Night Shifters (89 page)

Getting out of the car, he ambled down to the stream. But it was flowing now, the water gurgling amid the remaining ice floes. Rafiel thought he saw what might have been a pair of alligator eyes and the snout of an alligator peeking from beneath the water, but he couldn’t really tell.

“Come on,” he said, speaking to the still air and wondering if he’d gone nuts. Surely anyone who heard him would think he had. “Come on, now, Old Joe? I need to talk to you. Tom’s safety might be at stake.”

Was that swishing sound an alligator’s tail churning the stream? Or was it just the normal gurgling of the water augmented by his hopes?

He waited. But no snout broke the water, no alligator came towards him. No, it would not be this simple, Rafiel thought. No one was about to hand him the solution. He’d have to figure it out himself.

Kyrie waited till there was a lull early in the afternoon, when the diner was almost empty. Tom busied himself with those things he did when his cooking expertise was not needed—scrubbing the cooking surfaces, marinating meat, bringing out frozen dough and setting bread to rise. The bread was one of the few things Tom didn’t make himself, from scratch. The woman, Laura, who had applied here some days ago, had offered baking skills, which, of course, would be a great help. Kyrie hoped she would show up for an interview as soon as the weather permitted it. For one, with the addition of Conan and the seeming disappearance of the unreliable waitress Beth, she was now the only woman on staff. For another, she wasn’t sure how much longer Keith would want to continue working for them.

He had only ever been a part-time employee, because of his studies, but since he’d discovered Summer had taken pictures of Tom and Conan, he hadn’t been back at all. Kyrie didn’t know if he was upset with them, or if it had just finally been borne upon him how difficult and dangerous their position was. Probably both. She would have left them and herself far behind, by now, if she could. At least . . . she couldn’t leave Tom. Any more than she could walk away from herself. But she would have left their shifter condition far behind.

As she walked towards the annex, she found herself daydreaming of a life in which neither she nor Tom were shifters. How peaceful the days would be and how devoid of unusual events.

Of course, she knew in her heart of hearts that the daydream was great foolishness. Because, if Tom hadn’t been a shifter, he’d be living somewhere in New York City. Or perhaps he would have been sent to those Ivy League colleges where the wildest behavior is excused if the family pays enough. At any rate, he would never have crossed paths with her.

And besides, things were the way they were, so she must do what she must do. She felt a twinge of fear at the idea of exactly what she must do. Tom would disapprove. In fact, Tom would be very, very upset. If he ever found out. She didn’t want to keep secrets from him. But sometimes people had to be kept in the dark for their own good. And in this case, Tom had to be kept in the dark for the continued ability to call his soul his own.

She approached Conan as he finished wiping a table, and spoke in an undertone, her ears listening for any sounds of approaching footsteps, which might be Tom coming to check on them. “Conan, do you have a way to contact the representatives of the dragon triad, here in town?”

She’d obviously been so careful that Conan himself had not heard her approach. He dropped the tray he’d been holding, and bent to retrieve it, his gaze fixed on her, his eyes big as saucers.

Seeing him open his mouth, and very much fearing how much noise he might make, she put her finger in front of her lips. He nodded and it seemed to her he looked a little pale, but when he straightened up, he whispered back, “Well, you know that Himself can take over my mind and . . . and listen in, but . . .”

“I don’t mean like that,” she said. “I mean, do you have a phone number to call or something? I presume that I could still approach them outside the Three Luck Dragon?” she asked.

“Inside,” he said. “The owner. Yes.”

“Then would you call whatever number you need to call and tell them I come in peace, but I want to talk to their leader?”

Conan gave her a long and analyzing stare, before giving her a very curt nod. “When?”

“After Tom goes back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep,” she said, “which I figure will be around six, because that’s when Anthony will come in again.”

“Oh,” Conan said and then, “you haven’t slept at all yourself.”

Kyrie shrugged. “No. I can go twenty-four hours without sleeping. It just makes me more susceptible to shifting, but . . .”

He nodded. “I assume you . . . have a plan? And that you want our—the dragons’ help with it?”

“Yes. Well . . . I want their help. I don’t have a plan yet, but I’m sure one will emerge. Only, I must find out if they can help me, and then I must do what I can . . . I mean . . . I’m sure we can’t fight this fight alone. And Tom won’t ask for help.” She saw him nod. “And Tom must never know of this.”

Conan shrugged. “He won’t learn it from me,” he said. “Of course, the other dragons have their own . . . approach to honesty and promises.”

“Meaning you can’t promise me anything?” Kyrie asked, with alarm but not really surprised. She’d already once met the Great Sky Dragon’s idea of morality. She wasn’t sure he cared even for shifters that weren’t his own kind.

After Anthony had come in, and Tom had gone back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep, she went outside and—with trembling fingers—dialed the number Conan had given her. A heavily accented woman’s voice answered, “Three Luck Dragon! How may I help you?”

Momentarily mute, Kyrie wondered if there was a polite way to say, May I speak to the boss dragon? Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “May I speak to the proprietor?”

The woman rattled something off, very fast, that appeared to be some Cantonese dialect, and Kyrie said, “Conan Lung told me to call. He said that the owner of the restaurant would speak to me.”

