Gentleman Takes a Chance (10 page)

Tom was afraid Keith would blurt out loud that Red Dragon was just that, and the enemy besides. And since Kyrie had left, a sudden inrush of customers had come in, ten or twenty in all, all sitting at nearby tables, ordering hot chocolate and burgers and whatnot. He reached over and put a hand on the young man's shoulder, to arrest the flow of words. "It's all right, Keith, truly. I'm keeping an eye on him."

"If you're sure . . ." Keith said, looking confused.

"Yeah, sure about everything but his ability to wait tables. Why don't you go and—" But before he could suggest that Keith should relieve Conan of some tables and give him breathing room, Tom looked up at the booth where he'd left Old Joe. The clothes he'd loaned the old vagrant were still there, but Old Joe was gone. "Shit," Tom said, which made Keith look at him sharply, because Tom rarely swore out loud. "Man the grill, Keith. Just a couple of minutes."

With a suspicion that he knew very well where Old Joe had gone, Tom ducked out from behind the counter and ran down the hallway, just in time to hear the back door creak open, and to see, as he turned the corner, an alligator tail disappearing through the door.

He knew he should have locked it.

The aquarium looked like a cylindrical grain silo—at least if a silo could be massive, made of glass and concrete and rise ten stories into the air. Once you got inside, there were very few staircases where the public was supposed to walk—from the entrance room, outfitted to look like something from
Ten Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
, with rusty-looking ship wheels and riveted panels on the walls, to the restaurant on the other end. Instead, it was all gently sloping floors.

"Surveillance system?" Kyrie asked, looking at the blank screens in the entrance room and wondering exactly what to do if there was one. After all, she was here with a policeman. But policemen—she was fairly sure of this—weren't supposed to break into the scenes of crimes, alone or with civilian friends, after everyone else had departed. She wondered how this would play in court, if it ever came to court. And that was supposing, of course, that the killer wasn't a shifter. Because, if he was . . . 

She shivered. She didn't know what to do if the killer was a shifter, and she would bet Rafiel didn't either. You couldn't let a shifter be arrested and end up in a jail, where his secret would inevitably come out. Particularly not if he was the sort of wild, barely contained shifter who would kill without a thought. If you allowed him to be arrested, you might as well confess that you were one too, and let them come for you. Because once the existence of shifters was discovered, then the sort of accommodation, the sort of looking out for each other, covering for each other, that she and Rafiel and Tom all did, would become impossible. People largely failed to see them because they didn't expect them. If one of them were revealed, then all would be.

But what could they do, if a shifter were guilty? How could they prevent him from being arrested? Cover for him, and allow him to go on murdering? Or take justice in their own hands and kill him? Who knew? The last time, they'd killed the murderer, but that had been self-defense, because he'd been trying to murder them. This time, they might have to make a dispassionate decision.

"Nah," Rafiel said. He'd barely looked at the screens. "First thing we asked was if they had a surveillance system. But they didn't. They said that they've never had issues with break-ins or vandalism. Normally the restaurant is open half the night, you know. So there's people around."

He led her past various incredibly unconvincing concrete caves. "You can shift in the bathroom," Rafiel said. "The ladies' room is there," and he pointed at a little artificial stone grotto amid which a small door opened with the universal symbol of the stick figure in a dress and the words shad roe. It was, Kyrie thought, very good that there was a picture, since she failed to know what either Shad or Roe meant. The only thing she could think was that Shad Roe was the Russian relative of Jane Doe.

She ducked into the bathroom—a utilitarian thing, with metal sinks and beat-up beige-painted stalls. Perhaps it was supposed to evoke a ship, she thought, and resisted an impulse to duck into a stall before shifting. There was no point at all. They were alone here, and besides, her panther self would be utterly confused, dealing with claws and a door lock.

"Right," she told hersel. She removed her clothes swiftly. She concentrated. Shifting was hard, but she'd learned to do it volitionally in the last few months. As she felt her body spasm and shudder, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her eyes going slitted yellow, her features growing into a muzzle, her teeth into fangs.

She looked away from the mirror, as the image it reflected became a big, black-furred cat. It caught at the edge of her sense, the sweet-tangy scent that the human part of Kyrie knew meant a shapeshifter had been here, and recently too.

