Dragons Luck (17 page)

The girl curled up a little tighter. Lizzy smiled cruelly, but she did like the straight black hair. Maybe she should go back to that color sometime?

“Do you have family? Answer Lizzy, or I will be very upset.”

The girl nodded mutely.

“Brothers?”

She nodded again.

“And when one of them brought someone home, a girl.

What did you feel? Fear? Anger? What?!”

Lizzy did her best to make her expression soft. It didn’t take much. There was a yearning inside. A need to know, to understand.

The girl looked her in her many-colored, fractured eyes. Lizzy noticed her eyes were kind of a soft watery brown. Like a deer’s.

“I… I was… happy for them,” the girl said in a voice so soft Lizzy could barely hear.

Lizzy’s blood went cold. Her smile faded, and her eyes narrowed. The girl burst into tears.

For some reason that made her smile.

“Oh, poor little girl. You must not be right in the head. No wonder Lizzy startles you so. Don’t worry. Lizzy will put you to bed. And when you wake up, remember this was all a dream.”

She moved forward quickly, struck the girl just enough to knock her out. Lizzy picked her up and carried her inside the apartment.

“I don’t know why I am talking to silly puppets like you,” Lizzy said to the girl in her arms. “I need someone who has a chance of understanding.”

She peeled the girl out of her clothes. Looked at her for a moment, and decided that yes, she was pretty. Then tucked her snugly into her bed and pulled a nearby stuffed animal from the dresser and put it next to her head.

Lizzy watched her sleeping for a moment. Reached out and stroked the lovely hair once. Thought about killing her and left to get a drink.

There had to be someone in this town she could talk to.

Of
all the fears and worries Griffen had regarding the conclave, there was one he had not figured on at all. He had no experience at public speaking.

The requirement surfaced suddenly when it was casually mentioned to him that, as moderator, he would be expected to give the welcoming speech at the opening of the conclave. He felt uneasy when this was first mentioned, and by the time the official beginning of the event grew closer, this had escalated into a full-blown panic.

Back in college, he had signed up for one speech class, mostly because it presented an opportunity for him to get closer to a certain young lady who had caught his eye. As it turned out, she was already living with someone else, but by the time he had learned this, he had actually attended several classes and absorbed some of the rudiments of speaking to an audience.

After trying to seek advice and pointers from some of his current colleagues and discovering that living as a gambler or hustler in New Orleans gave them even less experience with public speaking than he had, he found himself desperately trying to recall those few lessons he had treated so lightly in school.

“Try to start with a joke. It establishes a rapport with the audience…”

“Don’t fidget with your hands. If possible, work without note cards. Note cards encourage you to fidget…”

“Don’t touch the podium. If you’re nervous, you’ll latch on to it with a death grip and never let go…”

All these and more were echoing in his mind as he surveyed the crowd of conclave attendees assembling for the opening. The watchwords did little to ease his nervousness, so he did what he always did in times of stress. He studied the people.

It had been decided that the opening would be conducted as a social gathering or cocktail party rather than with auditorium seating. Theoretically, this would encourage the attendees to mingle rather than bunch up in groups. It wasn’t working.

Instead of sitting in small groups, they were standing in small groups, speaking only with those they arrived with and ignoring or glancing covertly at the other similar groups. An uncomfortable number were simply standing silently and watching Griffen.

The changelings were actually sitting on the floor in a group near the front, whispering quietly among themselves while smiling eagerly at Griffen. There was a notable open space between them and any of the other attendees.

Estella was standing against the wall farthest from the door with a half dozen people Griffen assumed were from her voodoo temple. When she met his eyes, she gave a faint smile and a small nod of recognition and encouragement.

Slim was standing with two other people off to the left of the podium. They seemed to be saying very little, spending most of their energies watching the other attendees. Griffen remembered that the street entertainer had mentioned when they first met that his circle of associates was neither very large nor particularly organized.

The ones that Griffen knew the least about and had next to no time to meet or speak with were the shape-shifters. They seemed to be divided into two groups, or was it three? One small group lurked in the corner of the room and seemed to watch everyone at once. Another small bunch of four or five stood in the exact center of the room, eyes intent on Griffen. The final collection was a loose semicircle surrounding the center bunch, keeping at least two feet separate from them. They talked with each other, occasionally glancing at the center group or leaning toward it as if to listen to anything going on. They struck Griffen as nervous for some reason.

