Trouble with Gargoyles: an Urban Fantasy (Moonlight Dragon Book 3)

by Tricia Owens

  The bar itself was visually exciting: a long, jaggedly cut block of acrylic that was illuminated from beneath by blue light so that it resembled a chunk of glacier ice. Melanie oohed and ahhed over it as we approached, while I tried to play it cool, though why I had no idea. The people in here weren't the ones I needed to impress.

  When we reached the bar I leaned on it until I caught the eye of the bartender, who wore a pale blue tuxedo shirt with a black bowtie. Too bad Orlaton wasn't old enough to drink yet. He and his predilection for bowties would have fit right in here.

  "How's it going, ladies?" The bartender slung a pair of cocktail napkins in front of us. He was blond and cute. Both of his ears were pierced multiple times. Upon looking closer, I saw that they weren't your typical adornments. I recognized bits of bone and carved stones, the former etched with runes. Possibly they were protection charms, but my money was on them being charms to encourage bigger tips.

  I checked out the room again but no one appeared to be paying me and Melanie any attention. We looked too much like tourists who hadn't packed the right outfits for our trip.

  "Is the Keyhole still operating?" I asked the bartender, keeping my voice low so it wouldn't carry.

  Beside me, Melanie groaned.

  The bartender's expression altered: shuttering slightly as his eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"

  "A pair of family members."

  "If you have to ask about it then maybe you're not supposed to know about it."

  "Or maybe we haven't had the need to use it until now," I retorted. "We have something important to discuss with Mr. Kleure. Not that it's any of your business."

  Not much of the disdain on his face faded, but his fingertips, which were pressed to the bar top, whitened just slightly at my gratuitous name-dropping.

  "It's still operating," he said tightly "I won't tell you how to find it."

  "You don't have to," I said, smiling sweetly at him. "Come on, Mel."

  With my head held high, I pushed away from the bar and began making my way toward the restrooms in back. Melanie followed so closely behind she clipped my right foot and gave me a flat tire.

  "Sorry, sorry!"

  "It's fine," I gritted out as I hopped on one foot while pulling my shoe out from under my heel. So much for looking cool.

  Shoe fixed, we made it to the back of the room. The restrooms were on the other side of a partition which cordoned off a little alcove area holding a bank of six video poker machines. Five of them were working but one machine had an Out of Order sign taped to the front of it.

  "I didn't realize this was the Keyhole," Melanie hissed as I moved to stand in front of the broken poker machine. "This is sooo dangerous, Anne! We're going to be chewed up and spit out."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. We're a couple of tough cookies, remember? You used the power of the dead to pick your monkey nose."

  She snorted with laughter. "That necromancy artifact was the worst. Talk about smelling my finger. I did! Blech!"

  While Melanie distracted herself by cracking herself up, I pressed the first two Hold buttons on the broken machine. The playing cards on the screen flipped as though a new hand had been dealt, showing me a royal flush in spades. I pushed the Hold button for the ace of spades and then the Cash Out button. A panel in the wall to my and Melanie's right slid open.

  She gaped at the opening. "How did you know how to do that?"

  "Because I'm cool, duh. Now listen, Melly. We've got to be careful in there. Let me do the talking. No matter how much you want to, do not butt in, okay? I need you to watch my back while I'm dealing with whoever I end up dealing with. Got it?"

  She squared her shoulders. "Monkey's got your six!"

  I blinked at her. "Where'd you hear that?"

  "From the movies!"

  "You dork." I patted her on the head before turning and ducking inside the opening.

  It must have been activated to close as quickly as possible because it nearly chopped off Melanie's feet, forcing her to leap at me with a high pitched yelp. I caught her and staggered backward into the room. My butt bounced off a table and I heard the clink of glassware a moment before something cold soaked into the seat of my shorts.

  "Watch it!"

  "Sorry," I blurted to the table's occupant before I twisted around to see who it was.

  It was my turn to gape.

