The Pom did indeed stare at Ronan as the woman tried to soothe it, and the waitress strolled over to remind them that they would have to vacate the premises if the dog didn’t quiet down. The matron opened her purse to perhaps hold the dog, plucking out not just the Pom, but also the wafting stink of dog shit.
“Popsy,” she shrieked as her friends gasped in horror, their hands waving the stench away from their faces. “What have you done?”
From the smell, Popsy didn’t just poop but crapped out the entire contents of its bowels into the bag. The stink made Daryl gasp and Ronan wrinkle his nose in disgust. Daryl stood up, glowering at the woman, who discovered the mess clung to Popsy’s long hair and dripped onto her dress. More shrieks rose from the table.
“Let’s get out of here,” Daryl said.
“As fast as possible.”
Ronan left several bills on the table then picked up his case, and Daryl saw they weren’t the only café patrons leaving in a hurry. As they ambled down the sidewalk, the shrill barking ceased, but the horrified cries and wails from the women did not.
Daryl eyed Ronan sidelong. “What are you, man?”
Ronan stuck his free hand in his pocket as he walked, not looking at her and without speaking for several moments. When he did, his words were simple.
“A predator.”
Chapter Six
After seeing Daryl to the market where she worked, Ronan took his new possessions back to the Saint George Hotel. Under the watchful eyes of Manny, he went upstairs to his room. He put them away, set the suitcase against the wall, then wondered what else to do.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pondered his future. The money in his pocket would keep him for quite a while but wouldn’t last forever. He had been told by the elders to learn human skills and make his way in the world as one of them. That meant obtaining a human job.
“Damn them,” he snarled, slamming his fist on his knee. “Just how am I to do that?”
Stifling the urge to fly until his rage passed, he left his room and locked the door. If he couldn’t fly, he could walk, and as he walked among these people he hardly understood, he could think. Striding down the stairs, he wondered how his friends fared, what they were doing, where they were.
We agreed to meet in one year, get together again, share our stories.
But a year was a long way away, and Ronan had to get through it with his sanity intact. Passing Manny and his scowl again, tempted to flip him his middle finger, Ronan returned to the busy street. As he walked, he pondered what he could do to earn a living among these humans. Observing those around him, he wondered what they did to get their pay.
“I could become a hooker,” he muttered, then laughed to himself.
But Daryl said male hookers were paid to have sex with other males, and he didn’t like that idea. He passed shops and stores, considering the idea of becoming a store clerk. Pausing at an electronics retailer, he gazed at the televisions and computers through the window. He knew a little about the computers human used and found them intriguing.
“Maybe I can learn about computers and get a job working with them.”
Making a mental note to ask Daryl what she knew of computers and jobs in that industry, he ambled on. A few blocks further down, his stomach reminding him it needed to be fed again, he caught sight of three familiar figures up ahead of him amid the people moving up and down the sidewalk. These three weren’t strolling, however, but loitering near a bookstore, smoking and talking amongst themselves.
Ronan recognized Tank leaning against the brick wall of the building, his right arm bound in white plaster. Two-Bit and Flame stood with him, occasionally watching the people walk past. Ronan stopped and pretended to window shop as he covertly watched the trio.
Flame continuously flicked his lighter, his expression more dead than alive. Too far away to hear what they said, he recalled Two-Bit saying that Tank wanted to find Daryl. Ronan wondered why she was so important to the drug dealer. Studying the man’s face more closely, he observed his hair cut close to his skull, dark glasses covering his eyes, the markings on his forearms.
Are those marks of clan affiliations? The others had them as well, but none of them were alike. At least none that he saw. When Tank straightened from the wall, and the three of them started walking, Ronan followed. They turned a corner half a block down, and Ronan peered around it first to make sure they hadn’t stopped to make sure they weren’t being followed.
