Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  Twenty-four

  Griffen frowned at his cell phone.

  “What do you mean, ‘politicians are like that’?” he demanded, his voice rising. “That’s absurd. She’s dangerous.”

  The other patrons in the Irish pub glanced at him but kept their faces neutral. If he was having an argument on the phone, he wasn’t in imminent peril of getting into a fight. If he wanted help, he could ask for it. Griffen lowered his voice. They went back to their drinks and conversation.

  “Penny Dunbar is canny, not dangerous.” Malcolm’s voice was calm. “Griffen, you called me out of an important meeting. Please give me a summary of your concerns.”

  Griffen had dialed his uncle’s office number with every intention of being patient, but the dismissive tone roused his righteous indignation.

  “Penny lied to Fox Lisa to get her out of the room the other night so she could hit on me.”

  He could hear the smile in Malcolm’s voice. “I have never before heard of an occasion when you rejected female companionship, Griffen.”

  “This was not an ordinary pass. When I turned her down, she threatened to expose Fox Lisa by dragging her in front of the public with me on trumped-up charges of illegal gambling operations. I’ll take responsibility for my own actions, but I refuse submit to blackmail of an innocent person. I just wanted you to know that I quit.”

  “Griffen, please! I cannot drop everything and take over protecting Miss Dunbar at this moment. I implore you to continue as you have been doing.”

  Griffen glared at the phone.

  “She’s eating up all my spare time. She’s not even nice about it. Every time I tell her I can’t go with her to an appearance, she drags out her vague threats. This last thing was the tipping point. I’m through.”

  “And has she?”

  Griffen blinked.

  “Has she what?”

  “Has she summoned the authorities or called a press conference as she warned?”

  “No. I walked out. I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “And no hue and cry has been raised over either of you, has it?”

  “No.”

  “I believe you have your answer, then. Her bark is far worse than her bite.”

  Griffen crouched over the phone, trying not to snarl.

  “Uncle Malcolm, I’m done with helping her, if you call it that. I still haven’t found Val. I’ve got a business to run. I want my girlfriend to stay out of jail, and I’d like to stay out myself.”

  “Griffen, Ms. Dunbar would not do that. She knows how much she requires your help. And mine.”

  “I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her,” Griffen said. “If it came down to a minute of publicity versus five years in jail for me, I’d better hire a lawyer now.”

  “The fact is that she would not cause you any permanent distress.”

  “The fact is,” Griffen said, enunciating as clearly as possible in as low a voice as he thought would be audible on the other end, “that if she causes my girlfriend any problems, I will kill her myself, and to hell with whatever it is you hope to accomplish getting her into the governor’s mansion.”

  “Please, Griffen, Ms. Dunbar needs you. Don’t make hasty decisions.”

  The spark of fire that resided in Griffen’s belly danced up and down, pleading to get out and cause havoc. Griffen tamped it down with difficulty.

  “I’m not acting hastily. It’s been weeks since you asked for my help. She’s a nightmare to deal with. I’ve seen her use blackmail on a number of people already. My business may skirt the law, but I don’t stoop that low.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “I never thought that I would be lectured on ethics by you.”

  That stung, but Griffen ignored it.

  “Yes, well, things change.”

  “Indeed they do. Griffen, I am certain you can find a way to remain involved. Be diplomatic.”

  “I’m not a diplomat,” Griffen said. “It’s your turn. I was doing you a favor. I’m through with that. She’s trouble. There’s no way I could ask anyone to vote for her. I can’t imagine what kind of problems she would cause if she actually became governor.”

  “Penny is part of a much larger picture, Griffen. I apologize for not taking the time to lay it out for you. We need fellow dragons in positions of power. She is willing, hardworking, and cognizant of the rough-and-tumble aspects of politics. Not many of our kind wish to put themselves into the public spotlight.”

  “Believe me, she revels in it.”

  “So I perceived. Griffen, I am in a bind. My time is limited . . . as I know yours is. Please continue to assist us.”

