Sure, big flashy changes were impressive, like shifting your form into an animal, especially a mythical one. But the same skills could be used to perform smaller, less noticeable changes that were much more useful in one’s workaday life.
Changing one’s hair color or length or the color or shade of one’s complexion was easy, but effective. So was adding or subtracting twenty years to one’s age. Changing gender was a bit more challenging, especially since it usually meant changing one’s garments as well, but it could be done.
One of the man’s favorite changes was one he was using with his current disguise. Making one leg slightly longer than the other changed his walk and the whole way he moved and held his body. In this disguise, planted in front of a video poker machine, the man had been in the pub at the same time as young McCandles and not been recognized, even though the youth had every reason to remember him. Even the much-lauded dragon powers of observation were useless unless one chose to apply them.
The man’s thoughts were interrupted when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he winced. He had been expecting this call sooner or later, but still dreaded it.
Looking quickly up and down the street to be sure there was no one within hearing, he leaned against a wall in the shade and opened the phone.
“Talk to me,” he said in his traditional greeting.
“George!” came an agitated female voice. “Where the hell are you?”
“Hello to you, too, Debbie,” he said, making a face at his reflection in a window. “I’m fine, thank you. How about yourself?”
In actuality, his name wasn’t really George. Though he was known by that title to those who employed him, his closely guarded secret was that he was only one of a team. The entire team was referred to as “the George” because of its purpose . . . to hunt dragons for pay. As one of the team’s main field agents, however, he found that even the team was referring to him more and more as “George.” That was one of the annoyances of working with a team. He was about to have to deal with another one of those downsides.
“Cut the crap, George,” came the voice of his distant teammate. “We haven’t heard from you for over a week. What are you doing?”
“I’m taking a little self-prescribed vacation,” George said. “I figure with the bonuses we got from my last job, I could afford some time off.”
There was a pause at the other end of the conversation.
“I suppose that’s right,” Debbie said with grudging acceptance. “You could have called in and told us, at least.”
“Yeah, sure.” George laughed. “And get told there was a new hot assignment that was too good to pass on. No, thanks. I’ll do it my way. If that’s not acceptable, you can always fire me.”
“Very funny,” his teammate said. “Okay. You’re on vacation. Where are you, anyway?”
Now it was George’s turn to hesitate.
“George,” came the voice, stern now. “Please tell me you’re not back in New Orleans.”
George searched for an adequate answer, but none came to mind.
“Goddamn it, George!” his teammate exploded. “You can’t—”
“Listen, Debbie,” George interrupted. “I only . . .”
“No, you listen!” she shot back. “You know the rules.”
“I should,” he snarled. “I wrote most of them.”
“Then you also know why the rules are there in the first place,” Debbie said, coldly. “What we’re doing is dangerous without adding complications. These are dragons we’re playing with, for God’s sake. We only get so many passes at the table before the luck changes. That’s why we only work on assignment and for a healthy fee. That makes it business and keeps them from hunting for us on a personal basis. We can’t get involved emotionally!”
“I know, I know.” George sighed. “You’re right. It’s just . . .”
He hesitated again.
“Talk to me, George,” Debbie said, using his own catch-phrase, but her voice softened a bit. “What’s really going on there? Are you going soft on this McCandles kid?”
“I don’t know,” George said. “He may develop into a real pain in the butt, but right now he’s okay. Maybe it’s because he was raised not knowing about dragons and hasn’t settled into the role yet. Still, he’s dragon.”
“Okay. So what is it?”
“It’s Flynn,” George said, his thoughts suddenly coming into focus. “He really got under my skin the way he insisted on a face-to-face meeting. He’s everything I hate about dragons raised to a higher power. Now he’s down here trying to work a number on young McCandles using the information we dug up for him. I just want to keep an eye on things as an uninvolved observer.”
“Uninvolved observer. Right. Just be sure you keep it that way.” Debbie hesitated. “Want any of the team down there for backup?”
“No. I’ll handle this myself,” George said, glad for the offered support. “That way, if anything blows, it won’t splash on anyone else.”
“In theory, anyway,” his teammate said. “One thing you should be aware of, though. You may have some extra company. There’s a report here from one of our watchers that says Melinda’s daughter Lizzy is on her way down there if she isn’t there already.”
“Lizzy? That psycho?” George was genuinely startled. “What’s she coming down here for?”
“Unknown,” Debbie said. “As far was we can tell, her own family doesn’t know she’s headed for the Big Easy. Just watch your back, okay?”
George found himself looking up and down the street again as he signed off. Lizzy! This just kept getting better.
Ten
Flynn was tired of waiting.
He had given the McCandles boy his hotel and room number on the back of his business card when they first met, but the youth had yet to contact him. After several days of hanging around the hotel, Flynn said to hell with it and went out searching.
Having studied George’s report, he felt that Griffen should not be too difficult to locate. First of all, he knew the apartment complex where the young dragon and his sister lived. Flynn decided against approaching him there, however. First, it would alert McCandles as to how much information Flynn already had on him. Second, he wanted to hold off meeting the sister until he had a better fix on Griffen himself.
