"Fat chance," Tom said.
Rafiel shrugged again. "One at a time. So, I'm going in and asking Ms. Lani out."
"But . . . like that?" Tom asked. "You are all bruised, have two big gashes on the back of your neck, and you probably broke your ankle."
Rafiel shrugged. "So, I tell her I got in a fight in the course of duty. You know there is little that a woman loves better than a hero."
Tom stared at him for a long time, then sighed and shook his head. "The worst part, Mr. Hero, is that you'll probably pull it off."
Rafiel gave him a feline grin. "Of course I will."
* * *
Kyrie looked from one to the other of the men, her mouth half open, as though all the words had escaped her and weren't coming back. Rafiel looked like he'd been put into an industrial threshing machine. His forehead was scratched, his arm showed blood through the shirt. He was walking as if he had—at the very least—a seriously bruised ankle.
Tom looked hungry. In fact, despite the fact that he'd announced to her, up front, that he'd already eaten, and even though his story made it clear he'd had something like ten hamburgers, he looked starved, and sniffed the air as if trying to inhale calories through sniffing in stray particles of cooking meat.
And yet, both of them looked as happy, as full of themselves as boys who had pulled off a really good prank. It had to be one of those male things, because she couldn't begin to imagine what was going through their minds. "And you went back?" she said. "For the boots and the ID?"
"And the clothes," Rafiel said, enthusiastically. "My clothes. Well, the shreds of them."
"I see," Kyrie said.
"It wasn't a big deal," Tom said, as his head swivelled to follow a gyro platter carried by Keith. "Dire wasn't there when we went back."
Yes, of course, that made it all right, Kyrie thought, as she sighed and despaired of explaining to these overgrown boys that, after all, Dante Dire had the power of messing with their minds. He might have made it seem that there was no one there. He might have jumped them from a dark corner. He might still be waiting to—She couldn't say any of it, certainly not in the diner, although the three of them were occupying the corner booth, under the picture of the dragon slayer, and there were no other occupied booths in this part of the diner.
Keith stopped by and dropped a plate entirely filled with gyro shavings and souvlaki in front of Tom, who looked up at him, surprised, "How did you know?"
Keith shrugged. "Meat-seeking behavior," he said. "I've come to know it." He looked from Rafiel to Tom. "What have you two been doing with yourselves?" he asked. And then paused, and bent over towards the table, his hands on the formica. "It isn't about Summer Avenir, right? I mean . . . is there some big fight going on that you guys haven't told me about?"
Kyrie sighed and shifted further into the booth. "Come. You can hear about it."
But Keith shook his head, and looked around at the tables. "Nah. Conan went to take a nap, he said, and that would leave the tables unattended."
Kyrie frowned. This sudden reluctance to run away with the shifter circus was not like Keith at all. A look at the young man showed her dark circles around his eyes and a general impression of being less than healthy. "Huh," she said.
"It's nothing, okay?" Keith said. He shrugged. "It's just that, you know, you guys always said that being a shifter was no picnic, that there was stuff . . . but you know, for me, it was all about fighting and . . . well, it was like being a superhero."
"Yeah, so you told us," Tom said.
"Only, then . . . Summer turned out to be the granddaughter of the newspaper owner, and to have been after cryptozoology stuff, and she endangered you and got herself killed . . . and now I know it's not . . . "—he looked at them, intently—"I assume it wasn't one of you. I wouldn't have come back if I thought it had been one of you."
"No," Kyrie said, shocked. "No. It's . . . one of the people we're fighting."
"People!" Keith said. "Somehow, no, I don't think it's people."
Kyrie felt shocked as if she'd been punched. "What about us?"
Keith sighed. "I want to say of course you're people . . ." he said. "I want to say it . . . but . . ." He looked away. "It would help if Tom didn't look like he could happily take a chunk out of a passing diner."
Tom, finger-deep in gyro meat, looked up. "Hey!"
