Dragons Wild

by Robert Asprin

  “And the other kind?”

  “Those are the entertainers, glad-handers, and politicians,” Jerome said. “They can infuse the people around them with energy, effectively multiplying the energy they give off, then feed off that accelerated energy. You can particularly see it with actors or singers when they’re working an audience. When they’ve got a good crowd, they work it into a controlled frenzy. That energy buoys them and inspires them to even greater heights to a point where they lose track of time or even how tired they really are. If you’re ever backstage to see them when they finally come off, it’s like someone cut the strings on a puppet. Once they’re away from that massive outpouring of energy from the audience, they’re left with their own store of energy which is depleted because they’ve been feeding it to the crowd to get it going.”

  He paused and grinned.

  “That kind of an energy rush is as addictive as any drug. The only way they can get that high again is to go back onstage and perform again. You hear about people who have been bitten by ‘the stage bug,’ well, that’s what’s happened. They’ve been ‘infected’ and ‘live’ for that heady feeling they get from a curtain call or a crowd of autograph hunters.”

  Griffen shook his head.

  “I never thought of it that way,” he said. “I mean, I know the high-energy feeling you get at a rock concert or a football game, but I never connected it with vampirism.”

  “‘You say po-ta-to and I say po-tah-to.’” Jerome shrugged. “The werewolf thing is the same way. We all know people who go through wide swings of mood and temperament…almost Jekyll and Hyde transformations. That’s not even going into the ‘chameleons’ that change their wardrobe and speech patterns to fit various social situations. Most of us had to do that to one degree or other just to survive our teen years.”

  “But there aren’t really people who can literally change their shape,” Griffen pressed.

  Jerome cocked his head at him.

  “Not to belabor the obvious, Grifter,” he said, “but you’re a shape-shifter. Remember?”

  “But…”

  “Both you and your sister…Or don’t you remember what happened the first time you met Gris-gris?”

  Griffen frowned.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Jerome,” he said. “I mean, we both saw scales on my arm for a minute there at the end. From what my uncle Malcolm told me, I thought the big lizard thing was just a disguise the old dragons used unsuccessfully to spook the humans.”

  “That’s what I heard, too,” Jerome verified. “The thing is, because of the movies and television, you’ve got the big lizard image locked in your mind when you think of dragons. The way I see it, when you’re stressed or get excited, that’s what your subconscious defaults to when it goes to shape-shift. With Valerie, what with her being so athletic and all, she seems content to just get larger.”

  “But you’re saying there are others who have this power?” Griffen said.

  “If you look around the world, almost every culture has some sort of shape-shifter mythos or legend,” Jerome said. “There are stories about werewolves, weretigers, and were-bears. There’s even an old story about a chimera, which is supposed to be able to take on one of several different animal forms. I’ve never run into one, though.”

  Griffen pursed his lips.

  “You know, it occurs to me, Jer, that a shape-shifter, especially one of those chimeras, would make a pretty effective George.”

  Jerome frowned and cocked his head.

  “You know, I never thought of that,” he said. “Of course, it’s only since you hit town that I’ve had to think of the George at all.”

  “Go ahead. Rub it in,” Griffen said with a grimace. “It just seems to me…”

  The bedroom door opened and Fox Lisa emerged, bleary-eyed and yawning. She was wearing one of Griffen’s shirts with a couple buttons buttoned, giving an alluring view of her cleavage and legs.

  “Hey, Jer. How’s it going?” she said in a slurred voice.

  “Hey, yourself, foxy lady.” Jerome smiled back. “Sorry. Did we wake you?”

  “Not to worry,” Lisa said with a vague wave of her hand. “I can sleep through an air raid. Nothing like a full bladder to get you moving, though. I’ll just wander into the sandbox and go back to bed.”

  She headed into the bathroom with short, unsteady steps, shutting the door behind her.

  “Sandbox?” Griffen said.

  “Yeah,” Jerome said with a grin. “I don’t know who started it or where it came from, but it’s doing the rounds. I think it’s kinda classy.”

  The toilet flushed, and Lisa reappeared.

  “I’ll go back to bed now and get out of your hair,” she announced, groggily. “I’ll even shut the door so you and Young Dragon can talk in private.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Wait a minute,” Jerome said. “What did you call him?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Young Dragon. Some of the crew have taken to calling him that, and I guess I sort of picked it up.”

  “Who’s calling him that?” Jerome pressed. “How did that name get picked?”

  Fox Lisa paused in the door of the bedroom and squinched her features into a grimace.

  “Oh, com’on, Jerome,” she said. “I know I’m not in the inner circle of things, but it doesn’t take much to figure out there’s something going on down here. To quote what’s his name…Morgan Freeman…in Batman Begins, ‘I know there are things you can’t tell me, and I won’t ask. But don’t treat me like I’m stupid.’”

  With that she disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her as promised.

  Griffen looked a question at Jerome.

  “Uh-huh,” Jerome confirmed. “Definitely dragon blood there. Probably not as much as me, but it’s there. Somehow, though, no one’s gotten around to mentioning it to her. Remember what I said about female dragons?”