Tom ran down the hallway, full speed. He doubted that Old Joe could have run faster than Tom could walk. But the alligator that Old Joe shifted into could. He moved at a frighteningly fast clip, tail swaying. The door slammed shut behind Joe.

Tom hit it a couple of seconds later, the full impact of his body on the cold glass making it swing open. Snow flew into his mouth and stung his eyes, and as he looked around, frantically, all he could see of Old Joe was a trail in the snow, fast becoming covered by the more recent fall.

"Joe?" he said, stumbling along the trail, to where the dumpster stood, surrounded by a brick wall on three sides—presumably to hide from the customers' minds the ultimate fate of their leftovers.

A happy sort of clack-clack sound, not unlike castanets, made him veer sharp left, into the enclosure and almost step on Joe's tail. "There you are," he said, relieved that Old Joe had gone no further. "You really shouldn't wander off like that. You can have warm burgers inside, why are you—"

He froze as he heard a high-pitched animal battle scream and hiss—and almost ran forward, past Old Joe's front paws, to where he could see a little kitten, just inches from Old Joe's happily clacking snout.

It was orange and fluffy and tiny—maybe eight weeks old. Old enough to have open eyes and stand more or less firmly on spindly legs. Tom felt mingled dread and relief. Relief because he'd had other images in his mind, including a helpless baby shifter dragon. Dread, because instead of running, or jumping on the dumpster—if he could jump—the silly little creature stood facing Old Joe, hair fluffed out all on end, blue eyes blazing. As if it thought it could scare away a huge, armored gator. As Tom watched, it emitted another high-pitched battle scream.

Old Joe lunged. Before his teeth could grab the little creature, Tom stooped and picked it up. "No," he told Old Joe. "This is not dinner." He felt the kitten sink all claws into him, even as Old Joe looked up with a look of intense disappointment in his eyes.

Tom absently held the kitten close to him, hoping that the warmth would mollify him. He didn't dare put him down. Even if he had owners—and it was possible he might, and had only wandered in called by the smell of the diner refuse—what kind of owners let a baby this size walk around outside in a snowstorm? Making his voice stern, he yelled at Old Joe, "Shift. Now. Into human form."

The alligator looked up at him with such a sad look that Tom expected it to start crying. A different type of crocodile tears, Tom guessed. He cleared his throat, to avoid showing weakness, and said, "Now. You have no business being out here shifted. You know what kind of trouble Kyrie and I could get into if they found you. Do you want us to get in trouble?"

The alligator shook his head, earnestly.

"Right. Then shift," he said, and averted his eyes from the vagrant's form, as it writhed and twisted, from crocodile to human. "Better," Tom said. "Now stay. Don't you dare shift again or wander off." Aware that the poor creature was naked, he darted inside, grabbed the discarded sweats, and brought them out.

Old Joe put them on, with the expression of a school child obeying an unreasonable taskmaster. He looked resentfully at Tom from under lank clumps of steel-grey hair. "It's tasty. It's been too long since I've eaten an animal."

Tom shuddered. "You're not going to eat this one, either," he said, firmly, holding and sheltering the orange fluffball in his hands. The kitten had started cleaning himself, in affronted dignity, as though to let Tom know he could take care of himself fine, thank you so much.

Old Joe didn't say anything else about it. He gave Tom a half-amused, half-sad look. Though his eyes could be called brown, they had faded as much as the rest of him, so that they looked even more pitiful and washed out. The grey sweat suit—picked up at the thrift store down the street and faded and washed out as it was—looked like a scream of color on the small, short body. As Old Joe stood up, he never straightened to his full five feet or so of height. Instead he stooped forward, bent, and shuffled along.

Tom shifted his hold on the kitten, and held Old Joe's arm, as he led him inside.

"Walk better as a gator," the man said in a raspy voice, tainted with an undefinable accent.

"Undoubtedly," Tom said, maneuvering to open the door, without dropping either of his charges. "But alligators are not native to the Rockies, and if anyone sees you, they'll call animal control. And then what are we supposed to do?"