He also realized, even broken up as they seemed to be, the shifters were easily the largest group. Lump them all together, and they seemed to take up a good quarter of the bodies present.

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.”

That got a reaction from some of the assemblage, particularly the changelings. Griffen was gratified to realize that, for a change, he was not the least-knowledgeable person in the room.

“I’m afraid you’re laboring under a misconception,” he said. “This is not my conclave. I’ve merely been asked to moderate the event, and as such have nothing to do with the invitation list.”

“That’s what we heard,” the vampire said. “Still, since it seems the proceedings have already begun, we felt it was only polite to approach you as the moderator. It seems our group was somehow overlooked when the invitations were issued.”

“Yes. I heard about that,” Griffen said. “Something about vampire arrogance and how it was a disrupting presence for the conclave.”

Lowell threw back his head and gave a short bark of laughter.

“Forgive me,” he said, not sounding at all apologetic. “You must, however, acknowledge the irony of the situation. A dragon… near pure blood if I’ve heard correctly… lecturing vampires on arrogance.”

“I keep hearing about that.” Griffen smiled. “Perhaps if you knew more dragons, you’d realize that we aren’t all alike. Stereotyping groups is an easy rap, and often erroneous.”

“My point precisely,” Lowell said, pouncing on the opening. “I think you’ll find the same thing applies to vampires. Originally, we weren’t even planning on attending.”

“What made you change your mind?” Griffen asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Why, you, of course.” The vampire seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “At first we thought this gathering would not be worth our time, but then we heard that a dragon would be participating… even if only as a moderator. That made us rethink our entire position. If a dragon feels this conclave is worth his time, then perhaps we should reexamine our own thoughts and biases and attend… even if uninvited.”

“That raises an interesting point,” Griffen said. “I thought that one of the limitations on your movements was that you could not enter a place uninvited.”

“Please, Mr. McCandles,” Lowell said. “That concept is allegorical. It was meant to assure readers that evil… meaning us… could not affect them unless they welcomed it. You see, that is just one of the misconceptions that we might be able to dispel by attending the conclave. I’m sure we share equally false assumptions about some of the other groups who have gathered here.”

Griffen hesitated. He was still not wild about the vampires’ presence at the conclave. Still, what Lowell said made a certain amount of sense.

“Unfortunately, we’re still faced with the original problem,” he said, stalling. “It’s not my place to decide who may or may not participate.”

“Perhaps we could poll the other attendees,” the vampire said. “If our presence will upset too many of the invited participants, we’ll leave.”

“That’s a possibility,” Griffen said. “Before we do, however, I’ll have to ask you to stop using glamour on the group or at least tone it down a bit. We do want this polling to be fair, don’t we?”

Lowell looked startled.

“Yes. Of course,” he said. “My apologies. Sometimes one relies so much on a power one literally forgets one is using it. I’m sure you have the same problem from time to time.”

It was decided to allow the vampires to participate in the conclave.

As
soon as the matter of the vampires was dealt with, Griffen gave the podium over to Slim. Theoretically, Slim was supposed to give a rundown on the events to come and a brief outline of what was to be discussed. In practice, almost as soon as Griffen had stepped down, people had started to file out. Griffen wasn’t sure he liked the thought that everyone seemed to have attended the ceremony to get a look at him.

First out the door were the groups of shape-shifters. The ones lurking in the corner departed first. The changelings kept looking back and forth between Slim and the other attendees. They were gawking openly, no two of them looking in the same direction. Randomly, Drake stood up and started to follow the shifters out the door. Tink took that as a cue and followed, gathering up the others as he went.

The vampires were the next to go, followed by Estella and her group. Actually, they followed directly, and Estella stopped at the door and made some pass with her hands that Griffen didn’t recognize. Only then did she step through and leave the hall.

Griffen realized he hadn’t seen Rose that night and was a bit surprised. Actually, mostly he wanted to go have a word with the shifters. It was high time he met them and found out a little bit about what they expected from the conclave. Without at least that much information, Griffen had no idea how to prepare for them.

Unfortunately, Slim was walking toward him with the two he had been standing with earlier.

“Griffen, like ya to meet two of those attendin’ from my side o’ the tracks. This here is Johansson. He’s from Vegas. The other is Margie, down from Wyoming.”

