"But I could just walk away, say no."
"You won't," Etienne said confidently. "Everybody's countin' on you. I invested everything I had, called in every favor, to make sure Fafnir was revived for dis year. And I counted on you from the moment I seen you. I knew you was de one all dis has been set up for."
Griffen hated to be the object of a prophecy. It made him as uncomfortable as being the center of attention. He hadn't earned his college nickname of "Grifter" by attracting a lot of attention. He preferred to work outside the spotlight.
"So why approach me now, not when I arrived in the Quarter?"
Etienne wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. "Because you didn' really know who you was den. And you had some workin' out to do. Still do, but you gettin' you feet under you. People respect you, but now you respect youself. No king should stand on a Mardi Gras float who don't respect himself."
"I did have self-respect!" Griffen protested.
"Not from what I seen," Etienne said, with a knowing shake of his head. "You put on a good show, but you didn't think you deserved what you got. Maybe now you see you do."
"I bet you got beaten up a lot at school," Griffen said, wryly.
"Never mentioned the gift but the once," Etienne said. "I had to test it out to show that I believe in myself, too. Foreknowledge ain't worth a damn if the user is dead. How about it? You can't say no, Mr. Griffen. Destiny's waiting for you."
"Not my destiny," Griffen protested. "Just because you dreamed something doesn't mean it's going to come true. I don't have to follow what you think you know. The future's malleable."
"Not so much as you tink it is," Etienne replied with an assurance that roused ire in Griffen.
"Why should I do it?" he demanded.
"To stop Fate," the werewolf said simply. "The bad things that will come if you don't. You a good man. You wouldn't let anyting happen to this city. You've made youself at home here. N'awlins has welcomed you, son. You bring people together in a good way. You gotta keep on doin' it, and the Krewe of Fafnir's part of it." He grasped Griffen's forearm and looked into his eyes as if searching for something. "C'mon along on Tuesday evenin'. Meet the department heads. Don't say no now. What do you think?"
Griffen gave one more good look at the roaring dragon's head in the corner. Its eyes seemed to glitter at him.
"I'll think about it," he said.
He had to get out of there before he agreed to the offer. It was too tempting. If there was anything he had learned in the last few months, it was to go over the details and ask questions, and more questions, before saying yes. He'd been guilty of rash behavior that had hurt him and the people who loved or trusted him--or both. He turned to leave.
In the wide doorway, a broad silhouette stood between him and the outside. Griffen recognized the shape of a man who might have been mistaken for a big-boned, muscular, and somewhat overweight biker. His heart sank as the figure swaggered toward him.
"You thinking of running a krewe, on top of everything?" Detective Harrison asked, his broad face skeptical.
Matters were still not perfect between Griffen and Harrison, not since the masquerade ball at the end of the conclave in October. The New Orleans detective had learned about Griffen's secret in the course of his investigation of a crime. They'd gotten along so well before that. Griffen had thought they had formed a cooperative bond that would do them both good, but he had left out one little detail--that he was a dragon. He had believed that he could keep the truth about his heritage hidden, but it had all come out in a completely disastrous way.
Most humans were going to be freaked out about learning that heretofore mythical creatures existed, let alone lived anonymously side by side with them. Especially when someone trusted you, and you didn't let the person in on the little secret, "Oh, by the way, I'm a hereditary dragon, and so is my sister. There's a bunch of us around town. We're generally not a problem, but you have to look out for the vampires, werewolves, fairies, shape-shifters, selkies, and others who are here, too." To the man who is trying to enforce law and order with no more than his wits, some martial-arts training, and standard police-issue weaponry, the world is going to seem like a much scarier place. Griffen had pulled the figurative rug out from under him and rendered him less effective at his job. Harrison was finding it hard to forgive the omission. Griffen did not blame him; he blamed himself. He had been avoiding Harrison until he could figure out a way to make it up to him. Simple explanations were out of the question. A full disclosure, over a really good meal and drinks, with time for as lengthy a Q&A session as Harrison chose, plus the acknowledgment that Griffen owed him a favor, a big one, might do the trick, but Griffen had not yet felt ready to do it.
"Uh," Griffen said, lamely. "I've been asked to be king."
