She had just stepped off the curb when it came at her.
Tires squealed. The car seemed to leap into motion, like a pouncing tiger. It cut across the two lanes of traffic, causing another car to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision, and straight at her. She had just enough time to catch sight of the small woman behind the wheel as she jumped to avoid it.
The woman was smiling, teeth white and gleaming in the morning light. That smile scared Val more than the speeding car.
If she had jumped back onto the sidewalk, Val would have been crushed. The car leaped the curb at a sharp angle, the driver clearly anticipating such a natural reaction. Val’s mind was as quick as her body; she leaped forward, onto the street. The car tried to jerk back, but it was too late. The driver couldn’t fight the momentum. The car swerved back onto Decatur, fishtailed, then took off, leaving Val half-crouched in the middle of the street.
She straightened carefully, fully alert now to any other threat. Her pulse pounded, her breathing was suddenly rough and erratic. The driver of the car that had braked was out of his door and headed toward her. She shot him a glare that stopped him cold, well out of arm’s reach.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“No, but I’m not hurt,” she answered.
More help started to arrive, people who had seen the attempted hit-and-run. The whole affair had taken seconds. Val tried to shrug them off, to get away as easily as possible before she ended up having to fill out a police report. She was too busy worrying about what this all meant to be bothered with such nonsense.
Especially since, for a split second before the car launched at her, that weight on her heart, that tiny bit of warning she had been trying to pass off as imagination, had throbbed. It had all happened too fast to be a merely human reaction, but she knew.
She knew she had started to move just before the car did.
Eighteen
Tuesday night and nothing to do.
Griffen sat alone in the Irish pub. It was rare, the pub being so empty. Especially at night. Yet here it was, 10:00 p.m. and he and the bartender were the only occupants. They had both agreed on a Hammer horror-movie fest on one of the movie channels, but then had slipped into silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but still Griffen was searching his mind for a topic, any topic, that could get a decent conversation rolling.
He was saved when the door opened and Flynn strolled in. Griffen noticed with some amusement that Flynn never seemed to dress down. All his clothes were of high quality and, if not tailored for him, of a very good cut. Even at his most casual, his shirts tended to be silk. Griffen waved him over and, relieved to have some company, bought his first drink.
Then silence descended again.
Griffen bristled as Flynn turned his attention to the TV. He hadn’t run into the other dragon often, and still had many questions for him. Especially after his meeting with Estella. It had raised questions not only about the groups at the conclave, but about dragons as well. At least, how dragons seemed to be perceived by others.
It wasn’t till Flynn caught his eye and tossed a glance at the bartender that Griffen caught on. When things were busy and noisy, there wasn’t much problem talking about things that you might not want overheard. In a dead-silent bar, there was no way they could talk dragons or ghosts or shifters without drawing too many questions.
Well, almost no way; this was the Quarter after all. Ghosts and voodoo were common enough. Still, Flynn wasn’t a part of the local scene, so maybe he didn’t realize that. Griffen shrugged inwardly and thought up an easy solution.
“Hey, Flynn, how about a game of pool?” he said.
Flynn turned his attention to the tables and frowned a bit. Seeing his obvious hesitation, Griffen was afraid the silence would win. Flynn looked almost disdainful of the idea.
“Well… how about we make things interesting?” Flynn said.
The bartender stepped up to them.
“Legally, I can’t allow any betting in the bar,” the bartender said. Then he looked around at the emptiness and shrugged, smiling easily. “So keep your money in your pockets and settle up outside, and if anyone comes in, keep your traps shut.”
Griffen nodded his thanks and walked over to the back table. A bit of etiquette he had picked up since coming down to New Orleans. At least in a bar like this one, with two pool tables. If both tables were open, and you chose to shoot on the table closest to the bar, it was an invite for the bartender and anyone sitting there to feel free to watch and comment. If you went to the far table, people, bartenders especially, tended to give you your privacy.
Flynn walked over, still seeming reluctant, and started looking through the bar cues for the one that seemed most true. Griffen started to rack.
“Five thousand a game good stakes?” Flynn asked.
Griffen paused with a ball in his hand. He felt like shaking his head to clear his ears, sure he’d heard wrong, and looked up to find Flynn smiling broadly.
“If you don’t feel the pinch, what’s the point of playing?” Flynn said. “Five thousand isn’t much, but it’s enough that losing stings.”
“More than stings,” Griffen said, suddenly a lot more wary.
“I did say we should make it interesting. If you lose, put it down on your taxes as consultant fees.”
Griffen realized that this was more than to make the game worthwhile. Flynn seemed to be testing him, gauging just how much his advice was worth to Griffen. Of course… he just might win.
“Well… all right, but I’m using my stick.”
“Fair enough. I would if I had packed one.”
Flynn selected a stick and began to chalk it while Griffen unlocked one of the small lockers the bar kept for the pool players and began to assemble his cue. A good stick versus bar wood was always an advantage, but Griffen had never seen Flynn shoot and had to assume he was good. Five-thousand-dollars-a-game good.
“Straight or French Quarter League rules?” Flynn asked, surprising Griffen again.
“You know the local league rules?”
“But of course; the ball and hand is a very interesting twist for a position player. You didn’t think this was my first trip to New Orleans, did you?”
“Straight, please,” Griffen said. He had just begun to pick up the league rules and wasn’t confident enough yet to risk it.
“Drop the ‘please.’ You really need to learn to throw your weight around more,” Flynn said. “Especially if you hope to keep control of this conclave.”
“Still not sure how much control a moderator has or is supposed to have.”
“It’s always better to be in control. And it’s always easier to start from a position of control and power than to try to scramble for one when you need it.”
“Yeah but—”
Griffen got cut off as Flynn lined his cue up and broke.
The eight went in the pocket.
Griffen stood there, stunned.
“Another?” Flynn said, exuding confidence while keeping his voice bland and innocent.
Griffen had seen eights sink on the break before. It took both skill and luck, and was something he had never pulled off before. It wasn’t usually repeatable. Usually.
“See,” Flynn said, “now I’m working from a position of power. It makes you hesitate because you aren’t sure just how much power. If you come on strong, others toe the line. Especially if they are already nervous about dealing with a dragon.”
Griffen nodded and began to rack again.
