Sarah A. Hoyt - Draw One In The Dark

Draw One In The Dark—ARC

Sarah A. Hoyt

Advance Reader Copy

Unproofed

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN 10: 1-4165-2092-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-2092-4

Cover art by Veronica Casas

First printing, November 2006

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

t/k

Printed in the United States of America

* * *

The July night sprawled, warm and deep blue over Goldport, Colorado. In the distance the

mountains were little more than suspicions of deeper darkness, a jagged outline where no stars appeared.

Most of Goldport was equally dark, from its slumbering suburbs to the blind silence of its downtown

shops. Only the streetlights shone, at intervals, piercing the velvet blackness like so many stars.

At the edge of the western suburbs that climbed -- square block after square block -- into the lower

slopes of the Rockies, the neon sign outside a Chinese Restaurant flickered. Three Luck Dragon flared,

faded, then flared again and finally turned off completely.

A hand with nails that were, perhaps, just a little too long turned over a sign that hung on the window,

so that the word closed faced the parking lot.

After a while, a sound broke the silence. A flapping, noise, as though of sheets unfurling in the silent

night. Or perhaps of large wings beating. Descending.

Had anyone been awake, he'd have seen a large, dark creature—serpentine and thin—with vast

unfolding wings descend from the night sky till his huge taloned feet met the asphalt. It closed its wings

about itself and waited.

It did not wait long. From alleys and darkened streets, people emerged: teenagers, in tight jeans and

t-shirts, looking nervous, sidling out of the shadows, glancing over their shoulders as if afraid of being

followed. From yet other alleys . . . creatures emerged: long, sinuous, in moist glistening colors between

green and blue. They slid, monstrous heads low to the ground, curved fangs like daggers unsheathed in

the moonlight. And sometimes dragons seemed to shift to naked teenagers and back again. In and out of

the shadows, knit with walls and garbage bins, slithering along the hot cement of the pavements came

young men who were dragons and dragons who were nervous young men.

They gathered in front of the Great Sky Dragon. And waited.

At length the dragon spoke, in a voice like pearls rolling upon old gold "Where is it?" he asked. "Did

you get it back?"

The amorphous crowd of humans and dragons moved. There was the impression of someone pushed

forward. A rustle of cloth and wings. A murmur of speech.

The young man pushed forward was slender, though there was a suggestion of muscles beneath his

leg-molding jeans and of a substantial chest straining the fabric of the white t-shirt. His bare arm

displayed a tattoo of a large, green, glistening dragon and his eyes had an oriental fold, though it was

clear from his light brown hair, his pale skin that he was not wholly oriental.

He was, however, completely scared. He stood trembling in front of the monster, who brought a vast

golden eye to fix on him. "Yesssssss?" The dragon said. "You have something to report? You've found

the Pearl of Heaven?"

The young man shook his head, his straight, lank hair swinging from side to side.

"No?" the dragon asked. Light glimmered on his fangs as he spoke, and his golden eye came very

close to the boy, as if to examine him better.

"It wasn't there," the youth said, rapidly, his English not so much accented, as retaining the lilt of

someone who'd grown up in a community full of Chinese speakers. "We looked all over his apartment. It

wasn't there."

The golden eye blinked, vein-laced green skin obstructing it for a just a moment. Then the huge head

pulled back a little and tilted. "We do not," it said, fangs glimmering. "Tolerate failure."

It darted forward, so quickly the movement seemed to leave a green trail in the air like an

after-image. The fangs glistened. A delicate tongue came forth.

The boy's scream echoed a second too late, like bad special effects. It still hung in air as the youth,

feet and hands flailing, was lifted high into the night by the great dragon head.

A crunching sound. A brief glimmer. Two halves of the boy tumbling, in a shower of blood, towards

the parking lot.

A scurry of cloth and wings followed, as men and dragons scrambled away.

The great golden eyes turned to them. The green muzzle was stained red. "We do not tolerate

failure," it said. "Find the Pearl of Heaven. Kill the thief."

It opened its wings and, still looking intently at the crowd, flapped their great green length, till it rose

into the dark, dark sky.

In the parking lot below no one moved till the last vestiges of the sinuous green and gold body had

disappeared from view.

* * *

Kyrie was worried about Tom. Which was strange, because Tom was not one of her friends. Nor

would she have thought she could care less if he stopped showing up at work altogether.

But now he was late and she was worried. . .

