Draw One In The Dark(91)

He circled and nipped. Until his back was to a wall and he was surrounded by dragons. Truth was, he thought, they could already have killed him. They were holding back. They probably just wanted to hurt him enough that he wouldn't be able to resist—he wouldn't be able to stop them from making him answer . . .



But if they didn't want to kill him, that gave him the advantage. He kicked and bit with renewed vigor, and realized that he had allies. On the outer ring, at the edge, Keith was dancing, like a mad monkey—which was exactly how Tom's dragon brain thought of him—repeatedly bashing the dragons at the periphery with whatever heavy implement he'd grabbed.



Oh, they turned, and tried to flame him, but Keith was too quick for them, jumping and running into the darkness, only to appear again somewhere unexpected, and bash another dragon over the head.



And from the other side, another . . . person? Had joined the fray. Only it wasn't in person shape, but as a large feline.



In the semidarkness of the station—was it dark out now?—Tom couldn't see very clearly, but he could see that it was a feline shape. And it was roaring and clawing and biting.



Suddenly, Tom realized he had an open way out of there, to the front door. Awkwardly, his legs streaming blood, Tom ran for it, flaming everything that got in his way. The door had been left open. From carrying the hostages in? Outside in the parking lot there were a lot of cars, and two men who ran at the sight of Tom. Tom flamed the cars. They caught and some exploded. And then, as Tom slowed down, he felt a hand on his front leg. A human hand. Touching him.



He turned ready to flame, and saw Keith, who was physically pulling him forward, toward one of the cars. An undamaged one. "Dude," he said. "You have to change, or you'll have to go on the roof rack."



Tom was already shifting. It was the only way to stop from flaming Keith. He became human, and tired and in pain, in mid-stride, and it was only Keith's determination that pulled him forward, that shoved him into a car—huge car. Like a limo—from the driver's side, and pushed him over to the passenger side.



He threw something on the floor at Tom's feet. Tom was too tired to notice what and just leaned back, breathing hard. Keith waited, his hand on the ignition. Waited. Waited. And then something—Tom couldn't see very well, he was that tired and in that much pain—heavy hit the backseat.



Kyrie. Tom turned around, even as Keith reached back, grabbed the back door, pulled it shut, then started the car and took off, in a squeal of tires, weaving between the other parked cars on the way to the road, and then down it, at speeds that were probably forbidden in this neighborhood.



The feline looking at Tom from the backseat was not Kyrie. It was a lion. Tawny and definitely male.



As Tom watched, it morphed into police officer Rafiel Trall.

* * *



Edward Ormson didn't know what to say to this woman. Kyrie brought him back a cup of coffee and a slice of pie, and he actually reached forward and grabbed her wrist, before she could walk away.



"They have him prisoner," he said. "They have him prisoner and you must help him."



"I must help him?" Kyrie asked. She shook her hand, pulling it away from his grasp. "I must help him? How? Aren't you the one who has been trying to catch him, to get him to tell you everything for the benefit of the triad?"



Edward felt exasperated. The woman was beautiful. Her skin was just the tone, her features just exotic enough to make her look some ancient statue of a forgotten civilization—remote and admirable and inhuman. The tapestry-dyed hair only contributed to the impression. But she clearly didn't understand. "You're young," he said. "You haven't got any children. You wouldn't know what—"



"No," she said. And it sounded like an admission, but then she leaned forward on his table, her hands resting on it. "No, I don't have children. But if I did I am sure I wouldn't assume a . . . criminal group was in the right and he in the wrong."



"You don't understand," Edward said. "You don't understand at all. Why would he . . . Why would Tom mess with them? Doesn't he know better? Doesn't he understand? They're dangerous."



"Oh, I'm sure he knows that," she said. "And I'm sure I understand better than you do. I'm sure he had his reasons. They might have been wrong, but I'm sure he had his reasons. I've known Tom too long not to know that he had to have reasons for what he did. He's neither stupid nor crazy, though he is, perhaps, a little too reckless."



Edward snorted at this. "Look, I don't know how good my son is in bed, but—"



The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said entirely the wrong thing. She drew herself up. Her face became too impassive, too distant. "Mr. Ormson," she said. "I think you've said enough."