"Get them off me! Get them off me!" he bellowed.
"Griffen, get those things out of my house!" Lucinda shrilled from her post.
"Yes, ma'am!" Griffen said. He let the summoning energy die down and replaced it with an order to retreat. As smoothly as a wave receding, the brown insects turned around and fled the room. Some of them seemed to melt into the crack between wall and floor, but the majority slipped underneath the doors under which they had entered. In seconds, there were no palmetto bugs left except for the few that the flailing feet of Etienne's lieutenants had crushed.
"Thank you!" Lucinda said. Callum, recovering his dignity, hurried over to offer his wife a hand to climb down from her perch. She brushed invisible dust from the seat and sank into it.
"That was fun!" Etienne said, laughing heartily at his companions. "No one has ever done that before! You gotta admit, it was original!"
"No one will ever do that in my house again!" Lucinda insisted.
"No, ma'am," Etienne said, dampening down his enthusiasm. He winked hard at Griffen, who tried not to grin back. "We'll exclude that from future demonstrations, ma'am."
"Impressive," Mitchell said at last. His composure had returned. He regarded Griffen with respect. "Pretty comprehensive animal control you've got there. Been workin' on it long?"
"Not that long," Griffen said, as casually as he could. Mitchell gave him a wry half grin.
"Top of your class, young man," he said.
"Animal control! Anyone with a little talent can do that!" Callum said, scornfully. "That's a street-corner trick. That's not a manifestation of real dragonhood!"
The satisfaction of performing a genuine exercise of power well faded into red-hot anger. "Street-corner trick?" Griffen asked, coldly. "I learned that from a man with more talent and integrity than almost anyone else I know." The fact that Slim had worked on street corners had nothing to do with his skills. He had been a mime statue, surprising tourists for tips.
"Belongs in a carnival," Callum said, with a dismissive wave. He sat down and folded his arms. "I declare it to be a nonstarter."
"I disagree," Mitchell said. "That was more than worthy, Callum."
"Me, too," Etienne said. "It was damned good. Go on to the next part, Pete."
Griffen raised an eyebrow. The next part? The curly-haired man raised the scroll again as if to ward off Griffen's gaze, and read.
"Will you manifest your true self here, to prove without a doubt the truth of your bloodline?"
"This is my true self," Griffen said.
"Not what you show the outside world," Terence said. "Your dragon soul."
My dragon soul? Griffen thought. Up until a few months before, he had no idea that he had dragon blood, let alone a soul with scales on. What did that phrase mean to him?
Did they want him to transform for them? He had hardly ever managed to do it except to defend himself from an attack by the George, a chimeric hunter. Could he bring about the change even though he was not really under threat?
"Go on, young man," Mitchell encouraged him. "Be the dragon."
"If he can," Terence said.
"Yeah, we're gonna find out that he's a weredog or something low down like that," Callum cackled, sitting back in his chair. "No offense, Etienne, but your boy is faking it."
Faking it! Griffen's temper reached a boiling point. He felt steam curling in his nostrils. This whole ordeal was an attempt by these self-satisfied jerks to make him display himself for their amusement! Not one of them felt as strong as he did! How dare they demand anything from him? He didn't have to put up with abuse, not for the sake of leading a parade!
The sensation he had felt only a half dozen times in his life surged through him. He felt his tail grow from his lower spine and whip back and forth against the backs of his legs. The claws that were often just barely under the surface of his skin burst out and curved into miniature scythes. His skin took on a green hue as it covered itself with scales. His whole musculature shifted, increasing the strength in his back and shoulder joints and making his entire body more flexible. Griffen's perspective changed as his eyes transformed from ordinary hazel irises into multicolored orbs that could see on wavelengths no human could imagine.
In his enhanced vision, he saw the cool image of Fenway sitting in his chair, laughing. They had goaded him on purpose! Furious, Griffen leaped for him.
Fenway's eyes went wide. Griffen was on top of him in a split second, the pointed teeth in his elongated jaw clamping the man's neck. In the next split second, Fenway had transformed, too--but only partway. His skin covered with scales, but his face remained largely human. His claws were only half as long and not as well developed as Griffen's. How dare these thin-blooded dragons insult him like that?
His jaws tightened. He knew he couldn't easily penetrate another dragon's skin, but the pressure was making Fenway's eyes bulge out. Griffen felt hands pounding on his back and shoulders, pulling on his wings. A fanged face intruded into his line of vision, a weird combination of fur and scales.
"Mr. Griffen, let him up!" the creature shouted in Etienne's voice. "I think he's convinced now!"
Griffen let himself be pulled up. As swiftly as it had come upon him, the transformation faded. He found himself standing in his shorts on the ruins of his best trousers. His silk shirt was split at the shoulders where his wings had popped through. Luckily, his underwear was made of stretchable cotton. Fenway, much more experienced at transforming, rose to his feet with all of his clothes intact. He clutched his throat. In human form, two lines of bruises showed on either side of his neck.
"Well done, there, Griffen," Callum said. He stopped to swallow hard. Griffen was grimly pleased that his neck hurt. "We wanted to see if you were a true dragon. I must say we are . . . impressed by your abilities."
