She could smell the girl’s terror. She was so afraid of Lizzy that she hadn’t screamed once.
“Well? Nothing to say? Lizzy is better than her! Prettier. Stronger. Maybe not smarter . . . but what are smarts these days?”
She stalked toward the girl, her voice seemingly filling the world. Or was that just her own ears? No one had once looked up from the street at her. She couldn’t have been that loud. Or was she concealing again? Not that it mattered.
“Maybe you think you are smart, you are pretty. You are, for a human. You have nice hair,” Lizzy said.
The girl curled up a little tighter. Lizzy smiled cruelly, but she did like the straight black hair. Maybe she should go back to that color sometime?
“Do you have family? Answer Lizzy, or I will be very upset.”
The girl nodded mutely.
“Brothers?”
She nodded again.
“And when one of them brought someone home, a girl.
What did you feel? Fear? Anger? What?!”
Lizzy did her best to make her expression soft. It didn’t take much. There was a yearning inside. A need to know, to understand.
The girl looked her in her many-colored, fractured eyes. Lizzy noticed her eyes were kind of a soft watery brown. Like a deer’s.
“I . . . I was . . . happy for them,” the girl said in a voice so soft Lizzy could barely hear.
Lizzy’s blood went cold. Her smile faded, and her eyes narrowed. The girl burst into tears.
For some reason that made her smile.
“Oh, poor little girl. You must not be right in the head. No wonder Lizzy startles you so. Don’t worry. Lizzy will put you to bed. And when you wake up, remember this was all a dream.”
She moved forward quickly, struck the girl just enough to knock her out. Lizzy picked her up and carried her inside the apartment.
“I don’t know why I am talking to silly puppets like you,” Lizzy said to the girl in her arms. “I need someone who has a chance of understanding.”
She peeled the girl out of her clothes. Looked at her for a moment, and decided that yes, she was pretty. Then tucked her snugly into her bed and pulled a nearby stuffed animal from the dresser and put it next to her head.
Lizzy watched her sleeping for a moment. Reached out and stroked the lovely hair once. Thought about killing her and left to get a drink.
There had to be someone in this town she could talk to.
Thirty-one
Of all the fears and worries Griffen had regarding the conclave, there was one he had not figured on at all. He had no experience at public speaking.
The requirement surfaced suddenly when it was casually mentioned to him that, as moderator, he would be expected to give the welcoming speech at the opening of the conclave. He felt uneasy when this was first mentioned, and by the time the official beginning of the event grew closer, this had escalated into a full-blown panic.
Back in college, he had signed up for one speech class, mostly because it presented an opportunity for him to get closer to a certain young lady who had caught his eye. As it turned out, she was already living with someone else, but by the time he had learned this, he had actually attended several classes and absorbed some of the rudiments of speaking to an audience.
After trying to seek advice and pointers from some of his current colleagues and discovering that living as a gambler or hustler in New Orleans gave them even less experience with public speaking than he had, he found himself desperately trying to recall those few lessons he had treated so lightly in school.
“Try to start with a joke. It establishes a rapport with the audience . . .”
“Don’t fidget with your hands. If possible, work without note cards. Note cards encourage you to fidget . . .”
“Don’t touch the podium. If you’re nervous, you’ll latch on to it with a death grip and never let go . . .”
All these and more were echoing in his mind as he surveyed the crowd of conclave attendees assembling for the opening. The watchwords did little to ease his nervousness, so he did what he always did in times of stress. He studied the people.
It had been decided that the opening would be conducted as a social gathering or cocktail party rather than with auditorium seating. Theoretically, this would encourage the attendees to mingle rather than bunch up in groups. It wasn’t working.
Instead of sitting in small groups, they were standing in small groups, speaking only with those they arrived with and ignoring or glancing covertly at the other similar groups. An uncomfortable number were simply standing silently and watching Griffen.
The changelings were actually sitting on the floor in a group near the front, whispering quietly among themselves while smiling eagerly at Griffen. There was a notable open space between them and any of the other attendees.
Estella was standing against the wall farthest from the door with a half dozen people Griffen assumed were from her voodoo temple. When she met his eyes, she gave a faint smile and a small nod of recognition and encouragement.
Slim was standing with two other people off to the left of the podium. They seemed to be saying very little, spending most of their energies watching the other attendees. Griffen remembered that the street entertainer had mentioned when they first met that his circle of associates was neither very large nor particularly organized.
The ones that Griffen knew the least about and had next to no time to meet or speak with were the shape-shifters. They seemed to be divided into two groups, or was it three? One small group lurked in the corner of the room and seemed to watch everyone at once. Another small bunch of four or five stood in the exact center of the room, eyes intent on Griffen. The final collection was a loose semicircle surrounding the center bunch, keeping at least two feet separate from them. They talked with each other, occasionally glancing at the center group or leaning toward it as if to listen to anything going on. They struck Griffen as nervous for some reason.
He also realized, even broken up as they seemed to be, the shifters were easily the largest group. Lump them all together, and they seemed to take up a good quarter of the bodies present.
