The younger-appearing one, who was all smiles and giddy energy at being greeted with a smile, was called Robin. She was probably the most attractive of the bunch, though she looked young for her seeming age. Almost too young for Griffen’s tastes, but she did have a certain allure about her. Another bad joke popped into his head, something about making the puppy’s tail wag.
Sometimes Griffen just couldn’t help himself.
The other one had introduced himself as Hobb. He was one of the more sedate and inward-directed in the group. He still smiled broadly at Griffen, but where Robin threw her arms around Griffen and hugged him before he could react, Hobb seemed hesitant even to shake his hand. Nervous, like he was afraid of being burned.
Robin and Hobb very much had that couple feeling. Though from the way Robin was squeezing Griffen and pressing her slender curves against him, he had to assume it was an open couple. Especially since Hobb showed no sign of jealousy at all. Actually, except for the smiles, Griffen found himself having a hard time reading the changelings. As if their emotions and thoughts were different from his experience, subtly . . . alien.
“Pull up a couple of chairs,” Griffen said, prying Robin off him.
He half suspected she’d jump in his lap if a chair wasn’t available.
“It’s good to see you here again, Mr. McCandles,” Hobb said.
The young man pulled up a couple of spare chairs and held one out for Robin. She hopped into it and leaned back to give him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled, and the smile wasn’t puppyish at all, before taking his own seat. Definitely the couple vibe, Griffen thought again.
“How many times do I have to tell people? You can call me Griffen,” Griffen said.
“I knew a gryphon once,” Robin said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, but he was just a chick. Wings had barely grown in at all,” she said.
Griffen stared at the fairly spacey young woman. It didn’t help that her voice was soft and childlike, too. It was a Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. For the life of him Griffen didn’t know how to respond to such a comment.
Hobb noticed and chuckled to himself. He put a hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“I told you, a baby gryphon is called a cub, not a chick,” he said.
“But they hatch from eggs!” she protested.
“Then how come no one has ever heard of a gryphon omelet?” Griffen asked.
Forget sanity. He could banter with the best of them. The two changelings grinned at him sunnily.
“ ’Cause a mama gryphon is a real menace, of course,” Hobb said.
“But you should open a restaurant and cook up some. Griffen’s omelets,” Robin said.
“Oh, please. I’m busy enough.” Griffen rolled his eyes, and the girl exploded into giggles.
A couple of drunk tourists sitting a few seats away looked up. One of them, a large man with too much belly, pulled himself out of his seat and began to stagger over their way. Griffen was tracking him carefully, and also noticed that the fat guy had caught Hobb’s attention. Robin seemed oblivious.
“Shure have a pretty laugsh there,” the drunk slurred.
Robin looked up and sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Not now!” she said sharply.
“Oh, come on, babycakesh. How ’bout a kish?”
“You really hit that one hard, that’s the hammiest line I’ve heard in a long time,” Hobb said.
Griffen half expected the drunk to turn to Hobb and try to start a fight. That seemed to be the usual pattern with such incidents. Instead, he seemed totally fixated on Robin.
“Oh, fine!” she said.
Griffen was curious now. He watched as the young changeling pressed two fingers to her lips, then pressed them to the drunk’s lips. He clumsily kissed her fingertips, and a hand started to reach out for her wrist. Only to stop in mid-motion as his eyes went glassy.
“Look at your friend,” Robin said.
He did, lips still pressed to her fingers. She leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice soft and sultry.
“Isn’t he haaandsome,” she said.
The man nodded, and pulled himself away from Robin. The three watched as he staggered over to his friend and sat back down. Griffen was about to ask what that was all about when he got his answer.
“What did you say to me!” the other drunk said.
“Come ’ere. You knowsh you wantsh it,” the drunk who had harassed Robin said.
The second drunk was on his feet and backing hastily toward the door. The whole bar was now watching as his friend pursued him, pursing his lips for a kiss. The doors slammed behind them, and the bartender started laughing. Even for the Quarter, that was a good one.
Robin turned back to Griffen, all smiles again.
“Sorry, Mr. Griffen. Talking to a real live dragon is sooo exciting. So I leak a little.”
Griffen held back his first response, and his second. He was trying to phrase his third when she reached out and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Magic, silly! I do attraction magic too well, and sometimes it backfires.”
She glanced over at the door, where the two had departed, and shrugged.
“It’ll wear off. Normally it takes more work, unless a spark is already there. Closet case,” she said.
Griffen shook his head.
“And you, Hobb? You were one of those who didn’t jump on the chance to show off when we first met.”
“Uh . . . my skills aren’t really of the public show-and-tell variety,” he said, and seemed to draw inward.
“Hobbykins isn’t really a people person. We didn’t really come here looking for you, it’s just that Bourbon Street was too hustle and bustle for him,” Robin said.
“Bourbon Street is too hustle and bustle for me. Don’t worry about it,” Griffen said.
Hobb looked at him gratefully and straightened up again. Griffen decided it would be a good time to ask something that had been weighing on his mind.
“I’ve been wondering, what do you hope to get out of this conclave? I mean, I sort of understood what you as a group expect, but personally. What does it do for you?” Griffen asked.
“For me . . . I have reason to want to explore some of the human magic users. Especially the healers. This is a good place to make contacts,” Hobb said.
“And I just want to meet everyone I can! I hear those garou are just too studly for words.”
Griffen and Hobb exchanged a glance. Robin put an elbow into both of their ribs.
“Hey, you two. A fae has to be true to her nature! Men!!” she said.
Hobb laughed and swiveled her around for a kiss. Griffen smiled and discreetly turned back to his drink. After a few moments, the girl’s small hand reached out and smacked him on the back of the head.
“And that hurt!” she said, rubbing the elbow she had put into his side.
“One of the perks of being a dragon. Tough skin,” Griffen said.
He was beginning to warm to the changelings. At least to these two. Though they were a little too much in your face for his liking, they had more variety than most of the other groups he had encountered. He liked the bit of randomness.
He could do with the one being a bit less physical, though. Tough skin or not, she’d almost made him spill his drink.
“Okay, Griffen,” Hobb said, “I have been with this one long enough to know when she is getting too loopy for her own good. Time to tuck her in before she starts yet another bar brawl.”
“Oh, you are no fun! Just ’cause you claim to be a lover not a fighter—” Robin started.
“Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Hobb interrupted.
“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 prote
sts, 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 more 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.”
Dragons Luck Page 14