  The teenager—I could see that she must be around Orlaton's age—was no ordinary teen. She existed in a state of half-transformation, her acne spotted face surrounded by a crown of sleek brown feathers that poured in a waterfall down the back of her head and over her neck and collarbones to the boatneck top she wore. Her arms were bare but the hands that mopped at the spill I'd made weren't hands; her arms ended in knobby toes with talons. The talons were painted pink.

  "Owl," Melanie whispered, again, too loudly. "She's an owl shifter. How cool!"

  I agreed. I didn't often see bird shifters, much less owls, in mid-shift like this girl. Did it hurt? Did your brain need to make an extra effort to parse commands and respond to impulses sent from the different species body parts?

  Intrigued, I lifted my gaze to take in the room and the rest of its occupants. The Keyhole was a speakeasy for shapeshifters, a fact which was obvious once you got a look at the clientele. It was a veritable zoo and it sort of smelled like one, what with all the fur and feathers on display. But there was also the scent of perfume and cologne because not every shifter here was in their magickal form. Some, like this young owl, had chosen to shift only partway.

  Cool, ambient lighting in blues and purples glowed on huge, curving horns and wings made of feathers and leathery skin. Movement made the light dance off scales both small and large, creating a continuous series of rainbows leaping throughout the room. The music was low and the conversation was strange: hisses, grunts, and chirps all caught by swiveling, oftentimes furred, ears. The floor and the spaces between chairs and sofas were alive with the movement of tails. Lots and lots of tails. They wagged, wiggled, and slithered.

  Layout-wise, the room mirrored the regular bar outside, though it was much more crowded, which gave it the impression of being narrower. Nothing like a shoebox full of strange creatures that evidently weren't intimidated by the Oddsmakers. A gathering place like this shouldn't exist according to the magickal bosses, but apparently enforcing that unspoken rule had fallen by the wayside. Why? Was it to keep the peace and allow the shifters the illusion of free will? Or did the Oddsmakers fear an uprising if they tried to step in? That seemed silly to me after having sort of met the Oddsmakers and seen how inexplicably powerful they were. They had nothing to fear from these creatures.

  The bar here was manned by a woman wearing the same uniform as the guy out front. Here, her drinks were being made with magick. As I approached the bar with Melanie tucked in close behind and helpfully concealing my wet butt, the bartender finished mixing something that bubbled wildly and formed glittering butterflies above the lip of the glass. Other patrons' drinks seemed to be similarly enhanced. They self-iced, leaked smoke that curled into shapes, or in a few cases appeared to be bottomless no matter how much was consumed.

  We sidled up to the bar between a pair of women who were fox shifters in mid-shift and a big, white wolf that sat at the base of the bar and surveyed the room with pale blue eyes. The bartender was too busy with other orders to notice us which was fine. Melanie and I weren't here for a good time.

  Our entrance had garnered a longer look from the patrons this time since it wasn't our attire that anyone here cared about, only our magick. Melanie was always kind of squirrelly, so maybe the more perceptive shifters might have guessed that she was a monkey shifter. None would be able to guess that I was a dragon sorceress except maybe those who were also descended from dragons (read: Chinese) or older magickal beings who seemed to have a knack for sensing things like that, such as the host of the room, the person we were here to see.

  Kleure was pretty unmistakable as a magickal being. For one thing
, he was a huge black dog, larger even than a Great Dane. For another, he had leathery wings and a halo of blue flames around his head. Oddly, a little yellow canary perched on one shoulder.

  Panting happily in the booth around him sat half a dozen dogs that looked like mutts, though I assumed they must also be shifters.

  "Remember what I said," I murmured to Melanie. "Let me handle it and keep an eye on the room."

  "Okay," she whispered back nervously. I think she would have held my hand had I allowed it, but I trusted her to watch out for us. A monkey might be small, but they could be scrappy little buggers.

  We sidestepped hooves and paws and carefully tiptoed over flickering tails, all while being watched by dozens of eyes. Was it my imagination or had the volume in the room dimmed as we made our way across the room?

  If you look like you're paranoid, they'll think you're up to no good.

