Dragons Luck

“The Eastern dragons,” Flynn said, suddenly attentive. “What sort of connection does he have there?”

“Nothing definite,” George said. “He has a girlfriend who followed him down from college and supposedly is somehow tied in to the Easterns. It’s my guess that they’re curious and keeping an eye on him . . . rather like you are.”

“All that in a few months,” Flynn said. “And you don’t see him as an immediate threat to me?”

George hesitated.

“Basically, I don’t see him as having any motivation to come after you,” he said, slowly. “Perhaps if you would share with me what your specific concern is, I could appraise the situation more accurately.”

It was Flynn’s turn to be silent for several moments.

“You claim to know dragons,” he said at last. “In your research, have you come across anything regarding a prophecy?”

George blinked, then shrugged.

“Just some old tale about there arising a near-full-blood dragon who would unite the various dragon factions into one powerful force. Is that the one you’re thinking of?”

“Something like that.” Flynn waved. “I just find myself wondering if some of the appeal that young Griffen is experiencing is from other dragons wondering if he’s the one from the prophecy.”

“I doubt it,” George said. “Almost every culture has some variation of a savior legend, someone who will either appear or return to put things right. While it’s reassuring, I don’t think there are any who take it seriously.”

“You’re probably right,” Flynn said, rising and putting out his hand. “Well, I certainly appreciate your taking the time to humor my request for a personal debriefing. It’s been most informative.”

George rose and shook the offered hand without thinking.

“As you said, you paid for it,” he said. “Just because he isn’t an immediate threat, though, I still think you should take young Griffen seriously. He is formidable, and that is a word I don’t use often or lightly.”

“Oh, I’m taking him seriously,” Flynn said with a smile. “So seriously, in fact, that I’m putting several things on hold to fly down to New Orleans to see to him myself.”

George stared at him.

“If you were going to do that, why did you bother hiring me?” he said.

“Until I heard your report, I wasn’t sure he was worth my while,” Flynn said with an easy shrug. “Now I’m convinced that he needs to be checked out and tested further by me personally to see if he should be recruited or killed.”

While George had a long-standing hatred of dragons, he realized that he was developing a specific dislike for this one in particular.

One

It was getting to be late September in the French Quarter, which meant the weather was cooling off enough that it wasn’t necessary to run the air conditioner full-time. This was a break from both the muggy, sweat-inducing heat every time one set foot outdoors, and from the sky-high electric bills.

Griffen McCandles couldn’t sleep, so he eased out of bed to wander out into the living room, being careful not to wake the sleeping form burrowed into the pillows next to him.

Fox Lisa and he were occasional lovers with no rules or restrictions on each other. The problem was they were simply on different schedules that only occasionally overlapped. She had her day job waitressing at G. W. Finn’s, while his own duties overseeing the gambling operations, as well as his own personal preferences, made him a night owl.

She had called him about hooking up after work, and while he had willingly complied, now that she had dozed off, he was wide-awake.

There was no light on in the living room, which was unusual, as he normally kept at least one lamp on to help him navigate his way to the john without tripping over something or banging his knees. Still, it wasn’t unheard of. The French Quarter, with its power surges and antique wiring, tended to eat light bulbs like candy.

As he was groping his way toward a light switch, he suddenly became aware that there was someone sitting on his sofa in the dark. His heart nearly stopped as he realized he had been caught completely vulnerable.

“Do not be concerned, Griffen McCandles. You know who I am.”

Forcing his heart rate down to somewhere near normal, he switched on the light and turned to greet his visitor.

“Hello, Rose,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you, to say the least.”

The young black woman with the long, waist-length hair smiled at him in return.

“I apologize for visiting your home unannounced, but at some times it is more difficult than others to make contact, and I needed to speak with you.”

Rose was a ghost, a voodoo queen who had been dead for eight years. Shortly after he arrived in New Orleans, she had approached him on Jackson Square one night to ask his intentions toward the supernatural community in town. She had also given him a necklace of small black and red beads that he wore constantly, and had helped him out of some awkward, potentially dangerous situations.