Dragons Luck

“Damn, I hates bein’ so hard on the boy.”

“Then why were you?” Valerie asked.

“Because he is stubborn as a mule sometimes, Ms. Valerie. And as the joke goes, you got to be kind, you got to be gentle, but first… you have got to get their attention,” Mose said.

Mose reached out for a decanter and glass set on a side table, but his hands were shaking. It was the first time those hands had looked old to Valerie. Old, callused, hard worked. Without a thought, she rose and went over to the table to pour him a drink. Mose took it.

“Thank you kindly. Now, our little melodrama aside, what can I do for you today?” Mose said.

Valerie sighed and poured herself a drink as well. She went back and folded herself into the chair, pulling her legs up under her. Well, it was now or never.

“Mose, do dragons get… feelings?” Val started.

“Like what sort?” he said, and she caught the bit of wariness to his tone.

“Doom, danger, impending peril. The sort of gut reactions that most people pass off.”

“Ah… sometimes. Like you said, most people just pass off such hunches; part of being a dragon is not ignoring one’s instincts. Sometimes, of course, it’s just collywobbles…”

Again, she noticed his hesitation.

“And other times?” Val said.

“You said it was gut reactions. Tell me, was it really your gut?” Mose said.

Val blinked at him.

“No, my heart.”

Mose nodded to himself, as if she had confirmed what he had been thinking.

“Time to talk the stuff of legends again. It is said that, very rarely, a dragon learns to see beyond what is. Well, not see, feel. The old phrase was ‘a heart free from time’ though the translation may have suffered as years have passed,” Mose said.

“Are you saying I’m sensing the future?”

“Not really, it’s more picking up on pain that is to come. Pain of the heart, of grief, not of the body. Don’t think you are going to get some ‘spidey-sense’ or any such nonsense,” Mose said.

“My grief, or others’?”

“Good question. I haven’t the foggiest. And I don’t really know if any of this is true, or applies to you. Still might just be collywobbles.”

Val thought, not so much of what he was saying but of what she wanted to say next. Somehow, it just didn’t feel safe, or smart, to bring up the subject of Lizzy.

Not directly anyway.

“I want to learn how to fight,” Val said.

Now it was Mose’s turn to blink at her.

“What do you mean? I had assumed with all your working out you would have had a decent fill of martial arts.”

“That’s not quite what I mean. I want to know how to fight… as a dragon.”

“No, you don’t,” Mose said.

Val reined in her temper and merely gave him a questioning look.

“Look… I mean it. Dragons fighting dragons, if that’s what you mean, just isn’t done. It takes so much effort, or special skills, to seriously hurt each other. Too much collateral damage. Those old legends said two dragons at war would crumble mountains, and I am not sure that was a metaphor.”

“And what if I don’t have a choice, and find myself without the skill I need?” Val said, and her voice caught ever so slightly.

Mose slumped back in his chair again and narrowed his eyes.

“Are you talking theoretically?” he said.

“I…”

He held up a finger.

“No games.”

“No… probably not,” Val said.

Mose turned his gaze from her and stared out his window. His eyes were much too far away for him to simply be looking at the courtyard outside.

“I have to think on that one, Valerie. I’m… not a fighter, haven’t been since I was a kid. Let me think on if I can in good conscience help you find what you are looking for. Much less whether I can give it to you, or find someone who can,” Mose said.

Valerie started to speak, then thought better of it. She followed Jerome’s course and left without another word.

She could still see Mose staring out his window as she approached the gate to the street. He didn’t seem to be seeing her.

Twenty-three

The Mystic Den was one of the most closely guarded secrets in the Quarter. Many of the people who lived and worked in the Quarter did not even know of its existence.

It was the lobby bar for the Royal Sonesta Hotel, one of the largest and most expensive hotels in the Quarter. Even though the hotel itself fronted on Bourbon Street, there was no street entrance to the Mystic Den, so it was overlooked by those who prowled and barhopped their way along that famous tourist attraction. You could only get into it by going through the hotel lobby or via a corridor at the back of the Desire Oyster Bar.

The bar itself was quiet and furnished with deep, comfortable chairs and sofas, a far cry from Griffen’s normal haunt at the Irish pub. That was one of the reasons he had chosen this location for his meeting with Slim. It was getting to a point where too many people knew to look for him at the Irish pub.

In honor of the occasion, Slim had forsaken his trademark white suit and striped top hat for a pair of loose-fitting slacks and a sports shirt. Without his street entertainer’s costume, he blended right in with the sparse afternoon crowd in the den.

“I du

Courtesy of their meetings over the last several weeks regarding the conclave, Slim had reached a level of comfort where he now addressed Griffen by his first name rather than as “Mr. McCandles.” Unfortunately, this also meant he was comfortable criticizing Griffen’s plans.

“I always thought extra security was a good thing,” Griffen said. “The only way you know you don’t have enough security is when things start going wrong. I’d rather not see that happen.”

“Maybe,” Slim said. “But too much obvious security can send a bad message, too. Looks like you’re expecting trouble. Even worse, it looks like you don’t trust the attendees.”

Griffen grimaced.

“I am expecting trouble, and I don’t trust the attendees.”

“Of course,” Slim said. “But you can’t let it show. Man, you’re a dragon. You’re supposed to be confident and in control. You don’t want to look like you’re tryin’ to bully people around.”

“I thought I had that covered,” Griffen said. “That’s why I was suggesting we go to outside help. If I use any of my own crew, it’d look like I’m having the dragons team up on the rest of the conclave.”

“Outside help?” Slim said. “TeeBo and Patches and their thugs?”

“I know,” Griffen said with a sigh. “I’d really just as soon not owe a favor to them or any other drug dealer. I don’t see many other options, though.”

“I wouldn’t even think of that as an option,” Slim grunted. “Their solution to anything is to shoot it. I really don’t think that’s what you want.”

“Okay. You’re right,” Griffen said, spreading his hands in surrender. “I didn’t like the thought either. That’s why I haven’t contacted them. It’s just that the conclave is less than a week away, and I still don’t have a clear fix on what I’ll have to deal with.”

“I’m not sure of that myself,” Slim said. “But I wouldn’t count too much on that week.”

“Excuse me?” Griffen said.

“You don’t work as much with regular tourists and conventioneers as I do,” the street entertainer explained. “A lot of folks, if they’re pla

Griffen covered his eyes with one hand as if his head was throbbing.

“This just gets better,” he said. “How am I supposed to try to keep people out of trouble if I don’t even know who they are? Or should I say, what they are?”