"Must be a bitch," Tom said, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. He wanted to go in and get water and food. All his money was still in the backpack. He'd checked. But he would prefer to go in with one—or preferably—two people who could grab him if he passed out. Or started shifting and tried to eat one of the tourists.
"Yeah," Rafiel said, quietly. "I have clothes hidden all over town." He was silent a minute. "I just never thought I needed them in the neighboring towns too."
Tom smiled in acknowledgment of the joke, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
"I don't think we've been formally introduced," Rafiel said. "My name is Rafiel Trall. I'm a police officer of Goldport."
Tom opened one eye to see a hand extended in his general direction. He shook it, hard. "Thomas Ormson," he said. "Troublemaker. Broadly speaking of Goldport, also."
Rafiel nodded. "I haven't thanked you for saving my life," he said.
"You don't need to," Tom said. "I thought you were someone else."
Rafiel smiled. "At least you had the excuse of darkness. Apparently other . . . dragons have trouble telling a female panther from a male lion. In full light."
"Ah . . . how did . . .?"
"Kyrie had sent me to check on Keith," Rafiel said, then frowned. "No. To tell you the truth, Kyrie sent me to look for you. She thought Keith might know where you were. So I was at his place when dragons came in. Through the window. So I . . . shifted before I knew what I was doing. And they tranquilized me. With a dart gun."
Tom nodded. "They really weren't very polite," he said, thinking how much preferable a dart gun would be than what they'd done to him. "I think they injected me with marinade."
Rafiel's face went very puzzled, but at that moment, Keith opened the door and threw a bundle at Rafiel. "Shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops. All in the best of taste and the cheapest stuff we could get and still make you decent. Enjoy."
Tom turned back to look at the clothes while Rafiel unfolded them. The T-shirt was white, with a mountain lion on the front and it said "Get Wild In New Mexico." The shorts were plaid and managed to look like a cross between bad golf clothes and a grandpa's underwear. And the flip-flops managed to combine green yellow and a headachy-violet in the minimal possible amount of rubber.
Looking at Rafiel staring aghast at the getup, Tom realized he really liked Keith an awful lot.
But Rafiel recovered quickly. "I'll pay you back, of course," he said.
Keith nodded. Tom, not sure Rafiel meant that as a threat or a promise, raised his eyebrows. Then he said, "Look, I'm dying of thirst. And hunger. I have some money and I want to go inside, but I want one of you to come with me. Or both, preferably."
"Why?" Keith asked.
"Well . . ." Tom shrugged. "I haven't eaten in very long. I also haven't slept much. When I eat I might pass out or . . . as soon as I'm a little stronger, I might try to shift and . . . eat tourists."
Keith's eyes went very wide.
Rafiel, moving frantically and, from the bits visible in the rear view mirror, dressing, in the back seat, said, "Even in Colorado that seems a bit drastic. And I don't even know if New Mexico's tourists are as annoying as ours." There was a sound of flip-flops thrown about, and then Rafiel opened the door. "Come on then. We'll escort you to the food and water."
* * *
Anthony had moved behind the counter and was turning burgers on the grill. That Frank didn't even seem to have realized he was cooking, was worrisome.
Anthony turned around, putting plates on the counter for Kyrie to pick up. "Those are your orders," he said. "And would you cover table fifteen for me? And table five?"
Kyrie nodded. She assumed that Frank hadn't responded to Anthony's requests that he cook. Considering that he normally wouldn't let them behind the counter for more than dishwasher-filling, coffee-pot-grabbing stints. But Frank was still bent over the counter, staring into the eyes of his dowdy girlfriend and whispering who knew what sweet nothings to her.
When had this become so serious? Kyrie had seen the woman around before, but never actually interfering with Frank's work.
They touched a lot, Kyrie noticed. More than they talked. Her hand was on his, her fingers beating a slow tattoo on the back of his hand. And his were on the side of her other arm, also beating some weird rhythm.
Ah, well. Dating for the speech impaired. And sight impaired, Kyrie thought, looking back at Frank's Neanderthal profile, and his girlfriend's faded lack of beauty.