  “Nothing happens to her! She engineered the only trouble she’s been in.”

  “The car accident?”

  Griffen hesitated. “I’m not sure about that. She could have.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Headlines. She’ll do anything to get in front of a camera. But those two events looked staged. She probably did it for the publicity.”

  “I’m afraid that does not set her aside in any way from other candidates. Such things are common in hard-fought political races. I will make a bargain with you, Griffen. Give me another week to complete my current business. I will come down myself, and I will see if I can broker peace between you.”

  Griffen wasn’t satisfied, but it was as much of a concession as he was going to get.

  “All right,” he said. “She’s got a debate at the end of the week. I’ll go, but I’ll let you know if she chooses the nuclear option with me.”

  Malcolm’s voice was dryly sardonic.

  “I fancy that I will see that for myself on the evening news. Thank you, Griffen. Good-bye.”

  Twenty-five

  Mai struggled with her Patagonia tent. She wanted to go back to New York and take the Erewhon salesman by the scruff of his neck up to the top of a very high building. She would listen to him describe once again how easy it was to deploy—yes, his word—deploy the three-man dome tent, then she would drop him from the heights into the midst of Manhattan midday traffic. She yanked the skewerlike tent peg from the long grass and flung it down. Nothing to do but start over again. She flipped the misshapen bundle of cloth out like a bedsheet and felt for the grommets. Her hands were getting dirty, as were the knees of her expensive, zip-leg, tropical trousers. She longed for a leisurely soak in a nice, deep bathtub, and she resented hugely that it was impossible.

  She wished that she could stay in a hotel, but there was only one in this pitiful village in the midst of rural Pennsylvania, and Melinda’s party occupied an entire wing. She could not hope to go unnoticed. Nor could any kind of tracer spell be missed. Melinda had ripped apart the subtle threads that Mai had laid on the Lexus sedan and each of the Armani suitcases in the enormous trunk. That meant, to Mai’s horror, that tailing her to wherever in the world Melinda had stashed Val had to be done by actually spying on her. Luckily, New York was full of dragons and other shape-shifters, so Melinda and her goons couldn’t detect her. Mai was proud of how good she had become at blending into the scenery. In her guise as a Swedish tourist, she overheard plans for the elder female’s departure by hanging out near the desk of the luxury hotel.

  Mai had a rented automobile waiting on the curb when Melinda emerged. She longed to have a vehicle that she truly deserved, like a late-model Maserati, but in order to remain incognito, she had to pick something more nondescript. As she sulked over the wheel of the black Prius, Melinda waddled from the building and waited while the doorman helped her into the Lexus. Behind her, the two goons escorted Lizzy out. The young female dragon grinned drunkenly at the doorman and hotel guests as she was pushed into the backseat beside her mother. No one thought much about it. Between the dernier cri fashions Lizzy wore and the expensive car, she must be wealthy. Poor people were crazy. People with money were eccentric.
Eccentricity was tolerated, if often with a forced grin. Mai had to smile at the thought. If they knew how dangerous Lizzy was, they’d have readjusted their thinking back to crazy, where it belonged.

  Mai waited while a taxi and two cars passed before pulling out into traffic accompanied by the sound of screeching brakes. Death before eye contact, was the motto for driving in New York.

  And thence had begun eight days of aching boredom. It seemed Melinda was not in a hurry to go home. Mai drove at a discreet distance behind her. If Melinda had detected that she had a pursuer, it appeared that she didn’t care. Mai followed her into the Hamptons. Naturally, the Eastern dragons had five mansions there, but Mai could not stay in any of them without losing sight of Melinda. Instead, she was forced, at enormous expense, to take a room in a property adjacent to the sumptuous estate that opened its gates to the Lexus. Normally, such a humble car as a compact would have been refused with a sneer, but the trendy nature of the smart new hybrid gave it entrée in this trendiest of venues. Even so, her pride still ached.

