Dragons Wild (8 page)

“Is he a dragon?”

“I figure him for one of those I was telling you about,” Mose said. “The ones with dragon blood who don’t know it.”

“Does he have any secondary powers?” Griffen pressed. “Does he use them?”

Mose shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He uses a knife.”

Mose studied the tarot card Griffen had passed him, then glanced at Jerome.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jerome said.

“Depends on what you think it is,” Mose said with a sigh, “but probably yes. My only question is why you didn’t tell me about this before?”

“If you mean before today, I wanted Griffen to show it to you himself.” Jerome shrugged. “Besides, I figured we had a bit of time, what with him just having hit town and all. I wasn’t even sure it was the real thing. If you mean why not earlier, I wanted to wait until Valerie wasn’t around.”

Valerie had finally gotten bored with the details of even a preliminary briefing on Mose’s gambling operation and had excused herself to run some errands.

“Uh-huh.” Mose nodded. “I can see why you’d want to keep her out of this until we sort out what’s goin’ on.”

“Excuse me,” Griffen said, “but would someone please tell me what it is we’re talking about?”

“Could be nothin’ but someone pulling your chain,” Mose said. “On the other hand, it could be real trouble. Truth is, I’ve never actually seen one of these before. Only heard about them.”

“Since you’re the one I heard about it from, Mose, I thought you should be the one to fill him in,” Jerome said.

Mose nodded, tapping the card with his finger.

“Sorry to keep walking around this, Griffen,” he said, “but I’m having a bit of trouble getting my mind around this. It may be that you’ve got George on your trail.”

“Who’s George?” Griffen asked quickly.

“No one knows who he is,” Mose said. “But there are rumors about what he is.”

He pursed his lips, then continued.

“There’s supposed to be some kind of freelance enforcer or hit man that dragons hire when they want something to happen to another dragon. Like I told you, we aren’t big on direct confrontation. Now this enforcer isn’t a dragon himself, but he’s made a study of how to hurt or kill dragons so now it’s his specialty. I’ve only heard him referred to as ‘George’ or ‘Saint George.’ You know, the Dragonslayer. He’s supposed to charge an arm and a leg for his services, so things usually have to be pretty desperate or someone has to have a big hate on to call him in. That’s why all we have to go on is rumors. We’ve never been big enough or important enough to draw that kind of big league attention.”

“That’s just great,” Griffen said with a scowl. “I’ve only known about being a dragon for a couple of weeks…less than that, actually…and I’ve already got a professional hit man on my trail.”

“Don’t panic yet, Grifter,” Jerome said.

“Why not?” Griffen snarled. “Right now, panicking seems like a pretty good idea to me.”

“Because panicking never helps,” Mose said. “It only makes things worse and can maybe even get you killed. You should know that if you’re as good a gambler as Jerome says.”

Griffen thought for a moment, then took a slow, deep breath and blew it all out.

“You’re right.” He nodded. “So, what do we know about this George? What rumors are there?”

“Well, realize that we may not be dealing with him at all,” Mose said. “It may just be someone imitating his style to make you run. Like I say, George is a legend. Almost a boogeyman for dragons. This may be just someone trying to cash in on that legend.”

“Okay,” Griffen said. “But the question still stands. What do we know about him?”

“Well, first off, he’s a bit of an artist,” Mose said.

“I always thought he sounded like a bit of a nutcase,” Jerome muttered.

Mose shot him a look.

“I thought you wanted me to tell this,” he said tersely.

Jerome spread his hands in surrender and leaned back.

“As I was saying,” Mose continued, “the man’s a sort of an artist. He has his own way of doin’ things, and won’t change for anyone. Right off the bat, he always lets his victim know he’s hunting them. That’s what that tarot card is all about. He’s not going to just walk up on you or hit you from behind.”

“Sounds more like a sportsman than an artist,” Griffen said. “He’s handicapping himself like a fisherman using a light test line.”

Mose hesitated, then nodded.

“You may be right,” he said. “Never thought of it that way. Anyways, the other thing he always does is that he’ll take a couple of dry-run passes at you before he makes his real move…just to show you how vulnerable you are.”

“Maybe this guy is a Native American,” Griffen said. “That last bit sounds sort of like counting coup.”

“Except in counting coup, your enemy has a chance to kill you while you’re doing it,” Jerome said drily.

“More like a cat playing with a mouse,” Mose said. “He wants you on edge and jumping at shadows before he does anything. The way I hear it, though, when he makes his move, you’ll know it. It’ll be out in the open, face-to-face. What’s more, he’ll only make one real try. If you survive that, he’ll walk away.”

“I don’t quite get that.” Griffen frowned.

“The story is he gets paid to give it one big try. He’s paid for the effort, not results,” Mose explained. “He’s not going to keep coming at you. That is, of course, unless they want to pay him to try again.”

“He must be pretty good to get hired on those terms,” Griffen said.

“They say he’s the best.” Mose nodded.

“So what exactly can he do to me?” Griffen said. “From what you were saying earlier, I should be pretty hard to harm, much less kill.”