She tapped her foot impatiently, as she stared out at the window of the Athens, the Greek diner on

Fairfax Avenue where she'd worked for the last year. Her wavy hair, dyed in multicolored layers, gave

the effect of a tapestry. It went well with her honey-dark skin, her exotic features and the bright red

feather earring dangling from her ear, but it looked oddly out of place with the much-washed full-length

red apron with Athens blazoned in green across the chest.

Outside everything appeared normal—the winding serpentine road between tall brick buildings, the

darkened facade of the used cd store across the street, the occasional lone passing car.

She looked away, disgusted, from the windows splashed with bright, hand-scrawled advertisements

for specials—souvlaki and fries - $3.99, clam chowder - 99 ¢, Fresh Rice Pudding—and at the large

plastic clock high on the wall.

Midnight. And Tom should have come in at nine. Tom had never been late before. Oh, she'd had her

doubts when Frank hired the young street tough with the unkempt dark curls, the leather jacket and

boots and the track marks up both of his arms, clear as day. But he had always come in on time, and he

was polite to the customers, and he never seemed to be out of it. Not during work time.

"Kyrie," Frank said, from behind her. Kyrie turned to see him, behind the counter—a short, dark

middle aged man, who looked Greek but seemed to be a mix of Italian and French and Greek and

whatever else had fallen in the melting pot. He was testy today. The woman he'd been dating—or at least

sweet on, as she often walked with him to work, or after work—hadn't come in.

He gave Kyrie a dark look from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Table seven," he said.

She looked at table seven, the broad table by the front window. And that was a problem, because

the moon was full on the table, bathing it. It didn't seem to bother the gaggle of students seating at it,

talking and laughing and eating a never-ending jumble of slices of pie, dolmades, rice pudding dishes and

olives, all of it washed down with coffee.

Of course, there was no reason it should bother them, Kyrie reminded herself. Probably not.

Moonlight only bothered her. Only her. . .

No. She wouldn't let moonlight do anything. She wouldn't give in to it. She had it under control. It

had been months. She was not going to lose control now.

The students needed warm ups for their coffee. And heaven knew they might very well have decided

they needed more olives. Or pie.

She lifted the walk-through portion of the counter and ducked behind for the carafe, then back again,

walking briskly, towards the table.

Her hand stretched, with the pot's plastic handle firmly grasped in manicured fingers, adorned with

violet-blue fingernail polish. One cup refilled, two, and a young man probably two or three years younger

than Kyrie stretched his cup for a warm-up. The cup glistened, glazed porcelain under the full moonlight

of August.

Kyrie's hand entered the pool of moonlight, brighter than the fluorescent lights in the distant ceiling.

She felt it like a sting upon the skin, like bathwater, just a little too hot for touch. For a disturbing second,

she felt as if her fingernails lengthened.

She bit the inside of her cheek, and told herself no, but it didn't help, because part of her mind, some

part way at the back and mostly submerged, gave her memories of a hot and wet jungle, of walking amid

the lush foliage. Memories of soft mulch beneath her paws. Memories of creatures scurrying in the dark

undergrowth. Creatures who were scared of her.

Moonlight felt like wine on her lips, like a touch of fever. She felt as if an unheard rhythm pounded

through her veins and presently—

"Could we have another piece of pie, too?" a redheaded girl with a southern drawl asked, snapping

Kyrie out of her trance.

Fingernails—Kyrie checked—were the right length. Was it her imagination that the polish seemed a

little cracked and crazed? Probably.

She could still feel the need for a jungle, for greenery—she who'd grown up in foster homes in

several cement-and-metal jungles. The biggest woods she'd ever seen were city parks. Or the miles of

greenery from the windows of the greyhound that had brought her to Colorado.

These memories, these thoughts, were just illusions, nothing more. She remembered those times she

had surrendered to the madness.

"One piece of pie," she said, taking the small notebook from her apron pocket and concentrating

gratefully on its solidity. Paper that rustled, a pencil that was growing far too blunt and required lots of

pressure on the page.

"And some olives," one of the young men said.

"Oh, and more rice pudding," one of the others said, setting off a lengthy order, paper being

scratched by pencil and nails that, Kyrie told herself, were not growing any longer. Not at all.

Still she felt tension leave her as she turned her back on the table and walked out of the moonlit area.

Passing into the shadow felt as if some inner pressure receded, as though something she'd been fighting

with all her will and mind had now been withdrawn.

While she was drawing a breath of relief, she heard the sound—like wings unfolding, or like a very

large blanket flapping. It came, she thought, from the back of the diner, from the parking lot that abutted

warehouses and the blind wall at the back of a bed and breakfast.

