Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  “I just got back from my other house in Maryland,” Mike said. “I was home for almost a week.”

  “Prove it!”

  Mike straightened up so he towered over her. “Cousin Melinda, I don’t know who you think you are speaking to. I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

  Henry, the secretary, tapped her on the arm.

  “A shape-changer, Mrs. Wurmley,” he said. “She had an accomplice. Someone who could come and go without challenge.”

  “How did she make contact with anyone? You have been careless!”

  “Not I.” Henry raised his nose haughtily. “Perhaps you should ask your lovely housekeeper?”

  Melinda turned on Marcella. “Is. This. True?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, ma’am,” the woman said. She was being very brave, but her voice shook. She knew more than she was saying. Melinda sensed it and brought her face close to the young woman’s.

  “Tell me!”

  “Don’t hurt her,” Mike said, fiercely. If Val wanted to get away from there, all she had to do was ask him for help. He wondered why she hadn’t trusted him.

  The answer was simple: Melinda.

  “She can’t tell us anything more,” Henry said, dismissively. “My little pet is on their trail. All we need to do is follow him.”

  Mike looked from one to the other.

  “Pet? What kind of pet? Is that what killed the burglar the other evening? It’ll kill Val!”

  Henry shot him a triumphant glance.

  “No, but it will kill anyone near her. Collateral damage. Regrettable but inevitable.”

  “I’m going with you,” Mike said at once.

  Melinda and Henry seemed to share an unspoken conference.

  “Why not?” Melinda said. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into her. Dean! Get the car!”

  Forty-nine

  At 2:19 in the morning, Griffen’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket without taking his eyes off the cards in his other hand. Pocket rockets, two aces, lay facedown on the table before him. He could not lose. The kitty held at least five thousand dollars. He had cajoled, teased, and trash-talked his fellow players into raising against him. He was about to crash their dreams of avarice. Jerome grinned at him. Griffen had no tells to speak of, but his friend could discern when Griffen was setting other people up to lose.

  “Griffen McCandles,” he said.

  “Griffen?”

  “Val?”

  He stood up, knocking his chair backward to the floor. The other players exclaimed in alarm. He patted the air with his hand.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I fold.”

  “You what?” asked the high roller from Springfield. Griffen gave him an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry. I have to take this call. Family emergency. Your two queens can win the hand.” He turned away from the table. Behind him, the other players threw in their cards with mixed groans and laughs.

  “Is he a mind reader, or what?” one of them asked, as the whale hauled the chips toward him. Griffen didn’t care.

  “Val, are you all right? Where are you? This isn’t your number. Whose phone is this? Where the hell have you been?”

  The connection was poor. Griffen strained to hear over the crackling. He moved around the room, seeking the strongest cell-phone signal.

  “. . . On the road . . . following . . . ! Coming in . . . east. Damned mountains!”

  “Wait a minute, I can hardly hear you!” Griffen said. By then, Jerome had left the table and was standing at his elbow. He mouthed the question.

  Val?

  Griffen nodded enthusiastically. She was alive. Relief, anxiety, and anger battled it out for dominance in his belly. He shouted to be heard over the static.

  “Listen, Val, I have a warning for you. Holly said to look out for a bald . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder at the other players, who were listening avidly to his side of the conversation. “A bald, white guy. He’s following you. It sounds like trouble. Bad trouble.”

  “I know!” Val’s voice trumpeted suddenly from the speaker. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes!

  “Where are you?”

  “What?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know! Somewhere in North Carolina!”

  “North Carolina? Where are you coming from?”

  “Melinda’s house.” She kept her answers short and repeated them until Griffen shouted an acknowledgment.

  “Let me talk to George.”

  “He’s not here.” She sounded puzzled.

  “Where is he?”

  A roar interrupted Val’s reply. Griffen heard a shriek, then the connection cut off.

  “Val? Val?” He stared at the inert handset for a moment. Val didn’t call back. He tapped the RECEIVED CALLS folder. The number from which Val had called was Mai’s.

  What was going on?

  Griffen thumbed the green button to dial the number. No answer.

  He looked up at Jerome.

  “Can you finish up here?”

  Jerome glanced at the table. The dealer had gathered up the cards and was counting chips. The players were chatting among themselves, clearly curious.

  “Looks like we’re all done, Grifter. Hey, everyone, no need to rush off.”

  “No problem,” said the whale from Springfield. “We can see you’ve got a problem.”

  “Sorry about that,” Griffen said.

  The player pointed a playful finger at him. “Just don’t cop out on the tournament. I’m looking forward to taking that first prize. Five grand would be a nice going-home present.”

  “You can try.” Griffen tried to look playfully predatory, but too many thoughts were playing bumper cars in his mind. “You’ll have to go through me, first.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure to leave you in the dust.” He shook hands with Griffen and the other players. The room cleared out in moments.

  “I have to find her,” Griffen said as soon as the door closed. “She’s in danger. George isn’t with her, and it looks like Mai is. Where did she come into this?”

  “No idea,” Jerome said. “How do you plan to find them?”