There was a long silence, followed by the sound of cutlery and a rattle of plates and a voice saying something in an Asian language. Kyrie took a deep breath. Her thumb moved towards the disconnect button on the phone.

“Hello,” a male voice said. It was a resonant voice, with almost no trace of an accent.

Caught off guard, Kyrie cleared her throat, nervously and said “Am I speaking to the owner of Three Luck Dragon?”

“Speaking,” the voice said.

“Oh. Oh. Good. I wanted to talk about . . . about the owner of the diner . . . The George.”

For a terribly long moment, while the speaker on the other side was silent, she thought he was going to ask “Who?”

But instead, when he spoke, he said, “The young dragon? The one whom Himself . . .”

“Yes.” Kyrie hastened, not wanting to know if the man was about to say “the one whom Himself almost killed” or “the one whom Himself is protecting.” That she didn’t know which one the man was about to say betrayed her ambivalence about this being and about the step she was taking.

Was she doing the right thing? Or was she about to betray Tom’s trust in her for nothing?

“I assume,” the man said from the other side, his voice even more impersonal, colder, as though he were a receptionist talking to a stranger about some abstract transaction. “I assume that you do not wish to speak of this over the phone?”

Kyrie did not wish. No matter that Anthony was busy at the grill. No matter that she could go outside and attempt to talk from there. What she had to say was bound to make more than a few clients or passersby get curious. And then there was the fact that Summer might have friends or relatives coming around to see her place of death. There was already a clutter of flowers around the base of the pole, and one pink teddy bear clutching a heart. Summer’s friends were bound to be journalists. Considering the paper was obsessed with cryptozoology, how would they react to hearing Kyrie talk of dragons. “It would be better if I may speak in person,” she said. She remembered the parking lot, and the Great Sky Dragon in it. And all the other dragons around. Had this man—dragon—been there too? There was a great deal she’d rather do than see one of these dragons again. All else aside, they were a criminal organization and one populated by shifters, who could destroy her and Tom several times over. But she didn’t have any choice. She’d run out of all choices.

“Come to the restaurant,” the man said. “I’ll be here. Ask for Mr. Lung.”

Mr. Lung? Was he related to Conan?

Rafiel opened the door to the aquarium. It had been unlocked. The smell of fish and bleach—combined—hit his nostrils as well as damp air that seemed hot compared to the frosty air outside. He stepped into the shadows, lengthened since all the lights in the aquarium were off. He almost called out to Lei, except he remembered the offices were far enough around the corner that he was sure she couldn’t hear him. He walked past the sealed door to the shark room, up a short flight of service stairs, now the only way to get past the shark room, to where the light of the floor-to-ceiling windows made the room with the anemones and crabs much brighter than the one belowstairs. He walked past the aquariums, looking curiously at the spider crab one. He wished he could tell that one of the giant, long-legged crabs—some of them looking as weathered and beaten as though they’d escaped from the mother of all clarified butter dishes—was a shifter. They all had moss growing on them. He squinted, reasoning that a shifter crab would have less moss, wouldn’t it? Surely the moss sloughed off when the crabs shifted to human then back? Surely . . . But all of them seemed to have an even covering of the green stuff, and Rafiel started wondering if John Wagner had hallucinated it all. Perhaps for his own amusement. The man seemed to have a very odd sense of humor.

Normally he could have cut through the shark room to the office area, but now he had to make it across the silent restaurant, and then down another set of stairs, to the back.

As he got to the bottom floor, he saw light shining out of the office and called out, “Ms. Lani?”

She stuck her head out of the office, for just a moment. “I’ll be ready in just a moment, Officer Trall.”

“Oh. All right,” he said.
Now what are you up to?

“You may come in.” Her voice sounded vaguely amused.

He ambled out of the hallway and into the cramped offices he had visited and searched before. On the wall, on a pegboard were the keys he had stolen and gotten copied, as well as several other sets of keys, which he assumed were to either other areas of the aquarium—areas he’d found no need to explore—or to the utility parts of the aquarium. At least he assumed that electrical circuits and such would be locked behind panels and couldn’t be accessed by just anyone.

Other than that, the office consisted of a very long, narrow room, which might have, in some previous incarnation, been a hallway. It had no windows, and only two rows of desks, six on each side against the walls. While Lei Lani rummaged through the desk nearest the door, Rafiel walked up and down the rows of desks, to the small fridge set against the narrow far wall, and the coffee maker on top of the fridge. The coffee maker had coffee in it, and, inside, some blue mold over a residue sludge that might very well be sentient in itself, or perhaps even a shifter.

Rafiel eyed it dubiously. He was well aware, no matter how much he pretended not to be, that Tom and Kyrie thought there was something wrong with him, since he still lived with his parents, and he was the first to admit that perhaps he had leaned on parental protection too long. Until he’d met Kyrie and Tom, he had never seen other shifters manage for themselves, without normal people to cover up for them. But whatever his staying with his parents might betray about his character, it did not betray a lingering, overlong adolescence. To the contrary. Rafiel kept his area of the house neat, and had even acquired the reputation of a neat freak at the police station. If this coffee machine, or anything like it, were in the station, he’d be taking it out, rinsing it, washing it, then giving all his subordinates a lecture on keeping foodstuffs around as they molded. With a rueful smile, he thought that McKnight and the others must think he was a pure bundle of joy.