"Good idea," Harrison said, with a nod. "Make you fit in better, especially if you are reviving a dormant krewe. Tradition means a lot around here. We've got more of it than you folks from up North."
"I'm considering it," Griffen said, determined to be honest with Harrison. "I'm not sure I have the manpower to cover the responsibilities I would have. I was spread too thin . . ." He had started to mention the convention. Harrison stiffened, but Griffen didn't have a choice except to continue in that painful vein, "over Halloween, and I don't want to screw up something as important as Mardi Gras."
"Good that you're taking the time to think something through," Harrison said grimly. "You got all the permits?"
"Yes, sir," Etienne said.
"You have a theme worked up yet?" Harrison scanned the room, taking in the half-finished floats with an experienced eye.
"It's a secret, Detective," the werewolf said, with a grin that was almost a leer. "But you invited to the tableau ball. C'mon around and see."
Harrison echoed the grin, which looked no less feral than Etienne's. "I'll do that, if only to look at this guy in his king costume."
Griffen was alarmed. "Uh, no. I'm not even sure I'm going to do it."
Harrison's face changed from grim to shrewd skepticism. "Oh, you'll do it, McCandles. I know you--or I thought I did."
He turned and marched out into the sun. Griffen couldn't help but gawk after him. I deserved that, he thought. That's a bridge I have to rebuild, and soon.
Three
A deck of red-backed Bicycle cards flicked neatly out into a double fan. Each half arched like stretching cats, then flew at one another until they formed a single neat rectangular cube. The white French cuffs surrounding the spare wrists of the man folding the cards in and out between one another were bedecked with warm gold cuff links, each containing a single green, cabochon-cut stone. To the casual onlooker, they looked like smooth pieces of glass or perhaps plastic, almost translucent. To anyone who knew their stones, they were flawless Imperial jade, worth more per carat than diamonds. The suit was equally expensive and understated: pure, fine wool in a cool gray just a shade under charcoal, a cut between Armani and Bond Street, but clearly bespoke tailoring. The man wearing it, Jordan Ma, had a narrow face, an inverted triangle with broad temples, a straight nose, sharply etched cheekbones, long brown eyes with epicanthic folds that helped conceal his expressions--if he wore any--and thin lips outlined at the corners with tiny, deep-cut parentheses. He dealt cards to the three people sitting at the table with him.
Rebecca Tan, the youngest of the three, picked up her cards as they came to her. Her face was small and round, with black eyes, a flattened bridge to her broad nose, and an exaggerated cupid's bow to her mouth. Her chin-length hair was brown and frizzy, an obvious affectation since she could easily have taken control of it. She favored scarlet silk dresses, tailored devastatingly tightly around her slender, small-breasted figure, but the style was a dare, not an invitation, and not a dare that invited casual onlookers. She did not look dangerous, but Jordan knew her to be an evilly dirty fighter both at and away from the poker table. She was not his protegee, but that of the man to her left. She looked to Winston Long occasionally for appro
val. If Long showed it, it was in some subtle fashion that Jordan missed.
Long was old, very old. He allowed fellow poker players to play around with his name during a game. He had been called Cigarette, Silly Millimeter, and the one that he rather liked, Pack. It never occurred to the Westerners with whom he played that his family name meant "dragon." His face was smooth except for the fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His suit was smooth black with a patina of green and looked as if he had been wearing it for fifty years. Jordan was too young to know for certain, but Long used it often. He raised his cards, perused them briefly without rearranging them, and set them facedown on the tabletop.
The fourth Jordan knew the least. Peter Sing had been wished upon Jordan by those who were senior to him. He wore his long black hair gelled up on one side as if a sudden windstorm had come along and blown it upward. Jordan was not an obsessive person, but the impulse to hold Peter down and smooth out his cockscomb threatened to overwhelm him. Peter gave him a cheeky grin, as if he knew exactly what Jordan was thinking. Peter was ambitious. Not a bad trait to possess, but he was impulsive. He had, against the orders of the elders, entered the World Poker Roundup in Las Vegas seven times, only once with his own face, and had made the feature table six times and the final table once, though he had lost to a combination of bad luck and impetuousness to the reigning king of televised poker, who had eleven of the diamond-encrusted belt buckles to his credit. The elders were furious that he had risked revealing himself on national television, but Peter wanted one of those belt buckles so badly that Jordan was certain he would try again. He deplored having to deal with Peter on such an important assignment.