  In order to check in, Mai was forced to use a charge card with a very high limit. Her honored ancestors couldn’t miss a four-figure sum on the balance. Before she had unpacked her Louis Vuitton bags, the antique telephone on the bedside table sounded a whiny ring.

  “Why are you not in New Orleans?” the male voice at the other end demanded.

  “Most honored elder,” Mai said humbly. “I am pursuing other avenues of fulfilling the assignment you gave to me.”

  “And how does a six-thousand-a-week villa in the Hamptons aid in that mission? Not to mention the camping equipment and wardrobe that you purchased in Manhattan? And why did you not go to visit your celestial grandmother in Chinatown? She was displeased at the slight. She even prepared your favorite delicacies.”

  Mai swallowed hard. Grandmother was a terrible cook, and she insisted on telling stories about long-dead relatives dating back to the fourteenth century.

  “I offer my humblest apologies. My time was not my own. I must remain close to Melinda,” she said. “I need to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “Why? She is not Griffen McCandles!”

  “She holds Griffen’s sister in some place of concealment,” Mai said. “Most wise father, Valerie McCandles is with child. A nearly pure-blooded dragon child.”

  “Ahhhhhh . . .” The voice exhaled and went silent. “And it is your intention to secure this child and its mother?”

  “Yes,” Mai said. “At the moment, Griffen is in thrall to Melinda, pending the safe return of his sister. If she was in our hands . . .” She let her voice trail off suggestively.

  “That is unusually perceptive of you,” the voice said. Mai made a face at the phone. “Yes, a pawn of that quality could prove very useful to us. Very well. Secure this child in any way that is necessary. But curb your endless hunger for retail purchases, Mai. To become a thrall to the physical is to ignore the wisdom of the infinite.”

  That was rich coming from him, Mai reflected, since his first gift to her had been a solid-gold teething ring. His own homes could have been object lessons in creative spending.

  “As you say, honored ancestor,” she said. “But I may need to go further to obtain possession of this infant.”

  “Do what you must,” the voice said. “Results will defend you far better than the sound of your own tongue.”

  With that, the line had gone dead. Mai hadn’t heard from him since. She assumed that he had gone away to confer with the other elders on the possibility of such a powerful child. Griffen might well be the young dragon of the prophecy her ancestors muttered about all the time, but he might not. What if this next generation brought the prophecy to life?

  Mai was careful not to go carte blanche with her credit cards, but she felt freer to indulge in a few of the extravagances she had so missed during the long months she had spent in New Orleans. Fine dining was one. Cash advances for bribes was another. It turned out that her chambermaid was a friend of the receptionist at the villa next door. No, no tall, pretty woman, blond or pregnant, was staying in the mansion or any of its guesthouses, but the short woman with the many employees had excited a lot of interest.

  A hefty tip each for the maid and the friend ensured that Mai would get all details of Melinda’s comings and goings. The friend made a reservation for her at an exclusive restaurant in the small town at the same time as Melinda’s party. Mai had gone in disguise and enjoyed the elegant-tasting fare at a table nearly back-to-back with Melinda’s, but she saw no sign of Val; nor did Melinda mention her to the Tommy Hilfiger–clad dragon couple having dinner with her. In fact, they seemed to be discussing politics. Mai tuned them out and concentrated on haute cuisine.

  The ensuing three days followed the same pattern. Melinda visited with other dragons resident on the island. She attended garden parties, to which Mai obtained access by disguising herself as a catering assistant or other kind of attendant but not actually doing any work. To a casual observer, Melinda was doing what any other visitor to the Hamptons might: enjoying the springtime weather, dining well, and hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. Mai seethed privately, unable to similarly enjoy the good life as she would under her own face and name.

  She was relieved when Melinda finally decamped—daughter, enforcers, luggage, and all—and headed south. To Mai’s annoyance, Melinda, having enjoyed New England, took a leisurely tour of the nation’s historic sites along the Eastern Seaboard. Val was not in Philadelphia nor in Colonial Williamsburg. This rural town was their third stop in as many nights. Mai hoped that Val was there in Virginia. She had to be, to make up for the horror of sleeping in a tent.