  I pulled back my shoulders slightly, trying to project both confidence and nonchalance. No easy feat when things were growling around you. Finally we reached Kleure's booth. To my relief, he transformed into a wiry, black-haired man with bright blue eyes. Well, eyes with blue flames in them, which was close enough. Of course he was naked, but the table hid everything from the waist down so I was fine with being subjected to his hairy chest. His had nothing on Rodrigo's.

  "I know you," he said in a straining voice, like he was unused to pushing air out of his mouth in ways that didn't form barks or howls. The canary continued to sit on his shoulder, watching me with tiny black eyes. "You're Anne Moody, proprietress of the Moonlight Pawn Shop. Daughter of Iris and Jacob, long deceased."

  My smile was forced. Being known, even within my own community, wasn't ideal when your magickal familiar was an apex predator with a storied history of burning villages to the ground. You kind of wanted to fly under the radar on that one.

  "Hello, Mr. Kleure. I’m flattered you know who I am," I lied. "Of course I know all about you. Everyone does."

  "Everyone in the casino business," he agreed, baring his teeth in a smile reminiscent of a dog's snarl. It wasn't a threatening action, just not particularly pleasant to look at.

  "Business has been good lately, yes?" I prompted.

  Kleure inclined his head. "Better than ever. More casinos are being built every year. More casinos mean more gaming tables and slots, which mean more gamblers and more demand for my pets."

  The pit-terrier seated at the end of the booth licked its chops and went back to panting with its wide, sloppy grin. I tried to imagine what sort of person the dog shifted into and decided it was some muscle-y Jersey type.

  "That's right. You rent 'pets' to the casinos," I said. "As lucky charms."

  "Correction, my pets are influential."

  "Right. Because they make people lucky."

  "Correction again, Anne: they make people feel lucky. A very big difference where the Oddsmakers are concerned." Kleure growled softly for a few seconds and then licked his lips like he was licking his chops: with his entire tongue. "They bind us with rules like we're children. They tell us we are prohibited from affecting the gaming odds in any way. Why do you think that is?"

  "Because eventually it would be noticed by the non-magickals. They use computers to test the odds. They'd know the moment something wasn't right, and then they'd investigate. That would lead them to us. All of us."

  "No!" Kleure barked out. He literally barked it. "The Oddsmakers don't fear that. They change the odds when it suits them. Why are they the exceptions to their own rules?"

  Uneasy, I shook my head. "I couldn't tell you." Nor did I want to hazard a guess.

  "We are treated like criminals. If we break their pointless rules we face a punishment of death or, if you're fortunate, an irreversible loss of your magick. Funny, isn't it, that the best outcome when you're dealing with the Oddsmakers is to lose the very essence of who you are?"

  I said nothing. The Keyhole wasn't a pro-Oddsmakers environment. While I mostly agreed with their resentment of the magickal bosses, I wasn't stupid enough to say as much aloud. Not while the Oddsmakers continued to foster their unhealthy habit of kidnapping me and dragging me to their underground lair.

  "What I and my pets do is encourage humans to play," Kleure went on, calmer. "Nothing more. A gambler walks by any one of my pets and suddenly he feels lucky. He feels he has a chance. Whether those players win or lose after that point is not my concern. My job is only to provide the impetus for gamblers to take a seat and pull out their money. That's all the casinos want. Players. "

  "So when someone says they've got a 'feeling', the truth is that they've probably brushed elbows with one of these guys." I motioned at the dogs. "Or girls."

  "Exactly. It's a very positive, uplifting business." Kleure bared his teeth again.

  I'd buy the London Bridge before I believed him. Kleure was a mischief maker who'd learned to adapt his particular skillset to Las Vegas. He was an old being. Stories of him as Kludde had gone around Europe for ages where he had lured travelers into the woods where they'd wandered lost for days. Now he was here, making bank off his hobby of screwing with humans.

  Nevertheless, how he made his money wasn't my concern. It was just small talk before I launched into the nitty gritty.

  "Obviously you're a huge success and that's probably brought you into contact with a lot of—"

  "Tell me who you're asking about, Anne. You've wasted enough of my time already."

  I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. That was why I'd brought Melanie. Instead I focused on Kleure, who no longer looked friendly.