Jordan set the remaining cards down firmly and picked up his own hand. King high, queen, nine, three, two. An average to poor hand, but no one would ever know it from his face. He nodded to Rebecca, sitting immediately to his left, to begin the betting. She slid a coin into the center of the table to augment the ante. The other players followed her lead, called her minimum bet.
No food or drink was present to distract the players from their game. The light was good, neither too strong nor too faint, coming from shaded table lamps and brass standing lamps rearranged by Jordan so that no shadows would fall on the players' faces. Any small tells that they had would be in full view of the others. If a hotel employee had entered the room at that moment, he or she would have thought nothing special of the tableau: four people gathered for a casual game of poker. Perhaps they were in New Orleans for one of the countless conventions that enjoyed the Big Easy as a hospitable venue. Perhaps they were there to see the Saints play the Vikings during the next day's game at the Superdome. The difference was that instead of chips, the four strangers were playing cards for neat stacks of bright, blank-sided disks of pure gold.
The warm gleam of the metal aroused twin feelings of satisfaction and greed in Jordan Ma's soul. He wanted to possess all the coins on the table, as did each of his fellows. The game was "for keeps," as the quaint colloquialism had it. The participants came with their own stakes, and what they lost, they lost. That made play serious. At one time, he mused, they might have been at one another's throat for the treasure; but they had learned over time that though they were solitary creatures, they could cooperate for the common wealth. As now.
Rebecca dropped a card and signed for its replacement. She sorted her hand and pushed two more disks into the pot. Her face betrayed no emotion. Good, Jordan thought. She controls herself well. He could not tell what she was holding by her posture or expression. That was the mark of a good poker player. Long had taught her well.
"Have you made inquiries how to join a game?" Jordan asked.
"I did," Winston said. He discarded all but one card. Jordan dealt him four. Long glanced at them and put them down. Jordan let his eyes flick toward the older man's face. Long caught his glance. He spotted a hint of amusement in the old eyes in their nest of wrinkles as Winston dropped five disks into the pot, one at a time. Their musical clinking sent a pleasant frisson up Jordan's spine. "I asked the pleasant young man at the bell desk how one could find companionable colleagues for an evening of chance. It was necessary to guide him toward specifics. He found it difficult at first to get past the words 'companionable' and 'evening.' I had to assure him I did not want a bed partner."
Peter let out a short bark of laughter. "What do you expect? I am sure that it is by far the more common inquiry." He discarded one, accepted a card, and saw Winston's bet, five disks.
"And once that was straightened out?" Jordan asked, ignoring Peter. He discarded the three and two and dealt himself their replacements. Another king and a seven. One pair. Long had trusted to chance by taking four new cards. The odds were that he had little but an ace high. Rebecca probably had something of low value, since she had asked for a card and only bet two. She would almost certainly drop out. Peter stood the best chance of having a good hand because he had not hesitated to bet. Jordan felt that he might be able to bluff the other out of the round. He tossed five coins into the pot. As he had guessed, Rebecca threw her cards in. Jordan gathered them into the discarded pack. Her face still did not change expression.
"I was directed to a young black man who was, I may say, loitering with intent by the check-in desk," Winston continued. He added three coins to the growing pot. "Quality clothes, though of casual cut. Just the right note to strike, I believe. His name is DeShawn. He called me Mr. Long. He was happy to accommodate me. A few other travelers of the same inclination as mine will meet this evening. I am welcome to join them. The evening would be very informal, but pleasant. Refreshments will be provided. I had but to state my preferences as to drink, comestibles, music, even the type of chair I prefer. Smoking, DeShawn warned me, was permitted, and hoped it would not inconvenience me. I assured him that was not a concern. He did not take notes, but he seemed of quick wit. He suggested that if I find the company congenial, it would be available to me when I chose."
"Very well organized," Peter said, with a small nod. "Detail oriented. Makes for greater satisfaction of the clientele. I am impressed."
