She crossed Decatur, the only street with any kind of car traffic at this hour, and headed up the large concrete stairs and over to the Moonwalk. The stairs still burned, aches and little tendrils of pain going up her legs. She smiled to herself and tried to remember how the old saying went. Pain lets you know you’re alive?
There were a few other joggers on the Moonwalk. A couple whom Val had seen on other mornings nodded to her in passing. No breath was wasted on greetings. These were people serious about their fitness. No one jogged in New Orleans because it was the fashionable thing to do.
The Moonwalk itself stretched pretty much the entire length of the Quarter. Val knew she would go back and forth across it several times before she was ready to quit. She put herself into a comfortable pace, keeping her heart rate up but nowhere near her top speed. This was no sprint. Still, she passed anyone going the same direction as she.
Would she have noticed any of that if Griffen hadn’t come to her after their uncle Malcolm had told him about dragons? She had always been strong, fast, and very good when it came to anything physical. She should be; she worked hard enough at it. If Griffen hadn’t shown up, if he hadn’t brought her into his problems, she would probably have gone her whole life without getting this introspective.
Val wasn’t quite sure why that thought scared her so.
Most of the time she still didn’t think of herself as a dragon. Griffen seemed so preoccupied with extending his abilities. Animal control, charisma; hell, she was surprised he hadn’t started trying to use dragon fire to make toast in the mornings. Then she reminded herself wryly that he didn’t cook.
Val hadn’t experienced any of that. Other then the rare times when she had swelled in size, her signs of dragonhood were subtler. Like the speed, and her body’s growing strength. Maybe it was just that she was younger and less developed, but she didn’t really feel the need, or the ability, to control a stray dog or blow smoke rings through the air.
Were there varieties of power? Different dragons with different areas of expertise? When Mose spoke, he seemed to be saying that for the most part any dragon with pure enough blood could do what Griffen was doing. Val and Griffen shared the same blood, so why did she feel she would be different?
Feelings, now that was something she didn’t often think about. Feelings were a big part of what had gotten her more and more curious about dragons and their various traits and abilities. For a while now, her gut had been telling her something was wrong, something was about to break. No… not her gut. It was like a weight on her heart. A sharp, heavy pang.
Val shook her head and tossed the thought aside. She was just imagining trouble, convincing herself of problems. After all, something bad was always coming. Especially with this new life as a dragon that her brother had brought her into.
And where did this baby fit in her new life? Did it fit in? She still didn’t know how she felt. How she should feel.
She checked her watch and was a bit surprised that she had already been at it for more than an hour. She felt just as energized as before, barely even out of breath. Which was good—she shouldn’t have any problem getting through work—but it did sort of confirm everything she had been pondering while running. Sighing slightly, she turned off the path and started to head back to the steps, back to Decatur, then back to what she had now taken to calling home.
If she hadn’t been tired, hadn’t been deep in thought, she might have noticed the car on the other side of Decatur. It had registered out of the corner of her eye as being parked. She never noticed that the engine was on.
She had just stepped off the curb when it came at her.
Tires squealed. The car seemed to leap into motion, like a pouncing tiger. It cut across the two lanes of traffic, causing another car to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision, and straight at her. She had just enough time to catch sight of the small woman behind the wheel as she jumped to avoid it.
The woman was smiling, teeth white and gleaming in the morning light. That smile scared Val more than the speeding car.
If she had jumped back onto the sidewalk, Val would have been crushed. The car leaped the curb at a sharp angle, the driver clearly anticipating such a natural reaction. Val’s mind was as quick as her body; she leaped forward, onto the street. The car tried to jerk back, but it was too late. The driver couldn’t fight the momentum. The car swerved back onto Decatur, fishtailed, then took off, leaving Val half-crouched in the middle of the street.
She straightened carefully, fully alert now to any other threat. Her pulse pounded, her breathing was suddenly rough and erratic. The driver of the car that had braked was out of his door and headed toward her. She shot him a glare that stopped him cold, well out of arm’s reach.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“No, but I’m not hurt,” she answered.
More help started to arrive, people who had seen the attempted hit-and-run. The whole affair had taken seconds. Val tried to shrug them off, to get away as easily as possible before she ended up having to fill out a police report. She was too busy worrying about what this all meant to be bothered with such nonsense.
Especially since, for a split second before the car launched at her, that weight on her heart, that tiny bit of warning she had been trying to pass off as imagination, had throbbed. It had all happened too fast to be a merely human reaction, but she knew.
She knew she had started to move just before the car did.
Eighteen
Tuesday night and nothing to do.
Griffen sat alone in the Irish pub. It was rare, the pub being so empty. Especially at night. Yet here it was, 10:00 p.m. and he and the bartender were the only occupants. They had both agreed on a Hammer horror-movie fest on one of the movie channels, but then had slipped into silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but still Griffen was searching his mind for a topic, any topic, that could get a decent conversation rolling.
