“Ooo, I can beat you up any day!” Robin said, and swung at him, almost dumping herself out of her chair.
He caught her and steadied her, with what Griffen noticed was much practice.
“Come on, dear. We’ve got a big week ahead of us.”
He gently pulled her to her feet, and despite her protests, she didn’t fight him too hard. Griffen had to shake his head and smile.
“Good night, you two.”
“Good night, Griffen,” Hobb said.
“It’s not a good night if I’m only going home with one of you.” Robin pouted but winked at Griffen.
For all her talk, it was clear she didn’t mean it. It was actually a nice change for him. He waved as the two walked out the door, and took the opportunity to hit the sandbox.
When he came out again, the bartender was waiting by his seat.
“Hey, Griffen, should your two friends be headed toward Rampart?”
“Not that I know of, why?”
“ ’Cause they stopped on the corner and looked both ways like they were confused. Thought you might want to go make sure they weren’t lost. Play wingman maybe.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll be back soon.”
Griffen headed out the door and started toward Rampart. It wasn’t after midnight yet, so he didn’t worry too much, but the bartender was right. It was best to check. If it hadn’t been a busy night, the bartender would probably have done it himself.
Griffen heard the shouts from a block away.
“Get the fuck away from her!” Hobb shouted.
“Stop!” screamed Robin.
Griffen was running.
Robin was down on the ground, a hand cupped to her face. Two black kids, both taller than the two changelings, were closing on Hobb. One held Robin’s purse.
Griffen was still a half a block away when one of the muggers hit Hobb in the nose. Blood sprayed, spattering both of them. The other fisted him somewhere in the torso. Hobb raised an arm to ward them off, but he clearly had no fighting experience. Another hit to the head sent him down to the pavement.
One of the muggers seemed to be reaching for something at his waistband.
“Stop! Police!” Griffen shouted.
The muggers didn’t look up. They just turned and ran.
Griffen almost chased after them but stopped instead next to the fallen couple. He started to reach down to help Hobb up.
He half jumped back when the changeling screamed like a trapped animal and scrabbled away from him.
“Hobb… Hobb! It’s me, Griffen.”
“Mr. Griffen, stop,” Robin said. She was on her feet. Her cheek seemed to already be swelling.
Griffen stopped, holding his hands out to his sides.
“It’s okay, Hobb. I’m not going to hurt you,” Griffen said.
Hobb got shakily to his feet, blood was running down from his nose. More blood than Griffen would have expected. It covered his shirt.
“That’s pretty much the opposite of what he was worried about,” Robin said. “Hobb was born cursed… It’s the blood, you see.”
Griffen stared from one to the other, not comprehending. Hobb sniffed, and pulled out a wad of napkins from his pocket. He started to plug up his nose.
His eyes were very sad. Griffen would have expected fear or anger. Not that.
“Those muggers,” Hobb said. “They won’t be waking up happy… or maybe at all.”
Griffen began to remember something important. Something he had forgotten when dealing with these boisterous changelings.
Every fairy tale has its dark side.
Twenty-seven
It had started simply enough. Things seemed to these days, then grew out of control. Griffen and Mai had been enjoying a friendly chat with Maestro on the “family side” of the bar at the Irish pub. The conversation had been light, mostly a criticism of the current coach of the Saints, and hopes that next season would be better.
“They still have a shot this year of course,” Maestro was saying.
There was a glint to his eye that had Griffen pretty sure he was just playing devil’s advocate. More and more he was liking the company at the Irish pub. Maestro was a perfect example. Always ready to talk movies or sports with his fellow Michigander, and very good about not prying into personal areas. Griffen rose to the bait.
“They haven’t won a game yet,” he said.
“Didn’t they win one or two at least?” Mai put in.
“Those were preseason games,” Griffen said.
“But the season is still early. Never know what’s going to happen,” Maestro said.
“Still… it just isn’t the same as college football,” Griffen put in.
The doors of the pub opened, and a noticeable lull fell on the place. That wasn’t a common occurrence at the Irish pub. Everyone noticed newcomers, especially strangers, but usually there wasn’t much in the way of reaction. Tourists did find their way off Bourbon Street now and again after all.
This group was different. Griffen had never seen five people look more out of place. It wasn’t anything about their appearance. Each was dressed in fairly upscale business attire, except one woman in a clingy dress of a deep burgundy red. They seemed a little pale perhaps, their eyes a bit sunken, as if they had just woken up. That wasn’t the problem, though. In the Quarter, where a good number of people didn’t wake till after noon and rarely if ever saw the sunlight, those sorts of qualities went largely unnoticed.
They just didn’t belong, and he was hard-pressed to think of anywhere they might belong. A funeral parlor perhaps. Griffen didn’t know what he was looking at, but he was sure he didn’t like it.
A cloud hung over them, he decided. Griffen had never seen a person, much less a group, who better fit the old expression. It was like an aura of dampness surrounded them, not malicious or volatile. More like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating.
