followed his advice, there would be few happy people at the conclave… including Griffen.
Eleven
The French Quarter had always seemed centered around its vice. Actually, it centered around enjoyment, which is only vice to some. Still, especially from the outside looking in, music and food seemed merely runners-up to the grand vice of alcohol.
That being said, between the police coverage and the well-experienced bartenders, serious problems were few and far between. Exceptions hardly counted, such as big occasions like Mardi Gras and Spring Break, where the majority of the drinkers just didn’t have enough experience. During the average nonstop party that was New Orleans, difficult cases tended to be very low-key.
There was always the one who needed a cab home. The occasional person curled up in a doorway who might be homeless or might just be a tourist past his limit. A few locals staggering the handful of blocks from their favorite bar to their homes, with a few stops along the way. Rarely an angry drunk, much less a fight, that the bartenders hadn’t handled a dozen times before.
Of course there were always exceptions.
The bar was one step up from the daiquiri shops and beer dispensers that littered Bourbon Street. Very little local trade, and all of that young and slumming. A little hole with too much neon and attractive girls selling body shots to tourists. And, as seemed to be the pattern with such places, a little bar in the back, the music muffled, where a single bartender could keep the serious drinkers cut off from the herd.
Only a single occupant occupied the back bar. She had been sitting there for the last two hours, drinking. For the last half hour, she had been ranting. Sometimes to herself, sometimes to the bartender. Sometimes to the empty bar stool next to her. Only generous tipping and a sense of self-preservation on the bartender’s part had kept her from being asked to leave.
Anyone in earshot would have known that her name was Lizzy. She had a tendency to refer to herself in the third person.
“What the hell is Lizzy drinking!?” she said, slamming her half-full glass on the countertop.
The bartender winced. She had already broken one glass that way tonight. Though, miraculously, she hadn’t cut herself.
“Raspberry vodka, straight,” the bartender said.
“Well, I don’t want it. It’s boring me. Make me a…”
Her eyes flicked about as if searching. The television in the corner caught her eye, an advertisement for a new truck. Despite no apparent alcohol in the ad, she shot a finger up as if it had just sparked an idea.
“A mojito!”
“Sorry, Lizzy, we don’t make those here.”
Lizzy glared at the bartender, whose name she couldn’t remember, or even remember if she asked. Several nasty responses, both verbal and extremely physical, flashed through her mind. Most of those would have caused her the trouble of moving on to another bar though, so she bit her tongue hard. She tasted just a drop of blood.
“Fine! Just make me something interesting. And hard.”
The bartender nodded and turned to the rows of bottles behind him. She caught just a bit of relief on his face in the mirror, and briefly contemplated shoving a toothpick into one of his lower vertebrae. Her gaze slipped from his reflection to her own, and for a moment she got caught up in contemplation of her own image.
She knew she was pretty. She had made sure of it. Not conventional beauty, but eye-catching, stunning in her own way. Petite, barely over five feet tall, body almost too thin. The lines of her body were sharp, almost harsh angles that accentuated modest and subtle curves and made her seem somehow… dangerous. Beautiful, in the way of a well-made stiletto.
She ran a hand through her hair, a rich brown, with just a flash of red in the highlights. She smiled slightly to herself, knowing how many human women would kill for a hairdo like hers. Hair back in sweeping lines that accentuated those of her face. Just a few strands and waves out of place, giving it that windblown look. Expensive, if she had gotten it at the spa. Hard to manage through conventional means. Though just a bit out-of-date.
Then her eyes fell upon her own staring back in the mirror, and she looked away. Lizzy, properly named Elizabeth, remembered with some wry distaste that she had never been allowed to think of herself as just human.
“You know why Lizzy is in town?” she asked the bartender as he set down her drink.
“You told me some.” He nodded.
“Well, I’ll tell you again,” she growled.
She sipped her drink and looked at it curiously, not recognizing some of the mixed flavors. For the moment she was too bored with trying to set herself apart to bother with the third-person nonsense. Besides, once in a while it got her thinking that Lizzy really was another person. And that was not a good thing.
“Nathaniel was always a mama’s boy,” said Lizzy.
“Who’s Nathaniel?” the bartender asked.
“My brother, you nit! Now shut up and listen. That’s what bartenders are supposed to be for.”
She smiled openly and a little nastily as she watched him control his face. Maybe most drunken tourists would have missed the little tics and signs of strain. And though he nodded and looked attentive, for the next few moments she remained silent, slipping into her own thoughts.
Thoughts of her brothers, especially Nathaniel. Thoughts of Melinda. It wasn’t easy having one of the country’s more powerful dragons as a mother. Suck-up Nathaniel, currying favor, doing everything Mommy asked. Like that was a way to win love.
“Damn it, I was her favorite!” she said.
The bartender jumped.
“I
Lizzy sipped more of her drink and dipped her finger in it, starting to draw pictures on the bar top.
“Oldest daughter, almost oldest child. Way too many sons running about. Everyone knows I’m next in line. I’m heir. Mother to daughter, that’s Melinda’s way. Nathaniel will never ever, ever stop that. Even if I have to drop Mama’s little boy in the ocean.”
“I don’t think your mother would appreciate that.”
“Shows what you know, little monkey. Mother loves competition, especially among the boys, but I’m above that. Any day she’s gonna get back to grooming me for the top spot…”
Any day, like in the old days. Before things started getting… different. She knew Melinda was only biding her time. They were dragons, time was what they had most of all. All those other rumors… they were just wrong… stupid.
“And now little Nathan has gone and found himself a tartlet! Thinks to give Mother a new daughter. Mother can’t have any more daughters. She can’t! I won’t allow it! I’ll find her, and when I do…”
She drifted off again, lapsing into silence.
“Two days… been here two days, and haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone more interesting than a drunken monkey. I mean, really, what kind of dragon would come to this waste-land? One who is testing the limits of a regenerating liver? There is nothing to do here, nothing to see, and no power! It makes no sense!”
“Dragon?” the bartender asked.
Elizabeth looked up at the bartender suddenly, and he backed up two steps automatically. Her eyes flashed, and in the conflicting neon they seemed… fractured. Like a smashed mirror, different colors butting against each other without blending, the most vivid of those a violent purple that seemed almost to glow.
Lizzy had never learned to control her eyes. Especially in one of her moods. Melinda always used to say, somewhat coldly, that she had her father’s eyes.
“This was a good drink,” she said, still glaring at the bartender. “Nice mix of flavors. So I won’t drag you out back for a little light entertainment. Take care now.”
She stood and dropped a few bills on the bar without looking at them. She started to weave her way