"He is twice the dragon of anyone else here, Callum," Mitchell said, slapping his hands together. "Damn! A pure manifestation. I never thought that I would live to see one that ideal. I can't do that. None of the rest of us can, not that good--or that fast. Wish I'd taken a picture."
"Do you want to explain to the people at the drugstore counter when you pick up your prints?" Matt asked, scornfully. "Give me a break, Mitch."
Griffen shook his head. "I know half a dozen shape-shifters who could do the same thing, faster and maybe better."
"No way, son," Terence said. "We can feel the difference, like a jeweler can tell a cubic zirconia from a diamond. The real thing shines through in a way no fake can copy."
Griffen nodded. That made sense.
"Why did you jump on me?" Callum asked.
"I wanted to see if you're the real thing, too," Griffen said, offhandedly. "Fair's fair."
"You can sense us, son," Callum said. He felt his neck one more time and let his hand drop. "I take your point. We did goad you into that, I admit, but we often find that a temper storm is the best way to help someone lose his inhibitions. You can see that it worked. You're not a puppet to dance for the masses. But we take our mission very seriously, and we don't want to put our trust into the hands of someone who can't handle it."
"So, I passed your little ordeal?" Griffen asked, letting himself be mollified.
Callum smiled. "You bet you did. You shall be king. Lord above, you could be king in truth if you really wanted to."
"You are even more than Etienne said you were," Terence Killen said, slapping him on the back and guffawing. "My lord, how long has it been since we saw someone like you? Well, you have got good blood. I have heard of the McCandles line, up North, but what is your mother's family?
"Her maiden name was Flambeau," Griffen said.
"Another good line, hardly diluted over the centuries. You have a sister, I believe?" asked Terence. "She must be something."
"She is," Griffen assured them. "About that, I . . ."
Lucinda appeared at his side and handed him a tumbler. The scent of good Irish whisky rose. He took a deep and appreciative drink.
"Thanks, Mrs
. Fenway," he said.
She patted him on the shoulder. "Call me Lucinda. Call them by their names, too, Griffen. These old fools stand too much on their dignity. I'll bring you a pair of our son's pants. I think you're about the same size. Dinner's in about five minutes. Be right back."
"Thanks, Lucinda," Griffen said.
". . . Think it's the prophecy?" Doug asked, as he turned back to the conversation.
"Oh, not that again!" Matt moaned. Griffen pretended not to hear. But the speculative gazes turned back to study him.
"Well, that's it," Callum said, standing up to offer him a hand. "Welcome, King of Fafnir. This is going to be a fine Mardi Gras."
Griffen gripped it firmly. The gesture was no longer a challenge, so he kept his shake friendly. "It sure will," he said.
"Come on, folks," Callum said, leading them toward the door. "We'll talk more later. Lucinda will have my head on a white china platter if the food gets cold."
Ten
Griffen left the Fenway mansion after midnight. He wore a pair of black sweatpants and T-shirt borrowed from the wardrobe of their elder son, who was away at college in Texas. He refused the offer of a ride home from a number of the members who had offered to drive him. It wasn't that far from the Garden District to the French Quarter. He wanted some time alone to clear his head. What an evening!
Lucinda had been a wonderful hostess. She had served them an epic gumbo, bursting with shrimp, sausage, and, for a wonder, crisp okra. He had never tasted it before he had come to New Orleans, but he could never imagine becoming tired of andouille sausage. The fire of the spices still played upon his tongue. Dessert had been a play on the famous Brennan's bananas Foster: a blond layer cake with frosting flavored by banana and orange, served with a brandy caramel sauce that was still on fire when the regal Edith brought it to the table.
The excellent dinner made up a little for the fact that he had almost turned his pockets inside out for the membership fees, and he still owed the krewe ten thousand dollars for his kingship. He ached for his bank account. It had further suffering ahead of it; the lieutenants wanted to know (1) if he was going to host a king's party, (2) if he had given any thought to where, and (3) how many people he was thinking of inviting. An address list for the entire krewe was available to him as a printout or a computer file.
He had called all four places holding rooms on Etienne's say-so, and the damages would be a king's ransom, around ten thousand for a large-scale blowout in the most expensive of them for the entire krewe plus spouses or "plus-ones." There would also be the cost of invitations and favors, plus entertainment, and so on. And tuxedo rental. Griffen had a slip of paper from Etienne's little notebook with all the things he was expected to do in the coming season, and what would be supplied to him by the krewe.
Once he had passed the dragon test, as he was calling it in his mind, the other members had changed from casual smugness to polarization at two different extremes. They were starting to align themselves with or against him. He knew they had heard of the prophecy, but certainly weren't going to say whether or not they believed or even could consider Griffen the "young dragon." Still, he noticed Mitchell and Doug, for example, had begun to look directly at him when they were discussing krewe business, as if looking for his approval. On the other side, Matt kept his distance. He was not hostile, but Griffen felt he was not on his side. Others had yet to make their choice evident. Griffen was aware of a lot of speculation and jealousy, and not a lot of admiration. They had all accepted, as Etienne claimed he had known for years, that he was going to be their king.