Griffen was suddenly aware that no one had entered the room for several minutes and that an increasing percentage of the crowd was watching him expectantly. Postponing the inevitable was no longer an option, so, steeling himself, he stepped up to the podium.
“Good evening,” he said, managing not to wince at the magnified sound of his voice from the public-address system. “I’d like to welcome you all to the conclave. My name is Griffen McCandles, and I’ve been asked to serve as moderator for the event. This is the first time I’ve done this, so if anyone objects or feels they can do it better, I will be happy to surrender the position to them.”
He smiled at the crowd. They stared back at him. So much for opening with a joke.
“As this is a comparatively small gathering, we have dispensed with the notion of name tags or badges. It is hoped that by the end of the conclave, you will all know each other at least on sight. The lack of badges will also help keep you from being targeted as out-of-towners if you choose to explore the Quarter when not actively involved in the conclave.”
This actually drew a small ripple of laughter, even though Griffen had not intended the comment as a joke.
“As far as exploring the Quarter goes, we have arranged for discounts at both the Voodoo Museum and the Haunted History Tour if any of you are interested. Just mention to the money taker that you are with the conclave, and they’ll charge you the lower price. If, however, you choose to strike out on your own, there are a few cautionary notes I’d like to pass along.”
Griffen paused for a second. He had worked on keeping this part lighthearted, but he was afraid it still sounded threatening.
“The French Quarter is a major tourist attraction, and people who work here are used to tourists and conventioneers. They will do their best to make your visit enjoyable, hoping that you’ll come back again. You shoul
d keep in mind, however, that it is a living community, not an amusement park, and that many of the locals from the Quarter and surrounding areas are economically depressed. In plain talk, that means we have a number of pickpockets, muggers, hustlers, and other predators who will be watching for opportunities to separate you from your money in ways that are often illegal and occasionally dangerous.
“We would therefore suggest that you try to travel in groups or at least with one or two other people from the conclave. When possible, stay on the river side of Bourbon Street, particularly late at night, unless you have a native guide to help you steer clear of the more dangerous areas and bars.”
Griffen paused and glanced around the room.
“Of course, it cannot be ignored that this particular group has abilities and powers not found in your average batch of tourists. Now, everybody who comes to New Orleans likes to kick back and let go a bit, even more than they do on normal vacations. While we want you to have fun, I’d like to remind you all that many of your fellow attendees, myself included, live here on a permanent basis. If you feel compelled or required to use your powers during your stay, we’d ask that you try to do it as inconspicuously as possible. Otherwise, it could potentially cause problems for us down the road.”
He deliberately did not look at the changelings as he spoke, but from the corner of his eye he could see Robin and Hobb shift uncomfortably.
“But enough of that,” he said, smiling. “There are many open discussions and demonstrations scheduled over the next several days. Of course, attendance is not required, but I know that I, for one, am looking forward to many of them.”
And not looking forward to others, he thought, but didn’t verbalize that part.
“On Saturday night there will be a Masquerade Party and Dance. Costumes are not required, but if you wish to . . .”
He broke off as a small disturbance rippled through the audience, causing people to turn and look toward the door. Following their gaze, he saw that a small group had just entered and was standing just inside. As quick as he noted this, he recognized two of the people who had been looking for him at the Irish pub. Lowell and Vera. The vampires had just dropped in to the conclave.
After pausing for a moment, apparently to be sure he had the room’s attention, Lowell detached himself from the group and approached the podium. His eyes narrowed slightly as he recognized Griffen from the bar, then he gave a small shrug and a smirk.
“Mr. Griffen McCandles?” he said. “So glad to meet you . . . at last. My name is Lowell.”
Griffen noticed that as Lowell spoke, he half turned so that he was addressing the room as much as the moderator.
“Yes, Mr. Lowell,” Griffen said with a smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“As a matter of fact, I was hoping to get permission from you for me and my group to attend the conclave.” Lowell hesitated for effect. “In case you were not aware, my colleagues and I are vampires.”
That got a reaction from some of the assemblage, particularly the changelings. Griffen was gratified to realize that, for a change, he was not the least-knowledgeable person in the room.
“I’m afraid you’re laboring under a misconception,” he said. “This is not my conclave. I’ve merely been asked to moderate the event, and as such have nothing to do with the invitation list.”
“That’s what we heard,” the vampire said. “Still, since it seems the proceedings have already begun, we felt it was only polite to approach you as the moderator. It seems our group was somehow overlooked when the invitations were issued.”
“Yes. I heard about that,” Griffen said. “Something about vampire arrogance and how it was a disrupting presence for the conclave.”
Lowell threw back his head and gave a short bark of laughter.
“Forgive me,” he said, not sounding at all apologetic. “You must, however, acknowledge the irony of the situation. A dragon . . . near pure blood if I’ve heard correctly . . . lecturing vampires on arrogance.”
“I keep hearing about that.” Griffen smiled. “Perhaps if you knew more dragons, you’d realize that we aren’t all alike. Stereotyping groups is an easy rap, and often erroneous.”
