Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “Which is, of course, exactly what you are trying to do,” George spat back.

  Mai shrugged and waited.

  “Very well,” George said finally. “If Flynn wants to play with vampires, it shouldn’t be too hard to get him stumbling over his own toys. But I’m doing this because it will irritate the overgrown set of matched luggage.”

  Mai bowed her head without taking her eyes off his.

  “It never entered my mind that you might be doing it for me.”

  “Good. You won’t see me in the Irish pub again. Do not look for me elsewhere.”

  “Why? Rumor had it you never hunted someone you didn’t have a contract on.”

  “Unless I deem them a threat. Besides, so far I’m not truly hunting Flynn. But let us keep that between you and me.”

  “Of course. If you’ll answer me one question.”

  George paused again, considering.

  “Depends on the question,” he said.

  “I watched you in the pub, when you thought you were invisible. If a dragon is a dragon, why do your eyes seem to show you to be warming up to Griffen?”

  He hesitated a beat too long, and Mai knew his answer would be a lie.

  “All part of the disguise. I never assume no one is watching.”

  With that he turned and, in an eyeblink, a large dog was running off into the night. Mai watched him go, extending her senses to the utmost to make as sure as possible that he didn’t circle around to follow her. When she could no longer perceive him even distantly, she started back to her apartment.

  “Well, that’s him aimed properly, then,” she said to herself.

  About a block away she paused and clenched her fists as a wave of frustration passed through her.

  “And one day, I’ll figure out how the damned chimeras don’t ruin their clothes in a shift. All the bloody designer outfits I’ve shredded over the years . . . gah!”

  Mai stomped the minor frustration off, and by the time she reached her apartment she was once again basking in a job well-done.

  Twenty-five

  Griffen had picked up a tail.

  Thankfully, this time it wasn’t of the green, scaly variety. That had only happened a few times, and always unexpectedly. Being followed, however, that was becoming far too common for his liking. Since moving to New Orleans, he had been followed by everything from federal agents to a cockroach. Not that he was entirely sure there was a great gap between the two.

  This was different, though. Even when Homeland Security had been keeping an eye on him thanks to the interference of a dragon named Stoner, Griffen had been able to identify his watchers with only a bit of effort. This time, try as he might, he had yet to catch a glimpse of whoever, or whatever, was following him. He just knew they were there. It was as if he could feel eyes always on him.

  Whoever his tail was, they were disturbingly good.

  He had first noticed it early that afternoon. He had gone out a little early to check his public mailbox on Royal Street. There hadn’t been anything interesting, and when he came out, he first picked up the “watched” sensation. Looking around, he saw no people paying him attention nor any cockroaches or big shaggy dogs.

  Griffen was learning more and more to listen to his instincts and senses. Though he grew increasingly sure he was being watched, he didn’t really feel any sense of threat. To play it safe, instead of going home as he planned, he swung down to Decatur Street to check out the DVD releases at Tower Books.

  His new stalker followed, Griffen was sure of that, but again he couldn’t catch sight of them. He picked up a few DVDs he had been wanting anyway and thought about some of Padre’s advice concerning tails. One line particularly came to mind—change your routine. So where Griffen normally would have taken a right on Chartres and gone down to his place, he went left and popped into a two-story bookstore that he was fond of.

  Griffen thought maybe if anyone followed him in, he could catch them in the stacks. He waited and listened, but no one came in. Not once did the bell over the door chime. And still he felt someone was watching, as if someone were right behind him, breathing down his neck.

  A bit nervous now, he touched the beads around his neck, the ones given to him by Rose. He was beginning to wonder if she, or one of her ghostly friends, was the cause for all this. But he had never felt her as a presence before. Always when they interacted, she was just there, seeming solid and alive.

  Without really thinking about it, Griffen pulled a small book off the shelf and went to the counter. He hated leaving a place without buying something, and he wanted to maintain an illusion of a fairly normal round of shopping. Just in case his pursuer hadn’t yet realized that Griffen had noticed them.