  "A creature," I began, "which my sources say is likely a shifter, has been asking about me. They've gone so far as to threaten to torture a friend of mine in order to get that information. I don't appreciate that. I don't appreciate it at all. I want to know who it is."

  "So you may kill them?"

  The blunt question didn't throw me at all. "We'll see."

  The blue flames in his eyes flickered. "A predator after my own heart. Though of course I'd never hurt another living soul."

  The dogs in the booth made weird chuffing noises and two of them yipped. I took that to be canine laughter.

  "Do you know who it is?" I pressed. The atmosphere in the Keyhole was beginning to weigh on my nerves, as though the walls and everything within them were moving closer. I tried to recall the largest shifters I'd seen in my quick scan of the place: there had been wolves, but any larger predators? Any bears or lions? I couldn't pull them up in my memory.

  "Before I answer your question," Kleure drawled, "I'd like to know why you believe I would help you."

  I held his flaming gaze. "Because we're on the same side."

  I made it an ambiguous statement on purpose. The same side could mean anything—we were both predators, we were both magickal beings, neither of us spent a lot of time around cats…I'd let him decide.

  "I'm not your friend, Anne." Kleure leaned forward. "In fact…no one here is your friend. Not while you're the lapdog of the Oddsmakers."

  Crap. I hadn't considered that anyone here might know of my involvement with the big bosses.

  My laugh was awkward and uneasy. "You're joking, right? You think I'm friends with those freaks? That I ever did anything for them willingly? Please."

  He flared in a big blue ball of flame, prompting me to jerk back from the table. But the fire had no heat. It was supernatural. It died down to reveal him in his natural form again. The big black dog looked rabid to me, and the orb of blue fire around his head didn't make him any more appealing. The slow flap of his leathery wings seemed ominous. Even the yellow canary on his shoulder resembled a small, angry fireball.

  "Do you take me for a fool?" he asked in a snarling voice that was even more difficult to understand than his human one had been.

  "On the contrary," I shot back. "I figured you'd be smart enough to recognize when someone chooses to do something and when they're bullied into it. I want nothing to do with the Oddsmakers, but th
ey refuse to take the hint. They're the worst ex-boyfriends anyone's ever had."

  "You sound suitably angry, but the truth is your family's dragons have served as weapons of the Oddsmakers for quite some time."

  I was so shocked that for a second I couldn't speak. Finally, I sputtered out, "That's a lie!"

  "Ancient history is not your friend, Anne, but when your family had the opportunity to rewrite it, your mother chose to carry on tradition."

  I shook my head in frustration. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The blue flared brighter. "I don't know why you're really here, but you shouldn't have come."

  "Anne…" Melanie murmured, her voice rising. "Some of them are standing!"

  This was going down worse than I'd feared. Although I'd mentally prepared myself to be the butt of some backlash simply from possessing a dragon familiar, something worse was happening and I had no idea how or why.

  I held my hands out, placating. "Look, let's all calm down. I'm not here to pick a fight, Mr. Kleure."

  Kleure snapped his jaws together. "It appears as though you may be involved in one nonetheless."

  "I only want information about—"

  "Anne!"

  I spun. Melanie wouldn't have screamed unless it was something worth putting my back to Kleure.

  It was.

  People and animals had leaped out of their chairs to avoid the path of four wolves of varying colors that were barreling across the room straight for me and Melanie. There was no stopping to talk them down. I reached into that rumbly place behind my breast bone and out came Lucky like a magic trick.

  Some trick. He blasted into the middle of the room like a mini sun, his golden body blazing so brightly it forced the four wolves to flinch back, their paws and nails scuttling clumsily across the tile floor, sending the shifters sliding into each other and crashing into the nearest tables and chairs.

  I heard shouts of "dragon!", and they weren't the kind that made me want to smile and wave in acknowledgment. These were shouts of fear, even a touch of resentment. I got it. The fear of sorcery like mine was part of the reason magickal beings were forced to hide their magick from non-magickals in the first place. Lucky and I presented a danger to the world that I doubted any amount of campaigning on my part would change.