannah outside Goldport? Where lions and zebras chased each other under the hot tropical sun?



She shook her head at her own silliness.



Behind her, Tom drew breath, noisily. "Is it?" he asked.



"Yes," she said.



"But—" He drew breath again and something—something about the movement of his feet against the asphalt, something about his breathing, perhaps something about his smell (since when could she smell people this way?) made her think he was about to run.



She put out a hand to his arm. "Do not run," she said. "Walk steadily."



His arm felt cold and smooth under her hand. Light sprinkling of hair. Very little of it for a male. Perhaps being a dragon . . . She didn't want to think of that. She didn't want to think of Tom, muzzle deep in blood.



Which of course meant the lion could smell them. Smell the blood on them. "You mustn't run," she said. "We . . . Cats are triggered by motion. If you run he will give chase. Walk slowly and steadily toward my car. The small white one. Come."



They made their way slowly, steadily, across the parking lot, in the reek of blood. Perhaps the lion wouldn't be able to smell Tom in the overwhelming smell.



Perhaps they could make it to the car. Perhaps . . . perhaps the moon was made of green cheese and it would rain pea soup tomorrow.



He smelled powerful, musky. She could hear him draw breath, was aware of the touch of paw pads on the asphalt. She felt those movements as if they were her own, her heart accelerating and seeming to beat at her throat, suffocating her.



Paw touching asphalt, and paw touching asphalt, and paw touching asphalt. Measured steps. Not a run. Please don't let it be a run.



And her movements matched his—slow, measured, trying to appear unconcerned, escorting Tom to the car, guiding him.



Tom walked like a wooden puppet. Was he that terrified of the lion? Didn't he know in his dragon form he was as big? Bigger? Stronger? Why was he afraid?



But her rational self understood. He was afraid because he was in human form. And every human at the back of his mind feared the large felines who lurked in the shadows and who could eat him in two bites.