Dragons Deal (28 page)

"The house special." He looked her up and down, evidently liking what he saw. He flirted his eyes at her. He had very long eyelashes over dark blue eyes. In fact, he was good-looking enough to be a movie star. The shoulders under the blue pin-striped white shirt were broad and the midriff appealingly slim. "Can I get that to go?"

"Bloody Mary or Hurricane?"

"Hurricane sounds like more fun."

"One Hurricane, coming up," Val said, reaching for a plastic go-cup. She poured four ounces of rum into a shaker, added passion-fruit syrup and a stream of lemon juice, then poured it over ice.

"Is that what you call yourself, lovely lady? Hurricane?"

Val smiled at him and felt for the blackjack under the bar. "Sorry, but I'm not on the menu."

"Too bad," he said. "I'm Dale, by the way."

"Val." She put the drink on a paper napkin in front of him. "Three-fifty, please."

He put a five-dollar bill down and slid it toward her. "Sorry to come on so strong, but wow! I never expected to see anyone like you serving drinks in a, well, dump. You ought to be modeling high fashion."

Val had no illusions about being a member of the ranks of underweight waifs who pouted on magazine pages. "They'd never want me. You look like you probably modeled, yourself," she said.

Dale grimaced. "You guessed my dirty secret. Yeah. I paid my way through college doing catalogs. I'm in town for the convention. I bet you get a lot of people coming in here." He lifted the Hurricane to her and drank. "God, that's sweet."

"They're very popular with tourists."

"Touche," he said. "Normally, my drink is a dirty martini."

"All the martinis are pretty popular these days," Val agreed.

He grinned. "Oops. Didn't mean to be trendy." He was trying hard to make up for being a jerk when he came in.

He
was
cute. Val admired the line of his jaw. His hands were long and fine, with oval nails. "It's quiet in here. Don't you get much business?"

"Not during the day," she said. "This place is a little out of the way for conventioneers and sports fans. We have a lot of local clients starting about now."

"Oh, so you're not getting off for a while." He looked disappointed.

"Not until midnight," she said. She did find him attractive. It might be nice if he came back at the end of her shift. A little attention from a handsome stranger went a long way toward brightening the day.

She's not really showing yet,
the thought popped into Val's head.
I bet she'd look sexy in her underwear.

She frowned. Was she projecting what he might think of her without her clothes? He lifted the glass to her again, drank, then set it far away from him. "That's really god-awful. How about a martini? Would you like to join me?"

"I'll have a Diet Coke, thanks," she said, pouring fresh drinks for both of them. He paid and added a tip. She liked that he was even generous in offering a gratuity for the drink he had bought her. Of course, it might just be because he was trying to pick her up.

I don't want to have to wait for midnight,
the thought came urgently.

Val licked her lips. Her subconscious rarely seemed so loud. Maybe she really did want to be with him that badly. She liked the way he moved, the way he smiled, the warm baritone of his voice.

"So, you thinking of hanging around for a while?" she asked, casually. "I mean, it's a long time."

"If that's what it takes to get a chance to be alone with you, it'll seem like minutes," Dale said, winking at her.

She's going to be impatient if it takes until midnight to get out of here,
the thought came.

She? Val didn't think of herself in the third person. Those insistent thoughts weren't hers. She had never had that happen before. Was this a new facet of dragon power that was just starting to manifest itself?

Movement near the door made her look up. Just outside the bar, two people stood on the sidewalk, looking at her intently. They looked like locals. One wore a T-shirt and an old waistcoat over baggy pants and untied athletic shoes. The other had on a flat, shiny leather cap and jeans jacket. Dale glanced over her shoulder.

Val stared at him. Those strange intrusions were
his
thoughts.

"Who the hell are
you
?" she asked.

"Just a visitor," he said, trying to keep an expression of innocence, but it no longer rang true. The two local men came in, still staring at Dale.

Val suddenly figured out who "she" was. She glared at Dale.

"Drink up and get out of here," she said.

"Oh, come on, babe," he said, leaning forward persuasively. He lowered his eyelashes again. It was evidently the move that worked on women the most. "I apologize if I was pushing too hard. We could still have a little date later on," he added. He looked hopeful.

"No fucking way. Tell Melinda that she can shove it up her wide ass, sending a pretty boy to seduce me. Go."

Val seized the blackjack. "There's a lot of things they didn't tell you about me," she said. "I was captain of my gymnastics team." Setting one hand on the bar, she vaulted over it. Dale jumped backward in surprise. "Now, get out before you're sorry you came in."

"Hey, I don't know anyone named Me--"

His thoughts said otherwise. Val swung a wide arc with the blackjack and slapped him in the temple. He staggered sideways, clutching his head. Val followed up with a kick in the stomach that sent him backward over a chair. He fell on the floor. Val stood over him, brandishing the sack of lead shot.

"You go and tell her to leave me alone! The next person that bothers me won't get a warning. All they will find is pieces of the body! Everywhere! Get out of here!"

She raised the blackjack over her head. Dale scuttled backward on his hands and feet like a crab. When he was safely in between the tables, he got to his feet. Keeping his eyes on her, he edged out the door.

Gotta warn her,
was the last thought Val picked up.
Can't tell her about . . .

No, he wouldn't admit to Melinda that Val had figured he was a fraud or that she had hit him. Twice.

She turned a sour face to the two men near the door. "I suppose my brother sent you?" They nodded. "Weren't you going to help me?"

"Mr. Griffen said that you'd get mad if we helped before you asked," the shorter one said. "Besides, we could tell you could handle him."

"We listened to his thoughts all the way here," said the taller one, in a fluty alto. "He was countin' on you fallin' for his looks. He couldn't take you nowhere. We heard everythin' he thought he would do."

"Then why didn't you send him somewhere else?"

