Dragons Luck

Griffen stared from one to the other, not comprehending. Hobb sniffed, and pulled out a wad of napkins from his pocket. He started to plug up his nose.

His eyes were very sad. Griffen would have expected fear or anger. Not that.

“Those muggers,” Hobb said. “They won’t be waking up happy . . . or maybe at all.”

Griffen began to remember something important. Something he had forgotten when dealing with these boisterous changelings.

Every fairy tale has its dark side.

Twenty-seven

It had started simply enough. Things seemed to these days, then grew out of control. Griffen and Mai had been enjoying a friendly chat with Maestro on the “family side” of the bar at the Irish pub. The conversation had been light, mostly a criticism of the current coach of the Saints, and hopes that next season would be better.

“They still have a shot this year of course,” Maestro was saying.

There was a glint to his eye that had Griffen pretty sure he was just playing devil’s advocate. More and more he was liking the company at the Irish pub. Maestro was a perfect example. Always ready to talk movies or sports with his fellow Michigander, and very good about not prying into personal areas. Griffen rose to the bait.

“They haven’t won a game yet,” he said.

“Didn’t they win one or two at least?” Mai put in.

“Those were preseason games,” Griffen said.

“But the season is still early. Never know what’s going to happen,” Maestro said.

“Still . . . it just isn’t the same as college football,” Griffen put in.

The doors of the pub opened, and a noticeable lull fell on the place. That wasn’t a common occurrence at the Irish pub. Everyone noticed newcomers, especially strangers, but usually there wasn’t much in the way of reaction. Tourists did find their way off Bourbon Street now and again after all.

This group was different. Griffen had never seen five people look more out of place. It wasn’t anything about their appearance. Each was dressed in fairly upscale business attire, except one woman in a clingy dress of a deep burgundy red. They seemed a little pale perhaps, their eyes a bit sunken, as if they had just woken up. That wasn’t the problem, though. In the Quarter, where a good number of people didn’t wake till after noon and rarely if ever saw the sunlight, those sorts of qualities went largely unnoticed.

They just didn’t belong, and he was hard-pressed to think of anywhere they might belong. A funeral parlor perhaps. Griffen didn’t know what he was looking at, but he was sure he didn’t like it.

A cloud hung over them, he decided. Griffen had never seen a person, much less a group, who better fit the old expression. It was like an aura of dampness surrounded them, not malicious or volatile. More like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating.

All around the bar, conversations died off. Smiles slipped from faces. A few of the moodier drunks hunched over a bit more into their beers. One of the video poker machine addicts spilled his drink. In a few moments, over half the bar was silent and either casting sidelong glances at the group or staring openly.

What Griffen noticed most, though, was that they waited until they had at least that much attention before moving into the bar enough even for the door to close behind them. They had stood there for those few moments, almost posing, then they’d advanced toward a few empty seats at the front of the bar. Those people sitting on the edges of the gap seemed to edge away unconsciously, one even scooting his stool a few inches to the side.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Wine, white,” said one who looked just a bit more pallid and clammy than the rest.

The others nodded, and the woman in the burgundy dress took a step forward and leaned against the bar, displaying her not-inconsiderable cleavage.

“And a man,” she said.

The bartender, a French Quarter veteran, began to pour the drinks with only a brief glance at the woman’s charms. That glance was actually closer to a glare, and his tone was a bit hard as he set out the drinks.

“We dispense alcohol, not people. If you really think this is that kind of bar, maybe we should put these in plastic,” he said.

The first man who spoke grabbed the woman’s elbow and pulled her back away from the bar. He moved to sit in one of the empty stools and shot her a brief warning glance. Griffen thought he felt the “cloud” of the group thicken somehow.

“Please forgive Vera; she misspoke.”

“Like hell I did, Lowell,” Vera growled behind him.

“We are looking for a Griffen McCandles. We were told he drinks here often,” Lowell said.

That confirmed what Griffen had been afraid of. Even sitting across the room from the group, that one spat of infighting had given him the hunch that these must be more conclave delegates. Even though it had already officially started, he had been warned that a few more might trickle in.