“Makes sense,” Rafiel said.
“Let me help you navigate the computer,” Tom’s father said, “in just a moment. Meanwhile … Tom, I don’t mean … Well, you have blood on your face and your hair, and I thought …” He’d walked to the bed and pulled up one of bags. “I don’t think you’ve changed pants size, and I just got you XL shirts and that. I grabbed you some socks and underwear too. The store here only has designer clothing, but I didn’t want to go outside and look for another store.”
Clothes? His father had got him clothes? Tom’s first impulse was to say no and scowl. But if he was trying to keep his purity from his father’s gifts, he was a little late. While the others talked, he’d been happily munching away on his chocolate with nuts. And the box was empty. Besides, he hated wearing jeans without underwear; the leather boots, without socks, were rubbing his feet raw; and if he was to have to go out soon, then he would have to shower.
So instead of his planned heated denial, he said, “Fine. I’ll only be a minute. If anyone needs my opinion on anything, call me.”
He grabbed the bag from the bed and took it with him to the little alcove before the bedroom. It weighed far more than it should for a pair of jeans and a couple of Tshirts. Opening it, he found it had at least as many clothes as he had owned back in his apartment. Better quality though. And more variety. There were a few pairs of jeans, and chinos, Tshirts, and a couple of polos. And, yes, underwear and socks.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready to forgive his father, yet, but he was sure that his feet would thank him.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Water poured out in torrents. Oh. He might have to take more than a few minutes.
Much to Kyrie’s surprise, the museum did have information on its insect collection online. It wasn’t complete. All they had was pictures of the insects and their names.
“Is it this one, Kyrie?” Keith asked. And because the three men remaining—while judging from the sounds from the bathroom Tom was doing his best to deplete Colorado’s natural water reserves today rather than in the next fifty years—had all crowded together around the computer, behind Keith who was sitting at the desk, they had to part now, to allow her near enough to see.
The picture was very small, and clicking on it didn’t make it bigger. But Kyrie was fairly sure it was the same creature. “Yes. I’m almost positive,” she said.
“Cryptosarcodermestus halucigens,” Keith read. “Now a quick Google search.”
The sounds from the bathroom had become positively strange. Kyrie had known Tom for six months. She would have sworn he was the last person to ever sing in the shower. And if he had ever sang in the shower, she was sure—absolutely sure—it wouldn’t be “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Although—and she grinned—there was always the possibility that he was trying to tweak Rafiel. And tweaking was definitely in Tom’s personality.
She wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t realize that though the men seemed to get along with each other—fighting triad dragons must have done it—they seemed to have a rivalry going over her. Right now it was composed of mostly stupid things—like how she reacted to something each of them said.
Kyrie wasn’t sure she could deal with any of it. She was sure she didn’t wish Rafiel to kiss her again. Well, maybe a little. But not if it was going to hurt Tom.
“Aha,” Keith said, from the computer. He’d brought up a colorful screen, surmounted by a picture of the beetle.
“Yes, it’s that one,” Kyrie said. “It definitely is.”
“Well, it’s our old friend Sarcodermestus,” Keith said. “And listen to this, guys …” He stopped, as they heard the door to the bathroom open and close. “Might as well wait for Tom,” he said, under his breath.
Tom, Kyrie thought, as he came toward them, barefoot, walking silently across the carpeted floor, was definitely worth waiting for. At least the man cleaned up well. He’d shaved and tied his hair back. The new clothes, jeans and a white T-shirt, seemed to have been spray painted on his body. They underlined his broad shoulders, defined his musculature, and made quite a fetching display of his just-rounded-enough-but-clearly-muscular behind. He looked far more indecently naked than he’d been when she’d found him with the corpse in the parking lot. And, as he pressed in close, he smelled of vanilla. Vanilla soap and vanilla shampoo, probably some designer brand used by the Spurs and Lace.
Kyrie swallowed. She wasn’t drooling either. And besides, if she were, it would be because it was vanilla. She was almost positive.