He was saved when the door opened and Flynn strolled in. Griffen noticed with some amusement that Flynn never seemed to dress down. All his clothes were of high quality and, if not tailored for him, of a very good cut. Even at his most casual, his shirts tended to be silk. Griffen waved him over and, relieved to have some company, bought his first drink.
Then silence descended again.
Griffen bristled as Flynn turned his attention to the TV. He hadn’t run into the other dragon often, and still had many questions for him. Especially after his meeting with Estella. It had raised questions not only about the groups at the conclave, but about dragons as well. At least, how dragons seemed to be perceived by others.
It wasn’t till Flynn caught his eye and tossed a glance at the bartender that Griffen caught on. When things were busy and noisy, there wasn’t much problem talking about things that you might not want overheard. In a dead-silent bar, there was no way they could talk dragons or ghosts or shifters without drawing too many questions.
Well, almost no way; this was the Quarter after all. Ghosts and voodoo were common enough. Still, Flynn wasn’t a part of the local scene, so maybe he didn’t realize that. Griffen shrugged inwardly and thought up an easy solution.
“Hey, Flynn, how about a game of pool?” he said.
Flynn turned his attention to the tables and frowned a bit. Seeing his obvious hesitation, Griffen was afraid the silence would win. Flynn looked almost disdainful of the idea.
“Well… how about we make things interesting?” Flynn said.
The bartender stepped up to them.
“Legally, I can’t allow any betting in the bar,” the bartender said. Then he looked around at the emptiness and shrugged, smiling easily. “So keep your money in your pockets and settle up outside, and if anyone comes in, keep your traps shut.”
Griffen nodded his thanks and walked over to the back table. A bit of etiquette he had picked up since coming down to New Orleans. At least in a bar like this one, with two pool tables. If both tables were open, and you chose to shoot on t
he table closest to the bar, it was an invite for the bartender and anyone sitting there to feel free to watch and comment. If you went to the far table, people, bartenders especially, tended to give you your privacy.
Flynn walked over, still seeming reluctant, and started looking through the bar cues for the one that seemed most true. Griffen started to rack.
“Five thousand a game good stakes?” Flynn asked.
Griffen paused with a ball in his hand. He felt like shaking his head to clear his ears, sure he’d heard wrong, and looked up to find Flynn smiling broadly.
“If you don’t feel the pinch, what’s the point of playing?” Flynn said. “Five thousand isn’t much, but it’s enough that losing stings.”
“More than stings,” Griffen said, suddenly a lot more wary.
“I did say we should make it interesting. If you lose, put it down on your taxes as consultant fees.”
Griffen realized that this was more than to make the game worthwhile. Flynn seemed to be testing him, gauging just how much his advice was worth to Griffen. Of course… he just might win.
“Well… all right, but I’m using my stick.”
“Fair enough. I would if I had packed one.”
Flynn selected a stick and began to chalk it while Griffen unlocked one of the small lockers the bar kept for the pool players and began to assemble his cue. A good stick versus bar wood was always an advantage, but Griffen had never seen Flynn shoot and had to assume he was good. Five-thousand-dollars-a-game good.
“Straight or French Quarter League rules?” Flynn asked, surprising Griffen again.
“You know the local league rules?”
“But of course; the ball and hand is a very interesting twist for a position player. You didn’t think this was my first trip to New Orleans, did you?”
“Straight, please,” Griffen said. He had just begun to pick up the league rules and wasn’t confident enough yet to risk it.
“Drop the ‘please.’ You really need to learn to throw your weight around more,” Flynn said. “Especially if you hope to keep control of this conclave.”
“Still not sure how much control a moderator has or is supposed to have.”
“It’s always better to be in control. And it’s always easier to start from a position of control and power than to try to scramble for one when you need it.”
“Yeah but—”
Griffen got cut off as Flynn lined his cue up and broke.
The eight went in the pocket.
Griffen stood there, stunned.
“Another?” Flynn said, exuding confidence while keeping his voice bland and innocent.
Griffen had seen eights sink on the break before. It took both skill and luck, and was something he had never pulled off before. It wasn’t usually repeatable. Usually.
“See,” Flynn said, “now I’m working from a position of power. It makes you hesitate because you aren’t sure just how much power. If you come on strong, others toe the line. Especially if they are already nervous about dealing with a dragon.”
Griffen nodded and began to rack again.
“And what’s to keep them from seeing you as a bully?” Griffen said.
“Why should you care? Beyond it doesn’t matter how they see you. If bullying is what it takes to get the job done, why look for a weaker tool?”
Griffen didn’t have an answer but didn’t like the question. Flynn broke again, this time nothing fell, and Griffen stepped up to the table.
“Why would the other groups out there be so worried about a dragon trying to take them over?” Griffen said.
“They are afraid. Fear makes them stupid. They know dragons could rule if we chose to, and don’t think to ask why we should bother,” Flynn said.
“You really see them as that much less?”
Griffen had a three-ball run, then missed. Flynn stepped up to the table.