"No . . . I know you're not like that," Keith said. "And of course you can trust me, and all. But . . . these . . . creatures, like the ones we fought against before . . . It's not like a computer game, and it's not like a comic, and it's not like being superheroes."
"We never said . . ."
"I know you didn't. But I'm an idiot, okay . . . and I thought . . ." He shrugged. "I thought a whole lot of stupid things. But it's not fun anymore. It's serious. And the things you guys fight, they're really serious too. I take it the . . . creature you're fighting is the one who was in here the other day talking about how I was just a transitive or something and—"
"Ephemeral," Tom said. "Because you live less than we do, and he—"
"Yeah. I got the gist. Anyway . . . I take it that's the big bad, and I wish you luck and all, but I want no part of it. I . . ." He took a deep breath. "I might as well tell you that I've applied for a scholarship to do the last two years of college abroad, in Italy. I was accepted. I'll be leaving at the end of the month. That's my two-weeks' notice."
They all looked at him, stunned. Oh, Kyrie understood what he was saying. In fact, they'd been the first to tell him that it wasn't fun, it wasn't like being a superhero, it wasn't anything of the kind. But Keith had been, in a way, the one normal human admitted to their fraternity, the one they could trust.
The one, Kyrie thought, who reassures us that we're still human.
"Sure," Tom said, sounding deflated. "Sure. I just . . . tell me the exact date and I'll make sure you have your check a couple of days in advance so that you can cash it before you fly, okay?"
Keith looked startled. Had he forgotten that Tom tried to take care of people no matter what? "Okay," he said, as he walked away.
And he couldn't be that mad at them, Kyrie thought, at least not consciously, because having seen Rafiel eye Tom's food jealously, he brought him a plate of meat as well, and silverware for both of them. "Anthony thinks you have a tapeworm," he said, walking away. "Both of you."
"You know," Rafiel said, "Dante Dire would say we need to kill Keith, to ensure our own safety."
Kyrie shook her head, feeling vaguely impatient. Dire could say whatever he wanted. Keith could say whatever he wanted for that matter. She could understand Dire's point about how hard it was to consider as people and as equals, people who didn't consider you human. But she was sure of something and that was that Dire was far more dangerous to Keith than Keith ever could be to any of them. The other thing was that Kyrie was fairly sure people were just . . . people. It was just that shifters had so many more means of causing harm than people who didn't at the drop of a hat grow claws and fangs. "You still didn't tell me," she said with a trace of impatience, "what you were doing at the aquarium today?"
"Oh," Tom shrugged and looked sheepish, managing to look much like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "We were installing a camera."
"Installing a what?"
"A camera. In that platform area where, clearly, there's been screwing going on."
"Why?" Kyrie asked. The idea was unfathomable. "So you guys could have your very own private porn channel? Isn't it kind of gruesome? I mean considering . . ."
"No," Tom said. "It's for an alarm. I've already installed the software in my laptop. You and I are going to keep watch on it. By turns. It beeps, you see . . . when someone moves in front of the camera and activates it."
"We're going to keep watch on it by turns?" Kyrie asked. "And what exactly do we do about The George, Tom? You still need to cook, and without Keith, or with Keith on reduced hours, I still need to wait tables. What do we do about that?"
The
minute she said it, Tom's face fell, and she felt as though she were the most horrible woman alive. "Look, I can see where it's important, but . . ."
* * *
Rafiel cleared his throat. "You're right, Kyrie," he said. "That's why I have a plan. We couldn't just wait, see?"
Tom nodded. "So, Rafiel came up with something. Rafiel says, and he's right that we'd start with the weakest enemy and move on towards the strongest, because, you know, we can't fight all of them at the same time."
"No," Kyrie said. "But I don't think this will help us fight at all."
"No, it will," Rafiel said. "I think that the Lani chick likes me. Oh, I don't mean she's in love with me or anything," he answered Tom's knowing smile. "That's not it at all. But the thing is, she has sort of come on to me and hinted since she first met me. If she's the aquarium killer, and if she is a shark shifter, perhaps I look tasty."