  Griffen thought hard for a moment. “Harrison. Maybe he can trace the call.”

  Jerome looked at his watch. “It’s after three.”

  “If he’s on duty, he’ll still be up.”

  • • •

  The burly Vice cop looked as weathered as his leather jacket. He chugged down half of the first cup of coffee, though it had to be boiling hot, and set the pottery mug down on the diner counter. The eyes he fixed on Griffen were bloodshot.

  “This had better be important, McCandles. I was about to sign off. It’s been a hell of a night.”

  Griffen explained about the call from Val. He held out his cell phone to Harrison. “So, could you trace where it was coming from? I have to find her before that thing gets her.”

  Harrison gave him a weary glare. “Is this the trouble you didn’t want to tell me about?” he asked. “Your kind of trouble, not mine?”

  “No,” Griffen said. “This is something more.”

  “Do you have a court order? An FBI notification?”

  “No.”

  “Are the people involved suspected of any felonies?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Are you still on the line with her?”

  “No.” Griffen frowned. “You can see that. She screamed, and the phone went dead. I’ve been trying to reach her ever since.”

  “Then how the hell do you think I can call out the NOPD to put a trace on a nonexistent call? We don’t get to use that technology unless we have legal permission. You watch too many movies, McCandles. We don’t have the magic
grid sweepers Hollywood gives the TV cops. We can’t guess when the perps are going to commit crimes, but we have to catch them doing it. Jesus, sometimes I think we score arrests as much on dumb luck as on slogging police work.”

  Griffen stood up. “Then I had better get out there. I’ll drive until I meet her coming the other way.”

  Harrison raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you kidding? What highway are they coming west on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know how many roads there are between here and North Carolina?”

  “No.”

  “Five good ones, plus dozens of dirt tracks, side streets, and dead ends.”

  Griffen felt hopeless. He had a mental picture of Val at the mercy of some kind of maniac with long teeth and a battle-ax. He plumped down on the cushioned stool. It exhaled a gust of stale air.

  “Then what can I do?”

  “Delegate,” Malcolm said.

  Griffen jumped. He turned to see his uncle, sleepy and peevish, wearing an open-necked polo shirt and khaki trousers. He had his arm through Holly’s, escorting her as if she were a princess. Gris-gris, in his lightweight jacket, danced impatiently beside them.

  “I called them, Grifter,” Jerome said, in answer to Griffen’s unasked question. “You can’t do anything alone.”

  “You cannot do anything about Valerie, period,” Malcolm said, fixing Griffen with an austere look. “We are nine hours before an incredibly important event, at which you will occupy a position of prominence and responsibility. Ms. Dunbar still requires your guidance, and your protection.”

  “Uncle Malcolm, Val is my sister,” Griffen said.

  “If I infer from what I just overheard, you do not know her whereabouts. There is nothing you can do, apart from being ready to respond when and if she comes within range of your aid.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “You heard from Val?” Gris-gris interrupted. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Griffen felt contrite. “I should have, Gris-gris. I don’t know where she is, just that she’s on her way here.”

  “She’s all right so far,” Holly said. She took a faceted crystal the size of Griffen’s fist from her shoulder bag and held it out to him. He peered at it but wasn’t surprised that all he could see through it was fragmented views of her hand.

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “How do we get her home?” Gris-gris asked.

  Holly looked grave. “I have no knowledge of that, Gris-gris. We just have to do the best we can and hope she can outrun her pursuers.”

  “Pursuers, plural?” Gris-gris looked as if he would explode with impatience. “Or you just seein’ mirror images in that crystal?”

  “Don’t be like that, man,” Jerome said. “She’s giving us the best she has.”

  “I know that, but I want my lady back!”

  “Come, then,” Malcolm said with a weary sigh. “Let us lay the facts on the table and try to make a plan that will cover all possible contingencies.” He glanced at Harrison. “Detective, I appreciate your assistance. I am sorry my nephew interrupted your night.”

  It was a clear dismissal. Harrison took a breath all the way down to his potbelly, but he matched Malcolm’s baleful mien with easy authority.

  “Thanks, Mr. McCandles, but I’m okay. I need to know everything that’s going down. Maybe I can help.”

  Malcolm studied him, then nodded.

  “Very well. I appreciate your time.” He surveyed the diner. The glaring fluorescent light spilled down on an array of melamine, chrome, and vinyl padding, and a few late-night customers. “Let us take that table in the corner. It is more private.”

  Griffen signaled to the waitress. They were going to need a lot of coffee.

  • • •

  Mike kept the speedometer needle at a steady sixty-five. Melinda had wanted to go faster, but he had refused.

  “I still want to run for office next year,” he said. “It would look bad if I had multiple interstate violations on my record. That is, if I still have your support.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. She sat back in the rear seat and refused to speak to him again. Mike was left alone with his thoughts.

  He had taken over the wheel after both bodyguards had driven for four-hour stretches apiece. They both insisted they could go on, but Melinda didn’t want them to make stupid mistakes. They needed to be alert once they found Valerie again.

