Dragons Luck

He felt a good amount of the irony from that statement. It looked more and more like he was going to end up the main bag holder.

“Slim, you mentioned a guest list. I’d really appreciate if someone would tell me who, and what, exactly is coming to this thing.”

“Rose didn’t tell you?!” Slim said, face more than a little shocked. “Well, damn. Guess I understand since things ain’t too solid yet. Keep in mind this might change as invites get accepted and declined.”

“Invitation only, right?” Griffen said.

“Uh . . . mostly. Always a surprise or two at these things, ya know?”

Slim leaned back and started to count off on his fingers.

“First comes us animal types. So you can figure the shifters, too. All sorts: chimera, werewolves, no tellin’ what mix yet.”

Griffen thought inwardly, Shamans and werewolves, oh my.

“The local voodoo people will show. They ain’t helpin’ out like they should, though. Don’t rightly know why. Figure a handful of other human magic users, wicca and the sorts. Again, no idea what mix exactly. Then, ’course, Rose and a few from the other side.”

“Vampires?” Griffen asked, intrigued.

After all, if there were going to be ghosts and werewolves, who knows?

“Didn’t get invited. Too much trouble. The emotion ones depress or piss off everyone. Other sorts . . . well, after Rice and the like, you just don’t want to meet the types of vamps that New Orleans might attract.”

“You’re probably right. Is that it?” Griffen said.

“Pretty much. Bigwigs aren’t showin’. Likes the . . . well, like the dragons. Oh, somethin’ different. First year the fey kids are gettin’ in.”

Griffen blinked.

“The what?!” he asked.

“Yeah, they been tryin’ for a long time to get a spot in the meets. Call ’em changelings. Supposed to be what the fey leave behind when they snatch a human kid. Bunch of bull ya ask me, but the kids gots some power.”

“Then why haven’t they been included before?”

“Mostly ’cause they are weird. Even by our standards. Even push Quarter standards, you listen to some of the rumors. Only reason they get a shot this year is because the conclave is here. Never met one myself, of course, but that’s what I hear.”

Slim finished his drink and stood abruptly, straightening his suit again.

“That’s all I got for now. I’ll call you sometime to talk ’bout the itinerary.”

“You sure about that list?” Griffen pressed.

“Pretty sure. But remember, always a surprise or two.” Slim walked toward the door and had it halfway open when he stopped, looking down at his empty hand. He had left his bucket back at the table. Before he even turned, one of the three dogs stood up and was dragging it to him in its teeth. He scritched the dog affectionately and winked to Griffen before leaving.

If anyone found it odd, no one commented. Or even looked up from their conversations. Which left Griffen stuck on one very important question.

What could be too odd for the French Quarter?

Seven

Griffen really didn’t want to talk to Detective Harrison. If nothing else, he wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

“By the way, Detective, there will be a bunch of weird, supernatural types hitting town over the Halloween weekend. You might want to keep an eye out for them, but don’t lean on them too hard.”

That would raise some questions Griffen would just as soon have left unasked.

Still, the vice detective had done him some favors in the past, mostly because he hated feds operating on his turf even more than he hated protected gambling operations. Knowing there was potential trouble coming down the pipeline and not alerting the policeman would be a poor way to pay him back.

Griffen decided against calling Harrison on his cell phone for fear it would make the whole thing too official for comfort. Instead, he would try to meet with the detective casually, making it appear to be a chance run-in.

To that end, he put the word out through his various watchers in the Quarter to alert him when Harrison was spotted in the area but not actively working.

He thought this would buy him a bit of time to figure out what he was going to say, but the call came back almost immediately, letting him know that Harrison was eating at Yo Mama’s.

Sometimes he wished his network of watchers was a little less efficient.

Padre, one of his favorite bartenders, was behind the bar when he rolled in. Catching his glance, the man jerked his head slightly toward one of the back booths, then rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Not knowing quite what to make of the signal that had been passed to him, Griffen made his way toward the indicated booth. It didn’t take him long to figure out what Padre had been trying to tell him.

Harrison, as always looking more like an overweight biker than a cop, was sprawled loosely in the last booth, a half-full bottle of beer in front of him.

“Well, look who’s here,” the detective drawled. “My friend the Grifter . . . or should I say Mr. McCandles. Pull in, son. Let me buy you a round or two.”