Twenty-seven
It had started simply enough. Things seemed to these days, then grew out of control. Griffen and Mai had been enjoying a friendly chat with Maestro on the “family side” of the bar at the Irish pub. The conversation had been light, mostly a criticism of the current coach of the Saints, and hopes that next season would be better.
“They still have a shot this year of course,” Maestro was saying.
There was a glint to his eye that had Griffen pretty sure he was just playing devil’s advocate. More and more he was liking the company at the Irish pub. Maestro was a perfect example. Always ready to talk movies or sports with his fellow Michigander, and very good about not prying into personal areas. Griffen rose to the bait.
“They haven’t won a game yet,” he said.
“Didn’t they win one or two at least?” Mai put in.
“Those were preseason games,” Griffen said.
“But the season is still early. Never know what’s going to happen,” Maestro said.
“Still… it just isn’t the same as college football,” Griffen put in.
The doors of the pub opened, and a noticeable lull fell on the place. That wasn’t a common occurrence at the Irish pub. Everyone noticed newcomers, especially strangers, but usually there wasn’t much in the way of reaction. Tourists did find their way off Bourbon Street now and again after all.
This group was different. Griffen had never seen five people look more out of place. It wasn’t anything about their appearance. Each was dressed in fairly upscale business attire, except one woman in a clingy dress of a deep burgundy red. They seemed a little pale perhaps, their eyes a bit sunken, as if they had just woken up. That wasn’t the problem, though. In the Quarter, where a good number of people didn’t wake till after noon and rarely if ever saw the sunlight, those sorts of qualities went largely unnoticed.
They just didn’t belong, and he was hard-pressed to think of anywhere they might belong. A funeral parlor perhaps. Griffen didn’t know what he was looking at, but he was sure he didn’t like it.
A cloud hung over them, he decided. Griffen had never seen a person, much less a group, who better fit the old expression. It was like an aura of dampness surrounded them, not malicious or volatile. More like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating.
All around the bar, conversations died off. Smiles slipped from faces. A few of the moodier drunks hunched over a bit more into their beers. One of the video poker machine addicts spilled his drink. In a few moments, over half the bar was silent and either casting sidelong glances at the group or staring openly.
What Griffen noticed most, though, was that they waited until they had at least that much attention before moving into the bar enough even for the door to close behind them. They had stood there for those few moments, almost posing, then they’d advanced toward a few empty seats at the front of the bar. Those people sitting on the edges of the gap seemed to edge away unconsciously, one even scooting his stool a few inches to the side.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Wine, white,” said one who looked just a bit more pallid and clammy than the rest.
The others nodded, and the woman in the burgundy dress took a step forward and leaned against the bar, displaying her not-inconsiderable cleavage.
“And a man,” she said.
The bartender, a French Quarter veteran, began to pour the drinks with only a brief glance at the woman’s charms. That glance was actually closer to a glare, and his tone was a bit hard as he set out the drinks.
“We dispense alcohol, not people. If you really think this is that kind of bar, maybe we should put these in plastic,” he said.
The first man who spoke grabbed the woman’s elbow and pulled her back away from the bar. He moved to sit in one of the empty stools and shot her a brief warning glance. Griffen thought he felt the “cloud” of the group thicken somehow.
“Please forgive Vera; she misspoke.”
“Like hell I did, Lowell,” Vera growled behind him.
“We are looking for a Griffen McCandles. We were told he drinks here often,” Lowell said.
That confirmed what Griffen had been afraid of. Even sitting across the room from the group, that one spat of infighting had given him the hunch that these must be more conclave delegates. Even though it had already officially started, he had been warned that a few more might trickle in.
Of course, that left the question of what they were. A different type of changeling? They certainly didn’t have the… enthusiasm that the others he met had. That snap would have fit right in with some of the shifters he had met. Griffen was about to rise and go meet them when someone put a restraining hand on his arm.
Surprisingly it was Maestro. Even more surprising, to Griffen, was the bartender’s reaction.
“Who’s that, then?” he said.
The man, Lowell, reared back. There was no other word for it; his head jerked back and his body followed, like a cobra about to spread its hood. The others in his group, including Vera, began to spread out a little.
“I understood that he is here almost nightly, and well-known among the regulars,” Lowell said.
“You sure you got the right bar? I don’t know of any Gregory Candles at this place,” said the bartender.
“Not Gregory, Griffen,” Lowell said, blood starting to rush to his pale cheeks.
“They actually name guys Gordon anymore? Poor man.
That’ll be $32.50 for the drinks, by the way,” the bartender said, and moved away to another customer.
Lowell stared at the bartender’s back, mouth hanging open and gaping like a fish. All around the bar, people went back to their conversations, some of them with smirks on their faces. Griffen, now warned off, didn’t stare any more, or obviously less, than anyone else in the bar.
“Back to what you were saying, I sure do miss the spirit back in college ball. Not just the fans, the players. Those kids were hungry,” Maestro said.
“That’s one word for it.” Griffen nodded, as he kept one ear fixed on the group across the bar.
“Oh, good job, Lowell. That was just marvelous work,” Vera was saying.
“Shut up,” another said to the woman.
They began to square off.
“Both of you shut up,” Lowell said.
The man looked down immediately, Vera took a few more moments and glared resentfully at Lowell. Griffen was making a quick study of the group dynamics. Something about them kept tugging at his memory, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what. He was pretty sure they weren’t shifters, at least not any type he could name. Some sort of human magic user he hadn’t met? Sure didn’t have the feel of the voodoo or wicca.
“If you think you can do better,” Lowell said, “be my guest.”
From the way Vera smiled, Griffen knew that was absolutely the wrong thing for Lowell to say. She was a person who always thought she could do better.
“Excuse me!” she called out.
Her voice was loud enough to cut through the conversation and bar music. More than that, though, her own personal cloud changed. The air seemed to thicken, choking and hot. Hotter and harsher than the aura that had surrounded the group. In fact, the others around Vera seemed to back away from her slightly, wrapping themselves in their overall damp aura as a form of protection. It wasn’t the air as much as the atmosphere, the… vibes. Griffen began to wonder if they were some form of psychic.
To make the tension more acute, there was a… hole in the sensations above Vera herself. It was as if she were an oasis, a spot of light in the darkness. That more than her voice dragged the attention of most of the bar back to her. There were a few men, whom Griffen knew had been having hard times, who stared at her like men in a desert who had just stumbled upon a glass of water.
When she was sure she had the bar’s attention she smiled, and the air thickened more. The sensation was unbearable to Griffen, and he had to wonder why no one else seemed to notice that something was wrong. Only
