Dragons Luck (3 page)

Valerie
sat in her apartment, staring into a mirror. It wasn’t something she did often. Vanity wasn’t one of her main drives. In fact, the only mirror in the place was in the tiny bathroom. She shifted uncomfortably, leaned on the edge of the sink, and stared into her own eyes.

A soft knock at her door was still loud enough to startle her out of her reverie. Val bent at the sink and splashed a little water in her face. Another quick glance in the mirror showed her face calm, if a little too serious. Nodding to herself, she went to the front door and opened it.

“May I come in?” Mai asked.

The smaller woman poked her head into Val’s apartment, looking around. Val shrugged a bit, unsure what she was looking for. Griffen had never mentioned Mai to Val while they were in college, but since meeting in New Orleans, she and Mai were fast becoming friends.

In fact, Mai had seemed to go out of her way to befriend Valerie, to open up with her more than she seemed to with Griffen. It had given Valerie something she didn’t really realize she was missing: a girlfriend, someone she could let her hair down with and trade dirty jokes and warm comfort. Val had come to appreciate Mai’s perspective and knowledge. Even with that, she had to admit she still didn’t really understand Mai.

“Sure thing,” Val said.

Val opened the door and waved Mai inside. After she closed the door, she noticed Mai still looking around. Well, if you don’t know, ask.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing, privacy mostly. I never knew Valkyries were such slobs.”

Mai grinned as she said it and waved a small hand at scattered clothing over Val’s couch and a small pile of take-out containers on the table. Val rolled her eyes. She knew that she was nowhere near as messy as some. Mai, though, seemed to keep herself, and her surroundings, bordering on immaculate. Sometimes Val just wanted to throttle her.

“Sorry, we can’t all have wrought-iron shafts shoved up our rears, Flower Drum. At least I can eat without the area being declared a disaster zone,” Val teased.

Though if truth be known, the two together was a disaster worse than the sum of its parts. Valerie and Mai attacking a full dinner could give waiters heart attacks the Quarter over.

“You just don’t know how to enjoy your food properly. Amazing, considering how big you are.”

Val grinned at the familiar banter, but there was a slight flash in her eye. One hand idly touched her stomach. Mai noticed it, and her expression softened and went a touch more serious.

“Relax, it’s not showing yet,” Mai said.

“Wh- What do you mean?”

“Oh, please, Valerie. You’ve been out of sorts, far too serious, and there are other signs.”

“Everyone has been out of sorts and serious lately. Silly, isn’t it? I mean, after all, no one’s tried to kill any of us in a few weeks. Things should be springtime and light.”

“Yes. Silly,” said Mai.

The two stared at each other. Val, tall and strong. Mai, small and delicate. Mai’s expression was absolutely unreadable, as blank and lovely as a doll’s. Val tried, but something leaked past. A touch of spark in her eyes, as if daring Mai, or the world, to react first.

“Is it Nathaniel’s?” Mai inquired, face still unreadable.

Val’s face broke in a mixture of surprise, sadness, and, above all, relief. She sank into a chair, holding her face in her hands. Not crying, but showing signs close to exhaustion. Mai approached slowly, almost cautiously, and wrapped her arms around Val, hugging her.

“Yes,” Val said, then more angrily, “Yes! That son of a bitch.”

“Literally, from the rumors I’ve heard from Melinda.”

Mai tried a gentle smile, but Val was still angry as she looked up. Weeks later, and she was still furious at the dragon, Nathaniel, who had come to New Orleans specifically for the purpose of trapping her. Using seduction and magic to affect her will and defenses.

“Was it the glamour? Normally I’m safe, careful. Did that bastard magic me into forgetting myself?” Val asked, and pulled herself away from Mai.

Letting her arms drop to her sides, Mai took a step back. She thought for a few moments and gave a bare nod.

“Most likely. The glamour probably added to the excitement, the rush, and we know your judgment was affected.”

“Then he wanted this to happen.”

“No… well… maybe, but I doubt it. He wanted you, wanted to bed you. He pushed with his glamour for that. That is what you got caught up in. To think much past that might be his mother’s style, but as calculating and manipulative as he can be, he tends to focus on the short-term goal.”

Val stood and started to pace the room. She seemed so full of bound energy that it was surprising the small apartment could contain her. Mai took a seat, giving her more room and watching her.

“How did you know?” Val said.