“That would be true for any human that didn’t know what they were going up against,” Mose said. “That’s not the case with George.”

Griffen sighed.

“Okay, give me the bad news,” he said. “What am I vulnerable to?”

“Well, I’ve already told you your skin is pretty tough,” Mose said. “We haven’t really tested you out to see how far your blood has pushed it, but any fire or penetration shouldn’t be able to get through.”

“I can’t help but notice the word ‘shouldn’t,’” Griffen said drily.

“There are always exceptions,” Mose said. “While most edges won’t be able to cut you, I’ve heard of some people getting through with weapons with serrated edges.”

“Serrated edges,” Griffen echoed. “Anything else?”

“Just remember what I told you earlier,” Mose said. “Tough skin, like chain mail, only gives you one kind of protection. Even if your skin isn’t penetrated, you can still be hurt. You can suffer broken bones and bruises if you get hit hard enough…like, say, by a car.”

“Then, too,” Jerome put in, “there are things like poisons that could kill you without going through the skin.”

Griffen stood up and walked to the window where he stood for a moment, looking out.

“What you’re saying overall,” he said at last, “is that I’m really not all that invulnerable.”

“Let’s just say it would be best if you didn’t count on it too much,” Jerome said. “’Course, it’s always best to stay alert and watch out for whatever might be coming at you.”

“Let’s back up a bit here,” Mose said, holding up a hand. “While it may be best to consider and plan for the worst, there are some other possibilities here. The most obvious one I pointed out earlier, that it was just someone running a bluff on you up in Detroit to get you running.”

“There’s one problem with that, Mose,” Griffen said, returning to his seat. “That only works if I recognized the threat, which I didn’t.”

“But you ran,” Jerome pointed out.

“Only because my uncle Malcolm told me to,” Griffen said.

“In a phone call that came in conveniently just after the card got slid under your door,” Jerome said.

“As to your not recognizing the threat,” Mose said, “it could also be a way to make any dragon you tried to hook up with think twice before taking you in. I already told you that dragons can be a sneaky bunch.”

Griffen started to speak again, but Mose held up his hand.

“Le’me try a different slant on this,” he said. “Let’s assume for a moment that this is for real, and that the George is really after you. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s out to kill you.”

“But you said he was a hit man,” Griffen protested.

“I also said he was an enforcer,” Mose said. “See how this sounds. Malcolm told you that you were a bit of a wild card as far as the established dragons were concerned. What if one or more of them decided to hire the George to test you. To put some pressure on you to see what kind of power you have and whether or not you’re a threat to them.”

“So if I understand you right,” Griffen said, “if he tries to kill me and I’m weak, he’ll kill me. If he’s testing me and I’m strong enough to stave him off, it will alert the other dragons that I’m strong enough to be a threat to them.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but yes,” Mose said.

“Somehow I don’t find that reassuring,” Griffen said with a grimace.

“Cheer up, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Mose has already pointed out there’s a good chance this is just some elaborate kind of bluff. Even if the George is after you, remember where you are. Right now, he has no way of knowing you’re in New Orleans. Even if he finds you here, what with everybody in the Quarter knowin’ each other, he’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Everybody in the Quarter knows each other, Griffen thought to himself. Except for the couple of million tourists who roam the Quarter every year. Any of whom could be a killer in disguise. Great. Just great.

Griffen and Jerome were sitting at one of the small tables in the Irish pub waiting to meet with Gris-gris. It was early afternoon, so the place was nearly empty except for them, the bartender, a few people at the bar, and two guys shooting pool on the back table.

Meeting at a public place had been Gris-gris’s idea, though he had approved their choice of the Irish pub. Despite Mose’s statement that these matters were not handled by rough stuff, apparently Gris-gris was sufficiently worried that he wanted other people around.

The meeting itself was Griffen’s idea, just as he had proposed to handle the matter himself. Mose had agreed on the condition that Jerome went along. Everything had progressed smoothly, and now there was nothing to do but wait.

The waiting made Griffen edgy.

With nothing else to do, his mind was free to mull over anything he might have overlooked and everything that could go wrong. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t think of anything more to do now to improve the situation.

He had even thought to give the bartender forewarning. All it took was a quiet explanation that he was going to be meeting with someone and that it might get a little noisy. The bartender agreed to stay out of it, on the proviso that if it got rough they would take it outside and that Griffen would make good any damages.

The customers were all regulars and wouldn’t need any instructions to keep their distance. It was the Quarter.

Still nervous, Griffen played with his cup of coffee. He had considered having a shot of Irish whiskey, but decided he needed a clear head more than steady nerves.

“So, Jerome,” he said at last, just to break the silence, “what do you think of my plan?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jerome said, watching the door.

“Excuse me?”

“I said it doesn’t matter what I think,” Jerome said. “You and Mose came up with this idea, and now it’s in motion. I’m just here to back you. If it works, it works. If not, we take it from there.”

“I’d still like to know what your opinion is,” Griffen said.

Jerome looked at him levelly, then returned his attention to the door.