Kyrie wanted to go look, but people were waiting for their food, so she set about getting the pie and

the olives and the rice pudding -- all of it pre-prepared -- from the refrigerator behind the counter. Next

to it, Frank was peeling and cutting potatoes for the Athens' famous fresh made fries, never frozen,

which were also advertised on the facade, somewhere.

While she worked, some of the regulars came in. A tall blond man who carried a journal in which he

wrote obsessively every night between midnight and four in the morning. And a heavy-set, dark haired

woman who came in for a pastry on her way to her job at one of the warehouses.

Kyrie looked again at the clock. Half an hour, and still no Tom. She took the newcomers' orders.

On one of her trips behind the counter, for the carafe of coffee, she told Frank, "Tom is late."

But Frank only shrugged and grunted, which was pretty odd behavior for the guy who had brought

Tom in out of nowhere, hired him with no work history while Tom was, admittedly, living in the homeless

shelter down the street.

As Kyrie returned the carafe to its rest, after the round of warmups, she heard the scream. It was a

lone scream, at first, startled and cut short. It too came from the parking lot at the back.

She told herself it was nothing to do with her. There were all sorts of people out there at night.

Goldport didn't exactly have a large population of homeless, but it had some, and some of them were

crazy enough to scream for no reason.

Swallowing hard, she told herself it meant nothing, absolutely nothing. It was just a sound, one of the

random sounds of night in the city. It wasn't anything to worry about. It—

The scream echoed again, intense, frightened, a wail of distress in the night. Looking around her,

Kyrie could tell no one else had heard it. Or at least, if Frank's shoulders were a little tenser than normal,

as he dropped fries into a huge vat of oil, it was the tenseness of expectation, as if he were listening for

Tom.

It wasn't the look of someone who'd heard a death scream. In fact, the only person who might have

heard it was the blond guy who had stopped writing on his journal and was staring up, mid-air. But Kyrie

was not about to ask a man who wrote half the night what exactly he had heard or hadn't. Besides the

guy -- nicknamed the poet by the diner staff -- always gave the impression of being on edge and ready

to lose all self control, from the tips of his long, nervous fingers, to the ends of his tennis shoes.

And yet. . .

And yet she couldn't pretend nothing had happened. She knew she had heard the scream. With that

type of scream, someone or something was in trouble bad. Back there. In the parking lot. At this time of

night most of the clientele of the Athens came in on foot, from the nearby apartment complexes or from

the college dorms just a couple of blocks away. It could be hours before anyone went out to the parking

lot.

Kyrie didn't want to go out there, either. But she could not ignore it. She had the crazy feeling that

whatever was happening out there involved Tom, and, what the heck, she might not like the man, but

neither did she want him dead.

She gave a last round of warmups, looked towards the counter where Frank was still seemingly

absorbed in his frying, and edged out towards the hallway that led to the back.

It curved past the bathrooms, so if Frank saw her, he would think she was going to the bathroom.

She was not sure why she didn't want him to know she was going to the parking lot. Except that—as she

got to the glass door at the back—when she saw the parking lot bathed in the moonlight, she thought that

something might happen out there, something. . . Something she didn't want her employer to know about

her.

Not that it could happen. There was nothing that could happen, she thought, as she turned the key.

Nothing had happened in months. She wasn't sure what she thought had happened back then hadn't all

been a dream.

The key hadn't been turned in some time and it stuck, but finally the resistence gave way, and she

opened the door, and plunged into the burning moonlight.

Feeling of jungle, need for undergrowth and vegetation, her heart beating madly in her eardrums, and

she was holding it together, barely holding it together, hoping. . .

She jumped out onto the parking lot and called out, "Tom—"

Something not quite a roar answered her. She stopped.

And then the smell hit her. Fresh blood. Spilled blood. She trembled and tried to stop. Tried to think.

But her nose scented blood and her mouth filled with saliva, and her hands curved and her nails grew.

Somehow, with clumsy claws, she unbuttoned her uniform. She never knew how. As the last piece of

clothing fell to the ground, she felt a spasm contort her whole body.

And a large, black jungle cat ran swiftly across the parking lot. Towards the smell of blood.

* * *

Soft pads on asphalt. Asphalt. The word appeared alien to Kyrie's mind, locked in the great loping

body, feeling the movement, the agility, and not quite believing it.

Strange feeling on pads. Hard, scratchy.

