Dragons Wild

He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t get the whole drug thing,” he admitted. “I’ve never used them myself, and I don’t understand what the attraction is that draws people to them. Fine. There are lots of things that people do that I don’t understand or take part in. People are different, and differences make the world go ’round. But this drug thing…”

He hesitated again, then shook his head.

“Aside from the fact that drugs are illegal and dangerous, from what Jerome says there are people getting killed over them. I can’t stop it, but I don’t want to contribute to it either. Gambling I don’t mind, but I don’t want to be the head of a group of dope dealers, even if it’s only a sideline. More specifically, I don’t want to go to any more funerals for our people, meet their families and watch them cry, because they were dealing dope on the side. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but that’s the way I feel.”

Jerome looked at Mose, who scratched his head, then ran his hand over his face.

“All right, Young Dragon,” he said at last. “If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll give it a try. We’ll put the word out and give our people a week to make up their minds. One thing you should remember, though. After the fall the other day, it’s definitely the George on your tail. Can’t think of anyone else, including most other dragons, who could have done that to you without you even seeing their face. I’d think that was trouble enough without your looking for some more by stirring up the locals with a no-drug policy.”

Thirty-three

Griffen couldn’t sleep.

He’d tried calling it an early evening…well, early for him, anyway…and had called it a night around 2:30 a.m. He had even managed to go to sleep.

Now it was quarter to four in the morning and he was wide-awake. He didn’t know what had awakened him. There was no apparent noise, either inside or outside his apartment, but he was awake and felt no inclination to go back to sleep.

He considered reading for a while, but realized that for some reason he was feeling restless. Yielding to an impulse, he pulled on his pants and pair of shoes and headed out again.

The courtyard of his complex was quiet. Valerie’s apartment was dark. Either she had also crashed early, or she was still out.

Glancing idly around, he noticed the usual contingent of the complex’s stray cats were also nowhere to be seen. Apparently it was an off night for everyone.

A scratchy rustling caught his attention. An oversized cockroach, nearly half the size of his fist, was crawling across the flagstones heading straight for him.

Grimacing slightly, Griffen decided to try his so-called animal-control powers one more time. Frowning, he focused his mind into sending the insect a message, specifically to go away.

The cockroach hesitated, then continued to approach.

So much for animal control. Turning his back on the beast, Griffen crossed the courtyard and let himself out of the gate onto the street.

Pausing for a moment, he considered his options. Harry’s Corner was close and open twenty-four hours a day, but he didn’t really feel like a drink just now. Instead, he decided to take a stroll along the Moonwalk. Sometimes walking along the river helped to clear his mind. Even if it didn’t, perhaps the exercise would make him tired enough to sleep.

Turning south, he sauntered slowly along the street, enjoying the quiet of the early morning.

Jackson Square was deserted when he reached it. Even the late-working street entertainers had called it a night and packed it in, even though the floodlights in front of the cathedral lit the area to near-day brightness. Griffen didn’t mind. Sometimes having the familiar streets to himself was a pleasant change.

“I believe we need to talk.”

The words were soft spoken, but came to him quite clearly.

Looking around, Griffen saw a woman sitting on one of the benches that circled the Square. He hadn’t noticed her before, but she was partially in shadow so that was understandable.

His first thought was that she was a panhandler, and that he was about to be approached with yet one more pitch to separate him from a few dollars. On second thought, however, he reconsidered. She didn’t look like a panhandler. She was black, in her late twenties to early thirties, and dressed in a white cotton blouse with a light fabric, multicolored full skirt. There was a dark handkerchief wrapped around her head, but he could still see that her hair was long, halfway down her back.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Griffen said, stalling slightly for time.

“We have never met,” the woman said, “but I have heard much about you, Griffen McCandles. There are those who are concerned about your presence in town and what it might mean to them. I felt it was time to meet you in person and to form my own opinion.”

Despite his normal wariness, Griffen was intrigued. If this was a pitch for a handout, it was an approach he had never encountered before.