They walked on down the street, Ronan tagging along behind. He saw them meet up with two other men, and they greeted one another with strange gestures involving fists and arms. Ronan stepped into an alley to watch them covertly, thinking he was going to simply follow them around and accomplish nothing at all.
When the five finally ambled on down the street, Ronan decided not to tag along. Heading back to the main street, he found a restaurant that had delicious odors wafting from it and went inside. Taking a table in the corner, he smiled as a waitress brought him a menu.
“Can I get you anything to drink, sweetie?” she asked.
“Tea? With ice?”
“Sure thing?”
He looked at the menu, reading the words he recognized and studied the pictures of the various foods the restaurant offered. Other patrons entered the place, Ronan paying them little heed until a familiar voice crept into his ears.
“Take a seat over there, boys,” Tank said.
Ronan turned his head away from the three who strolled near his table just in time. Tank and his pals, Flame still flicking his lighter, passed him by without recognition and sat at a booth behind him. Ronan almost forgot to study the menu as he listened to them talk.
Expecting them to speak of Daryl, he didn’t hear her name mentioned. Instead, they spoke of money and things they called kilos, and distribution plans. They kept their voices low and ceased talking whenever someone came near their booth.
“Yo, man, quit flicking that fucking thing,” Tank snapped. “It’s getting on my nerves.”
Flame stopped playing with the lighter but didn’t speak as they continued their discussion. “Two-Bit,” Tank continued, “you check out the buyers, make sure they ain’t cops. They come recommended, but you know that don’t mean shit.”
“Have you decided?”
Startled, Ronan glanced up as the waitress arrived at his table. “Uh, I’ll have this.” He pointed to a meat sandwich picture with long golden-colored things beside it.”
“How do you want that cooked? Rare, medium, or well done?”
“Rare.”
She smiled, her eyes traveling over him slowly. “Coming right up, sweetie.”
Apparently, the discussion behind him came to a halt while the waitress took his order, and then Ronan heard Daryl’s name mentioned as soon as she left. “That Daryl bitch lives somewhere around here,” Tank said, his voice low and savage. “We got to find her. And her asshole boyfriend.”
“How, man?” Two-Bit asked. “She could be holed up in some empty house.”
“She got my dough,” Tank snapped. “No one steals from me. No one. Got it?”
“Yeah, man, I got it. Maybe we find her pretty boy, make him tell us where she be at.”
“Yeah, the prick. I’m gonna kill his sorry ass.”
“Man, I think I know where she works,” Two-Bit suddenly commented. “I know who to ask.”
That alarmed Ronan. Maybe I need to walk her back to the hotel tonight.
As more people filled the restaurant, the talk from behind him changed from Daryl, killing, and kilos to hardly speaking at all. His food arrived a few minutes later, the waitress placing the filled plate in front of him.
“One burger, rare, with fries, sweetie,” she said, once again devouring him with her eyes. “Need anything else?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
She left him in peace to eat. The burger was tasty, the fries hot enough to burn his tongue. He ate with gusto and washed the food down with tea, listening
to Tank and his friends eat their own meal and talk about women they knew. Except they called them bitches, which Ronan guessed to be a derogatory term for females.
Finishing his meal, he paid for it, tipped well enough to make the waitress grin, then left the restaurant without looking at Tank and the others. Crossing the street, Ronan found a place where he might watch the restaurant door without being seen. Leaning casually against the wall as he had seen many humans do, he waited.
An hour or so later, the trio left the place and walked up the sidewalk. As they headed away from the Saint George Hotel, Ronan left them alone. If they had ambled toward it, he would have kept them in sight.
Street traffic and pedestrians increased dramatically as Ronan made his way toward his new, even if nasty, home. Daryl wouldn’t be off work for several more hours. Bored, restless, with nothing to do to occupy his mind or hands, he needed to fly or go mad. Time to find a hobby in this land of humans.