Muscles coiling and uncoiling like darkness flowing in moonlit patches. Bright moonlight like a river of

fire and joy. Running. Smelling with sense that no human ever possessed.

And the feline stopped, alert, head thrown back, sniffing. A soft growl made its way up a throat that

Kyrie could only just believe was her own.

Smell—a rich, spicy, flowing smell, like cinnamon on a cold winter night in Kyrie's human memory,

like rich molten chocolate, like freshly picked apples to that dwindling part of herself who thought with

human memories.

She took a deep breath and felt her mouth fill and overflow with drool, while her paws moved, step

on step, towards the smell, soft pads on asphalt, growl rising from throat.

What was it? What could it be? Her human mind could not identify the smell which came at her with

depth and meaning that humans did not seem capable of perceiving.

She felt drool drop through her half-open mouth, onto the concrete, as she looked around for the

possible source of the wondrous scent.

There were. . . cars—she had to force herself to remember the word, to realize these were man

made and not some natural plant or animal in a jungle she'd never seen but which was all this body knew

and wanted to remember.

Cars. She shook her great head. Her own small, battered Ford, and two big vans that belonged to

Frank and which he used for the daily shopping.

Around the edge of the vehicles she followed the scent. It was coming from right there, behind the

vans, from dark liquid flowing along the asphalt, between the wheels of the van. She padded around the

vans. Liquid looked black and glistened under moonlight, and she was about to take an experimental lap

when the shadow startled her.

At first it was just that. A shadow, formless, moving on the concrete. Something with wings.

Something.

Her hackles rising, she jumped back, cowering, head lifted, growling. And saw it.

A. . . lizard. No. No lizard had ever been this size. A . . . creature, green and scaly and immense,

with wings that stretched between the Earth and the sky.

The feline Kyrie dropped to her belly, paws stretched our in front of her, a low growl rising, while her

hair stood on end, trying to make the already large jungle cat look bigger.

The human Kyrie, torpid and half-dormant, a passenger in her own brain that had been taken over by

this dream of moonlight and forest, looked at the beast and thought Dragon.

Not the slender, convoluted form of the Chinese dragons with their huge, bewhiskered faces. No.

Nordic. A sturdy nordic dragon, stout of body, with the sort of wings that truly seemed like they could

devour the icy blue sky of the Norsemen and not notice.

Huge, feral, it stood before Kyrie, fangs bared, both wings extended, tip to tip each probably a good

twelve feet. Its muzzle was stained a dark red, and—as Kyrie knit her belly to the concrete—it hissed, a

threatening hiss.

It will flame me next, Kyrie thought. But she couldn't get the big cat to move. Bewildered by

something that the now dominant part of her couldn't comprehend, she lay on her belly and growled.

And the Kyrie part of her mind, the human part, looked bewildered at the dragon wings which were

a fantastic construction of bones and translucent glittering skin that faded from green to gold. And she

thought that dragons weren't supposed to look that beautiful. Particularly not a dragon whose muzzle was

stained with blood.

And on that, on the one word, she identified the enticing smell. Blood. Fresh blood. She remembered

smelling it before the shape-shift. But it smelled nothing like blood through the big cat's senses.

With the feline's sharp eyes, she could see, beneath the paws of the dragon, a dark bundle that

looked like a human body.

Human blood. And she'd almost lapped it.

Shock and revulsion did what her fear couldn't. They broke the human Kyrie out of the prison at the

back of her own mind. Free, she pushed the animal back.

Push and push and push, she told herself she must be Kyrie. She must be human. Kyrie was smart

enough to run away before the dragon let out with fire.

And never mind that the dragon might run her down, kill her. At least she would be able to think with

a human mind.

All of a sudden, the animal gave, and she felt the spasms that contorted her body back to two human

legs, two human arms, the solidity of a human body, lying on the concrete, hands on the ground, toes

supporting her lower body.

She started to rise to run, but the dragon made a sudden, startled movement.

It was not a spring to attack nor a cowering in fear. Either of those she could have accepted as

normal for the beast. It was a vague, startled jump. A familiar, startled jump.

Like coming on Tom around the corner of the hallway leading to the bathroom and meeting him

coming out of it. Tom jumped that way, startled, not quite scared, and she always thought he'd been

shooting up in there—must have been shooting up in there.

Now the same guilty jump from the dragon, and the massive head swung down to her prone body, to

look at her with huge, startled blue eyes. Tom's eyes.

* * *

Kyrie. His human mind identified her a second before his reptilian self, startled, scared, surprised,

would have opened his mouth and let out with a jet of flame.

