right-hand pistol drooped.
The assassin moved in that instant, kicking the table up, jarring George’s hands. A blade, long and sharp, was in the assassin’s hand. It cut through the tendons of George’s right wrist, as a hard blow struck his left.
Blood sprayed.
The assassin kept moving, using his momentum to drive George’s left wrist into the wall. The right-hand gun fell, the left hung loosely in George’s pinned hand.
The blade slashed across George’s stomach, then up and in.
The assassin held his opponent on the blade, not releasing the limp hand still holding a weapon. The stomach blow was a killing one, but a slow death. The assassin needed information.
“How did you find me? Who are you?”
He twisted the blade, George groaned. The smell of blood and worse filled the room.
“Ah! Ahn… oh! I say, you are good. Better than me if truth be told,” George said through pain-bared teeth.
Which seemed obvious to the assassin given their current situation.
“Answer!” said the assassin.
“Yo… Ah! Your contacts and middlemen aren’t nearly as professional as you. What with your rush job I managed to track down the person handling your booking. But to be fair, I had advance warning on who to look for.”
The assassin twisted the blade again, and George arched against the wall, closing his eyes, momentarily groaning. He seemed too coherent to the assassin; it unnerved him.
“Pity, really, I did try to play as fair as I could,” George said.
The assassin knew his business. Still, he only noticed that George’s right wrist had stopped bleeding an instant before the fist cracked against his jaw.
The assassin lost contact with his foe for a moment, then George simply vanished.
The cold weight of a pistol barrel dug into the back of the assassin’s skull. A blow to the back of his knees sent him kneeling to the floor.
“So much for sportsmanship,” George said.
The blade the assassin had left in George’s sternum sliced along his throat. His last thought, almost idle, was to wonder why George hadn’t shot him, now or earlier.
Too noisy.
Sixteen
Even though the Voodoo Museum was only a half block off Bourbon Street, very few tourists found it. It was far enough north of the main concentration of bars and souvenir shops that one did not come across it in a normal prowl down Bourbon Street, and even if one had a map and was looking for it, its frontage was nondescript enough that it was easy to overlook.
Most of the Quarter locals at least knew of its existence. If nothing else, it was only a half block from the Clover Grill, a favorite twenty-four-hour greasy spoon that people migrated toward when they needed a break from gumbo and red beans and rice, and felt the need for a plain old hamburger or maybe some waffles.
Griffen had passed the place dozens of times but had never ventured in. Now, pausing at the doorway, he found himself wishing he had yielded to his curiosity at least once. As it was, he knew little to nothing about voodoo, and so felt woefully unprepared for the upcoming meeting. Still, it seemed there was no avoiding it.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the door.
The room he entered looked to be a small living room and was sparsely decorated with a few paintings and a wooden rack holding various flyers and promotions for swamp tours. A young black man was sitting behind a wooden table reading a book and glanced up as Griffen entered.
“Are you here to make an appointment or just to view the exhibit?” he said, reaching for the cigar box that apparently served as his cash register.
“I was told that Estella wanted to see me,” Griffen said.
“Ah, yes.” The man nodded. “You would be Mr. McCandles. Go right back. Estella is expecting you.”
He indicated a curtained archway to his right, then rose and locked the main entrance, flipping over the CLOSED sign as he did so. He saw Griffen’s concerned look and smiled.
“Merely for privacy, I assure you,” he said.
Griffen was not completely assured but ducked through the curtained archway.
He found himself in a series of small rooms, again suggesting what was originally a residence rather than designed for commercial use. There were several glass cases scattered about, displaying what he guessed were magical items, and one corner seemed to be set up as some sort of altar.
“Back here, Mr. McCandles.”
He followed the voice and found himself in a small study. There were several chairs arranged in a half circle in front of a crudely carved wooden table covered by a colorful cloth, behind which sat a tall, slim woman.
“It was good of you to come, Mr. McCandles,” the woman said, rising and extending a hand. “My name is Estella. I wanted a chance to speak with you privately before the conclave.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Griffen said, formally. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
He took one of the chairs facing her, which was surprisingly comfortable. In fact, the entire room was quite cozy, and Griffen found himself relaxing despite his earlier misgivings.
“I understand there have been some complaints that my group is not doing its part in preparing for the conclave,” Estella said, watching him closely.
“I’ve heard a few comments to that effect myself,” Griffen said, “though I heard it expressed more as disappointment than as complaints.”
“So it’s other people making those comments, not you,” Estella pressed.
“I can assure you, it’s not coming from me.” Griffen smiled.
“If nothing else, I don’t know enough about what should or shouldn’t be done to prepare for the conclave to try to complain or criticize anyone.”
Estella blinked at this easy admission of his ignorance.
“I guess that brings me to my next question,” she said.
“What makes you feel you’re qualified to moderate the conclave?”
“That’s even easier.” Griffen smiled. “I don’t. Think I’m qualified, that is. As a matter of fact, one of the things I wanted to tell you was that if you or your group object to my sitting in as moderator, I’ll gladly step down.”
Estella frowned.
“You make it sound like you don’t want the job.”
“Not only do I not want it,” Griffen said with a grimace, “I can’t imagine why anyone would want it. There’s too much that can go wrong with very little upside.”
“Of course, there’s the status,” Estella said, carefully.
“Then, too, it would be an ideal position for someone, say, who wanted to gain more influence over the various groups. Maybe even controlling influence.”
Griffen shook his head wearily.
“I’ve already had this conversation once with Slim,” he said. “I have absolutely no interest in organizing or gaining control of other groups. I have a gambling operation I’m trying to run. That’s it. I wouldn’t know what to do with any of these groups even if I were given control.”
“Are you sure you’re a dragon?” Estella said with a faint smile.
“As sure as I am of anything these days,” Griffen replied.
“Well, you sure don’t sound like one,” she said. “At least not like any dragon I’ve heard of. So if you don’t want to moderate the conclave, why are you doing it?”
“I was asked,” Griffen said. “Frankly, I couldn’t think of a way to say no.”
“And just who was it that asked you?”
