Dragons Luck

She jumped midword. One of the men on the dance floor, seeing a seemingly drunken girl wavering on her feet, had stepped up and placed both hands firmly on her rump. His surprise squeeze had sent her nearly half a foot into the air.

She whirled on him so quick that he didn’t have time to move back. With one hand she grabbed his wrist, fingers iron-strong and grip just shy of painful. The other hand reached out and slapped his backside, gripping just as firmly as he had. It was his turn to jump, but his eyes quickly went excited and smoldering, and a cocky grin started to spread on his face.

His grin faded, and his eyes started to widen, whites beginning to show. Lizzy slid against him, hands still in place, looking to the world like nothing other then a girl cuddling up to a likely guy. No one could see the claws that had replaced the tips of her fingers, or the blood that soaked into the black material of his pants.

She stretched up on her tiptoes to purr into his ear.

“The word for today . . .” She paused, and her tongue flicked lightly over his ear. It was forked. “. . . is manners.”

With that, she sank back down slightly, then brought her head smacking upward against his. He crumpled, and she left him on the dance floor as those around suddenly noticed a problem and rushed to help.

By the time she had slipped onto the street, there was no sign of Flynn. She cursed and set out to search.

Twelve

The cell phone rang. Despite the fact only half a dozen people alive in the world had the number, George had had a bit too much fun programming the ring tones lately. Especially after the last call he had received, “Murder by Numbers”—it had just been too much to resist.

“Hello, Debbie,” he said.

“Whoever invented caller ID really needs to die,” the woman on the other end said sourly.

“You write me a contract on him, and I’ll be happy to oblige you,” George said.

“Interoffice bribery is against your regulations.”

“I thought we were beginning flirtation. Wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.”

“Also against regulations. Now stow it. We, well, you have got problems, George.”

“I always have problems.”

“And I bet you bring each and every one down on yourself,” Debbie said.

George looked at the time. It was a little past midnight, and he had been planning on an early night. The hotel room he was staying in had next to no luxuries. It did have a coffeepot, though, and something in his teammate’s tone sent him over to it.

“So what did I do now?” he asked. “Everyone over there falling apart because ol’ George isn’t there to beat down the big scaly baddies?”

“There is no need to be snooty. You’ve trained some excellent hunters on staff, and those of us in auxiliary service have never needed you to hold our hands.”

“No flirtation, no bribery, no hand-holding. God, when did this bureaucracy turn into no fun at all?”

“Again, stow it. I got a call from your latest client today.”

George held the phone away for a few moments and reined himself in. The first things he thought about saying were counterproductive.

“If that supercilious bastard wants a refund, you can kindly inform our ‘client’ that he, too, can be turned into a set of matched luggage.”

“Hmm, do we have a record of his preferred dragon form on record? He doesn’t strike me as a type to stick to the traditional scales and leather motif. Anyway, he asked for just that, but it was by way of an opening gambit. Claimed that since McCandles is unharmed and still breathing, you owe him another pass.”

“To which you replied that our contracts specify one pass, and he did not pay for a guaranteed kill, only a direct confrontation,” said George.

“Yes, I did, so he tried renegotiating for a direct-kill contract, at a discount of course,” Debbie said.

George watched drips fall into the coffeepot. Idly he put his thumb against the hot plate. The sting of it gave him a reason for groaning.

“That’s it, we never deal with anyone from California. Ever, ever again. Make a bylaw.”

“We’d get busted for discrimination. Besides, good money out of that part of the country. Come on, George. Focus a bit, won’t you? Vacation or not, you are slacking,” Debbie said.

He had been focusing. Obviously, Flynn was unsatisfied with his own attempts to “test” young McCandles and wanted some serious pressure put on. Or maybe Griffen was just getting under Flynn’s skin enough that he was ready for murder. That thought alone made George like the kid a little.

Mostly, though, George was thinking about his little “vacation” here. He had intended to cause Flynn some trouble, and so far hadn’t done much but monitor. That and a bit of indirect contact with McCandles, just for kicks. Maybe it was time to take things up a step.

“And what did you tell him, Debbie?”