"Officer Mignon," Tom mumbled.
"Something like that. But in any case"—Rafiel shrugged—"she has tried to, you know, hint that she would be okay going out more than once. And in fact, you know, she came up to my car outside the doughnut shop, when I didn't even know she knew my car . . . so . . . I think, particularly if she's guilty and is worried about it—but even if she isn't guilty and her boyfriends just keep taking headers into the shark tank through no fault of her own . . ." He stopped and looked lost.
Kyrie said, "No." Tom made some indeterminate sound.
"No, really," Rafiel said. "I've gone on dates with women before. Truly. Some people don't seem to think I'm that horrible."
"I didn't mean that," Kyrie said. "It's more, I'd prefer you don't run that risk."
Rafiel looked towards Tom who was eating, oblivious to them. So he assumed Tom wasn't jealous. Which was good, because he didn't think Kyrie meant it in any other way than as a caring friend. "How much more of a risk is doing nothing?" Rafiel asked. "I almost died today, and I wasn't doing anything I thought was dangerous, except maybe to my moral health."
"Well, you were trying to solve the aquarium murders," Kyrie said. "And if anything, this is more likely to bring Dire on you, since he said that you should not investigate these murders."
"Yeah," Rafiel admitted. "But you see . . . that only makes it obligatory that I do something. How am I going to live with myself, knowing that I stopped an investigation because someone who doesn't consider humans as such told me to stop? How can I go on? And besides, Kyrie—"
"And besides, Kyrie," Tom said. "Even if we don't do anything at all, Dire will end up killing us. Or at least, he will kill one of us so he can blame all of the deaths on that one person and skip off back to his affairs, his reputation as executioner untarnished. He doesn't care whom he blames. After what I did to him," Tom's voice became rueful as he said this, "it's very probable that the pact with the dragons won't even hold him back anymore."
"So we'll do something about the aquarium murders," Rafiel said. "And then we'll figure out some way to get Dire. Because we have to. It's him or us."
"And through all of this," Tom said, "we'll try to keep Conan safe. Frankly, we shouldn't even let him know what we intend to do. Conan shouldn't cross the street by himself, much less get involved in intrigue and conspiracy."
"So," Rafiel said, "I asked Lei Lani out tonight. And she said yes."
The expression of complete surprise on Kyrie's face was totally worth it.
* * *
Kyrie bit her tongue hard. Listening to Rafiel's plan, she realized that it made the perfect trap for Dire. She couldn't imagine how the two men kept imagining they would be allowed to deal with each of the threats in turn—without more than one of them imposing themselves upon their notice at the same time.
It was clear, to her, at least. Dire had been watching them. Dire had been watching the aquarium. Dire knew they wanted to catch and punish the aquarium killer. They were not going to be allowed to do it without interference. It would never happen.
And they couldn't simply go after Dire in cold blood, anyway. If they went after Dire in any way that couldn't be construed as self-defense, and if they went to the triads for help, the only thing that would happen would be that the Ancient Ones would accuse the dragons of murder, and a war would break out. Mr. Lung had warned Kyrie against that.
So the best thing was to get Dire to come after them. Which the aquarium trap seemed like the perfect setup for.
But that meant that Kyrie had to arrange the night shift, somehow, so Conan could be free, without Tom knowing. First, she thought, she would go to the bed-and-breakfast and talk to Conan. And then, if he could perhaps pretend to be sick . . . then Kyrie would have an excuse to ask Keith to work.
"If you guys get in the car," Rafiel said, "and wait in it, perhaps a block from the aquarium, then you can get me in time. Not that I should need help. I mean . . . I've fought other shifters before, but . . . I'd prefer to have backup."
"Of course," Tom said. "But not in our car. In the supply van."
Kyrie saw Rafiel give Tom a surprised look and Tom sighed, long-suffering. "You can see into the car. But the old supply van, the one without the George logo, we can sit in the back—well, we can sit in the back once I throw in a couple of cushions—and no one will see us. Or even know we're there. Just an anonymous van parked by the side of the road."
