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Authors: Sarah A. Hoyt
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Athens. A hint of cinnamon, an edge of burnt sugar. Only not really, but that was what the smells made him think of. Like . . . What the kitchen smelled like when Mrs. Lopez had been making pastries.
He opened the medicine cabinet and collected bandages, antibiotic cream, small scissors, bandages, hydrogen peroxide, and cotton wool. It was the best-stocked home cabinet he’d ever seen. Other than his own. shapeshifters. You came home cut, scraped, you weren’t even sure how.
And Kyrie was one of them. Just like him.
That he was attracted to her didn’t make it any easier. He’d been attracted to her from the first moment he’d seen her—giving him the jaundiced once-over when Frank introduced them. But his attraction to women had come to nothing these last five years, ever since he’d found out he was a shapeshifter.
There were too many things to be afraid of—shifting in front of her, for instance. Hurting her while he was shape-shifted. And then the whole thing with the drugs, with which he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to control his shifts. It made him associate with too many shady characters for him to want any girl he even liked involved with. And then, of course, the . . . He pulled his mind forcefully away from even thinking of the object. That. And the triad. This without even thinking of nightmare scenarios: pregnancy. A baby who was born shifted.
And now in one night he’d managed to visit all but the last of these scenarios. He’d shifted in front of Kyrie. He’d probably hurt someone else in front of her. And he’d landed her in the thick of his trouble with the triad. Damn. And all this when he’d just found out she was a shapeshifter too. She was one like him.
Oh, she was not the only one he’d met, in his five years of wandering around, homeless and rootless. But she was the first one he’d talked to, the first one he’d had anything to do with. The only female . . . Up to tonight, he would have sworn that only males shifted shape.
And what good did it do him that she too was a shapeshifter—that she would understand him?
Absolutely none. First, he had blown it so far with her that if his hopes were a substance they would be scraping them off the floor and ceiling for months. And second—and second there was the triad.
Tom had been attracted to Kyrie before tonight. Now he liked her. He liked her a lot. He might very well be on his way to falling in love with her. If he had the slightest idea what love was and how one fell in it, he would be able to say for sure. But here the thing was—he cared about her. He cared a lot. An awful lot. He didn’t want her dead. As he was bound to be, soon enough, now that the triad had got really serious about finding him.
“It’s right there on the shelf,” Kyrie’s voice said from the doorway. He turned to see her framed in the door, those big, dark eyes pensive and wondering.
“Oh, yes, right,” he said. “It’s actually in my hands.” He turned around and lifted the hands filled with first-aid stuff. “I’m sorry. I spaced. I guess I’m tired.”
She nodded solemnly. He didn’t remember ever seeing her laugh. Smile, sure, a bunch of times, mostly the polite smile you gave customers late at night when they came in looking tired and out of it. But never laugh. Was laughter too far out of control for her? And why did he want to know? It wasn’t as if he’d ever find out.
“Right,” she said. “Shifting that many times in a row. Staying shifted that long. I’ve shifted, but not for long tonight, so I’m not—” She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand. “—that tired.”
He smiled, despite himself, grateful that she couldn’t see it because she had turned her back and was heading back toward the kitchen. Where she sat at the table, pulled the cord on the lamp overhead to turn it on, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe to show a narrow wound with bluish borders, like a bruise.
He sat on the other chair, laid the
He opened the medicine cabinet and collected bandages, antibiotic cream, small scissors, bandages, hydrogen peroxide, and cotton wool. It was the best-stocked home cabinet he’d ever seen. Other than his own. shapeshifters. You came home cut, scraped, you weren’t even sure how.
And Kyrie was one of them. Just like him.
That he was attracted to her didn’t make it any easier. He’d been attracted to her from the first moment he’d seen her—giving him the jaundiced once-over when Frank introduced them. But his attraction to women had come to nothing these last five years, ever since he’d found out he was a shapeshifter.
There were too many things to be afraid of—shifting in front of her, for instance. Hurting her while he was shape-shifted. And then the whole thing with the drugs, with which he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to control his shifts. It made him associate with too many shady characters for him to want any girl he even liked involved with. And then, of course, the . . . He pulled his mind forcefully away from even thinking of the object. That. And the triad. This without even thinking of nightmare scenarios: pregnancy. A baby who was born shifted.
And now in one night he’d managed to visit all but the last of these scenarios. He’d shifted in front of Kyrie. He’d probably hurt someone else in front of her. And he’d landed her in the thick of his trouble with the triad. Damn. And all this when he’d just found out she was a shapeshifter too. She was one like him.
Oh, she was not the only one he’d met, in his five years of wandering around, homeless and rootless. But she was the first one he’d talked to, the first one he’d had anything to do with. The only female . . . Up to tonight, he would have sworn that only males shifted shape.
And what good did it do him that she too was a shapeshifter—that she would understand him?
Absolutely none. First, he had blown it so far with her that if his hopes were a substance they would be scraping them off the floor and ceiling for months. And second—and second there was the triad.
Tom had been attracted to Kyrie before tonight. Now he liked her. He liked her a lot. He might very well be on his way to falling in love with her. If he had the slightest idea what love was and how one fell in it, he would be able to say for sure. But here the thing was—he cared about her. He cared a lot. An awful lot. He didn’t want her dead. As he was bound to be, soon enough, now that the triad had got really serious about finding him.
“It’s right there on the shelf,” Kyrie’s voice said from the doorway. He turned to see her framed in the door, those big, dark eyes pensive and wondering.
“Oh, yes, right,” he said. “It’s actually in my hands.” He turned around and lifted the hands filled with first-aid stuff. “I’m sorry. I spaced. I guess I’m tired.”
She nodded solemnly. He didn’t remember ever seeing her laugh. Smile, sure, a bunch of times, mostly the polite smile you gave customers late at night when they came in looking tired and out of it. But never laugh. Was laughter too far out of control for her? And why did he want to know? It wasn’t as if he’d ever find out.
“Right,” she said. “Shifting that many times in a row. Staying shifted that long. I’ve shifted, but not for long tonight, so I’m not—” She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand. “—that tired.”
He smiled, despite himself, grateful that she couldn’t see it because she had turned her back and was heading back toward the kitchen. Where she sat at the table, pulled the cord on the lamp overhead to turn it on, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe to show a narrow wound with bluish borders, like a bruise.
He sat on the other chair, laid the
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