Griffen shook their hands and blinked a bit. Johansson was a small, round man with a red complexion that made him look permanently flushed. Margie was thinner than Slim, and almost as tall. Her face was hard and serious, as if she had never smiled.

“Not what you expected?” Margie said.

“No, I hadn’t realized that there would be so few of you. Or that you would come from so far,” Griffen said.

“There aren’t that few of us, but most don’t care about dealings with others. Margie and I come from hubs, like Slim, so have to keep an eye on the world at large,” Johansson said.

Griffen was hard-pressed to try to figure out what Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Wyoming had in common. Or why they would be called hubs. For once, he was saved having to ask.

“You seem distracted. We can talk later,” Margie said, and abruptly turned and walked to the door.

Slim and Johansson shared a look.

“Well, she’s hardly ever wrong. What’s on your mind, Griffen?” Slim asked.

“I didn’t want to be rude, but I was hoping to talk with some of the shape-shifters tonight,” Griffen said.

Again, there was a look. Johansson shrugged and walked toward the door, leaving Slim and Griffen alone in the big room.

“Shouldn’ be a problem. The talk is they is stayin’ in this hotel. Most of the lower ones will still be hanging around. Go check the lobby bar,” Slim said.

Griffen noticed a bit of an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“I didn’t mean to step on your toes, or ruffle your friends.”

“Not friends, just like-minded folk. And you didn’t. Just don’t expect me to come share a drink with you and them.”

Then Griffen was completely alone as Slim walked out. More than ever, Griffen wanted to talk with the shape-shifters. If only to find out why Slim’s attitude had changed so abruptly. He felt woefully underqualified for this job.

Sure enough, the lobby bar was full. It was an open bar, with several low, comfortable chairs strewn away from the bar itself. Someone had moved the chairs together in a great amoeba-like configuration for the sake of conversation. Griffen stopped and saw a repeat of what he had seen during his speech.

There were essentially two rings of chairs. An inner ring held only five chairs, one of which was empty. Sitting in the other four were the group of shifters who had stood in the center of the room earlier.

Then, a foot or so away, was a much looser and wider ring of chairs. Here sat the other shifters, again talking among themselves, but at the same time keeping an eye on those in the center. It was as if they didn’t want to miss anything said but didn’t feel comfortable interfering.

As Griffen approached, most eyes turned his way. Particularly those of the inner circle. No one said anything or so much as gestured. But the vacant chair was plain enough. Without asking, Griffen walked over and took a seat in it.

There was an excited murmuring behind and around him from the outer ring. Those four he was now sitting with merely nodded to him. A small gesture of welcome, or of acceptance.

One man nodded a bit more deeply than the others. He was a fragile-looking man, with short black hair that Griffen noticed seemed very soft. He was dressed elegantly, though a bit too flashy. By Quarter standards they were gay men’s fashions.

“Mr. McCandles, I am Jay. It has been decided that I will do most of the speaking for the shape-shifters you see here,” he said.

“A pleasure,” Griffen replied.

He noticed that the group he had seen lurking in the corner was not present. He asked the obvious question.

“What about the other group I saw?” he said.

The four shared a glance. Griffen was getting a bit tired of that.

“I do not speak for them. How much do you know about shape-shifters?” Jay asked.

“Not much at all. To my knowledge I’ve only met one other.”

“You have met others. But you speak of the chimera you battled.”

“Yes, but what do you mean by ‘others’?”

Griffen didn’t wonder how he knew about his fight with George. Though he couldn’t be sure whether he was getting more used to supernatural sources of information or to the French Quarter rumor mill.

“You and your sister have the power, to some extent at least. You see, that is one of the difficulties faced by choosing who and how many speak for us in such a gathering as this.”

As Jay spoke, Griffen noticed that his accent and speech were very refined, cultured. His movements and gestures were short, seemingly abrupt, but he also seemed to have an uncommon grace. Except for an occasional odd tilt of the head, he was what Griffen thought of as a well-bred gentleman.

“We shifters share nothing in common except our ability. Even more than the animal-control types, those you see here have different ranges, origins, even blood. But we are lumped together because our primary attribute is to change form. Even though by that definition alone, you would be one of us.”

Griffen started to fear this was going the same place his initial conversations with Slim had gone. And began to reassure Jay that he wasn’t interested in controlling a group of supernaturals.

