Kyrie herself was sweating and cold by degrees, and felt as if her legs were made of water, as she concentrated on following the beast's movements by sound.
They hit the moonlight, out of the shadow of the diner and into the fully illuminated parking lot. The heat of it felt like fire playing over Kyrie's skin and she kept her head lowered. She took deep breaths. Her heartbeat echoed some old jungle rhythm but she told herself she would not, she would not, she could not shift.
And the smell of him—of the lion—enveloped her, stronger than ever. Her senses, sharpened from wanting to transform, gave her data about him that a mere nose should not be able to gather. That he was young. That he was healthy. That he was virile.
She pulled Tom forward, and the lion followed them at a distance—step, step, step, unhurried, unafraid. She prayed he wouldn't start running. She prayed he wouldn't leap. And inside, deep inside, she felt as if he was toying with her. Playing. Like a cat with a mouse.
She was not a mouse.
Sweat formed on her scalp, dripped toward her eyes, made her blink. The car loomed in front of her, white and looking much bigger than it usually did. Looking like safety.
Kyrie pushed her key-fob button to unlock it, and felt as if her fingers slipped on the smooth plastic, as though she had claws and unwieldy paws.
No. She must not. She must remain human. She must.
Breathing deeply and only managing to inhale more unabashed male musk, she shoved Tom, slightly, and said, "Go around to the passenger side. Get in."
Go, give him a divided target. Go, but for the love of all that's holy, don't stop. Don't stop. Don't let him catch you. She didn't know which she feared most. The idea of being attacked or the idea of seeing Tom attacked, of seeing Tom torn to pieces. Of shifting. Of joining in.
She shuddered as her too-clumsy fingers struggled with the car handle. She saw Tom open the door on the other side. Get in. She struggled with the handle.
And the lion was twenty steps away, crouching in the full light of the moon, augmented by the light of a parking-lot lamp above her. He was crouching, front down low and hindquarters high.
Hindquarters trembling. Legs bunching.
Jump. He was going to—
He jumped, clearing the space between them, and she leaned hard against her car, her heart hammering in her chest, her body divided and dividing her mind. Her human body, her human mind, wanted to scream, to hide. Her human body knew that the huge body would hit her, claws would rend her. That she was about to die.
But her other mind . . . Her other mind practically died in the ecstatic smell of healthy young male. Her other mind thought the lion knew her, guessed her, smelled her for an equal. That the lion wanted— Not to eat her.
She realized she'd closed her eyes, when she felt him landing near her—landing with all four paws on the asphalt. Not on her, but so close to her she felt the breeze of his falling, and smelled him, smelled him hot and strong and oh, so impossibly male.
She felt her body spasm, wish to shift. She fought it. She struggled to stay herself.
Through half-open eyes, she saw a lion's face turned toward her, its golden eyes glowing, its whole expression betraying . . . smugness?
Then it opened its mouth, the fangs glowing in the light and a soft growl started at the back of its throat. She didn't know if it was threatening her or . . .
Something to the growl—something to the sound crept along her nerves like a tingle on the verge of aching. If she stayed— If she stayed . . .
The car door opened, shoving her. She leapt aside, to avoid being pushed into the lion. A hand reached out of the car, dragged her. She fell onto her seat. Blinked. Tom. Tom had pulled her into the car.
"Drive," Tom said. "Drive."
He reached across her, as he spoke and slammed the door. From outside, the lion made a rumbling sound that might have been amusement.
She didn't remember turning the ignition. She didn't remember stepping on the gas. But she realized she was driving down Fairfax. Tall, silent apartment houses succeeded each other on either side of the road, lighted by sporadic white pools of light from the street lamps.
"Where do you live?" she managed, glancing at Tom. Part of her wanted to tell him she hadn't been afraid, she hadn't been . . .
But she wasn't even sure she could explain what she'd been. She had been afraid. That was a huge beast. But also, at some level, she was afraid she would end up shifting, cavorting with him. Over a half-devoured human carcass.
"Two blocks down," Tom said, and swallowed, as if he'd had the same thought at the same time. "Audubon apartments. On the left."
She remembered the place. Not one of the graceful Victorian remnants, but half a dozen rectangular red-brick boxes sharing a parking lot. During the day there were any number of kids playing in the parking lot, and usually one or two men working on cars or drinking beer.