He pushed in close, between her and Rafiel—he would—and said, “Listen to what? What have you found, Keith?”
“On the beetles,” Keith said. “They rub their wings together to produce clouds of hallucinogenic powder to disable their victims. And the male puts down some sort of hormonal scent. It attracts the victim as well as the prey they need to reproduce.”
“Prey?” Kyrie said. It was very hard to think next to a vanilla factory. Up till today, she’d always have said she was a chocolate type of girl. But apparently vanilla would to the trick. Provided it was good vanilla.
“They lay eggs in the bodies of freshly killed victims, which have to be of a certain species of beetle. By the time the victims have reached a certain point in the decomposition, the eggs are ready to emerge as larvae.” Keith said. “They bury the corpses in shallow graves, so that the larvae can crawl out on their own.”
“So, if I were a beetle, which I am not,” Tom said, “where would I hide the corpses with the eggs in them?”
“Somewhere safe,” Kyrie said.
“The parking lot of the Athens?” Tom said.
“Impossible,” Kyrie said, aware of the fact that she might sound more antagonistic than she meant to. “Impossible. After all, it’s asphalt. And besides …”
“It’s public,” Rafiel said from Tom’s side.
“So, the male lays down a scent to attract the female, does he?” Tom said.
Definitely, Kyrie thought. And it’s vanilla. Then stopped her thought forcefully.
“Why lay a scent at the Athens?” Tom asked.
“Easy,” Rafiel said. “It’s a diner. This means they get not only tourists passing through and the workers and students from around there, but also a large transient population. If it’s true that shifters aren’t all that usual, then it increases their odds of getting shifters—supposing, of course, shifters are the intended population.”
“Well, since all the shifters here seem to have some form of the warm fuzzies toward the Athens, I must ask the non-shifters. Keith? Mr. Ormson?”
“It’s a dive,” Keith said.
“It … I only went there because Tom worked there,” Edward said. “I wouldn’t … I don’t see any reason to go again.”
“So,” Rafiel said. “There is a good chance whatever the substance—if there is one—that the male slathered around the Athens attracts shifters only. Which would mean the eggs would need to be laid in shifters. Where around the Athens can one bury freshly killed bodies in shallow graves and not be immediately discovered? It’s all parking lots and warehouses around there.”
Kyrie had something—some thought making its way up from the back of her subconscious. At least she hoped it was thought, because otherwise it would mean that stories of corpses and weird shifters who lay eggs in corpses turned her on.
“This means that the male has to be a regular at the Athens,” Rafiel said. “Or an employee.”
“Don’t look at me,” Tom said. “I already turn into a dragon. Turning into a weird beetle too, that would require overtime. When would I sleep?”
“No,” Rafiel said. “I don’t think that we can turn into more than one thing. At least I can’t and none of the legends mention it. No. But you know, it might be someone on day shift. In fact,” he said, warming up to his theory, “someone on day shift or who only works nights very occasionally, would fit the bill. Because then when he’s not serving, he could be tripping the light fanta
stic with his lady … er … beetle.”
Whatever thought had been forming in Kyrie’s mind disappeared, replaced with the image of Anthony turning into a beetle but retaining his frilly shirt, his vest. “Anthony,” she said. “Perhaps he dresses that way to attract the beetle in human form.”
Tom grinned at what he thought was a joke. “He’s a member of a bolero group. They meet every night,” he said. “He only works nights when Frank twists his arm, poor Anthony.”
Okay, so maybe it was a joke, but still … “Are we sure he really does dance with this bolero group?” she asked.
Tom grinned wider. “Quite. He gave me tickets once. You wouldn’t believe our Anthony was the star of the show, would you? But he was.”
“So … what can we do?” Rafiel asked. “I can go in and make a note of all the regulars. Or you can point out to me the ones you thought started coming around about a year ago.”