All around the bar, conversations died off. Smiles slipped from faces. A few of the moodier drunks hunched over a bit more into their beers. One of the video poker machine addicts spilled his drink. In a few moments, over half the bar was silent and either casting sidelong glances at the group or staring openly.
What Griffen noticed most, though, was that they waited until they had at least that much attention before moving into the bar enough even for the door to close behind them. They had stood there for those few moments, almost posing, then they’d advanced toward a few empty seats at the front of the bar. Those people sitting on the edges of the gap seemed to edge away unconsciously, one even scooting his stool a few inches to the side.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Wine, white,” said one who looked just a bit more pallid and clammy than the rest.
The others nodded, and the woman in the burgundy dress took a step forward and leaned against the bar, displaying her not-inconsiderable cleavage.
“And a man,” she said.
The bartender, a French Quarter veteran, began to pour the drinks with only a brief glance at the woman’s charms. That glance was actually closer to a glare, and his tone was a bit hard as he set out the drinks.
“We dispense alcohol, not people. If you really think this is that kind of bar, maybe we should put these in plastic,” he said.
The first man who spoke grabbed the woman’s elbow and pulled her back away from the bar. He moved to sit in one of the empty stools and shot her a brief warning glance. Griffen thought he felt the “cloud” of the group thicken somehow.
“Please forgive Vera; she misspoke.”
“Like hell I did, Lowell,” Vera growled behind him.
“We are looking for a Griffen McCandles. We were told he drinks here often,” Lowell said.
That confirmed what Griffen had been afraid of. Even sitting across the room from the group, that one spat of infighting had given him the hunch that these must be more conclave delegates. Even though it had already officially started, he had been warned that a few mor
e might trickle in.
Of course, that left the question of what they were. A different type of changeling? They certainly didn’t have the… enthusiasm that the others he met had. That snap would have fit right in with some of the shifters he had met. Griffen was about to rise and go meet them when someone put a restraining hand on his arm.
Surprisingly it was Maestro. Even more surprising, to Griffen, was the bartender’s reaction.
“Who’s that, then?” he said.
The man, Lowell, reared back. There was no other word for it; his head jerked back and his body followed, like a cobra about to spread its hood. The others in his group, including Vera, began to spread out a little.
“I understood that he is here almost nightly, and well-known among the regulars,” Lowell said.
“You sure you got the right bar? I don’t know of any Gregory Candles at this place,” said the bartender.
“Not Gregory, Griffen,” Lowell said, blood starting to rush to his pale cheeks.
“They actually name guys Gordon anymore? Poor man.
That’ll be $32.50 for the drinks, by the way,” the bartender said, and moved away to another customer.
Lowell stared at the bartender’s back, mouth hanging open and gaping like a fish. All around the bar, people went back to their conversations, some of them with smirks on their faces. Griffen, now warned off, didn’t stare any more, or obviously less, than anyone else in the bar.
“Back to what you were saying, I sure do miss the spirit back in college ball. Not just the fans, the players. Those kids were hungry,” Maestro said.
“That’s one word for it.” Griffen nodded, as he kept one ear fixed on the group across the bar.
“Oh, good job, Lowell. That was just marvelous work,” Vera was saying.
“Shut up,” another said to the woman.
They began to square off.
“Both of you shut up,” Lowell said.
The man looked down immediately, Vera took a few more moments and glared resentfully at Lowell. Griffen was making a quick study of the group dynamics. Something about them kept tugging at his memory, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what. He was pretty sure they weren’t shifters, at least not any type he could name. Some sort of human magic user he hadn’t met? Sure didn’t have the feel of the voodoo or wicca.
“If you think you can do better,” Lowell said, “be my guest.”
From the way Vera smiled, Griffen knew that was absolutely the wrong thing for Lowell to say. She was a person who always thought she could do better.
“Excuse me!” she called out.
Her voice was loud enough to cut through the conversation and bar music. More than that, though, her own personal cloud changed. The air seemed to thicken, choking and hot. Hotter and harsher than the aura that had surrounded the group. In fact, the others around Vera seemed to back away from her slightly, wrapping themselves in their overall damp aura as a form of protection. It wasn’t the air as much as the atmosphere, the… vibes. Griffen began to wonder if they were some form of psychic.
To make the tension more acute, there was a… hole in the sensations above Vera herself. It was as if she were an oasis, a spot of light in the darkness. That more than her voice dragged the attention of most of the bar back to her. There were a few men, whom Griffen knew had been having hard times, who stared at her like men in a desert who had just stumbled upon a glass of water.
When she was sure she had the bar’s attention she smiled, and the air thickened more. The sensation was unbearable to Griffen, and he had to wonder why no one else seemed to notice that something was wrong. Only Mai held an expression that indicated she was aware of being manipulated and not liking it one bit.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, please, if anyone could point me to Griffen McCandles, I would be very thankful. We merely have business to discuss with him.”
A man spoke, one of those who had looked at Vera most intently. He and Griffen had only met in passing, but Griffen had heard that he had recently lost his wife. She had been a crack addict, and after her third time in rehab, he had lost her. Under the weight of whatever Vera was doing, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Did you say Griffen McCandles?” he asked.