  At last the khaki dome was erected. Mai surveyed it resentfully by the light of a Princeton Tech fluorescent lantern. Her Neiman Marcus titanium kitchen unit was set up and ready to heat a UHT package of Lobster Newburg. She unrolled the Integral Designs handmade custom sleeping bag inside her tent and hooked up her battery-powered lamp and cell-phone charger beside it. A bottle of vintage chardonnay chilled in a self-cooling bucket. Mai all but fell into the Hennessy hammock lounger and sighed. As the sun rolled behind the rounded peaks, she unwrapped the crystal tumbler and poured herself a welcome glassful of chardonnay. She sipped the wine and savored its fresh flavor. Even in barbaric circumstances, a good wine improved matters.

  Suddenly, she heard a yell. Mai doused the lantern and rolled to a ready crouch behind the lounger. Fifty years and more of martial arts discipline had tuned her nerves and muscles to fine instruments. She set the glass where she would not step on it, and listened carefully.

  The bellow was not directed at her. She peered downhill toward the guesthouse. Shrieking and crashing noises erupted at the end of the rustic building. Dogs began to bark. Mai tried to see what was happening through the windows, but sheer curtains obscured the view. She crept downhill, keeping low and silent in spite of her heavy Asolo boots.

  She jumped as a dark-clad body thudded against a window. Now she could hear crying and, above all, Melinda’s voice tearing the air.

  “How dare you call my daughter a freak!”

  The body thumped against the window again, then disappeared. With lightning reflexes, Mai ducked aside just in time as a desk chair came crashing through the glass and landed on the gravel path alongside the building. Seconds later, a balding man in suit trousers and a short-sleeved Oxford shirt flew through the jagged opening. He landed on his shoulder and collapsed on the ground. He moaned. The arm had to hurt, but he didn’t stop to tend it. He scrambled up and fled into the darkness. A heavy book and a brass bust flew out and thudded down where he had just been.

  Melinda was not finished yelling. “You will be hearing from our attorneys in the morning! As if I would stay the rest of the night in this fleabag you call a historic hotel—you have no idea what a historic hotel was like! I was there! Now, get out of my way. Dean! Get the car! Lizzy, darling, cal
m down. The nasty man is gone.”

  Mai groaned. Not now! Not when she was ready to settle down for the night!

  But Melinda was preparing to move on. Stocky pulled the car up to the side door and left it running as his employer shouted for him.

  Mai ran silently up the hill. Without caring what damage she did, she bundled together all her camping gear and shoved it into the hatchback trunk of the Prius. The tent poles snapped. She hoped they were replaceable. Curse Melinda! Couldn’t she even dawdle considerately?

  Luckily, Melinda could be heard even by ordinary human ears at a distance of hundreds of yards. Mai pulled around the mountain road and was twenty feet behind the Lexus as it pulled out of the hotel drive and rolled southward. She poured herself another glass of wine.

  “I refuse to let the whole evening go to waste,” she said to her reflection in the rearview mirror. She lifted the crystal tumbler in a toast to herself. “Their next stop had better have a decent hotel!”

  • • •

  The doorbell of the New Orleans apartment rang. Penny Dunbar looked up from the mass of papers spread out across her desk. It was after eight—not too late for friends to come calling and certainly early enough for someone to come over from the campaign office. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. She picked up the holstered pistol from where it lay on the corner of the desk. She slipped her feet into the scuffs under the desk and padded over to the apartment door.

  “Yes?” she asked, through the peephole.

  The corridor was unusually dim. Penny peered out. A man with a baseball cap pulled down over his face stood there with a clipboard held tightly in his hands. The light made his dark skin look gray. His untidy dreadlocks spilled from under the cap and clumped on his shoulders. Penny opened the door but with her foot braced against the edge on the inside.

  “Scuse me, lady, I takin’ a suhvey. Who you votin’ foh gov’noh dis Octobah?”

  Penny sighed inwardly, but mustered a bright smile.