“I have no intention of—” he started.

“No, that was not meant to insult your pride or to insinuate that you wanted leverage over us. I was merely explaining how unfair things were. We have sitting behind you a werewolf, a woman who can become a wolf. But she has no other form, just the one wolf. Next to her is a man who can only change his hands, but he can change them into practically anything. What do they have in common?”

Griffen fought the urge to look behind him at the people pointed out. Somehow he thought it would be rude to stare at those sitting in the outer ring of chairs.

“Not much,” Griffen admitted.

“Exactly. And the personalities and motives change from person to person as well. Some shifters spend ninety percent of their time in animal form, and the human world is only a passing nuisance to them. This causes all sorts of difficulties. Even ignoring putting them in the same room as those whose sole talent is the bending of animals to their will.”

Ah, so that was why he had been picking up some tension from Slim toward the shape-shifters and back again.

“So, unless it is some personal matter, we only discuss at the conclave what affects all shifters, regardless of type. That is why we are here,” Jay said.

That made a certain type of sense to Griffen. A personal gripe or issue could be brought up by anyone. But having a set spokesmen at the outset for dealing with the larger matters, the ones that affected everyone, would prevent confusion.

“So, why you?” Griffen asked.

“Ah, natural ranking. We four are the most powerful shifters attending. And though I am not the most powerful”—Jay paused to nod to a wild-looking man whose eyes were constantly flicking from face to face—“it is agreed I speak best and fairly. In my day job I am a judge, so I also have knowledge of human laws.”

“Good to know, but what makes one shifter more powerful than another?”

“Variety. How many forms? What are his limitations? Does he have to maintain mass? Side benefits and powers like being able to shift objects, such as one’s clothes. I believe your chimera not only had multiple unrelated forms, but also had other tricks, including protection from fire. He might even be more than he claims. This really sets him fairly high compared to the young lady who howls at full moons and may fear silver bullets.”

“Does that really…?”

“I do not know. I have never tried shooting her,” Jay said.

Griffen shook off the thought and instead focused on something that was nagging him.

“Okay, but how can you speak for them if you don’t speak with them? Standing and sitting segregated seems awful cliquey to me.”

Jay blinked, obviously taken aback. Several of the others stirred, and the wild-looking man chuckled, before saying, in a voice like gravel, “We don’t do it to them, they do it to themselves.”

“Quite,” Jay said. “We have had no fights for dominance or any of that nonsense. Any of them could have taken the empty chair, but they hold themselves back in mixed admiration and fear. Even if they could have brought up the courage to step forward, most of them would ask ‘May I join you?’ and would have taken a ‘No’ without hesitation. The fact that you sat without asking marks you as one of the elite, even though they are setting the standards of the elite.”

Griffen looked back now, at the faces of all those listening to the conversation. They were right, each one held that nervous admiration of a… well, of a fan. These four were the equivalent of shifter rock stars, at least as far as the conclave was concerned.

“Okay, so what about that other group I saw?” Griffen said.

“Actually, they were locals. You’ll probably have some trouble with them. They call themselves ‘loup garou,’ the French, or, I am told, Cajun word for werewolf. They are quite powerful as far as variety. They have complete control, not just man to wolf but all stages in between, including a monstrous form to make a Hollywood effects man slit his wrists for being a dismal failure. Very pack-oriented, but independent, too. They only showed up to make it clear that what any of us says does not apply to them. Arrogant thugs,” Jay said.

Much as when he had first met the changelings, Griffen felt overwhelmed. Too many new concepts too quickly. He was going to need some time to think of some better questions, but at least now he had a small grip on who, and what, he was dealing with.

“One last question, if you don’t mind me asking. What ‘variety’ are you?” Griffen said.

“That in some circles is a very rude question, Moderator,” Jay said, smiling coldly.

“I did say ‘if you don’t mind.’ ”

“True, and I don’t. There is no name for me. I do birds.”

“What birds?”

“Any birds, size, shape, color, even sex. It makes no difference. I am limited to that, but within my bailiwick have no limitations. If it has feathers, I can manage it with a bit of work.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look much like any bird I have seen,” Griffen said.

Jay smiled and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled the short strands up enough that Griffen could see they weren’t strands at all. They were very soft, downy black feathers. So fine he would never have been able to tell.

“You just haven’t seen one that has evolved enough.”