“Hard to say,” Kyrie said. “I mean, I can easily eliminate those who haven’t been there that long. But I can’t really tell you if they’ve been coming for longer than a year, since I’ve only been there a year.”
“It’s a start,” Rafiel said. “I’ll come in tonight. You can point them out to me, and then I can run quick background checks on the computer. Mind you, we don’t get the stuff the CSI shows get. I keep thinking that they’re going to claim to know when the person was conceived. But we get where they live and such.”
“There’s the poet,” Kyrie said.
Tom nodded, then explained to the other’s blank looks. “Guy who comes and scribbles on a journal most of the night, every night. Maybe he’s writing down ‘Plump and tasty. Looks soft enough for grubs.’”
“Or ‘perfectly salvageable with some marinade,’” Rafiel said, looking over Kyrie’s head at Tom.
Without looking, Kyrie was sure that the guys had exchanged grins that were part friendly and part simian warning of another male off his territory.
“So, I go into work as normal,” Kyrie said.
“And me too,” Tom put in. “Well, yeah, I know Frank should have fired me, but I don’t think he will. I know how hard it is for him to find help at night.”
“Yeah,” Kyrie said. “Particularly since he’s been weirdly absent-minded.” She didn’t want to explain about Frank’s romance heating up in front of everyone. It was funny, yes, but it was a joke employees could share. Bringing it out in front of strangers just seemed like gratuitous meanness. “Poor Anthony ended up having to cook for most of the night yesterday.”
“Which means you were alone at the tables?” Tom said. “I’m sorry.”
And this was the type of moment that made Kyrie want to think of things she hated about Tom. Because when he looked at her like this, all soft and nice, it was very hard to resist, unless she could think of something bad he had done. Which, right now, was failing her, because the only bad thing she could think of was stealing the Pearl of Heaven. And he was ready to give it back, wasn’t he? “Yeah, well,” she said, lamely. “For some reason I’m sure you’d rather be attending to tables than being held prisoner by a triad of dragon shifters. So you’re forgiven.”
“Thank you,” Tom said, and smiled. “So I’ll come in tonight, with you, at the normal hour, and I’ll … we’ll watch and see if anyone looks suspicious.” The smile became impish and the dimple appeared. “Besides, really, Anthony will thank me. His fiancé is in the bolero group too and by now she probably thinks he’s found another one.”
“So, that’s what we do about the beetles,” Keith said. “But what do we do about the triad dragons and the Pearl of Heaven?”
“I’m very glad we made Keith an honorary shifter,” Rafiel said. “This guy has a talent for keeping us on target.”
“Honorary shifter?” Kyrie asked.
“He wanted to help us. He’s jealous of our abilities. So he said we could make him an honorary shifter,” Tom said. “I don’t think he told us what specifically he would shift into though. I say a bunny.”
“A blood-sucking bunny with big sharp teeth,” Keith said. “Seriously, how are you going to get the Pearl, Tom, and shouldn’t we at least have a tentative plan in place for how to return it?”
“I need to find a container large enough for it,” Tom said, showing the approximate size with his hands. It looked to Kyrie like about six inches circumference. “A plastic bucket, maybe. With a lid. Then I can put it in there, in water and carry it without its giving me away. A backpack to carry it in would be good. Not this backpack.” He nodded to the thing he’d carried and which he’d let drop in a corner of the room. “Because if I go in with a kid’s backpack, Frank will notice and ask questions.”
“Right,” Rafiel said. “I have a couple of backpacks from army surplus that I use when I’m hiking. I’ll go grab one of them before you go in to work.”
“Well, this just brings up one question,” Keith said, turning his chair around to face them. “And that’s how are we going to sleep. Because we all need to be fresh for tonight. Unlikely as it is, we might be able to pinpoint someone and follow them and find the bodies, but we don’t want to be stumbling into walls.”
“You can stay here,” Tom’s father said. “There’s a few extra pillows and blankets in the closet and I’m sure the bed fits five.”
