seemingly embarrassed. Again, the older man took a deep breath, calming himself before speaking and obviously hiding his embarrassment.
“To be honest, Griffen, I don’t know. Never in my long years did I attend such a conclave, much less moderate one. Dragons don’t ‘lower’ themselves to such meetings as a rule. In my case, it just never came up.”
“What do you mean? How could it not come up?” Griffen said.
“You seem so competent, sometimes I forget how new to all this you are. You were raised as human, which frankly isn’t the way most dragons do things. Anyway, you have the human fallacy of thinking all supernaturals are connected. It just isn’t so. Most dragons don’t even see the other things out there in the shadows, much less deal with them. Especially lower dragons… like myself.”
Now it was Griffen’s turn to look away in embarrassment. He had been told about his blood and Valerie’s being somehow more concentrated than most dragons’, but it so rarely came up. Even after all that had been forced upon him, some days he still didn’t believe he was a dragon. Some days he still wondered if he was simply insane.
“What can you tell me?” Griffen asked.
“Nothing,” Mose said, voice suddenly hard. “Griffen, you are a strong, confident man far beyond your years. You have made your decision. The timing being what it is, it behooves me to leave it to you. On this, you are on your own.”
“What do you mean?” Griffen said, confused and feeling the first hints of panic.
“I mean this is your baby now. I don’t know enough. Anything I could say might just mislead you. I won’t just be another obstacle for what will prove a very difficult task.”
With that, Mose stood. Griffen was still staring, confused and at a loss for words, as the older dragon walked past the younger. He briefly clasped Griffen on the shoulder, then headed out the door, leaving his own apartment, leaving Griffen alone.
Through all the confusion, Griffen’s main thoughts were centered on the simple question. What had he gotten himself into?
Three
Griffen strolled down Bourbon Street. His destination was the Irish pub up on Toulouse, but he never missed the chance to do a little people-watching. It was amazing what could be seen just glancing into the open doors and windows of the French Quarter bars as one walked along. By the time he had turned down Toulouse, he had already seen a small fight, several lovely eyefuls dancing on bar tops, and two of the silver cowboy street performers rolling something he doubted was tobacco. Ordinary sights by now, but always worth a glance.
The last thing he expected to see was two dragons, arguing.
It was a little hotel bar a block away from the Irish pub. Griffen had never been in there, as its upscale atmosphere and fairly yuppie clientele had never held any attraction for him. This time was different, as just a glance brought him to a stop.
It was the first time he had looked at strangers and known, on some level, that they were dragons. They sat at one of the small tables, talking with the exaggerated hand movements of a heated debate. He wasn’t even sure why he knew what he knew. Whether it was their posture, eyes, movement, he just didn’t know. But his instincts were sure.
Physically, the two couldn’t be more different. The first was a huge man, his suit not quite tailored enough to hide the roughness of his frame. Griffen had never actually seen anyone who truly didn’t have a neck. It was as if he were a barrel someone had stuck a bucket head onto.
The other was tall, slim, well built, and seemed polished compared to the rough man next to him. Somehow he seemed more real than the other. His tan was rich, as if he had never spent a day without seeing sunshine. His jaw was square with an easy smile, his hair wavy with just a hint of tousled wildness. The first man wasn’t smiling; he seemed to be just baring his teeth and forcing his words through them.
The two stopped whatever they had been discussing in hushed tones as the rough man’s eyes fell on Griffen, still standing out on the street. He hushed the other, who turned and didn’t hesitate to beckon Griffen in. There was no reason for Griffen to refuse the invitation, but still he approached warily. Despite the man’s warm smile, his eyes were a bit too keen. As if he was seeing every detail, analyzing each in turn.
“Mr. McCandles, welcome,” the polished man said, nodding, no question in his voice.
“This is him?” said the other man. He was either uncaring or unable to hide his surprise.
The other’s eyes flicked briefly, not actually rolling, but the slight change in expression spoke volumes. There was very little respect here. The rough man noticed and seemed to hunch in on himself, head receding a bit more into his shoulders, eyes narrowing. He reached out a hand and took Griffen’s, applying much more pressure than was needed for a handshake.
“Skinny, ain’tcha? You ever do something that doesn’t involve sitting on a bar stool?”
His voice was surprisingly soft, but hostile. He was obviously trying for a reaction, and Griffen didn’t care to give it to him that easily.
When the other man spoke, he had an earthy, mellow self-confidence. He offered his hand to Griffen instead of simply taking it as the other one had. They shook, and the grip was comfortable and unforced.
“Mr. McCandles,” he said, “or may I call you Griffen? This is Stewart Waters. And I’m Flynn.”
“Earl, actually,” Waters said, his smile making it clear he was aware the correction would irritate Flynn.
“Only if I have to sign checks; otherwise, Flynn suffices.”
“You a ball fan, McCandles? ’Course not, otherwise you’d be askin’ for my autograph already,” Waters said.
Griffen tried to remember where he had heard the name. A player? Semipro or pro? Second-string somewhere probably…
“Mostly I just follow college,” Griffen said, politeness waning quickly. “Once players start worrying about the paycheck, they start to get dull.”
“Dull! Why, you little twig…”
Griffen blinked once. “I’m sorry, I thought you were a dragon. Do you really think I need to show my muscles?”
Flynn’s smile widened at the corners, and his eyes seemed to catch the light as they gleamed. Griffen hadn’t seen admiration often in another dragon’s eyes. Apparently the speed of the response, as well as its phrasing, impressed Flynn. Waters simply stared blankly, trying to figure it out.
“You’ll have to excuse Waters. Low blood, but lower intelligence. It was just what we were discussing,” Flynn said.
“This parasite says I have to retire next year, when I haven’t even gotten started. Do I look like I can’t play anymore?” Waters asked.
“No, you look perfectly fit,” Griffen answered.
“And that is just the problem. You haven’t aged. You’ve got just enough blood in you that you could keep knocking heads into your sixties, and every sports commentator in the country will be screaming about steroids and drugs and by that time, probably, cloning. You can’t keep playing a game for twenty- and thirty-year-olds without gaining the wrong type of notoriety,” Flynn said.
“That’s what I got into this for. You promised me fame!” Waters said.
“I promised you a chance at fame, which you blew by being a hothead. And I told you the conditions were that after ten years, you retired and went and wrote cookbooks or something. Or, God forbid, coached.”
“You stupid vampire. You made a fortune off of me, and I got screwed.”
Flynn stiffened, perhaps because of the insult. His tone grew sharp.
“Compared to most clients, you gave me pennies. And I should ruin you for flying down to New Orleans with some cockamamie scheme of trading yourself to the Saints. Idiot.”
“At least I seek fame, instead of just money. Is it true you take IVs of melted gold to get you going in the