Griffen didn't feel like a king. He felt like a little boy in the middle of a board meeting and didn't like feeling that way. The others showed him the deepest of respect. He didn't deserve any respect. He could not get past the fact that he had attacked another living being out of pique. His life hadn't been at stake. He had not been threatened; nor had his sister. Griffen had been tricked into transforming. That was not enough reason to let himself, well, go dragon. He was ashamed of how good it had felt, how natural. This must be what Terence Killen meant by his dragon soul.
The others had thought nothing of his outburst; all had accepted it. In fact, most of them had enjoyed it. But they had been raised as dragons. Was that kind of behavior acceptable in dragon society? Mose and Jerome had both warned him that dragons usually couldn't be bothered with "lesser beings," like humans. Griffen did not like the arrogance that seemed to be the hallmark of most of the dragons he had met so far. If superiority meant manipulation, humiliation, greed, casual violence, and scorn, he rejected it. He didn't like the way the other dragons looked down on Etienne. For all the captain's good nature and organizational abilities, he was only a fraction of a dragon, and the added werewolf blood made them consider him even lower than humans. They had made it clear, however, that they would like to socialize with Griffen. He had received invitations to dinners, country clubs, and golf outings, delivered right in front of the captain without including him. The lieutenants were snobs.
On the other hand, he mused, human beings acted like that, too. He didn't like the behavior any more when it came from them.
Griffen stopped in his tracks in the bougainvilleascented dark. Funny, he had not separated himself from the "them" of humanity before. Perhaps he really was beginning to understand that he was different. But was it nature or nurture that governed one's real self?
It almost made him dizzy to know that he belonged to two different worlds, the one in which he had been raised and the one into which he had been born. He couldn't deny he was a dragon, but he refused to let go of those traits that were human, at least as he saw things. He needed to give himself time to think about that.
But there were good things going on in the krewe, too. Charity, for example. Phil Grover, one of the lieutenants, had bent his ear during dinner over a charity that Fafnir supported. Ladybug, Ladybug had been established to support families, especially children, who had been made homeless by fire. New Orleans's old houses were made of wood and asphalt shingles, both of which went up like torches in a fire. Even though the resurrected krewe had been in existence again less than two years and had yet to march, it had raised tens of thousands of dollars for good works. Phil had hit him up shamelessly for a donation, or, if he wished, to donate a portion of his business's proceeds to it, they would consider it a favor. A mandatory favor, Griffen understood, but he didn't really object. He knew he had been fortunate in his life. Now that he was making decent money, some of it ought to go to those who had worse luck than he. He had a stack of flyers for Ladybug, Ladybug that he intended to put on the table in every suite where his people organized a game.
But that wasn't Fafnir's primary mission. Callum had alluded to one, but when Griffen asked the others about it, they were vague. They said that their job was to protect the city. But wasn't everyone's?
He now had a list of the dates involved. January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, the day after Twelfth Night, kicked off the Mardi Gras season. Fafnir's parade was scheduled for February 24 at seven in the evening. The parades ran for two weeks before Mardi Gras itself, the Tuesday that preceded Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. On weekends, there were parades all day, but on weekdays they started after six o'clock. Fafnir would be the last of four to march that day. He had a map of the assigned route. Etienne emphasized more than once that they must kick off on time. The parade would last anywhere from three to five hours, depending on the pace and how many units would be marching. That still hadn't been determined, as more people got in touch with the krewe to be included.
The parade had a set order. As captain, Etienne would go first, followed by the lieutenants, all on white horses, followed by Griffen. His float was going to be pulled by a tractor. Griffen was a little disappointed. When Etienne had mentioned horses, he had visions of a team of a dozen white horses, but a tractor was more reliable and less prone to injury. The rest of the floats followed, first with the other honorees, then lesser
floats populated by riders from the krewe itself and others who paid to ride. All of them were interspersed with other entertainers and affinity groups. So far the krewe had hired seventeen bands, including five from area high schools and colleges, troops of jugglers, groups of dancers, marching clubs including one from their designated charity and three from the fire departments. They were looking at some 150 units, which sounded to Griffen like an enormous number, but the others insisted it wasn't.
The ball was scheduled for Saturday, January 18, when he was to be introduced to the krewe and their guests. The king's party, and he was still not sure if he was having one, ought to be in between. Whether it was big or small was up to him, but it had to be elegant. Griffen had that feeling again of being a small boy at a board meeting.
The next krewe meeting was Monday, a day early because the next day was Christmas.
And he was now in possession of a true secret: the theme of the year's parade. It was "Dragons Rule." Mitchell and Langford, who was in charge of liaising with the costume manufacturers, produced photographs and a stack of color sketches for him to see. The floats would all express themes of dragons throughout history, literature, legend, and media of dragons who win. Griffen marveled over whimsical sketches of St. George losing to the dragon, giant snapdragons with eyes and darting tongues, a dozen different puns about dragonflies, the Welsh red dragon facing off against the white dragon of England, all five colors of Pernese dragon with one tiny white dragon on the end of the float, the nine sons of the dragon on a Chinese-themed float.
Dragons Deal Page 9