“My point precisely,” Lowell said, pouncing on the opening. “I think you’ll find the same thing applies to vampires. Originally, we weren’t even planning on attending.”
“What made you change your mind?” Griffen asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Why, you, of course.” The vampire seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “At first we thought this gathering would not be worth our time, but then we heard that a dragon would be participating . . . even if only as a moderator. That made us rethink our entire position. If a dragon feels this conclave is worth his time, then perhaps we should reexamine our own thoughts and biases and attend . . . even if uninvited.”
“That raises an interesting point,” Griffen said. “I thought that one of the limitations on your movements was that you could not enter a place uninvited.”
“Please, Mr. McCandles,” Lowell said. “That concept is allegorical. It was meant to assure readers that evil . . . meaning us . . . could not affect them unless they welcomed it. You see, that is just one of the misconceptions that we might be able to dispel by attending the conclave. I’m sure we share equally false assumptions about some of the other groups who have gathered here.”
Griffen hesitated. He was still not wild about the vampires’ presence at the conclave. Still, what Lowell said made a certain amount of sense.
“Unfortunately, we’re still faced with the original problem,” he said, stalling. “It’s not my place to decide who may or may not participate.”
“Perhaps we could poll the other attendees,” the vampire said. “If our presence will upset too many of the invited participants, we’ll leave.”
“That’s a possibility,” Griffen said. “Before we do, however, I’ll have to ask you to stop using glamour on the group or at least tone it down a bit. We do want this polling to be fair, don’t we?”
Lowell looked startled.
“Yes. Of course,” he said. “My apologies. Sometimes one relies so much on a power one literally forgets one is using it. I’m sure you have the same problem from time to time.”
It was decided to allow the vampires to participate in the conclave.
Thirty-two
As soon as the matter of the vampires was dealt with, Griffen gave the podium over to Slim. Theoretically, Slim was supposed to give a rundown on the events to come and a brief outline of what was to be discussed. In practice, almost as soon as Griffen had stepped down, people had started to file out. Griffen wasn’t sure he liked the thought that everyone seemed to have attended the ceremony to get a look at him.
First out the door were the groups of shape-shifters. The ones lurking in the corner departed first. The changelings kept looking back and forth between Slim and the other attendees. They were gawking openly, no two of them looking in the same direction. Randomly, Drake stood up and started to follow the shifters out the door. Tink took that as a cue and followed, gathering up the others as he went.
The vampires were the next to go, followed by Estella and her group. Actually, they followed directly, and Estella stopped at the door and made some pass with her hands that Griffen didn’t recognize. Only then did she step through and leave the hall.
Griffen realized he hadn’t seen Rose that night and was a bit surprised. Actually, mostly he wanted to go have a word with the shifters. It was high time he met them and found out a little bit about what they expected from the conclave. Without at least that much information, Griffen had no idea how to prepare for them.
Unfortunately, Slim was walking toward him with the two he had been standing with earlier.
“Griffen, like ya to meet two of those attendin’ from my side o’ the tracks. This here is Johansson. He’s from Vegas. The other is Margie, down from Wyoming.”
Griffen shook their hands and bli
nked a bit. Johansson was a small, round man with a red complexion that made him look permanently flushed. Margie was thinner than Slim, and almost as tall. Her face was hard and serious, as if she had never smiled.
“Not what you expected?” Margie said.
“No, I hadn’t realized that there would be so few of you. Or that you would come from so far,” Griffen said.
“There aren’t that few of us, but most don’t care about dealings with others. Margie and I come from hubs, like Slim, so have to keep an eye on the world at large,” Johansson said.
Griffen was hard-pressed to try to figure out what Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Wyoming had in common. Or why they would be called hubs. For once, he was saved having to ask.
“You seem distracted. We can talk later,” Margie said, and abruptly turned and walked to the door.
Slim and Johansson shared a look.
“Well, she’s hardly ever wrong. What’s on your mind, Griffen?” Slim asked.
“I didn’t want to be rude, but I was hoping to talk with some of the shape-shifters tonight,” Griffen said.
Again, there was a look. Johansson shrugged and walked toward the door, leaving Slim and Griffen alone in the big room.
“Shouldn’ be a problem. The talk is they is stayin’ in this hotel. Most of the lower ones will still be hanging around. Go check the lobby bar,” Slim said.
Griffen noticed a bit of an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“I didn’t mean to step on your toes, or ruffle your friends.”
“Not friends, just like-minded folk. And you didn’t. Just don’t expect me to come share a drink with you and them.”
Then Griffen was completely alone as Slim walked out. More than ever, Griffen wanted to talk with the shape-shifters. If only to find out why Slim’s attitude had changed so abruptly. He felt woefully underqualified for this job.
Sure enough, the lobby bar was full. It was an open bar, with several low, comfortable chairs strewn away from the bar itself. Someone had moved the chairs together in a great amoeba-like configuration for the sake of conversation. Griffen stopped and saw a repeat of what he had seen during his speech.
Dragons Luck Page 17