“Besides the personality changes? Well, one big clue, it’s the French Quarter. You’ve stopped drinking,” Mai said.

“Then others have noticed.”

“Val, you have a bad habit of making statements of things that should be questions. No, I don’t think anyone else has noticed. One, most of them don’t know what to look for. Two, everyone has been wrapped up in their own business.”

“But not you?”

Mai shrugged and clasped her hands in her lap.

“For the most part, I’ve been feeling a little lost. As much as I enjoy the area, and the company, I haven’t really heard anything from back home lately. Not even a request for updates. My days are my own and really beginning to drag.”

“Must not be easy, being a spy,” Val said.

Val’s tone was sarcastic, but some of the teasing was creeping back in.

“I prefer to think of myself as a double agent, or at least a double entendre. I mean how much of a spy can I be when I told Griffen that’s why I’m here?” Mai said.

“One of the reasons you are here, and you didn’t really tell him much of that.”

“Hey, if I’m bored, maybe I should get a job like you! Need another relief bartender?”

“Nice change of subject, but with the fortune-cookie mystique, you could probably make more as a fortune-teller.”

Val grinned, and Mai smiled secretively. With dramatic motions, Mai draped the back of one hand over her forehead and held the other out toward Val, fingers spread. Val tensed as the motions were aimed at her stomach.

“The wise one sees all and knows all. What lurks in your secret heart! Hear her words and tremble,” Mai said.

“Get on with it.”

“Don’t tell Griffen.”

Val stopped in her tracks and stared at Mai.

“I have to tell him. He’s my brother, and the last thing he needs after he starts to get everything under control is me surprising him with this.”

“Exactly; right now he’s struggling. He has just started to gain proper confidence, and already burdens are being heaped onto him. This could be the very thing that overwhelms him completely,” Mai said.

“If I don’t tell him, it leaves him in danger. If Nathaniel comes back because of this, Griffen won’t have any time to prepare.”

“Why would Nathaniel come back? Even if he planned this, which I doubt, how could he know? You will worry Griffen for nothing, put his already taxed nerves even more on edge.”

“But…”

Val couldn’t say it. Keeping a secret like that from her brother would be nearly impossible. They were too close, and the strain on her would be great.

“I know it will be hard,” Mai said, and frowned. “But if you tell him, he will want to protect you. He will charge off to find Nathaniel, charge right into Melinda’s territory. This way you protect him, not the other way around.”

Valerie sank into a chair again and stared at Mai. Her mind whirled, but a part of her knew that Mai was exactly right. Between protecting her big brother and being honest with him, protection came first. She nodded.

“It’s for the best,” Mai said, and got up to hug Val again. “Trust me.”

After a moment’s silence, Mai spoke again.

“So, are you going to keep it?”

Val sighed, then shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still thinking about that one.”

Waiting
in front of Tower Records, carrying a copy of the
Times-Picayune
as he had been instructed, Flynn spent his time surveying the passing crowd. Mostly they were obvious out-of-towners, suited conventioneers, and a smattering of tourists in shorts and T-shirts. Here and there were locals, including service-industry types in their tuxedo shirts and black pants, and costumed street performers, all getting ready to give their best try at moving funds from the pockets of visitors into their own. All in all, it reminded Flynn vaguely of Disneyland only without the rides.

Mostly, he was idly curious if he could spot his hired muscle before they contacted him. In the past, when he had hired rough-off artists, they fell into one of two categories. Either they were well dressed and soft-spoken with dead eyes that looked at you without seeing a person, or obvious muscle flexers, who swaggered with the knowledge that just their appearance was intimidating. For the present job, Flynn was hoping for the cold, calculating type. He had a feeling that swaggering bullyboys wouldn’t get too far with the McCandles lad.

One of the rolling boom boxes was coming slowly up the street, a dark sedan with the sound system cranked up to the point where it assaulted the pedestrians like a strong wind. A strong, noisy wind. Flynn eyed it with distaste. It was playing rap music. Of course. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why those who liked rap music felt obliged to share it with everyone in a four-block radius, while those whose taste ran to classical music were content to listen to it through the earphones of a Walkman or iPod.

To his surprise, the mobile noise pollution pulled over to the curb next to him and stopped. The passenger-side window rolled down, exposing the face of a young black man, late teens or early twenties.

“You Flynn?” The question was half-shouted over the music.