That left the young McCandles’s usual haunts.
When he ate out, it was often at either the Café Du Monde or at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill on St. Peter Street. His favorite watering hole was an Irish pub a few blocks off Bourbon Street.
Flynn decided to try the pub first.
It wasn’t hard to find, but it was nearly deserted in the late-afternoon sunshine. The bartender was reading a newspaper, and a couple of middle-aged women were sitting at the bar deep in a quiet conversation.
Remembering that Griffen was mostly a nocturnal person, Flynn decided to try again later.
He killed time over an early dinner at a small restaurant on Decatur Street, then swung by the Café Du Monde, pausing to listen to the music of the street entertainers on Jackson Square. He did enjoy the French Quarter when he visited, though it was a marked change from his normal habits to be able to walk wherever you wanted to go. In Southern California, one drove everywhere, including to fetch the mail or visit your neighbors.
It was full dark when he reached the Irish pub again, and this time his patience was rewarded. Griffen McCandles was sitting at the far side of the bar, apparently engrossed in a small notepad he had on the bar before him. The youth glanced up as Flynn walked in, and smiled in recognition, waving for the man to join him at the bar.
“Mr. Flynn,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been wanting to ask you about a couple of things.”
“You could have called me,” Flynn said. “And it’s just ‘Flynn.’ Not ‘Mr. Flynn.’ ”
“I would have, but I didn’t know which hotel you were staying in,” Griffen said, signaling the bartender for a round.
Flynn tried
not to stare at him.
“It was on the back of the card I gave you when we first met,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “The name of my hotel and the room number.”
“Really?” Griffen said. “I didn’t notice. Oh well, we’re here now. May I buy you a drink?”
Flynn had to fight to keep from shaking his head. Of all the reasons he had thought of as to why Griffen hadn’t called, it never occurred to him that Griffen hadn’t bothered to look at his business card. In Flynn’s world of show business and power meetings, communication was as natural as breathing. It seemed that things were run a bit differently here.
“That explains a few things,” he said. “I was starting to feel a bit neglected as a visitor.”
“I’m sorry,” Griffen said, hastily. “I really don’t know what protocol is in these situations. I’m still pretty new to this whole dragon thing.”
“No harm done,” Flynn said casually as he gave the bartender his drink order. “You’ve probably got a lot on your mind.”
“You can say that again.” Griffen grimaced, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, I didn’t know how sincere you were when you offered to advise me. The big-league dragons I’ve run into so far haven’t been exactly helpful.”
“Who all have you dealt with so far?” Flynn said, though he already knew the answer.
“Well, I’ve had a couple of conversations with Stoner that were less than pleasant,” Griffen said. “And my sister had a run-in with a guy named Nathaniel, who’s supposed to be the son of someone named Melinda.”
Flynn made a face.
“Not exactly glowing examples of dragons,” he said. “Let’s just say we’re not all like that. And if you’re asking, yes, I was sincere about my offer to help you.”
He smiled warmly. This was going even better than he had hoped. For all George’s warnings, young McCandles was as naive and trusting as a puppy.
“I sure appreciate this,” Griffen was saying. “I keep feeling I’ve gotten in way over my head with this whole conclave thing.”
“Conclave?” Flynn frowned.
“Yeah. There’s some kind of conclave of supernatural people that’s due to hit town just before Halloween,” Griffen said. “I’ve gotten roped into helping with it as a moderator.”
“They’re still having that conclave?” Flynn smirked. “Take my advice and don’t sweat it.”
“Really?” Griffen blinked. “I thought . . .”
“Look, Griffen,” Flynn said, glancing over to be sure the bartender was out of hearing. “The ones attending the conclave are a bunch of supernatural wannabes. As a dragon, you’re the real thing. That’s why dragons usually don’t even bother showing up. Mostly, they’ll be afraid of your sitting in because they know they’re not in your league. Be polite, but there’s no need to show them much respect. Just slap them down fast if anyone starts to get out of line, and they’ll follow your lead.”
“If you say so,” Griffen said slowly, reaching for his notebook.
Flynn suppressed a smile as he watched the young dragon scribble a few notes. If young McCandles followed his advice, there would be few happy people at the conclave . . . including Griffen.
Eleven
The French Quarter had always seemed centered around its vice. Actually, it centered around enjoyment, which is only vice to some. Still, especially from the outside looking in, music and food seemed merely runners-up to the grand vice of alcohol.
That being said, between the police coverage and the well-experienced bartenders, serious problems were few and far between. Exceptions hardly counted, such as big occasions like Mardi Gras and Spring Break, where the majority of the drinkers just didn’t have enough experience. During the average nonstop party that was New Orleans, difficult cases tended to be very low-key.
There was always the one who needed a cab home. The occasional person curled up in a doorway who might be homeless or might just be a tourist past his limit. A few locals staggering the handful of blocks from their favorite bar to their homes, with a few stops along the way. Rarely an angry drunk, much less a fight, that the bartenders hadn’t handled a dozen times before.
Of course there were always exceptions.