Old Joe nodded, but Tom wondered how much he understood of his speech. Most of the time Old Joe's hold on reality was thread-thin, no more than a dime's edge worth of awareness. Sometimes, though, when he spoke, Tom glimpsed . . . he wasn't sure what. Perhaps the man that Old Joe had once been—sharp and incisive, bordering on the acerbic. And sometimes, sometimes, he seemed old and wise and world weary, but very much intelligent and capable of logical thought.

The thing was, you just never knew which Old Joe you had. It could be the wise old man or the crazy old codger. His shifting between an alligator and a human wasn't nearly as confusing as that. At least that you could tell. What went on inside his mind wasn't nearly as obvious.

Tom led him inside and to the booth, and said "Stay," then ducked behind the counter, to ask Keith to get a burger started. He cursed himself, inwardly. He'd given the old man clam chowder, because he'd been thinking he'd be cold, of course. But the thing was, he'd just shifted, so of course he'd gone outside, in search of protein. "Make that a triple," he said.

Keith looked at him, as he threw three patties on the grill. "Hungry?"

"Not for me. Old Joe. Bring it to the table when you're done."

"Sure," Keith said.

Tom went back to the booth, where he'd left Old Joe. He didn't want to leave the old man alone too long, for fear he'd shift and escape outside again. At a guess, Tom imagined the only reason he'd managed to get away unnoticed is that there hadn't been anyone seated close enough to him to see him. But three more tables had gotten filled up since then, and while they were too far away to hear him, they had full view of the table. And Tom had no idea how to convince spectators that all twelve people at those tables had hallucinated a man changing shapes into an alligator.

So instead, he slid into the pockmarked green vinyl seat across from Old Joe, who looked up at him, suddenly, with startlingly focused eyes. "They're here, you know?" he said. "They're in town."

"Who is in town?" Tom asked. Through his mind, like a scrolling list, went the names of everyone that Old Joe might be referring to: the Great Sky Dragon's people; whoever had killed the people at the aquarium; some unspecified group that hated shifters.

"Them," he said, and shrugged. "You know, the Ancient Ones."

And all of a sudden, either dredged from memory or created by his mind on the spot, Tom had a comic book cover in his mind, showing the Greek gods in full array and under them the words "The Ancient Ones."

He sighed. "Right." In the morass of Old Joe's mind, who knew what was true and what wasn't. And now the kitten was asleep on Tom's palm, as Tom shielded him with his other hand, so that Old Joe wouldn't see him and get hungry. "Right."

At that moment, Keith dropped the burger in front of Old Joe, who grabbed it as if he'd been lost in a burgerless desert for centuries. "Sorry," Tom said, in an undertone. "I should have remembered you'd need protein. It was stupid of me. No wonder you changed."

Old Joe shook his head, as emphatically as the alligator had, near the dumpster. "That's not why I changed," he said. "It was the Ancient Ones. I can't take them like this. They might kill me, you know?" His eyes gave Tom an appraising look from under the long grey hair. "You know what they're like."

"Actually," Tom said, "I don't." He wondered if Old Joe was talking about something real or something out of his nightmares.

Old Joe devoured the burger, with its bun and pickles, in fast, ravenous bites, all the more surprising because his teeth appeared to be broken and stained, and possibly moss-covered. How old was he? Tom had heard—and had observed in his own years on the street—how hard a life like that could be on people. When you threw in the alcoholism and drug use that plagued people on the streets, how likely was it that Old Joe was no more than middle-aged? Forty. Maybe fifty.

On the other hand, Old Joe was a shifter. So was Tom. And through five years of sleeping outside and roughing it through horrible winters, and working at the roughest manual labor, and shooting up and smoking and eating any amount of drugs . . . Tom had never managed to look his age, let alone unnaturally aged. At twenty-one, he looked closer to eighteen, except for the dark shadow of beard on his face. Even with his five o'clock shadow, he still got carded every time he tried to buy a beer. So Old Joe could not have aged all that fast, could he? Not unless he'd come up with some pinnacle of self-destructiveness that Tom had left untouched. And that, Tom found very hard indeed to believe.

But then again, perhaps alligators aged differently from dragons. How was Tom to know? The problem, he thought, as Old Joe demolished the burger, is that he knew so few shifters. Not enough to give him a statistical universe, truly.