  By now Griffen was more than a little edgy. He really didn’t like the constant attention and intrusions that he had been forced to accept since learning of dragons. Keeping his route different from his usual, he headed over to Royal. He picked up his pace, hoping to force his watcher to do the same. Then he abruptly ducked into Pirates Alley, a narrow walkway leading to Jackson Square.

  He stopped dead, hoping to catch whoever was behind him as they rounded the corner. His back almost against the wall, keeping himself shielded from Royal Street as much as possible, he waited, sure that he would at least get a glimpse of them.

  And waited. Senses stretched to the utmost. Ears and eyes fixed intently, trying to take in everything in front of him.

  ...And waited some more.

  Griffen’s shoulders slumped. Nothing, nobody. Not even a bug or cat or anything. He started to scold himself in his thoughts, sure now that he had just imagined the whole affair.

  “Aren’t you going to do anything interesting?” a voice said, from a half foot behind him.

  Griffen whirled at the sound. Later, when his heart wasn’t pounding away in his throat, he was sure he would be embarrassed by just how high he’d jumped. He had been so utterly intent on the street in front of him that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching him.

  Of course, looking at him, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have heard anyway. It was one of the changelings. The young boy who even in daylight was androgynous enough to be mistaken for a girl. He blinked at Griffen with an oddly mixed expression, curiosity and disappointment.

  “You’ve been following me?” Griffen said.

  “All day! I figured a dragon would do something better than shop for movies and books. Don’t you do anything interesting?” the changeling said.

  “Well, the Quarter doesn’t really start to liven up till sun-down . . .” Griffen started, cutting off when he realized he was defending himself to a stalker. “You shouldn’t have snuck up on me, sc . . . startled me half to death.”

  “You really shouldn’t admit to being scared. Some of us, we are scared all the time, but we don’t admit it. That just gets you targeted.”

  Griffen looked at the young man, who seemed no more than fourteen. Slim had mentioned that the changelings were older than they looked, but that comment clinched it. Even in a lilting prepubescent voice, it betrayed experience and even wisdom a fourteen-year-old would never have.

  “Look . . . I don’t think I got your name when we first met.”

  “Because Tink didn’t do the formal introductions. We are fey stock, for cryin’ out loud, and everyone got so excited about meeting a dragon that we skipped the basics. It’s why I thought I’d come find you myself, see if you lived up to the fuss.”

  Griffen noticed he still hadn’t told him his name.

  “Missed the mark, did I?” Griffen said.

  “No, didn’t mean anything like that, Mr. McCandles,” he said hastily. “We are only here ’cause of you; a dragon makes us feel safe. Feel important. Besides, you picked up on me following you. Most wouldn’t.”

  “How did you manage to trail me so well?” Griffen said.

  “Oh, I can see a little farther than my eyes is all. You felt my gaze even though I was a good four blocks away all the time. Have t
o say, your tactics are pretty good. Even most of the shape-shifters would have been caught.”

  Now the changeling sounded full of admiration. Griffen was beginning to realize that balanced emotions were not going to be this bunch’s hallmark.

  “Though your taste in movies stinks. Picking up Stooges when they had Marx Brothers? Really.”

  “I already have all the Marx Brothers. Stooges were lower on my list,” Griffen said.

  “Well, that’s all right, then. But if anyone puts out Ritz Brothers on DVD, I’m going to have to start looking into some heavy-duty curses. Some things are better left dead.”

  Griffen shook his head and decided this conversation needed a radical switch.

  “Shouldn’t you be with Tink? Where is he?”

  “Oh, umm . . . let me check.”

  Before Griffen could answer the young-seeming man’s eyes went cloudy. Not unfocused, but actual clouds seemed to roll over them, a thin layer of fog appearing to hover just a centimeter over the eyes themselves. Condensation started to form on the ends of his lashes.

  “Damn . . . he is heading toward your Irish pub that you didn’t meet us at last time. From his expression, he’s looking for me through you. I think I’m going to go hide now.”