"Oh," Rafiel said. "Right. That will work."
* * *
Kyrie knocked at the door to Conan's room, which was in the bottom floor, just off the entrance. There was a sound of shuffling, from inside, and then Conan's voice, "Yes?"
"It's Kyrie," she whispered. She'd left Tom taking care of her tables, with the excuse that she had to go take a shower to wake up, since she hadn't slept in . . . much too long.
Conan opened the door, and looked at her, somewhat surprised. "Kyrie?"
"I need to talk to you. May I come in?"
"Yeah, sure." He threw the door open into a room that was about a quarter the size of theirs—just a little bigger than the destroyed bathroom at home. It had a daybed against one wall, a small dresser and a desk opposite. At the end of it the door opened into a tiny bathroom, where she could just see the glass door of a stand-up shower, with what looked like a pair of underwear drying draped over it.
Without meaning to, she looked down. Conan was wearing pants—or rather shorts and a baggy white T-shirt. "Is anything wrong?" he asked her.
"Yes and no," she said. She closed the door, then leaned against the desk while he slumped on his bed, and looked at her. And she explained. She explained everything. What had happened, what the plan was.
* * *
"But, Kyrie, I can't," he said. He put his hands on his head, grabbing a handful of his straight black hair on either side. "I can't do that. He told me he'd kill himself, and the Great Sky Dragon said he meant it."
"He would kill himself," Kyrie said. "If he had to be . . . beholden to the Great Sky Dragon, yes. But don't you see in this case he doesn't have to? Even if he finds out I asked for help, I'll be the one he's mad at, you see. I'll be the one who is indebted to the triads. He's not."
Conan looked at her, blinking, and it took her a moment to realize he was fighting back tears. "I'm not sure he's not right, Kyrie," he said, pitifully. "If I had any choice, now—which I don't—I'd choose not to belong to the Great Sky Dragon, too." And seeing Kyrie flinch, he must have realized what she'd thought, because he smiled. "I don't know if he's still listening to me, no. He might be. Or he might have turned off when Tom told him he wouldn't allow me to follow him around." A small frown. "I don't think so, though, or Mr. Lung would have told you that you needed to do something else to get his attention, than just have me around. He didn't, so I guess . . . Himself is watching. And he now knows I'd prefer not to belong to him, which is fine. I would. If he didn't know that before . . ." Conan shrugged. "I don't think he cares. I'm not important like Tom and I never had a choice."
Kyrie sighed. In her mind only one thing mattered right now. She didn't wan
t to appear callous towards Conan. She even liked Conan in a way, though he was definitely one of the strays that Tom was so prone to picking up. But she didn't have time or patience, just now, to discuss his philosophy of life. "Does this mean you won't help?" she asked.
"No," Conan said. "It doesn't. I'll help, of course. It's not like I have a choice, you know. I have to help. Or die. And I'm not ready to die."
* * *
"I was going to suggest you take my car, because—"
Conan shook his head. He looked very sad. "If I know how my people work, I expect there will be a car brought to me in the next hour, a car that Tom won't identify. And just tell Tom I have a cough and decided not to work because I might be contagious. The only thing I want to know . . ." He paused.
"Yes?"
"Is what they intend to use me as, other than possibly bait. It's not that I mind. It can't be much worse than all the other things I've had to do. I just wish I had more of an inkling of what will happen than 'Conan will watch, and then we'll intervene.' " He looked very tired. "Doesn't matter. I'm sure better minds than mine will handle it."
Kyrie was caught between a desire to bitch-slap him and a desire to free him from his vassalage.
* * *
Kyrie hoped that Dante Dire had the place under surveillance of some sort. She had to—simply had to—arrange for him to follow them that night. She wasn't quite sure how to do it, except, of course, by managing to pretend that the last thing she wanted was for him to follow them.
Gentleman Takes a Chance Page 37