His mouth opened, he just managed to control the flame. He tried to shape her name, but the reptilian

throat didn't lend itself to it.

Tom felt his nictating eyelids blink, sideways, before his normal eyelids, the eyelids he was used to,

blinked up and down.

She stood up, slowly, shivering. She was honey-colored all over. Both sets of his eyelids blinked

again. He'd always thought that she had a tan. No lines. And her breasts were much fuller than they

looked beneath the uniform and apron—heavy, rounded forms miraculously, perfectly horizontal in

defiance of gravity.

He realized he was staring and looked up to see her looking into his eyes, horrified. He tried to shape

an apology but what came out was a semi-growling hiss.

"Tom," she said, her voice raspy and hoarse, her eyes frightened and. . . pitying? "Tom, you killed

someone."

Killed? He was sure he hadn't. He stopped on a breath, then tasted in his mouth the metallic and—to

his dragon senses—bright and delicious symphony of flavors that was blood.

Blood? Human blood?

The shock of it seemed to wake him. He looked down to see a corpse between his paws. His paws

were smeared with blood. The corpse was a bundle, indistinct, neither male nor female, neither young nor

old. It smelled dead. Freshly dead.

Had he run someone down? Killed him? Had he?

He tried to remember and he couldn't. The dragon. . .

He took his hand to his forehead, felt the clamminess of blood on his skin, and realized he was human

again. Human, smeared with blood, standing by a corpse.

And Kyrie had seen him kill someone.

"No," he said, not sure to whom he spoke. "Oh, please, no."

* * *

Tom's voice was low at the best of times. Now it came out growly and raspy, like gravel dragging

around on a river bottom. His transformation, much faster than hers, had been so fast that she'd hardly

seen it.

He stood by the corpse. Broad shoulders, small waist, muscular legs, powerful arms. A body that,

except for his being all of five six, and for the track marks on his arms, could have graced the cover of

body-building magazines. Only his muscles weren't developed to the grotesque level the field demanded.

And above it all, was a face that managed to make him look like a frightened little boy.

His hair had come loose from the rubber band he used to confine it in a ponytail. Loose, it just

touched his arms, in a rumple of irregular curls. His skin was pale, very pale all over. Not exactly vampire

white. More like aged ivory, even and smooth. And his eyes were a deep, dark and yet somehow

brilliant, blue.

They now opened in total horror, as he stared at her and rasped, "I didn't. Kill."

Her first reaction was to snap out that of course he had. She'd seen him by the corpse, his muzzle

stained by blood. Then she remembered she'd almost lapped the blood, herself. Lapped. And she'd

known what it was before shifting too.

She shuddered, and remembered what the blood smelled like to the jungle cat. The beast as she'd

learned to call it years ago, when she'd first turned into it. Or hallucinated turning into it, as she'd

convinced herself had happened over time. That theory might have to be discarded now, unless she was

hallucinating Tom's shifting, too.

"I don't remember chasing," he said. "Killing."

A look down at the corpse told her nothing, save that it had been mauled. But wouldn't Tom. . . The

dragon have mauled it anyway? Whether he'd killed it or not?

Tom was looking down, horrified, trembling. Shock. He was in shock. If she left him here, he would

stay like that. Till they were caught.

She reached for his arm. His skin felt skin cold, clammy to the touch. Was it being the dragon? Or

being naked in the night? Or the shock? She had to do something about the shock. No. She had to do

something, period.

"Come," she said. "Come."

He obeyed. Like a child, he allowed her to pull him all the way to the back door of the diner.

She stooped to pick up her clothes, trying not to get blood on them.

* * *

Tom stumbled after Kyrie, confused. The parking lot was cold. He felt it on his wet skin. Wet. He

looked down and saw patches of blood on his body. Human blood.

"You're shaking like a leaf," Kyrie whispered. She opened the back door of the Athens and looked

in, along the corridor that curved gently towards the bathroom. She said, "Go in. Quickly. Get into the

women's bathroom. Don't lock. I'll come."

He rushed forward, obeying. In his current state, he couldn't think of doing anything but obeying. But

a part of his brain, moving fast beneath the sluggish surface of his shocked mind, wondered why the

women's bathroom. Then he realized the women's bathroom was just one large room and locked, while

in the men's restroom they'd managed to cram the stall and a row of urinals. And the outer door didn't

lock.

Yeah, there would be more room in the women's bathroom to clean up, he thought, even as he

Sarah A. Hoyt - Draw One In The Dark

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