"Only if they follow through," Rebecca countered.
"He did not write down anything?" Jordan asked.
"No." Long pushed coins into the center of the table. Five. It was a modest bet, but it committed him to the hand. Jordan took that into account.
The tiny curves at the corners of Jordan's mouth indented. "Good. We can exploit that."
"How long do you think this will take?" Peter asked. He raised to eight.
"To bring down an entire gambling empire?" Winston asked, regarding him with amusement. "Not in a day, young one. Be patient. Our job is to cut away at all the legs that support this organization and make certain it cannot rise again. That will take time. You must be patient."
"I don't want to stay here forever," Peter protested. "It smells of mold. The people move too slowly."
"A river moves slowly, but it is powerful in its depths," Winston said. "Don't forget that. If you are arrogant, you will underestimate those who might have something to teach you."
Bored, Jordan found himself drawing a little circle on the back of his cards with the tip of his forefinger. Winston was right, of course, and Peter was wrong, but if they were going to disagree every day, this assignment would become unbearable.
"At least let us agree we are united in our aim," he said.
"No problem," said Rebecca. "It is very simple. I have also made a connection to be admitted to a game. A man in a bar who wanted to pick me up also turned me over to a nicely dressed white male whom he claimed as a friend. Only," she added, letting her smile spread slowly over her face like melting butter on a hotcake, "this friend's name is Griffen."
"So you have met him," Jordan said, his eyes widening a fraction of a millimeter. "What is he like?"
"He does not move like a dragon when he is among others," Rebecca said, thoughtfully. "But when he forgets to think about being human, you can see it. Anyone could."
<
br /> "He doesn't hide his heritage, then," Jordan said. "That is good. At least he is proud. That will make him a worthy adversary. The elders did not think it would be easy. But rewarding. Call." He regarded his twin kings once, then tossed eight disks into the pot.
Winston studied him for a time. Jordan knew there was nothing to see, but he concentrated on keeping his aura empty of clouds or beams of light. Clarity was all. He waited. Winston smiled for a moment, then placed his cards facedown on the table.
Peter put five disks more into the pot. Jordan matched him. He waited. Peter put three more in, but the growing shadow of doubt in his aura told Jordan he was flagging. Jordan added three. With a curl of his lip, Peter flicked his cards in. Jordan did not smile as he raked the pot toward him and stacked his winnings at his left hand. The tall pile of coins pleased him. Peter narrowed his eyes at him.
"You must watch your moods," Jordan told him. "If I can see it, even a human with a spot of intuition will see it, too, let alone a fellow dragon."
"And what about Mai?" Winston Long's dark eyes glowed.
"That bitch!" Rebecca snarled.
"She is unimportant," Jordan said, gathering up the cards. "We disregard her unless she interferes with us. She had her chance to bring down McCandles. The elders no longer trust her to try. That is left to us now." He separated the cards and shuffled them.
Four
Of all the places that Griffen had come to love over the last several months in New Orleans, nothing had come to feel like home as much as the Irish pub in the French Quarter two streets off Bourbon. Strangers usually passed it by most of the time. It wasn't fancy. It didn't offer strippers or live jazz bands. True, there were two pool tables, occupied most of the time in the evening. The walls were full of interesting junk. None of that looked like enough of a reason for travelers to spend their scanty vacation time hanging out with the locals when they could drink an overly sweet Hurricane from a plastic glass and wander down Bourbon Street dipping in and out of the music clubs or huddle in the dark watching women in sequin bras and G-strings making love to a brass pole. The music was out there when Griffen wanted to go listen, of course, a string of Christmas lights that hung from the wineglass rack over the bar substituted just fine for all the neon, and with two lovers, he had no need for the live nude shows. What made the Irish pub his favorite spot was the company. Anyone who came in for a drink and stayed became part of the conversation. The subject matter ranged from how the Saints were doing that season to monetary policy in Elizabethan England to what to do with a brother-in-law who had overstayed his welcome to the latest electronic gizmo and whether or not it would change the world. He and another regular named Bone were the reigning experts on all movie trivia. All of his friends knew that if they wanted to find him, chances were they could locate him there.
Dragons Deal Page 3