The bar was one step up from the daiquiri shops and beer dispensers that littered Bourbon Street. Very little local trade, and all of that young and slumming. A little hole with too much neon and attractive girls selling body shots to tourists. And, as seemed to be the pattern with such places, a little bar in the back, the music muffled, where a single bartender could keep the serious drinkers cut off from the herd.
Only a single occupant occupied the back bar. She had been sitting there for the last two hours, drinking. For the last half hour, she had been ranting. Sometimes to herself, sometimes to the bartender. Sometimes to the empty bar stool next to her. Only generous tipping and a sense of self-preservation on the bartender’s part had kept her from being asked to leave.
Anyone in earshot would have known that her name was Lizzy. She had a tendency to refer to herself in the third person.
“What the hell is Lizzy drinking!?” she said, slamming her half-full glass on the countertop.
The bartender winced. She had already broken one glass that way tonight. Though, miraculously, she hadn’t cut herself.
“Raspberry vodka, straight,” the bartender said.
“Well, I don’t want it. It’s boring me. Make me a . . .”
Her eyes flicked about as if searching. The television in the corner caught her eye, an advertisement for a new truck. Despite no apparent alcohol in the ad, she shot a finger up as if it had just sparked an idea.
“A mojito!”
“Sorry, Lizzy, we don’t make those here.”
Lizzy glared at the bartender, whose name she couldn’t remember, or even remember if she asked. Several nasty responses, both verbal and extremely physical, flashed through her mind. Most of those would have caused her the trouble of moving on to another bar though, so she bit her tongue hard. She tasted just a drop of blood.
“Fine! Just make me something interesting. And hard.”
The bartender nodded and turned to the rows of bottles behind him. She caught just a bit of relief on his face in the mirror, and briefly contemplated shoving a toothpick into one of his lower vertebrae. Her gaze slipped from his reflection to her own, and for a moment she got caught up in contemplation of her own image.
She knew she was pretty. She had made sure of it. Not conventional beauty, but eye-catching, stunning in her own way. Petite, barely over five feet tall, body almost too thin. The lines of her body were sharp, almost harsh angles that accentuated modest and subtle curves and made her seem somehow . . . dangerous. Beautiful, in the way of a well-made stiletto.
She ran a hand through her hair, a rich brown, with just a flash of red in the highlights. She smiled slightly to herself, knowing how many human women would kill for a hairdo like hers. Hair back in sweeping lines that accentuated those of her face. Just a few strands and waves out of place, giving it that windblown look. Expensive, if she had gotten it at the spa. Hard to manage through conventional means. Though just a bit out-of-date.
Then her eyes fell upon her own staring back in the mirror, and she looked away. Lizzy, properly named Elizabeth, remembered with some wry distaste that she had never been allowed to think of herself as just human.
“You know why Lizzy is in town?” she asked the bartender as he set down her drink.
“You told me some.” He nodded.
“Well, I’ll tell you again,” she growled.
She sipped her drink and looked at it curiously, not recognizing some of the mixed flavors. For the moment she was too bored with trying to set herself apart to bother with the third-person nonsense. Besides, once in a while it got her thinking that Lizzy really was another person. And that was not a good thing.
“Nathaniel was always a mama’s boy,” said Lizzy.
“Who’s Nathaniel?” the bartender aske
d.
“My brother, you nit! Now shut up and listen. That’s what bartenders are supposed to be for.”
She smiled openly and a little nastily as she watched him control his face. Maybe most drunken tourists would have missed the little tics and signs of strain. And though he nodded and looked attentive, for the next few moments she remained silent, slipping into her own thoughts.
Thoughts of her brothers, especially Nathaniel. Thoughts of Melinda. It wasn’t easy having one of the country’s more powerful dragons as a mother. Suck-up Nathaniel, currying favor, doing everything Mommy asked. Like that was a way to win love.
“Damn it, I was her favorite!” she said.
The bartender jumped.
“I am her favorite,” she said.
Lizzy sipped more of her drink and dipped her finger in it, starting to draw pictures on the bar top.
“Oldest daughter, almost oldest child. Way too many sons running about. Everyone knows I’m next in line. I’m heir. Mother to daughter, that’s Melinda’s way. Nathaniel will never ever, ever stop that. Even if I have to drop Mama’s little boy in the ocean.”
“I don’t think your mother would appreciate that.”
“Shows what you know, little monkey. Mother loves competition, especially among the boys, but I’m above that. Any day she’s gonna get back to grooming me for the top spot . . .”
Any day, like in the old days. Before things started getting . . . different. She knew Melinda was only biding her time. They were dragons, time was what they had most of all. All those other rumors . . . they were just wrong . . . stupid.
“And now little Nathan has gone and found himself a tartlet! Thinks to give Mother a new daughter. Mother can’t have any more daughters. She can’t! I won’t allow it! I’ll find her, and when I do . . .”
She drifted off again, lapsing into silence.
“Two days . . . been here two days, and haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone more interesting than a drunken monkey. I mean, really, what kind of dragon would come to this waste-land? One who is testing the limits of a regenerating liver? There is nothing to do here, nothing to see, and no power! It makes no sense!”
Dragons Luck Page 6