  Thirty-five

  There are certain moments in a person’s existence when they realize they have made a mistake and could very well die in the next few seconds.

  Griffen had experienced one such moment back in Michigan when he had accepted a challenge to road race with an acquaintance of his in the dead of winter. As they piled into a curve, his car had suddenly lost traction and began to slide sideways toward a thin line of trees with an iced-over river just beyond. Rather than feeling petrified with terror or shouting like people do in the comedy movies, a sudden calm descended over him. He knew he had lost control of the situation, but there was nothing for him to do but watch as the events transpired. In that particular instance, his wheels had suddenly found traction on a patch of gravel and with a surge of power the event was past.

  Stepping into the bar’s dimly lit interior and seeing the scene awaiting him, he felt that same calm as he realized that again he had lost control of a situation and could very well die for his mistake.

  It had started innocently enough. He had been shooting pool with Maestro at the Irish pub when a small black kid came through the door and looked around. Griffen assumed that it was one of the tap-dancing panhandlers that worked the Quarter and figured the bartender would handle it.

  Before the bartender could move, however, the kid made a beeline for Griffen.

  “You Mr. Griffen?”

  “On my better days,” Griffen said with a smile.

  “Huh?” the kid blinked.

  “Never mind.” Griffen sighed. “Yes, I’m Grif…Mr. Griffen.”

  “Little Joe sent me to find you,” the kid said. “He needs to see you and said to tell you it’s important.”

  “When and where?” Griffen said.

  “He said the same place you two talked last time…right now.”

  Griffen started to reply, but the kid spun on his heel and pushed his way back out into the sunlight without another word, his mission accomplished.

  “Sorry, Maestro,” Griffen said, leaning his cue against the wall. “It seems somethi
ng has come up.”

  “You want company?” Maestro said, looking up from his shot.

  “Naw. Where I’m going, they aren’t wild about strangers.”

  “Suit yourself,” Maestro said and turned his concentration back to the pool table.

  The bar was only three or four blocks away, and as Griffen strolled the distance, he wondered idly what Little Joe could want.

  Maybe he was being called to demonstrate his poker skills again. Then again, it just might be that Little Joe wanted to introduce him to someone.

  As Griffen’s notoriety had grown, he had noticed that more and more people stopped him on the street to introduce him to their friends or family or whoever it was that they were dating. There seemed to be a certain status attached to just knowing him these days.

  What was more, he made a point of going out of his way to greet people, rather than staying in one place and making them come to him. As a young white man taking charge of a predominately black group, he wanted to make the impression that he viewed himself as the first among equals rather than a boss man who expected others to run and fetch at his command.

  When they had first talked, Griffen had leaned on Little Joe pretty heavy. He didn’t think it would hurt their relationship if he unbent and responded to the summons as a demonstration of friendship and respect.

  Two steps into the bar, however, he realized that he had misjudged the situation badly.

  Little Joe was at his normal table all right. But sitting with him were two other young black men. They were both decked out in the “home boy” look that movies and television had made popular, with oversized shirts and shorts and bandannas wrapped around their heads. In short, they had “dope dealer” written all over them. But these were the real thing, not some Hollywood pretty boys. Confusing them with their wannabe suburban imitators would be the same as confusing a timber wolf and a toy poodle.

  Griffen did not think they were here to play cards. Not unless the games they were used to sitting in on included having automatic pistols sitting on the table next to their hands.

  Then, too, there was the table full of look-alikes in the corner, with an additional three sets of eyes boring into him.

  He thought back to what Jerome had told him about shape-shifting and deliberately fought back his rising panic. He really didn’t know if he was bulletproof, but would just as soon not find out today. Somehow he knew that if he startled this group by going into an involuntary shape-shift, they’d shoot first and not bother about asking questions.

  There was nothing for Griffen to do but stay relaxed and try to bluff it through. Maybe the wheels would catch a patch of dry gravel.

  “Little Joe,” he said by way of greeting as he approached the table. “I heard you wanted to see me?”

  “Griffen.” Little Joe nodded back. “Got a couple folks here who want to meet you. This is TeeBo and Patches. They’re brothers.”

  From the family resemblance, Griffen assumed the two really were brothers. What was surprising, however, was how young they were. TeeBo was about Griffen’s age, while Patches was a good half dozen years younger.

  He nodded politely at each of them in acknowledgment of the introductions.

  “TeeBo. Patches,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?”

  “You can keep yo’ white-ass nose outta our business…” the younger man began, but his brother cut him off.

  “Patches!” TeeBo said. “Remember I’m gonna handle this.”

  He continued to stare at Griffen.

  “Little Joe here tells me that you’re a reasonable man who likes to talk things out if there’s a problem,” he said finally. “So let’s talk.”

  “Do we have a problem?” Griffen said.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” TeeBo said. “I’ve been told that you won’t let your people deal our product. That true?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” Griffen said.

