Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “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.

  “Okay, but we keep this quiet. You might be all right with breaking the rules, but I’m more in the trenches when it comes to office politics. And, George, no markers if you take the hitter. No cards.”

  “Why?” George asked.


  “Because Flynn was also prying into your other assignment. Apparently ‘someone’ left a Knight of Swords on his door.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “No. No card, George. You are not hunting this man. Don’t poke the bear more than you need to, at least not till we have paper on him.”

  George sighed.

  “You are right. If I interfere, and I haven’t decided I will yet, I will keep it anonymous.”

  “Good . . . thank you. I’ll keep you informed.”

  The phone went dead. George sipped his coffee. He had a minor tinge of guilt. He really shouldn’t have lied to her. But at the very least he had already decided to interfere.

  He’d have to think about a card.

  Thirteen

  Griffen was brooding. He had holed up with a whiskey on the very end of the “family side” of the Irish pub bar. Which meant that other than when the bartender and the occasional person headed to the men’s john, he was left alone with his thoughts.

  Those thoughts were all about the conclave. He had started to feel more and more overwhelmed, a surge of near panic pushing him out of his apartment late afternoon. He just couldn’t seem to get his head straight and was feeling antsy and nervous. Eventually, he had stopped by the A&P and picked up a new notebook and a pen. His plan was to sit at the bar and write out what he knew, and some of his own thoughts. Mostly he was hoping to pin down some thoughts in words he could organize and examine to get his own head straight.

  That notebook was depressingly empty. He had filled up a whole two pages with the various groups supposed to be involved and the little he knew of each thanks to Slim and Flynn. Then he had drawn a blank. His own thoughts were too chaotic to get a toehold on. And he had begun to realize he only had the smallest clue of what actual issues were going to be discussed.

  What was worse, he didn’t quite know what a “moderator” was supposed to do. Was it his job to settle debates? Or just hold the peace? How far was he supposed to go to keep order? Much more, how far was he willing to go? Maybe it was just his mood and Irish, but he was beginning to feel even more lost than he had when he first found out about dragons.

  He was so wrapped up that he didn’t notice Jerome till he was pulling up the stool next to him. Griffen looked up, eyes not quite tracking, then did a double take and smiled. He reached out and shook Jerome’s hand.

  “Hey, Jerome, haven’t seen you around for a couple of days. How are you doing?”

  “Same old, same old, Grifter. You?”

  “Still trying to get my damn head around things. If the others in charge of this conclave are even a third as disorganized as my head right now, it’s going to be a real mess.”

  “Are they keeping you in the dark on purpose?” Jerome asked.

  “Possibly. Been thinking just that. I’ve been wondering if maybe I shouldn’t put word out among our network to keep an eye on the delegates. I mean, if I don’t know what to expect, the more viewpoints the better. We might even have to think about considering security.”

  “Oh, that’s a great idea,” Jerome said.

  His tone was a bit sharp, and, to Griffen’s ear, bitter. Griffen looked over at his friend seriously for the first time. He hadn’t noticed the rings around Jerome’s eyes before, the haggard touches to his features. Jerome looked strained. Angry.

  “Problem, Jerome?”

  “Look, we got some of the best watchers, shills, dealers, and the rest I ever did meet. Our operation is tops, but it’s not designed for that sort of work. We don’t have much in the way of thugs, and what we do have is tied up on the regular games.”

  Griffen closed his notebook and took a sip of his Irish.

  “You’re right.” He nodded to Jerome. “I hadn’t thought of things that way.”

  “Yeah . . . I noticed.”

  If anything, the tone was sharper this time.

  “Okay, Jerome, you are right, I admit it. Still you’re pissed. What am I missing?”

  “Damn it, Griffen, what aren’t you missing? When was the last time you asked, or even thought, about the operation you are supposed to be running? Your head’s been so wrapped up in this conclave that the only time you think of us is when you need us for it.”

  “Whoa, whoa. You haven’t come to me with anything either.”

  Jerome’s hands clenched for a moment, as if he wanted to do something but was restraining himself. He nodded.

  “Sure, boss, sure. I ain’t brought much to your attention. When you first started, I had to, but then you started asking for regular reports and things got covered when you asked. Then Rose comes along and . . . hell, there hasn’t been anything I couldn’t handle on my own, so I let you work through things. But, still, you’ve gots a job to do. It ain’t a nine-to-five like some people, but it’s what pays your rent and puts food on your table and whiskey in your glass all the same.”

