Dragons Luck

Of course, that left the question of what they were. A different type of changeling? They certainly didn’t have the . . . enthusiasm that the others he met had. That snap would have fit right in with some of the shifters he had met. Griffen was about to rise and go meet them when someone put a restraining hand on his arm.

Surprisingly it was Maestro. Even more surprising, to Griffen, was the bartender’s reaction.

“Who’s that, then?” he said.

The man, Lowell, reared back. There was no other word for it; his head jerked back and his body followed, like a cobra about to spread its hood. The others in his group, including Vera, began to spread out a little.

“I understood that he is here almost nightly, and well-known among the regulars,” Lowell said.

“You sure you got the right bar? I don’t know of any Gregory Candles at this place,” said the bartender.

“Not Gregory, Griffen,” Lowell said, blood starting to rush to his pale cheeks.

“They actually name guys Gordon anymore? Poor man.

That’ll be $32.50 for the drinks, by the way,” the bartender said, and moved away to another customer.

Lowell stared at the bartender’s back, mouth hanging open and gaping like a fish. All around the bar, people went back to their conversations, some of them with smirks on their faces. Griffen, now warned off, didn’t stare any more, or obviously less, than anyone else in the bar.

“Back to what you were saying, I sure do miss the spirit back in college ball. Not just the fans, the players. Those kids were hungry,” Maestro said.

“That’s one word for it.” Griffen nodded, as he kept one ear fixed on the group across the bar.

“Oh, good job, Lowell. That was just marvelous work,” Vera was saying.

“Shut up,” another said to the woman.

They began to square off.

“Both of you shut up,” Lowell said.

The man looked down immediately, Vera took a few more moments and glared resentfully at Lowell. Griffen was making a quick study of the group dynamics. Something about them kept tugging at his memory, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what. He was pretty sure they weren’t shifters, at least not any type he could name. Some sort of human magic user he hadn’t met? Sure didn’t have the feel of the voodoo or wicca.

“If you think you can do better,” Lowell said, “be my guest.”

From the way Vera smiled, Griffen knew that was absolutely the wrong thing for Lowell to say. She was a person who always thought she could do better.

“Excuse me!” she called out.

Her voice was loud enough to cut through the conversation and bar music. More than that, though, her own personal cloud changed. The air seemed to thicken, choking and hot. Hotter and harsher than the aura that had surrounded the group. In fact, the others around Vera seemed to back away from her slightly, wrapping themselves in their overall damp aura as a form of protection. It wasn’t the air as much as the atmosphere, the . . . vibes. Griffen began to wonder if they were some form of psychic.

To make the tension more acute, there was a . . . hole in the sensations above Vera herself. It was as if she were an oasis, a spot of light in the darkness. That more than her voice dragged the attention of most of the bar back to her. There were a few men, whom Griffen knew had been having hard times, who stared at her like men in a desert who had just stumbled upon a glass of water.

When she was sure she had the bar’s attention she smiled, and the air thickened more. The sensation was unbearable to Griffen, and he had to wonder why no one else seemed to notice that something was wrong. Only Mai held an expression that indicated she was aware of being manipulated and not liking it one bit.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now, please, if anyone could point me to Griffen McCandles, I would be very thankful. We merely have business to discuss with him.”

A man spoke, one of those who had looked at Vera most intently. He and Griffen had only met in passing, but Griffen had heard that he had recently lost his wife. She had been a crack addict, and after her third time in rehab, he had lost her. Under the weight of whatever Vera was doing, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Did you say Griffen McCandles?” he asked.

“Yes, I did indeed,” Vera purred.

Griffen braced himself for the end of the charade.

“Sure I know Griffen McCandles,” the man said, and took a long pull on his beer. “Man owes me two hundred dollars. I heard he had skipped town.”

Vera deflated, slumping, the smile falling from her face. With the change, the aura through the room changed, crashing back into a damp depression like that the group had when they first walked in. Only more intense. Griffen almost spoke out to stop the wave that passed over his bar.

“Vera,” Lowell snapped. “Enough, this won’t do us any good. We will simply meet with McCandles elsewhere.”