Darkness fell, and the constant ebb and flow of traffic didn’t slow by very much. Ronan stared up as a flying craft, a helicopter he had learned in school, flew over the tops of the skyscrapers. Though he suspected there were many more, as well as airplanes, that one was the first he’d seen.
There’s little moon. The lights of the city dim the starlight. I can dodge those helicopters, I can fly faster and higher than they can.
By using a fire escape, Ronan climbed up to the roof of the Saint George Hotel. Looking over the edge to the street below, he was not very high up. Not compared to the tall structures all around him. The vehicles tracking back and forth on the street appeared very small, and he knew they were no threat of seeing him.
They have to keep their eyes on what they’re doing or risk bumping into someone else.
Though flying was what had gotten him and his friends into trouble in the first place, Ronan couldn’t help himself. “It’s an addiction,” he muttered, gazing up at the sky again. “As much as Daryl’s heroin. I can’t stop.”
Though he and his friends argued that flying was as natural as breathing, the elders were adamant—go south. Learn to live among humans. “Fuck that,” Ronan muttered, furious. “How can they send us away for doing what our people were born to do?”
They could, and they did.
But Ronan could no more say no to the urge to fly than he could kill himself by holding his breath. The hotel wasn’t very tall, only four stories, but he was black, and black blended in nicely with the darkness. “Just stay away from the helicopters and lights.”
Changing his form, Ronan leaped skyward, his wings beating strongly, carrying him high. Away from the noxious city with its noise, its stench, its humans. Higher and higher he climbed, the goddess of the air congratulating him, whispering her song of love and freedom.
Not far away, a helicopter buzzed across the sky, its spotlight aimed low. Climbing higher, leaving the machine far below, Ronan gazed at the distant planes that took off and landed at the airport. Yes, he had been taught about them as well, including the lightning-fast fighter jets the human warriors flew.
Powerful enough to take one of us out.
Still, no jet fighters swarmed the skies over New York. Only the helicopters and the passenger planes far away. If he was careful, he could fly for hours and never be seen. From this altitude, the city of New York spread as far as his eye could see. Awed, he never realized it was that big.
Folding his wings, he plunged earthward, the lights of the vast city drawing closer and closer before he spread them wide again and banked hard right. Beating upward again, joy sang in his soul. If flying is an addiction, then let me be addicted. I need no cure.
The roar of an approaching engine warned him. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a small aircraft heading toward the airport many miles away. Folding his wings, he dropped altitude in seconds, spun, then banked behind the plane. He doubted the humans on board saw him as their lights hadn’t struck him before he dropped below it.
The hours passed quickly, and the anger, grief, and unhappiness slid behind him. At least for now. But they’ll be back. Flying back to the Saint George Hotel, Ronan gazed down at the crisscrossing streets, the vehicles trundling back and forth, and knew he was lost.
Crap. Now what?
Searching below for anything he recognized, Ronan saw nothing. Yet, the pattern of the streets and the lights looked familiar, and he recalled seeing them the night when he arrived. Maybe I’m not so lost. Following the same path he had before, he slowed his speed, peering closely at the lights, the cars, often circling back to study the lights and streets again. There. The bright cross that marked the Saint George Hotel.
Landing on the roof, Ronan furled his wings and cautiously peered over the edge. None below on the street looked up, and no helicopter buzzed nearby. For the moment, he could stay in this body.
Content, reasonably happy, Ronan enjoyed his vantage point and decided that the next time he flew, he’d perch on one of the really tall skyscrapers. Or perhaps even sit on that huge statue of the woman just off the coast on the tiny island. From there, he could soar over the sea, watching the ships sail in and out.
Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.
A short, sharp scream interrupted his happy thoughts. Pacing to the edge again, Ronan peered down. He had forgotten his plan to walk Daryl home from her work. Shit! That asshole found her after all.
On the sidewalk outside the hotel, Daryl struggled with Tank and his two pals. Despite her yells for help, no one came to assist her. Ronan growled. Get your filthy hands off her. He heard Tank cursing, yelling at her to tell him where the money was even as they dragged her toward the alley behind the hotel.