  “No, you don’t,” Griffen said firmly.

  The changeling’s eyes snapped back into focus, the fog dissipating. He blinked, and small drops flew from his lashes, looking a bit like tears on his cheeks. It was so slight a physical sign that Griffen could doubt he had even seen it and knew anyone who wasn’t looking for something magical would just overlook it. It was something very outside his experience, both from before and after he had started to learn of dragons. He was beginning to be impressed by the changelings.

  “Fine, if we hurry we can get there before him. Guess I could use a drink.”

  With that, the changeling walked past him and turned toward Toulouse. Having made a decision, he moved without hesitation, practically bouncing along at a pace that Griffen had to hurry a bit to keep up with. Griffen shook his head again and hurried.

  Sure enough, they beat Tink to the bar, though Griffen wasn’t sure how. Then again, he wasn’t sure how the fogged-over vision of the changeling with him really worked. The two sidled up to the mostly empty bar, and the bartender stared at them.

  “Sorry, Griffen,” the bartender said. “Friend or yours or no, I got to card him.”

  The changeling was already holding out an ID.

  “Every friggin’ time,” he muttered.

  The bartender looked over the card carefully, even running his nail over the seams and texture, then shrugged and went to pour their drinks. While he was a bit out of earshot, the changeling leaned over to Griffen.

  “It’s not the ID that’s the problem, it’s replacing them every ten years or so. No one would buy the right birth date, and unlike some, I don’t have enough glamour to do up a fake on the spot.”

  It was then that Tink came in, surrounded by the rest of the changelings. He stopped in the door, the rest gathering tightly around him like a flock of nervous geese, and his expression wasn’t happy. He moved forward again, glaring at Griffen’s companion.

  “Hey, big man,” the changeling said as he approached. “You forgot to do intros last time.”

  Tink stopped again, and his expression surprised Griffen. He looked startled, even embarrassed. It was very much the look of someone who had just had an obvious oversight pointed out to him. Griffen hadn’t expected it to be a big deal.

  “That’s no call for going off and bothering our host.” Tink tried, but Griffen didn’t think his heart was in it.

  “You didna’ say I couldna’,” the changeling said.

  Griffen didn’t have enough experience with accents, but the one the boy suddenly adopted sounded an odd blend of Scottish and Irish. Again, it drew Tink up short and made Griffen wonder if there was more going on here. Was it a quote from somewhere perhaps?

  “True enough,” Tink said. “Mr. McCandles. If I may introduce you to my companions as they are currently called. This is Nyx, Robin, Hobb, and Tammy.”

  He pointed out each in turn. Nyx was the young woman with the piercings who had changed Griffen’s drink. Robin and Hobb had to be a couple from the way they seemed to always be holding hands. Tammy was the coltish, attractive young girl Griffen had noticed earlier. She shot a sour look at Tink and stepped toward Griffen, taking a bit of a breath to swell her modest chest.

  “That’s Tamlin, Mr. Dragon,” she said.

  “Tammy suits you so much better,” Nyx said.

  Tammy, which Griffen had to admit was a better name for the young blonde, shot the other a dirty look and took a step back to rejoin the group.

  “And that is ‘Griffen’ please,” Griffen said, still wincing over “Mr. Dragon.”

  “And he skipped me over, punishment for bothering you, Mr. McCandles.”

  That was from the changeling who had been following Griffen. Sure enough, Tink had skipped him over. Again, Griffen wasn’t sure why. As the changeling took a sip of his drink and held out a hand, he had a bit of a smirk.

  “They call me Drake,” he said.

  Griffen shook his hand.

  “I notice you all say that is how you are called. May I ask why?” Griffen said.

  Tink took a seat at the bar, leaving Griffen between him and Drake, with the rest all milling about on their feet. He signaled the bartender and ordered for himself. He had to wave twice to get the man’s attention. On an afternoon shift with the bar still nearly empty. Griffen had already noticed the bartender and the other few patrons weren’t paying any attention to them. By now, he just assumed it was the changelings’ influence.