Flynn realized with dismay that this was the contact he was waiting for. For a moment, he was tempted to deny his identity and walk away. Then, with a mental shrug, he decided to go ahead with it. When in Rome.

He nodded his agreement.

“Get in the back and let’s talk.”

Opening the door to the backseat, Flynn wondered how they were supposed to talk over the racket the sound system was making. To his surprise, the driver, a thin black man even younger than the one who had first addressed him, turned the music off without being asked even before they pulled away from the curb.

“Hear tell you’re lookin’ to put the hurt on someone,” the passenger-side rider said.

“There’s someone I want made an example of,” Flynn said, carefully. “Hospitalized or dead. Doesn’t make any difference to me. If things are the same here as other places in the country, hospitalized costs more.”

That was standard for rough-off work. Just hospitalizing someone meant the musclemen had to know what they were doing. It also left the victim alive to identify them and possibly press charges. In short, it usually cost more to have someone’s arm broken than it did to have them killed.

“Either way, it’ll cost,” said the passenger.

“Cash,” added the driver.

“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ve got the money with me.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“ ’Course, we could just stick a gun in your face and take the money,” the passenger said, casually. “Save ourselves a bit of work.”

Flynn heaved a mental sigh and let his glamour flow out.

“Just to keep things simple, let’s pretend we’ve all done things like this before,” he said with a smile. “Now I do a lot of work away from my home base. Over the years, I’ve developed a method for finding… shall we say, special help when I’m in a strange town. Back home, part of what I do is to provide certain of my clients with various types of illegal substances. If I need help, what I do is call home to my regular supplier. He in turn contacts one of the handlers in the area I’m in and arranges a meet, which is why we’re talking now.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“If anything goes wrong at that meet, both my supplier and his local contact will be upset because they’re getting a piece of the action. The local man is particularly upset because he’s guaranteed the people I’m meeting, and if they get cute, he ends up looking bad. Maybe with a new enemy he doesn’t want.”

He paused for a moment for that to sink in before continuing.

“It might interest you to know that our local contact is impressed enough with my supplier that he offered to provide the needed help for free. I turned him down because I believe in paying people top dollar when they do me a favor. Just remember, though, whatever price we agree on is definitely going to mean more money for you than if I had taken him up on his offer. Now then, shall we get down to talking business?”

Again, there was a moment of silence.

“The price depends on the job,” the passenger said at last, a little sulkily. “We’d have to charge extra to go after someone here in the Quarter. The cops don’t like it ’cause it scares the tourists.”

“I expected that,” Flynn said. “I am thinking about the Quarter, but the target’s a local. It could be explained as a grudge fight instead of random violence.”

“That still could be a problem,” the passenger said, gaining confidence as the negotiations progressed. “That ups the chance that he knows us or that we might be seen by someone who knows us. Seems like everybody knows everybody down here.”

“Maybe,” Flynn said. “But he’s only been down here a couple of months. He’s probably not as well connected as the longtime residents.”

“We’ll see,” the passenger said, judiciously. “This guy got a name?”

“He’s a young kid, early twenties, just out of college,” Flynn said. “Like I said, he only moved down here a few months ago. Name of McCandles.”

In a sudden move, the driver pulled over to the curb and stopped the vehicle.

The passenger turned in his seat to stare directly at Flynn.

“McCandles?” he said. “Are you talkin’ about
Griffen
McCandles?”

“That’s right,” Flynn said. “Why? Do you know him?”

“Get out of my car.”

The statement was made with such finality that Flynn was startled.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that either you don’t know who you’re talkin’ about, or you’re some kind of special dumb,” the passenger said, shaking his head. “Well, we ain’t dumb, and there’s no way we’re goin’ after Griffen McCandles. That man is protected big-time… and I don’t just mean the cops. Word is he has supernatural help. If TeeBo knew who you had in mind, there’s no way he would have even had us talk to you. Now get out of my car, and I mean
now.
You want to go after Griffen McCandles, I don’t even want to be seen talkin’ to you. Now
get out
.”

Standing on the sidewalk again, Flynn watched the car drive off. If the McCandles boy had built that much of a reputation in just a few months, then maybe George wasn’t exaggerating when he described the young dragon as “formidable.”

One thing was certain, though. If Flynn was going to continue with his plan, he couldn’t rely on local contacts. He’d have to try another tactic. Maybe import someone.