That’s cool, dudes. I like the privacy. Let’s play.
Ronan leaped off the roof of the hotel.
Chapter Seven
“Let me go,” Daryl yelled, “I don’t have your money.”
With his hands occupied with holding her, Flame couldn’t flick his lighter, but why that random thought popped into her brain, she had no idea. She fought them, tried to bite, to kick, but both Two-Bit and Flame held her by her arms as Tank pointed the way to the alley with his left hand.
His right arm bound and frozen with a plaster cast, Tank was still as mean and as dangerous as ever. If not more so. “Where’s my money, bitch?” he snarled, slapping her across the face.
“I didn’t take it,” Daryl snapped back and managed a good kick to Flame’s knee.
He grunted, and one hand left her arm to smack her upside her head in retaliation. Ronan! Help me! Though why she should expect rescue twice in as many nights, she didn’t know. No doubt, he was asleep in his room and had no idea she was even in danger.
“I know you took it,” Tank screamed, his spittle flinging into her face. “You were the only one there.”
“No, I wasn’t,” she shrieked in return, knowing that if she told him where his cases of cash were, he’d have no reason to not kill her. Surrendering the goods meant a very nasty death. “There were two others there that night.”
They had reached the alley. No one was around, and no windows from the hotel glowed back here. It was black as Tank’s heart in the alley, but some light from the tall office building above cast a little illumination.
Daryl knew that unless she managed to convince Tank that she hadn’t taken his five hundred grand, he would find a way to torture her until she confessed. Then she’d die. Why the hell did I take it to begin with?
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and mean, his left hand clamped on her lower jaw. “I’ll let you live. I promise.”
“You’ll kill me either way, so get on with it.”
His hand left her face long enough to yank a switchblade from his hip pocket. He pointed its deadly tip at her right eye. “Tell me now, Daryl.”
Without flinching, she stared right into his mean gaze. “I didn’t take it.”
Tank hesitated; his stare into her eyes faltered. Maybe he believ
es me. Then a cat screeched in terror from somewhere close to them, and a small body leaped off trash cans and sent them flying. Aluminum cans spilled their contents, rolling across the ground in a clatter.
“What the fuck?” Tank demanded, spinning around and searching for whatever caused the commotion.
“It was a fucking cat,” Two-Bit snapped. “Get on with it.”
Then something struck the gravel of the alley. Daryl stared beyond Tank’s shoulder, seeing something move. It was blacker than black, like a shadow among other shadows, and for a moment, she doubted her vision. Yet she definitely saw something move. She was sure of it.
At her side, Two-Bit muttered a prayer to Holy Mary even as Tank spun around, his knife held up as though he was capable of fighting whatever now stalked them.
Then Daryl realized, with terrible clarity, that whatever it was, it entirely blocked the lights further down the alley. The few illuminated windows were now gone.
She heard the hiss of indrawn breath. Her heart raced, for that sound came from something big, something huge. Tilting her head back, she gazed up and up—and into the twin green flames of eyes.
Daryl gaped. She knew those eyes. How she knew them, she didn’t know. Yet, she did.
The creature opened its huge muzzle and uttered a long low, menacing hiss. A small burst of flame, no bigger than a baseball, shot from it. The ball of fire landed at Flame’s feet, making him jump and scream like a girl. He fled into the night, still shrieking, until his voice trailed away to nothing.
“What the fuck is that?” Two-Bit yelped, his hands leaving Daryl as he jumped away from the small fire that soon went out.
“It’s a fucking dragon.”
Tank’s awed and terrified voice sank into Daryl’s soul. A dragon. She gazed up into those green eyes, shaking and terrified, and recognized those brilliant emerald orbs. Ronan. How she knew it was him, she had no clue. But she knew it as well as she knew her own name. That was Ronan, and he came to her rescue yet again.
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