was filled with inexpensive two- and three-star places that would knock anyone’s taste buds for a loop.
After a lazy time of people-watching, Griffen went to walk off the meal. He decided to avoid tourist-heavy streets like Royal and Bourbon, preferring today to enjoy the buildings more than the scenery. He paused by a window of a tiny antique shop on Chartres, looking over a variety of old pocket watches and knickknacks. The sorts of things that were fun to peer at but he would never find reason to purchase.
He was aware of eyes watching him, and suddenly the mood of the day shattered.
At first he thought it was the shopkeeper inside, checking to see if he was a gawker or a viable customer. The feeling came from behind, though, eyes heavy on the back of his neck. Griffen had never asked if this were part of being a dragon. Most people claimed to be able to feel someone watching them. Dragon powers or no, he trusted his instinct.
Griffen felt his meal, just moments ago a pleasant warming, now a heavy wetness in his stomach. His pulse was elevated so suddenly and quickly that he knew it was something more than the average pickpocket or hustler. He did his best to suppress his nervousness, trying to be cautious. He glanced at the window in front of him instead of through it, trying to catch anyone’s reflection. Nothing. Next he glanced out of the corner of his eyes. Nothing. Finally, he turned around fully.
Nothing.
Now his worry started to grow to fear. Usually by now the feeling of being watched should have faded. If anything, it had intensified since he had turned. Nervous but resolved not to show it, he rested his hand on his pocket, taking a loose grip on the folding knife nestled inside. Usually nothing more than something to open boxes or peel fruit with, its cool weight gave him some minor comfort.
Griffen tried to focus on the feeling, trying to give more attention to his instincts. He extended his sense out, reaching for a greater feel of his environment. Suddenly, a wave of curiosity crashed over him. Curiosity, mixed with daring. It was such a shock to his system that he actually took a step back and rested one hand on the wall. That wave of emotion had not been his own.
Now Griffen truly did not know what to do. The intensity of his misgivings was soaring, and his own fear rose with it. Never before had he felt someone else’s emotion, and this had been so intense that, for a moment, he didn’t know what feelings inside were actually his. He—yes, he was almost sure those were his emotions— mostly wanted to retreat. To run away and get another person’s opinion on just what might be going on.
That option was taken away as the source of the attention on him appeared. A great, shaggy beast of a dog stepped out from behind a parked car. The gray of the car almost exactly matched the dog’s fur, complete with random brown streaks that could have been dirt, rust, or natural coloration. The animal was just shy of being the size of a Great Dane, and had easily watched Griffen through the windows of its cover.
Griffen was suddenly caught by a conflict of his instincts and his logic. Logically, he started to relax. The odd sensations, from being watched to the burst of feelings, could all be an extension of his animal control. He really didn’t understand what he did, or could do, yet.
His instincts, though, those screamed to stay on guard. He puzzled over this, brow furrowing as his pulse continued to race. Something was wrong. Why was the dog approaching him? Where had it come from? Stray cats were common in the Quarter, stray dogs rare, especially one that big.
“Good boy, you just stay there, boy,” Griffen said coaxingly, while reaching out to make the command more than words.
He had learned through Jerome and Mose that dogs were one of the easiest things to control. They wanted to please. Just a little push…
The dog ignored him. Continued to walk until he was right next to Griffen. Tentatively, Griffen reached out with his hand, though not the one on the knife, while pushing harder with his will.
“Now listen here, there’s a good dog…”
He stopped, hand still a good six inches from the dog. It had lifted its head, and their eyes locked. There was a spark of intelligence that no dog should hold in its eyes. The unexpected shock froze Griffen for a moment.
A moment was all it took. An unpleasant warmth slid down Griffen’s leg. The dog, most definitely male, had decided to treat him as it might a lamppost.
“You!” Griffen started, but the dog had already lowered its leg and bolted.
After another stunned second, Griffen shouted again and took off after the dog. The head start and four legs quickly outdistanced Griffen, and the dog turned down Wilkinson, a side street that only stretched a block and was rarely busy. Griffen kept chasing, enraged. His sock squished.
What Griffen found when he turned the corner was a scene from a horror movie. Not one of the modern hack-and-slash travesties, a classic. At some point, the canine monster must have stepped in a puddle. Along the sidewalk were paw prints. First distorted from running. Then just distorted. Then they were human.
Griffen froze, rage freezing to ice. There was no one on the street, and the prints only went for a few more feet. Griffen didn’t even think about continuing his pursuit. It could too easily be a trap. He backed up, carefully, returned to Chartres. His mind was full of new ideas.
The main one was simple though frighteningly close to overwhelming. He was going to have to get used real quick to there being more than dragons and ghosts in New Orleans.
Another thought took longer to fully form. In fact it only hit him halfway to the apartment complex, where he planned to change, and maybe burn, his pants. The footprints hadn’t been of a bare human foot. They were prints of shoes. That alone sent his mind tumbling into confusion. It went against everything that should be logical.
More to the point, though, the dog had most definitely been male. The shoe prints had most definitely been those of high heels.
Cross-dressing shape-shifters—only in the French Quarter.
Thirty
Despite an increasingly hectic life, Griffen had made it a point to get out a bit early and stop in during Val’s work shift at least once or twice a week. If she was actually busy, he would wave and pass on by. More often than not, though, she had, at most, two customers who couldn’t bother giving her the time of day. Then he would step in, chat, catch up on gossip. It was a way of staying connected with his sister, and that was very important to him.
Today was a normal shift, which was to say, pretty much empty. Val sat at the end of the bar, reading a novel. Occasionally she would glance up at the one customer—a boring-looking man sipping at a coffee and reading the local paper. When she saw Griffen, her face lit up, and she waved him on in, obviously glad for the relief.
“Hey, Big Brother. Long time, no see!”
Griffen sat in a chair a few feet down from the customer and rolled his eyes at his little sister.
“You saw me last night,” Griffen said.
“That was this morning, and you had Mai on your arm and more than a few whiskeys in you, so I don’t think you qualified as seeing much of anything.”
“Oh, come now, you were just getting in yourself and complaining about needing to crash before work,” he said.
Val put a drink out for him.
“And again back to Mai on your arm. Damn, am I glad that place has thick walls and ceilings,” she said.
“We didn’t do anything… well, not anything too athletic,” Griffen said.
“Ugh! Please spare me the sordid details of your nocturnal habits. I’m going to start leaving the stereo on when I go to bed. Loud!”
“Better than your spending four nights a week sleeping somewhere else. Who is it this week?” Griffen said.
“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. That will be four fifty for your cocktail, sir.”
Griffen grinned at himself; as soon as she slipped into bartender mode, he knew he had won this round. Of course, the first time he forgot to tip, she had changed the locks on his apartment door. He made sure to put an