But Tom’s father should have known better, Kyrie thought a few minutes later. With Tom and Rafiel in full-blown competition for her attention, chivalry was thick enough in the air that one needed a knife to spread it.
So, despite her heated protests, it ended up with her on the bed, Tom—universally believed to have had the roughest few hours—stretched out on the love seat by the window, Keith curled up on the floor in a corner and Rafiel and Mr. Ormson staking out the floor on either side of the bed. Rafiel lay down between her and the love seat, of course—probably trying to prevent Tom from attempting a stealth move.
Kyrie would have liked to fall asleep immediately, and she thought she was tired enough for it. But she wasn’t used to sharing a house—much less a room—with anyone.
She lay there, with her eyes closed, in the semidark caused by closing the curtains almost all the way—leaving only enough light so that they could each maneuver to the bathroom without tripping on other sleepers.
Tom’s dad showered. She heard that and the rustle of the paper bag as he fished for clothes. She grinned at the way the older man had neatly outflanked Tom’s stubbornness.
Tom was still suspicious of his father, and perhaps he had reason, but Kyrie heard the man lie down on the floor, next to the bed and seconds later, she heard his breath become regular and deep.
She was the only one still awake. She turned and opened her eyes a little. Tom was in the love seat, directly facing the bed. In the half-light, with his eyes closed and something very much resembling a smile on his lips, the sleeping Tom looked ten years younger and very innocent.
A tumble of dark hair had come loose from whatever he’d tied it with, and fell across his forehead. His leg was slightly bent at the knee, and he’d flung his arm above his head, looking like he was about to invoke some superpower and take off flying.
It was all Kyrie could do not to get up and pull the hair off from in front of his face. Forget special hormones laid down by male beetles to attract the females. The way some human males looked while sleeping was the most effective trap nature had ever devised.
CHAPTER
11
Kyrie woke up with a hand on her shoulder. This was rare enough that just that light touch, over her T-shirt, brought her fully bolt upright. She blinked, to see Tom smiling at her and holding a finger to his lips.
He appeared indecently well-rested and, unless it was an effect of the dim light, the scar on his forehead had almost disappeared. He pointed her toward the desk and asked in her ear, breath tickling her, “Do you like steak?”
She looked her confusion and he smiled. “I ordered dinner,” he said. “From room service. My father said to do it,
since we have to go in before the others.”
“Your father?” Kyrie said.
“Don’t go there,” Tom said, giving her a hand to help her up. “Really, don’t.”
“No. He was awake?”
“I woke him to tell him I was going to wake you and we’d leave for work. They don’t need to be there when we go to work.”
Kyrie got up and stepped over the sleeping bodies in the room, to the bathroom. She washed herself, halfheartedly because she didn’t have clean clothes to put on. By the sink there were now five little “if you forgot your toiletries” kits—she would love to hear how Edward had explained that to the hotel staff—and half a dozen black combs. Also, a brush.
“I thought you could use the brush,” Tom said, putting his head around the doorway. “I got it from downstairs.”
She thanked him, pulled the earring from her pocket, where she’d put it for sleeping, and slipped it back on.
The meal was a hurried and odd affair, eating in the dark. But more disturbing than any of it, was looking up from taking a bite and finding Tom watching her.
What did he want her to do? Swoon with the attention? Fall madly in love with him? What would they do together? Both worked entry-level jobs, which was no way to start a family. And if they did start a family, what would it be? Snaky cats?
She glared at him and to excuse the glare said, “Eat. Stop staring. We don’t have that much time.” And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t smile like that. There was nothing funny.
But she didn’t say anything. They finished the trays, left them by the door, and hurried out. “Are you worried about what Frank will say?” Kyrie asked Tom as they got in the car.
Tom still had the goofy smile affixed on his lips, but he nodded. “A little,” he said. “Just a little. Frank can be profoundly unpleasant.”
“Yeah, and he’s been in a mood,” Kyrie said.
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