Dragons Luck

Griffen was suddenly aware that no one had entered the room for several minutes and that an increasing percentage of the crowd was watching him expectantly. Postponing the inevitable was no longer an option, so, steeling himself, he stepped up to the podium.

“Good evening,” he said, managing not to wince at the magnified sound of his voice from the public-address system. “I’d like to welcome you all to the conclave. My name is Griffen McCandles, and I’ve been asked to serve as moderator for the event. This is the first time I’ve done this, so if anyone objects or feels they can do it better, I will be happy to surrender the position to them.”

He smiled at the crowd. They stared back at him. So much for opening with a joke.

“As this is a comparatively small gathering, we have dispensed with the notion of name tags or badges. It is hoped that by the end of the conclave, you will all know each other at least on sight. The lack of badges will also help keep you from being targeted as out-of-towners if you choose to explore the Quarter when not actively involved in the conclave.”

This actually drew a small ripple of laughter, even though Griffen had not intended the comment as a joke.

“As far as exploring the Quarter goes, we have arranged for discounts at both the Voodoo Museum and the Haunted History Tour if any of you are interested. Just mention to the money taker that you are with the conclave, and they’ll charge you the lower price. If, however, you choose to strike out on your own, there are a few cautionary notes I’d like to pass along.”

Griffen paused for a second. He had worked on keeping this part lighthearted, but he was afraid it still sounded threatening.

“The French Quarter is a major tourist attraction, and people who work here are used to tourists and conventioneers. They will do their best to make your visit enjoyable, hoping that you’ll come back again. You should keep in mind, however, that it is a living community, not an amusement park, and that many of the locals from the Quarter and surrounding areas are economically depressed. In plain talk, that means we have a number of pickpockets, muggers, hustlers, and other predators who will be watching for opportunities to separate you from your money in ways that are often illegal and occasionally dangerous.

“We would therefore suggest that you try to travel in groups or at least with one or two other people from the conclave. When possible, stay on the river side of Bourbon Street, particularly late at night, unless you have a native guide to help you steer clear of the more dangerous areas and bars.”

Griffen paused and glanced around the room.

“Of course, it cannot be ignored that this particular group has abilities and powers not found in your average batch of tourists. Now, everybody who comes to New Orleans likes to kick back and let go a bit, even more than they do on normal vacations. While we want you to have fun, I’d like to remind you all that many of your fellow attendees, myself included, live here on a permanent basis. If you feel compelled or required to use your powers during your stay, we’d ask that you try to do it as inconspicuously as possible. Otherwise, it could potentially cause problems for us down the road.”

He deliberately did not look at the changelings as he spoke, but from the corner of his eye he could see Robin and Hobb shift uncomfortably.

“But enough of that,” he said, smiling. “There are many open discussions and demonstrations scheduled over the next several days. Of course, attendance is not required, but I know that I, for one, am looking forward to many of them.”

And not looking forward to others, he thought, but didn’t verbalize that part.

“On Saturday night there will be a Masquerade Party and Dance. Costumes are not required, but if you wish to . . .”

He broke off as a small disturbance rippled through the audience, causing people to turn and look toward the door. Following their gaze, he saw that a small group had just entered and was standing just inside. As quick as he noted this, he recognized two of the people who had been looking for him at the Irish pub. Lowell and Vera. The vampires had just dropped in to the conclave.

After pausing for a moment, apparently to be sure he had the room’s attention, Lowell detached himself from the group and approached the podium. His eyes narrowed slightly as he recognized Griffen from the bar, then he gave a small shrug and a smirk.

“Mr. Griffen McCandles?” he said. “So glad to meet you . . . at last. My name is Lowell.”

Griffen noticed that as Lowell spoke, he half turned so that he was addressing the room as much as the moderator.

“Yes, Mr. Lowell,” Griffen said with a smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, I was hoping to get permission from you for me and my group to attend the conclave.” Lowell hesitated for effect. “In case you were not aware, my colleagues and I are vampires.”