“Why wouldn’t I? Shifters, spooks, spell slingers. They don’t have anything we don’t have, and none of them have our power or variety.”
“But within their own sphere aren’t they stronger? Can you take all the different animal forms a chimera can?” Griffen said.
Flynn had a four-ball run, but miscued when Griffen asked that question.
“No, but then I never really got into shape-shifting. I like myself as I am.”
“What about the fairies, the changelings? I haven’t heard about what they can and can’t do.”
“They are letting those nuts in this year? I didn’t know their standards had gotten that lax. Those aren’t fairies, not really. Oh, they claim they are part of them, but have no proof. In fact, I’ve never seen or heard of any real evidence there are fairies,” Flynn said.
Griffen was down to the eight, but the shot was lousy. A bank into the side pocket was his best bet. He missed.
“Okay, the changelings, then. What can they do?”
“Well… okay, you’ve got me on that one. From what I’ve heard on rumor, they have a wide range of powers, but each one has its own unique gifts and styles. Only no one has any proof on whether the stuff is real or some form of hypnosis or illusion. You know the old legends of fairy gold turning to trash in the morning? Same deal. The effects don’t often seem to last.”
“Often?”
“Again, there are rumors of more, but nothing I would put any credit into. Plus everything I’ve heard says they only have limited control over their powers. Kind of flighty and undisciplined. Shouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”
Griffen watched as Flynn put ball after ball away. Including—eventually—the eight. Griffen winced and felt his bank account shrink by another big hunk.
“Another?” Flynn asked.
“Double or nothing?” Griffen said, voice strained.
“Now, why would I let you off the hook that easy? Then you wouldn’t learn anything.”
Flynn grinned, and Griffen found himself racking again. Flynn broke, and again nothing fell. Griffen began to shoot.
“Okay, since my ‘consultant fees’ are mounting up. I’ve been a little worried about security. I can only be in so many places at once. What if something goes wrong?”
“You’ve got a crew, don’t you?”
Griffen winced again, thinking back to his talk with Jerome.
“Let’s just say they are busy elsewhere.”
“Hmm… remember what I said about throwing your weight around? If you are the head dragon, you need to act like it.”
Griffen had run the table. He was aiming on a fairly easy shot on the eight.
“Didn’t I hear a rumor about you and some drug dealers?” Flynn asked.
Griffen miscued, and came close to scratching.
Flynn smiled and stepped back up to the table.
“Only a brief incident,” Griffen said. “Why?”
“Well, seems in this town they would be ideal. Good for thug work. Let’s face it—expendable. And not likely to talk about any weirdness they might see, not to anyone who matters and will listen anyway.”
“I really don’t think I want to end up owing anything to that lot.”
“So make it a cash deal up front, no favors or anything,” Flynn said.
“Well… if things got desperate… maybe,” Griffen said dubiously.
Flynn scratched with two balls left on the table.
“Damn!” he said.
Griffen took the cue and very carefully lined up his shot. He looked at Flynn to see if he was going to speak, then checked his shot again. Much to his relief, he made it.
“Only other option would be some type of tag or mental tracer. An amulet or coded ID badges or something like that,” Flynn said, and began to put his stick back.
“Don’t you want another game?” Griffen said.
“Nope. Always quit while you’re ahead, kid. ‘Thus endeth the lesson.’ ”
Griffen watched Flynn leave the bar. He couldn’t bring himself to be too angry. Back in school he had pulled similar stunts when playing cards.<
br />
He never realized just how it felt.
Nineteen
“ You sure are limber.”
Val jumped. She had been sitting out in the courtyard of her apartment complex, thinking of not very much in particular. It was sunset, fading slowly to night. For once her shift at work had been busy, and she had been enjoying the solitude and a little downtime. Only when she had sat down, no one had been in the complex but her.
She looked around, and a figure slipped out from behind a tree. It was a small woman, slim and attractive. She flowed as she moved, every step natural and smooth, a kind of roll to her hips that would have made Val feel awkward. Then she smiled, and even in the dim light Val recognized that grin.
“You!”
Val stood quickly as she recognized the woman who had tried to run her over. This was the first time she had seen her when the woman wasn’t behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. She looked dangerous, deadly. Something about her made Val’s heart beat a little faster. Perhaps it was those eyes.
They were broken, it was the only word Val had for them. Like stained glass smashed and crushed together. Shining as if backlit and filled with malevolence. Eyes that swept up and down her, appraising, judging,… hating.
“Wow, you are bigger than I thought. A real cow.”
“Why, you little pips—” Val started.
“Little, honey—the Statue of Liberty is ‘little’ compared to you.”
Val was throwing a punch before she had even thought about it, long legs rushing her forward as her fist drove for the woman’s nose.
The hit never landed. She moved so fast Val couldn’t track. It was like trying to punch a single raindrop. The woman crouched, Val’s swing whizzing over her head. She straightened then, and gave a little push to Val’s elbow that twisted the momentum of her missed punch and whirled her about, wrenching her shoulder.
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