  “I have?” TeeBo seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Well, only partially informed,” Griffen said. “I’m not telling them not to handle your product, as you call it. I’m telling them not to handle anyone’s product. At least, not while they’re working for me. If they want to deal, fine. I can’t stop them. But not while they’re on my payroll.”

  TeeBo leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side.

  “So you ain’t doing this to give someone else an exclusive with your crew,” he said. “Maybe like someone named T.J.?”

  “Never even heard of the man,” Griffen said.

  “See. I told you,” Little Joe said.

  “Shut up,” TeeBo said. “I’m talking to Mr. Griffen here. I wants to hear about it from him.”

  “He’s lying.” Patches put in. “Everybody’s heard of T.J.!”

  “I’ve only been in town a couple of months,” Griffen said. “To be honest, I never heard of you two until just now when we were introduced. We travel in different circles. All I’m interested in is learning Mose’s gambling operation.”

  “So what you got against dope?” TeeBo said. “You want us to cut you in or somethin’?”

  “I’m not wild about it personally,” Griffen said. “But that’s not the point. I’m not stupid enough to try to stop it or to waste a lot of time and energy trying to save people from themselves. I only brought in this new policy when it started to interfere with my operation.”

  “How you figure that?” TeeBo said.

  “Do you know an old gentleman named Reggie?” Griffen said.

  “Oh, yeah. I heard ’bout that,” TeeBo said. “He worked for you?”

  “Only part-time as a stringer,” Griffen said. “But working for me isn’t what got him killed.”

  “So it’s like that, huh,” TeeBo said.

  “I hear that you’re fireproof,” Patches said. “Are you bulletproof, too?”

  “I really don’t know,” Griffen said. “Am I about to find out?”

  “Shut yo’ mouth, Patches,” TeeBo said. “You might learn something.”

  He turned his attention back to Griffen.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “what’s that you’re wearing around your neck?”

  Griffen reached up and fingered the beads.

  “This?” he said. “It’s a charm someone gave me.”

  “Someone gave you that?” TeeBo said.

  “A woman named Rose,” Griffen said. “Why? Do you know her?”

  “Heard of her,” TeeBo said. “Mr. Griffen, you get those before or after your little trip?”

  Griffen blinked, both at the “mister” and the reference. He shouldn’t have been surprised considering how rumor spread in the Quarter.

  “You heard about that?” Griffen said.

  “Yeah, word is, someone’s real mad wit you.”

  Another surprise. Griffen realized that the George could use a rumor mill as yet another way to taunt. Or even as a weapon.

  “After.”

  TeeBo nodded as if that had been what he expected.

  “You see what I’m talkin ’bout, Patches?” he said to his brother.

  “Well, lookee here!”

  A middle-aged black man in a suit had just come through the front door. Following in his wake were four young athletic looking blacks. What was notable about them was that they were all wearing long trench coats despite the heat outside.

  “I had my suspicions, but now I know,” the man continued.

  Tension danced through the room like chain lightning.

  “Chill out, T.J.,” TeeBo said. “You just think you know. We had our suspicions, too. That’s why we’re here.”

  “So you’re telling me he’s not cutting me out to deal with you?” T.J. said.

  “He’s cutting us all out,” TeeBo said. “We thought he was makin’ a deal with you, but he told us he never even heard of you.”

  “Bullshit,” T.J. said. “Everybody’s heard of T.J.!”

  �
��Well, he’s not dealing with us and he’s not dealing with you,” TeeBo said. “He says he’s making his people choose between working for him or dealing because of what happened to Reggie.”

  “That a fact?” T.J. said. “And you believe him?”

  “That’s right,” TeeBo said. “You want to know why? Ease over here and take a look at what he’s wearing around his neck.”

  T.J. glanced at his men and gave a quick jerk of his head. They moved sideways, fanning out along the bar to give them a clear line of sight, and fire, to both the brothers and the table of their supporters. Then he sauntered casually up to Griffen and peered at the beads…then jerked suddenly erect as if he had seen a snake.

  “Is that for real?” he said to TeeBo.

  “He says that Rose gave it to him,” TeeBo said. “He’s a white boy only been in town a couple months. I don’t see him making up a story like that.”

  “If he is or if he’s lying, he’s too stupid or too bold to be afraid of anything we might run at him,” T.J. said, stepping back.

  “That’s the way I read it,” TeeBo said.

  The two men looked at each other, then nodded.

  “Mr. Griffen,” TeeBo said. “I thank you for taking the time to clarify the situation. Now, if you’ll excuse us, T.J. and I have a few matters to discuss in light of this new information.”

  Griffen took this as a dismissal, and, nodding respectfully to the principals, headed out at what he hoped was a dignified pace.

  He had caught a gravel patch…again!

  The air never seemed sweeter nor the colors as bright and reassuring. Even the glare and the heat were welcome.

  Thirty-six

  Valerie had started her morning with another sweet breakfast at Café Du Monde. This time, she was a bit too distracted to properly appreciate her surroundings, though she couldn’t think of anything that could quite block it out completely.