“Yes, I did indeed,” Vera purred.
Griffen braced himself for the end of the charade.
“Sure I know Griffen McCandles,” the man said, and took a long pull on his beer. “Man owes me two hundred dollars. I heard he had skipped town.”
Vera deflated, slumping, the smile falling from her face. With the change, the aura through the room changed, crashing back into a damp depression like that the group had when they first walked in. Only more intense. Griffen almost spoke out to stop the wave that passed over his bar.
“Vera,” Lowell snapped. “Enough, this won’t do us any good. We will simply meet with McCandles elsewhere.”
He reached out and took her elbow again. On contact, the overpowering feeling in the bar faded, receding back to the cloud hovering just over the small group. Not a few people gave unconscious shudders of relief, or knocked back drinks just a bit faster than they usually did.
Lowell pulled out his wallet and put a fifty on the bar. The bartender spared him another glance. He had kept an eye on the situation but hadn’t seemed to get captivated by Vera as some had.
“If Mr. McCandles should”—Lowell glanced at the man who had answered Vera—“return to town, please do tell him we came looking.”
“Sure thing, but you’ll be leaving now,” the bartender said.
Lowell nodded and hustled Vera out the door; the others followed, pale shadows.
“Fucking vampires,” Mai whispered so low only Griffen heard her.
Griffen jerked his eyes to hers, and she nodded. Suddenly a lot clicked into place for him. At least about the group. He had been told there were vampires who fed off depression and emotions and could influence and create those emotions. He never thought it would be anything like that, though.
“ ’Scuse me, lover,” Mai said. “Sandbox break. Always feel the need to splash a little water over my face after something like that.”
Griffen nodded, and she stood and walked over to the ladies’ room. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mai that frazzled. She even stumbled and had to catch herself on one of the video poker machines. The player reached out to steady her, but she waved him off and went into the bathroom.
Vampires. They weren’t supposed to be at the conclave, and now he understood why. Griffen had seen some odd things lately, but nothing that had felt so… wrong. What sort of defense was there for most people against something they didn’t even realize was happening?
For that matter he still didn’t quite understand how the bar had reacted.
“Didn’t expect you to seem so surprised, McCandles. Not after being in the Quarter a few months,” Maestro said.
“What do you mean?” Griffen said.
“Hell, a group of outsiders come in looking for someone that they can’t even spot in a crowd? You think they are going to get an answer? The circle forms with the horns out, I know you’ve been told that,” Maestro said.
“Yeah, but I hadn’t seen it like this. I mean, that guy doesn’t know me from Adam,” Griffen said.
“He’s seen you, here and often enough. He ain’t ever seen them before. That’s all it takes down here,” Maestro said, then with a bit of a smile; “Of course, wouldn’t hurt to buy him a drink in thanks.”
Twenty-eight
Mose was tired.
He was tired more often lately. He hardly ever went out anymore. Even then, it was usually just for a stroll or a brief chat with old friends. He had fewer old friends around, and those he did have… Well, he had been in the area too long. They had gotten older; he had started old and stayed that way forever. Or so it seemed to them.
And that age? Mostly only showed on the face and hands. His body was still strong enough that he sure didn’t worry about his
safety when he did go out. Sometimes he even left his gate ajar. Not often, he wasn’t often that stupid. Just if he got into a mood. In case someone should try something. A bit of exercise and entertainment. Oh yes, his body was fit, just tired.
There was no doubt about it, he thought wryly, his ass was dragon.
He did keep active though, in his way. It was just that as time went on, he had learned to conserve his energy. These days he had taken up drawing again. He didn’t think he had much talent, but a dragon’s eye and a few centuries of off-and-on practice can do wonders.
He was sitting outside, enjoying the late-afternoon sun, a tall glass of lemonade beside him and a small drawing notebook in his hand. He felt like one of those old men he used to laugh at when he was younger. Except old men in his day didn’t draw. They worked, hard. They played chess. Sometimes they whittled.
He heard the gate open and looked up to see Griffen coming in. The boy was one of the most powerful young dragons he had ever met. Stronger and more varied now as an amateur than Mose had been during his heyday.
Yet he walked toward him hesitantly, almost sheepishly. His whole body language was unsure. Mose had Jerome’s reports that outside, when dealing with others, Griffen was more confident. With his friends he was comfortable. When he had to, he stood as a leader, as a dragon among men. It was only with Mose, and from reports perhaps with Flynn, that he became more meek, nearly subservient.
All the more reason for Mose to back away.
“I started to use my key, but it was unlatched,” Griffen said.
“I like to let the sounds of the street drift in now and again,” Mose said blandly.
“Mind if I pull up a chair?”
“Not a’tall.”
Griffen dragged over the other outdoor chair Mose had for company. Mose would have offered him some lemonade, but it would have meant sending him in for a glass. Too much like sending him off like a servant for the conversation Mose suspected they were about to have.
The two sat in silence for some time. It was a comfortable enough silence, the sounds of the city a soft susurrus around them. Mose felt Griffen’s eagerness but wouldn’t rush him. He never rushed.
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