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.
That last was the float on which the dukes would ride. Those were men who had been selected to be honored by the krewe. There were nine of them, as there would be nine maids, on a Dragon Lady float. Griffen admired the cut of the women's costumes, sexy but not revealing. Allure wasn't the purpose of Mardi Gras parade costumes since they were masques to conceal themselves against the devil. He found the whole concept exciting. Put end to end as if the parade stretched out before him, Griffen was more delighted than ever to be a part of it. Mitchell put down one more picture, of a float that resembled a huge gold dragon with green eyes. "That's the queen's float," he had explained.
Griffen had finally worked up the courage to ask the question. "Who's queen?" he asked, feeling as if he were echoing a line of dialogue. "I have, uh, a sister and two girlfriends who are interested, if you haven't chosen anyone yet. They, uh, asked me to ask."
The lieutenants had burst into laughter. Griffen had felt abashed.
"Not your problem," Etienne had assured him, his eyes twinkling. Griffen had forgotten his gift of foreknowledge. "You can tell those three fine ladies that they going to be maids. It's a big honor. They will ride on their own float and sit with the dukes of the court at all the parties."
"They aren't called duchesses?" Griffen had asked.
"Nope. That's not proper Mardi Gras terminology. They are maids, and they will have as fine a time as you will. I've seen it."
As a final treat, Etienne had shown him a photo album of the last Fafnir parade. The white leather-bound book bore the krewe name and the year, which Griffen noted was before the Second World War, when Mardi Gras had been suspended.
"I think you'll find the king's float the most interesting," Etienne had said, opening it to a page and pushing the yellow-edged book toward him. Griffen had studied the old black-and-white photograph closely, concentrating on the fine, shining surface at the man in white satin and a jeweled crown who sat majestically waving a multipointed scepter on a throne with dragon's-head finials on the uprights and the arms.
It was Mose.
Griffen stared. The man in the picture was wearing a crown that concealed his forehead, and he had a full beard, but Griffen was absolutely certain of his identity. Mose looked exactly the same as he had the last time Griffen had seen him. He looked up at Etienne, who grinned at him.
"Just wanted you to know that there's a tradition that it's right for you to uphold, Mr. Griffen," he had said.
Griffen was stunned. Automatically, he had reached for his cell phone and pushed Mose's number. His old mentor had gone to visit his daughter out of state, or at least that was what he insisted Griffen tell the others in the operation, but Griffen had to ask. The phone rang and rang before going over to voice mail. Griffen had hung up without leaving a message. Mose!
As he walked, Griffen's head spun at the thought of all that was going on and all that he had to do. He wished he could ask Mose about the krewe and get his advice. He worried that he was far out of his league. These people were all very experienced, knew the ropes, had been part of and helped dozens of other krewes over the years. They were proud to be restarting something that their parents and grandparents were part of decades ago.
He tried Mose again. The cell phone rang four times, then went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Griffen punched the red button.
"He's not answering this late, especially since he knows it's you."
The quiet voice made Griffen jump.
He had not heard her fall into step beside him, but then he wouldn't have. Rose, a beautiful black woman in her thirties and a well-regarded voodoo priestess, had been dead for eight years. Her footsteps were silent.
"Why not?" Griffen asked.
"Because this is something he wants you to work through all on your own," she said. "It's too important. He wants you to make your own decisions."
Griffen nodded. "You never appear without a reason," he said. "Is my getting involved in the krewe important to you, too?"
"Very," she said. She gave him a wry smile. "I made a mistake not giving you more time before to decide whether or not to chair that conclave. This time, I wanted you to make up your own mind. If you hadn't said yes, I would have asked you. It's not true," she said, with a faint hint of mischief, "that ghosts can't learn anything new."
"Well, you don't strike me as an ordinary ghost," Griffen said. "Not that my experience has been very broad. What's so important about it?"
"Balance," Rose said. "This city requires it. Mardi Gras is part of the balancing act that New Orleans goes through year after year. All that indulgence before the deprivations of Lent is a balance, the feast before the willing sacrifice. It is most sincerely meant, by the locals. The visitors all think it is a big party. They do not see that the pendulum must swing from the opulent to the austere and back again. So, too, must the elements be balanced. It has been growing out of whack for a long while. I am glad to see that it will at last be redressed. You are d
oing the right thing. Do your part at the parties and most especially in the parade. Etienne needs you and your special skills."
"All I'm going to do is sit on a throne and throw doubloons," Griffen said, doubtfully.
"Not at all," Rose said, her serene face serious. "You are the focus, the channel. Keep your humility, but you are entitled to pride as well. Use the office well. Keep in mind your most important task."
"The balance," Griffen repeated.
"All power must be kept in balance, or destruction follows. It is part of history." Rose turned toward a streetlamp shaped like an antique gaslight. Griffen lost sight of her in the momentary glare before his eyes readjusted.
When they got used to the light, she was gone.
Eleven
Griffen threw a couple of hundred-dollar chips into the pot and restacked his five cards. Sun blazed in the window behind him. He wouldn't usually sit with his back to either a door or a window, but the least glare hit him in the eyes that way.
When he had returned to the French Quarter the night before, it was still too early to go to bed. He had walked over to the Irish bar to see who was around. Fox Lisa had been there with Maestro. She had wanted to hear every detail of the meeting. He told her what he could without breaking the krewe's confidence. She tried hard to worm the parade theme out of him. It had been hard to resist her, especially when she suggested they leave the bar and go back to his place.
She had fallen asleep afterward. Griffen had been too excited to drop off. Instead, he went out to his living room. He was starting to formulate ideas for his king's party. He found a notebook, made a batch of microwave popcorn, and put on Masque of the Red Death, starring Vincent Price, with the volume down very low. It was the only movie in his collection that had anything to do with Carnival. He would have to check out Tower Records or the DVD rental shop to find if there were any movies about Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Since Rose had given her approval, he wanted to do his best for the Krewe of Fafnir. Whatever he could do to help maintain balance, whatever that was, he would do. He needed to research more into the history to see if there was a reason for Carnival beyond the religious festival.
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