“Well, I’ll admit I’m curious as to why you wanted to handle this yourself,” he said. “Would have thought you had more than enough on your plate right now. For that matter, would have thought you’d want to wait a bit and get a feel for things before you plunged in.”

“It seemed like the only logical way to play it,” Griffen said. “Gris-gris trying to pull out just when I’m coming in is too much of a coincidence. I think his problem is with me…and if it is, I’ve got to square things away with him myself. Hiding behind Mose won’t cut it.”

“Well, however it goes, it’s going down,” Jerome said. “Here they come.”

Griffen forced himself to take a slow sip of his coffee as the door opened.

The first one to come in was a huge chocolate-colored black man. Easily six foot six or seven, he had a thick massive body that made Griffen think of Fat Albert in the old cartoon show. He recognized him as the one they call Jumbo who works as a shill and bouncer at one of the strip joints on Bourbon Street. Rumor was that he also picked up a bit of extra money as a strong-arm man and debt collector. Despite his size, he was supposed to be very fast.

Pausing just inside the door, Jumbo swept the place with a slow, steady stare. When his eyes met Griffen’s, they paused and he gave a small nod of recognition. Meaning: We know each other, but I’m working. It’s just a job, nothing personal. Griffen nodded back.

Apparently satisfied, Jumbo opened the door behind him. A small, wiry, ebony black man came in. He was maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, and seemed to vibrate with energy. As he moved, he seemed to throb to the beat of unheard music. Gris-gris.

Jumbo stayed by the door as Gris-gris moved to their table.

“Hey, Jerome,” he said by way of greeting. “This the new guy?”

Jerome nodded.

“Gris-gris. Griffen.”

“Have a seat, Gris-gris,” Griffen said, gesturing to an empty chair at the table. “I thought we should meet and have a little talk.”

“We got nothing to talk about, white boy,” Gris-gris said. “What I got to say, I can say standing up.”

He pulled himself erect and folded his arms across his chest.

“Since I’ve been running my game, I’ve been paying a piece to Mose. I didn’t have to, but he’s been operating down here forever and I figured it was only respectful to acknowledge that. Then I hear he’s bring in some white-bread college boy from up north to take over his operation.”

He unfolded his arms and put his fists on his hips.

“Now, Mose is Mose, but I don’t figure I owe you anything. I’m going to keep my money and keep running my game and I don’t see there’s any way you’re going to change that. You sure ain’t going to do it with talk. That’s all I got to say to you.”

The bar was now dead quiet as everyone concentrated on not looking like they were listening in on the exchange.

Griffen took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down.

“You’re wrong, Gris-gris,” he said. “I didn’t ask you to come here to threaten you in any way. In fact, I just wanted to let you know that I’m your new best friend.”

Gris-gris frowned.

“And just how do you figure that?” he challenged.

“Simple.” Griffen shrugged. “I’m the only thing between you and her.”

As he spoke, Valerie came off her stool at the bar and grabbed Gris-gris with both hands, slamming him against the wall.

“You listen to me, little man,” she hissed, her face close to his. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you run your game or not or if you pay in a percentage. But if you dis my big brother again…if I hear about you talking trash the way you’ve been doing…I will personally kick your boney ass up one side of Bourbon Street and down the other. Now, do we understand each other?”

She gave him a small shake.

“I said, do you understand?”

“Um…Val?” Griffen said. “He can’t answer if he can’t breathe.”

“He can nod,” she said, not looking around.

Gris-gris managed to vibrate his head up and down.

“Fine,” Valerie said, setting him down. “I knew you’d listen to reason. Hey, Jumbo. How’s it going?”

With that she slid back onto her bar stool and returned to her drink.

Gris-gris straightened his clothes, then looked at Valerie’s back.

She ignored him.

Then he looked at Griffen.

Griffen shrugged and gave a little grimace.

Finally, Gris-gris turned on his heel and left the bar, with Jumbo, deadpan, trailing along after him. As the door closed behind them, the bar talk resumed, a little louder than before.

Griffen exhaled a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I think that went well,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m about ready for a real drink. How about you?”

“In a minute,” Jerome said. “Did you notice anything unusual happen during that exchange?”

“You saw it, too, huh?” Griffen said. “I was thinking that maybe it was an optical illusion.”

“Um…what did you see?”

“When Val picked Gris-gris up and pinned him against the wall,” Griffen said. “It looked to me like she grew about six or eight inches while she was reading him the riot act. She’s back to normal now, so I thought it was just my eyes playing tricks on me.”

“If so, then my eyes are playing the same tricks,” Jerome said. “But I was talking about the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“While she was working on Gris-gris and everyone was watching the action, you blew a smoke ring.”

“I what?”

“You blew a smoke ring. A nice round one until the draft blew it apart.”

Griffen looked at him.

“You’re kidding me. Right?”

“Well, while you’re laughing at that, sneak a peek at your right hand.”

Griffen glanced down at his hand that was holding the coffee cup.

At first he thought he was having trouble focusing his eyes, as the image was fading…but his hand, for a few lingering moments, was covered with leathery scales.