  At the moment, all of them were asleep. Mike wished he could doze off, but he was almost afraid to. He was alone with his thoughts, which were so conflicted he thought he was seeing things. Not long after Charlotte, they had passed a white Prius on the road. Mike had to do a double take. The man behind the wheel looked exactly like him.

  No, that had had to be an illusion. Mike shook himself again. He was playing in a game out of his league. Melinda might be his cousin, but she was certainly not his ally.

  Until that afternoon, he had never really considered how dangerous Melinda was. She had led him to believe—no, she let him believe—that he had impressed her and was worthy of her backing for his Senate run. She had even allowed him to think that he might have found a suitable mate in Valerie McCandles. She gave him permission to woo Val and made the girl available anytime he was in the state. He and Val were compatible in so many ways, but Mike was wondering how much of that was genuine and how much influenced by Henry and his machinations.

  As a dragon, he dismissed magicians and humans in general as an inferior race. It seemed that he had underestimated at least this one. To render Val as complacent as she had been was an amazing feat. He had known from watching his parents that he would not rule the roost when he mated. No male dragon ever really controlled a female. All he could do was convince her to allow him to form a household with her and help protect any offspring they might have. Val had made it seem like such a relationship would be easy.

  He hoped she was all right.

  An exit for Louisville loomed out of the darkness. If he took a wrong turn, he could delay Melinda’s pursuit until Val was safely back home. He glanced at his mirror. Yes, all four of them, including the two bodyguards, were asleep. He eased the car slowly toward the turn.

  He felt a sharp prod in his neck. A wave of flowery gentleman’s cologne wafted around and tweaked his nose.

  “Don’t even consider it,” Henry said, a menacing whisper in his ear. “Treachery will be met with death.”

  Mike glared at the windshield. “Do you always talk like a cheap movie?”

  “Only when I am dealing with cheap politicians,” the warlock said. “Drive to New Orleans. Perhaps you’ll get to live.”

  Fifty

  Griffen took a deep breath to compose himself. Though every red blood cell in his body wanted him to look hard, he did his best to ignore the curvaceous black woman sliding the zipper of her skintight red dress down between her breasts. She leaned forward. Her ripe breasts surged, so close to popping out. Griffen squeezed his eyes closed. She’s not there. She’s not there. He slid the pool cue forward. With a gentle CLACK, the cue ball rolled eighteen inches over the smooth green felt and tapped the nine ball. He found himself holding his breath. Almost in slow motion, the nine edged toward the far-side pocket. It began to slow down even further. Griffen exhaled, willing the ball to fall. Two inches. One inch. Then it vanished into the dark pocket as if a conjurer had made it disappear.

  The crowd around him burst into polite applause.

  “Well, damn you to hell, Griffen McCandles,” Penny said. She leaned on her cue with an insouciant smirk. She was framed fetchingly against the haze of smoke filling the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel. “That’s four racks!”

  “Going for five,” Griffen said. Jerome stood up and handed him the glass of Diet Coke that he had been carefully guarding. With cash prizes on the line, a
number of local Louisiana pool clubs had signed up teams, hoping to bring home some of the loot. That meant dirty tricks were not only possible but expected. Adulterating drinks was the least obtrusive distraction. A player might find his innocent beverage spiked with a healthy dollop of Everclear or flavored with something less palatable. Maestro, third on their roster, raised his own glass to him.

  “You good,” said the elderly dark-skinned man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat, the fourth player at Griffen’s table. His paste-on badge identified him as ELMER. Griffen smiled.

  “You don’t make it easy.”

  “Not supposed to, my friend. Not supposed to.” Elmer smiled back, showing crooked, yellow teeth. “All’s fair in love and war, and this is war. In a genteel sort of way, y’understand.”

  “Yes, I do,” Griffen said. Penny racked the balls. Griffen sighted the one ball, leaned forward, and shot. The cue ball bounded off two cushions and hit the diamond of pool balls, nipping the one from the rear of the pack. The onlookers let out a pleased exclamation as it skittered into the side pocket. The white ball came to a rest at the bumper an inch from falling in.

  Anything that broke concentration was fair game. Not even the presence of television cameras, of which there were many, deterred experienced contenders from bringing their A game. One well-known pro, now playing somewhere across the room, had brought along his three “girlfriends.” These well-endowed women, dressed in skintight dresses, flashed a hint of breast or bottom when the other men at his table were lining up tricky shots. The first time he had spotted a striptease in progress, Griffen had marched over to put an end to it, but Gris-gris, Jerome, and even Penny assured him that such subterfuges were normal.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so snappish. I’m just worried about Val.”

  “Enjoy it,” Jerome said. “You’d pay fifty dollars to see some of these ladies shake it in the clubs on Bourbon Street. I think I recognize the one in the blue bra.”

  The woman in question, a lushly figured African-American with hair dyed bright gold, threw Jerome a kiss. After that, Griffen had let the visual displays go ahead. The crowds loved them. The happier the onlookers were, the more likely they were to drop donations in the collection boxes arranged near every table. The cash prizes, represented by wads of fake hundred-dollar bills, lay on silver platters under glass domes beside the registration table. That had inspired other entrants as well as donors.