“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 t
hat was not a good thing.
“Nathaniel was always a mama’s boy,” said Lizzy.
“Who’s Nathaniel?” the bartender asked.
“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!”
“Dragon?” the bartender asked.
Elizabeth looked up at the bartender suddenly, and he backed up two steps automatically. Her eyes flashed, and in the conflicting neon they seemed… fractured. Like a smashed mirror, different colors butting against each other without blending, the most vivid of those a violent purple that seemed almost to glow.
Lizzy had never learned to control her eyes. Especially in one of her moods. Melinda always used to say, somewhat coldly, that she had her father’s eyes.
“This was a good drink,” she said, still glaring at the bartender. “Nice mix of flavors. So I won’t drag you out back for a little light entertainment. Take care now.”
She stood and dropped a few bills on the bar without looking at them. She started to weave her way through the crowd, making her way back to Bourbon Street. A few feet from the door, she stopped in her tracks and stared outside.
Flynn was walking down the street.
“Him?! Here?! What the fu—”
She jumped midword. One of the men on the dance floor, seeing a seemingly drunken girl wavering on her feet, had stepped up and placed both hands firmly on her rump. His surprise squeeze had sent her nearly half a foot into the air.
She whirled on him so quick that he didn’t have time to move back. With one hand she grabbed his wrist, fingers iron-strong and grip just shy of painful. The other hand reached out and slapped his backside, gripping just as firmly as he had. It was his turn to jump, but his eyes quickly went excited and smoldering, and a cocky grin started to spread on his face.
His grin faded, and his eyes started to widen, whites beginning to show. Lizzy slid against him, hands still in place, looking to the world like nothing other then a girl cuddling up to a likely guy. No one could see the claws that had replaced the tips of her fingers, or the blood that soaked into the black material of his pants.
She stretched up on her tiptoes to purr into his ear.
“The word for today…” She paused, and her tongue flicked lightly over his ear. It was forked. “… is manners.”
With that, she sank back down slightly, then brought her head smacking upward against his. He crumpled, and she left him on the dance floor as those around suddenly noticed a problem and rushed to help.
By the time she had slipped onto the street, there was no sign of Flynn. She cursed and set out to search.
Twelve
The cell phone rang. Despite the fact only half a dozen people alive in the world had the number, George had had a bit too much fun programming the ring tones lately. Especially after the last call he had received, “Murder by Numbers”—it had just been too much to resist.
“Hello, Debbie,” he said.
“Whoever invented caller ID really needs to die,” the woman on the other end said sourly.
“You write me a contract on him, and I’ll be happy to oblige you,” George said.
“Interoffice bribery is against your regulations.”
“I thought we were beginning flirtation. Wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.”
“Also against regulations. Now stow it. We, well, you have got problems, George.”
“I always have problems.”
“And I bet you bring each and every one down on yourself,” Debbie said.
George looked at the time. It was a little past midnight, and he had been planning on an early night. The hotel room he was staying in had next to no luxuries. It did have a coffeepot, though, and something in his teammate’s tone sent him over to it.
“So what did I do now?” he asked. “Everyone over there falling apart because ol’ George isn’t there to beat down the big scaly baddies?”
“There is no need to be snooty. You’ve trained some excellent hunters on staff, and those of us in auxiliary service have never needed you to hold our hands.”
“No flirtation, no bribery, no hand-holding. God, when did this bureaucracy turn into no fun at all?”
“Again, stow it. I got a call from your latest client today.”
George held the phone away for a few moments and reined himself in. The first things he thought about saying were counterproductive.
“If that supercilious bastard wants a refund, you can kindly inform our ‘client’ that he, too, can be turned into a set of matched luggage.”
“Hmm, do we have a record of his preferred dragon form on record? He doesn’t strike me as a type to stick to the traditional scales and leather motif. Anyway, he asked for just that, but it was by way of an opening gambit. Claimed that since McCandles is unharmed and still breathing, you owe him another pass.”
“To which you replied that our contracts specify one pass, and he did not pay for a guaranteed kill, only a direct confrontation,” said George.
“Yes, I did, so he tried renegotiating for a direct-kill contract, at a discount of course,” Debbie said.
George watched drips fall into the coffeepot. Idly he put his thumb against the hot plate. The sting of it gave him a reason for groaning.
“That’s it, we never deal with anyone from California. Ever, ever again. Make a bylaw.”
“We’d get busted for discrimination. Besides, good money out of that part of the country. Come on, George. Focus a bit, won’t you? Vacation or not, you are slacking,” Debbie said.
He had been focusing. Obviously, Flynn was unsatisfied with his own attempts to “test” young McCandles and wanted some serious pressure put on. Or maybe Griffen was just getting under Flynn’s skin enough that he was ready for murder. That thought alone made George like the kid a little.
Mostly, though, George was thinking about his little “vacation” here. He had intended to cause Flynn some trouble, and so far
hadn’t done much but monitor. That and a bit of indirect contact with McCandles, just for kicks. Maybe it was time to take things up a step.
“And what did you tell him, Debbie?”
“That you were on another assignment. He, like most of our clients, doesn’t know he is dealing with a team of hunters, so he didn’t ask for another agent. I did give him a referral to another hitter. A human, solo act but good contacts, someone we wouldn’t mind seeing disappear from the face of the earth.”
“Any chance of dropping a dragon?” George asked. Human or not, he was always keeping his ears open for new talent.
“Unlikely; if Flynn goes that way, it will be mostly a scare tactic. Though a few shots from the right type of rifle will put the kid in the hospital. From your report, he hasn’t learned regeneration yet.”
“I haven’t seen any sign of it, and it seems more his sister’s kind of talent anyway.”
George paused, thinking things through for a moment.
“Debbie, I need a favor.”
“No.”
“Debbie, this is me. I need you to track this hitter you referred Flynn to. If he comes to New Orleans, I want to know, and I want to know everything else about his movements when he is here.”
“George, this is a noncontract. You have no business using company resources because you have decided to keep a pet. He’s a dragon, George! A scaly, power-hungry, arrogant beast. You’ve hated them for as long as I have.”
“Yes, and I’m telling you Flynn is worse. The kid on his own, he’s no threat. He might even be okay. If Flynn gets his hands on him, then it will be a real mess. If Flynn drops him, well, it won’t be so bad, but do you really want the reputation spread that a human could do a job we couldn’t?”
“That’s not—”
“You know that’s the way Flynn will spin it,” George said.
There was a long pause. Long enough that George poured himself half a cup from the still-brewing coffee, just to keep from saying more. A few drops steamed and sizzled on the hotplate.
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