"No, listen, I know he appeals to women, he always has, but he—"
She pushed her lips together and looked at him with an expression that made him feel as though he were something smelly she had just found under her shoe. She opened her mouth. "Mr. Ormson," she said. "I have no idea what you think my relationship with your son is, but—"
At that moment, a phone rang. Kyrie plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron. "Rafiel," she said.
* * *
"Can I borrow your cell phone," Rafiel asked, all polite from the backseat.
"My . . .?" Tom asked. Couldn't the man see Tom was naked? Where did he think Tom kept a cell phone, exactly?
"The cell phone," Rafiel said.
"From your backpack, dude. All your stuff is in there," Keith said, looking aside from his driving, even as he took perilous turns at high speed on the country road. Behind them, in the rearview mirror, Tom could see a blaze going up.
"The other . . . aren't they chasing us?" he asked.
"Nah. You set fire to their cars and the station."
"I did?" Tom asked.
"Yep. As you came out. You were flaming all directions. I grabbed you to prevent you from flaming this car. Don't your remember?"
Tom shook his head. He didn't. But he'd been running on adrenaline.
"And Rafiel stayed behind to keep them in there, until the fire caught. Some must have escaped, but I don't think they're in a state to follow us." He looked at Tom, even as he took a sharp turn onto the highway toward Colorado. "That was awesome," he said, and grinned.
"Your cell phone?" Rafiel asked from the backseat. "If I may."
Tom forced himself to open his backpack. And almost wept at the sight of his black leather jacket, his boots, his meager possessions. He rifled through them, till his hand closed on the cell phone. He passed it to Rafiel, without even asking why or what was so urgent about a phone call.
"You could dress," Keith said. "You know . . ."
And Tom, obediently, without thinking, pulled out his spare T-shirt and pair of jeans and put them on. Then he slipped on his jacket and boots.
Rafiel was talking to someone on the cell phone. "No, damn it, he's fine. Well, he's bleeding, but you know we heal quickly. Don't worry. We'll be there in six hours or so."
"I have to drink something," Tom said. "I have to."
"Um . . . we might stop at a convenience store," he said. He leaned forward, toward Keith, and spoke urgently. "In this area, some of the convenience stores at the rest stops have everything. I could use a pair of shorts and a T-shirt."
Keith looked back, still driving, and grinned. "Yeah, you sure could."
"So," Rafiel said, into the phone. "Don't worry. We'll be there. Yes, I understand. We'll . . . discuss it later."
He turned the phone off and handed it to Tom, then leaned back in his seat.
Tom could only see him from the waist up, of course, but he seemed relatively unscathed by the ordeal. And he was . . . well, everything Tom was not. Much taller, much more self-assured. And a lion. Kyrie was a panther. Tom didn't have a chance.
"So," Keith said, oblivious to his friend's thoughts. "How long have you guys been able to change into animals, and how do I get in on this?"
* * *
Kyrie stood, holding the phone, not quite sure what to do or say. Edward Ormson was looking at her, attentively.
"Look," he said. "I know I have said the wrong thing." His expression changed as if he read a response she wasn't aware of expressing in her features. "Okay, many wrong things. But look, however misguided, however wrongheaded, your . . . your reaction to what I was trying to do, to my trying to obtain the Pearl from Tom woke me, made me realize how bizarre all of this was. I haven't seen Tom in five years, and I'll confess I was a horrible father. But I don't want him to die. Can you help me?"
Kyrie looked at him a long time. She'd taken his measure the first time they'd met. Or at least she'd thought so. He was cold and self-centered. A smart man and probably well-educated and definitely good-looking, he was used to having his own way and very little used to or interested in caring for anyone else.
He would have, Kyrie thought, viewed Tom as an accessory to his lifestyle. He'd have the beautiful wife, the lovely home and, oh, yes, the son. Tom—if Tom's personality had always been somewhat as it was now—must have been a hell of a disappointment. They must have clashed constantly—supposing Edward paid enough attention to his son to clash with him.
Weirdly, it was that resentment he felt toward Tom, the fact he talked about Tom as having been insufferable that gave her a feeling that, however hidden, however denied even to himself, the man must care for his son. Because if he didn't truly give a damn about Tom, Tom wouldn't get under his skin so much.