  Once Tink had his drink, he explained.

  “It’s tradition and magic. Never give out your true name, or secret name. Most changelings pick or find or are given a name that they use in public. Many ritually discover a secret name as well, which they adopt as their ‘true name,’ ignoring whatever their human parents saddled them with. A lot of us grab our names from mythology, or popular media,” Tink said.

  “So why can’t I be Tamlin?” Tammy put in.

  “Because he was a man, and, by most reports, human. And Tammy just fits too damn well,” Tink said.

  “You said ‘human parents’? From the little I’ve been told, you don’t think you come from humans?” Griffen asked.

  “Not really. The current belief is that we are left behind by the fey for reasons known only to them. Mostly it’s believed we are half-human half-fey, products of seduction or worse. Since no one’s reported seeing a fey in ages, it’s kinda hard to confirm, but changelings keep popping up. Usually to parents with next to no magical background,” Tink said.

  “Hence shunning the birth name and taking on new names?” Griffen said.

  “Not quite,” Drake put in. “See, that fits in this day with the current trend of rebellious angsty teenagers. Most of us are from a generation that still respects parents. Parents who could never understand, or deal with, a magical child. Think of it as adopted children who found out the parents who raised them aren’t really theirs. All sorts of mixed reactions depending on the child. Still doesn’t change all the history and love that takes place in the sixteen or so years it takes a parent to change a baby into an adult.”

  “And then there are a few, very few, who are found by other changelings and taught what they are from early on,” Tink said. “Myself included, which is why I feel responsibility to do the same for others and took on my current role.”

  “The rest of us had to find our way, to find others like us.”

  That was from Hobb. The young man squeezed the girl’s, Robin’s, hand and smiled affectionately. Griffen had to smile, too.

  “Okay, so what about actual full-blown fairies, then?” he said.

  “What about full-blown dragons?” Tink said. Then he shrugged and went on. “Depends who you ask. Historians tend to put it all down to a few tribes in Ir
eland who disappeared when the Romans were smashing the crap out of the Celts. But the way they tell it, they were just primitive nature-worshipping humans who hid in the woods real well. Which is about as satisfying and truthful as saying all dragons are big ravening lizards hungry for virgin flesh.”

  “So a kernel of truth hiding something a whole lot deeper?” Griffen said.

  “That’s what we figure; otherwise, where did we come from? But a lot of that is faith. We don’t know. There never have been lines of changelings. No history passed down from father to son. And no big, winged sprite popping up and saying ‘Hey kids, where the hell have you been?’ It’s one of the reasons we get so clingy, with ourselves and each other.”

  Tink looked up from his drink.

  “Sorry, Mr. McCandles, we shouldn’t be bending your ear,” he said.

  “No, no, I’m fascinated. I want to know as much as possible about every group attending,” Griffen assured him. “And remember, ‘Mr. McCandles’ isn’t necessary. Just Griffen.”

  “Sure thing. Anyway, we should be going. See you at the opening ceremonies.”

  Tink stood and gathered up the others. Drake was the last to follow, finishing his drink and stopping just briefly for a parting comment to Griffen.

  “Interesting choice at the bookstore by the way,” Drake said.

  As soon as the changelings had left, the bartender noticed that Griffen’s drink was empty. Of course it had been empty for some time, but Griffen made no comment as he got it refilled. He did reach down to his bags and pull out the book he had hastily purchased earlier. He laughed softly to himself.

  “Figures,” he said.

  A copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Twenty-six

  Forget the one about the rabbi and a priest. If there wasn’t a joke that starts, “Two fairies walk into a bar,” there should have been.

  That was the thought that went through Griffen’s head when the doors to the Irish pub swung open and two of the changelings came in. So he was failing to suppress a smile when they approached him, which was probably not the best of facial expressions. The younger of the two practically bounced up and down, a foolish grin spreading over her face. Again, he was reminded of a pack of puppies, and was glad that this time there were only the two.