  Griffen didn’t hip-shoot that. Though a part of him wanted to say it was a job he never asked for, but that was a small, small part that he was immediately ashamed of. Jerome and Mose had done a lot for him, did a lot for him. He wasn’t all too sure he’d still be alive if not for them. He certainly wouldn’t have been living comfortably in his new favorite place on earth.

  “Again, you’re right,” Griffen said finally.

  “Go on, I’m listening.” Jerome took a sip from his drink, and it was clear to Griffen he was finally working to control his voice.

  “I’ve been getting tunnel vision. And I’m sorry for that. I won’t say I’m totally to blame, but next time you have my permission to give me a kick in the ass if you have business I need to be attending to.”

  “Want to make that an order, boss?”

  Jerome smiled, and Griffen found himself returning it. Despite the frustration both felt, they were friends.

  “An order for the next butt-kicking sure. Not an order for all time,” Griffen said.

  “Damn, guess I’ll have to make the most of it.”

  Jerome clapped Griffen on the back, and some of the tension eased from his face. Griffen hadn’t really realized how much this had been on Jerome’s mind, and with that realization came a need to understand more. As tempting as it was to let things slide and go back to their drinks, Griffen pressed on.

  “You aren’t happy that I agreed to Rose’s favor, are you?” Griffen said.

  “Not without knowing a lot more, no. That was risky and foolish, and you of all people should know better. Besides, I’ve got to ask myself, where is our end? What do you or your people get out of sticking your nose in a mess of folks that we haven’t ever dealt with in the past?” Jerome asked.

  “Just because you haven’t dealt with them doesn’t mean we won’t have to someday,” Griffen said.

  “Sooner rather than later now that you are on their radar.”

  “Now that I’ve been thinking on it, dragon or no dragon, I think if I wasn’t already on some of their radars, Rose wouldn’t have come to me. One thing I hope to gain out of this whole mess is to find out how the rest of the world responds to dragons, and me specifically.”

  Now it was Jerome’s turn to stop and think.

  “Well now, I can’t say that’s not something worth learning. But it seems an awful little reward for what could be an awful lot of trouble.”

  “Maybe you’re right a third time. Has Mose been feeling the same way?” Griffen asked.

  “Hell if I know.” Jerome lost what good cheer he had gained. “He’s been worse than you. I go to him with something, and he says ‘run it past Griffen’ or ‘that should be Griffen’s baby.’ Between the two of you, I’ve been the one left trying to hold things together. And I’m too small a fish, or I wouldn’t have backed you for the frickin’ job.”

  “Nice to be appreciated,” Griffen said.

  “Yeah, well, if you want to make it up to me, you’ll go brace Mose on it. I want to know the lay of the land before we get hit with anything too big to handle.”

  Griffen sighed and nodde
d. He had already planned to go see Mose soon. Now he had better questions.

  Conclave pushed aside for the moment, Griffen’s head was beginning to clear.

  Fourteen

  Mai was bored.

  She was sitting in her apartment, staring out the window into her semiprivate courtyard. Her apartment was opulent, one of the higher-end condos in the Quarter. Fully furnished, secure, in the heart of the action. It even came with off-the-street parking, which she wasn’t using because she rarely enjoyed driving. She enjoyed being driven.

  Her gaze kept drifting to the phone. She should call someone, check on . . . things. Yet every time she picked the phone up, she would stare at it for a few moments and invariably put it down. She knew what answers she would hear. Positive responses. Positive, but predictable. There just didn’t seem to be any point.

  She stared out the window.

  She just couldn’t help herself. She was simply used to a more active lifestyle than she was finding in the Quarter. Oh, the nightlife was good, and the shopping okay, but she didn’t know what to do with herself. Mai had always thought of herself as a big-city girl, and in so many ways the Quarter and those in it had a small-town mentality. Oh, there was a city wrapped around it, but it was just another city, nothing special.

  Looking back on things, she realized she had started to grow listless and that the boredom had been creeping up on her for quite some time. Back before Griffen had known about being a dragon even. Michigan had just not been her style, though she had gone for more day trips than Griffen would ever realize. Her family’s money had made a jaunt to New York or even farther no problem. Sometimes those trips had just been for fun, sometimes to report in.

  That was the real kicker. Back then she had felt more active, more involved with her little espionage role. Her family might have seen it as a lesser post for a somewhat difficult girl-child, but she had seen potential in Griffen even then. She had had a lot of fun plotting and planning for possible contingencies. Now that her plans were set in motion, she was in waiting mode. So much had to simmer and stew, so much had yet to come to a head.