"It's not the way our talents work, ma'am. We just listen."

"Oh," Val said. "It doesn't work both ways?"

"Thank God, no! It ain't a curse, just a talent!"

"Don't want to have no one hear our thoughts. It's none of anyone's damned business what we think."

"Nope," agreed the taller one.

"Nope," confirmed the shorter one.

Val studied them. "I think I saw you the other night."

"Yes, ma'am, near the diner. Manuel near the door thinks you're gorgeous and wishes you'd go out with him instead of Gris-gris, but he afraid."

"Of me?"

"More of Gris-gris," said the alto. "You should hear what
he
thinks!"

Val blushed. "It's probably better if I don't. But you stop reading my thoughts, or you're next for some of this!" She hefted the cosh.

"Yes, ma'am," the alto said, grinning. "We know you mean it. Y'all have yourself a nice day, now, Ms. Val."

They slipped out the door. Val wondered where they went, then decided as long as they gave her a heads-up on trouble, she didn't need them hanging around.

She walked around the bar and got her cell phone out of her purse. Griffen needed to know about Melinda's latest attempt to trick her.

While the phone rang, she put the blackjack away in its hiding place. When she straightened up, she saw gouges on the inside lip of the bar. Five round holes had been drilled through the wood. She must have transformed, at least a little, when she jumped over it. Her claws had punched them, and she had not even noticed.

"Now, how am I going to explain those to Todd?" she asked.

"
All
in favor, den?" Etienne said, looking around at the membership jammed into the increasingly crowded workshop. Dragon's heads, in every stage of completion, loomed over their heads. The captain counted the raised hands. "Ain't no point in countin' dose against."

"Do it anyhow," Callum Fenway said, with an exasperated shake of his head.

Etienne smiled at him placidly. "Whatevah. Dose against? Easy. King Griffen's proposal passes. All jobs open equally to all adult members from here on out. 'Cept mine." He smiled, showing his sharp canines.

Griffen heaved a sigh of pleasure. Several of the members came up to slap him on the back.

"Glad you did that," Louis, one of the department heads said, coming up with a clipboard. Nearly as tall as Griffen, he had an aquiline profile and sharp cheekbones. "My wife's been doing all the work all along anyhow. I'm not as organized as she is. This is my last day on the job. After today, I am just one of her Indians, and she is my chief." The petite woman at his side took the clipboard from his hand.

"Thank you, Griffen," Carmen said.

Griffen smiled. "My pleasure."

The switch to a gender-neutral committee was just the first change he hoped to make. Since the Ritual of the Four Elements, the krewe deferred to him even more than they had after the first meeting at the Fenways'. He figured there was no better time to try to push through his suggestions. Val had been pleased when he had told her what he wanted to do. They discussed joining the krewe on a permanent basis after the season was over, but only if there were no barriers in Val's way.

"Well, we've got loads of work to do," Carmen said. "You forgot to order that small-gauge chicken wire. Excuse us, Griffen." They headed for one of the tables against the wall. Griffen himself went to join Lucinda's papier-mache squad. They were plastering a figure of an embattled St. George that day, an irony that Griffen enjoyed, having faced off against the ancient hero's modern equivalent twice already.

Once Twelfth Night had passed, New Orleans shifted into Mardi Gras mode and hit the gas. The stores selling throws in Jackson Square and in the stalls at the French Market filled to overflowing with glittering, glowing, flashing stock. Stores put out racks of ready-made costumes and formal wear. Announcements for parties and tableaux that the public could attend were listed in the newspapers and on posters stuck on walls and displayed in windows everywhere in the French Quarter. Everyone pored over the annual guide to decide which parades they were going to watch and discuss the best places from which to watch them. Griffen added a new envelope almost every day to his stack of invitations to masquerade balls and parties. He would have to ask Etienne or one of the other lieutenants which ones he could honorably decline with thanks. The ones he had to accept cut severely into the remaining balance in his bank account. He was finding it hard to keep up on his salary and his poker winnings.

And the crowds started to pour into town. Some visitors would come in waves to enjoy a few days of the run-up or the festival itself; others intended to stay through until Ash Wednesday.

But the party was not and had never been aimed at visitors. It was for New Orleans itself. The tradition of celebrating the period before Lent dated back to 1768. The colors of Mardi Gras were always there in the background, but stores and houses began to dress themselves up with the theme. Harlequins in purple, gold, and green popped up as mannequins clinging to lampposts, toys for children, or wall decorations of all kinds. Griffen noticed the white-faced carnival masks peering blank-eyed at him from window displays and advertisements. People were already wearing masks. He bought groceries from a girl in a fan-shaped yellow-feathered mask, and had coffee served to him by a man in a red-sequined domino and matching derby hat.

The costumers had a steady stream of locals coming and going with at least one and sometimes up to a dozen outfits for the season. Getting into conversations with friends in the Irish pub and elsewhere, Griffen discovered quite a few who had been descended from original krewe members. Nautilus and Aeolus invited him home to see home movies, including new DVD copies of ancient, hand-cranked films that reminded him of early Hollywood newsreels. Though the first parades were primitive compared with what he saw in modern videos, they had mystique and grandeur. If he had not already become part of the upcoming festival, he would have longed for a place in it.

The Krewe of Fafnir wasn't a perfect organization. They had supported Griffen's efforts to change, but mostly because he was at the top of a pecking order that became more evident each time he was with them. Etienne was behind Griffen a hundred percent, not that that seemed to cut much ice with the existing lieutenants. Though they treated him with the respect due the founder, or refounder, and captain of the krewe, on a personal level they were dismissive of someone with so little dragon blood.

He refilled one of the buckets at the utility sink next to the lavatory and came up in the middle of an argument between Mitchell Grade and Etienne.

"Who are you tellin' me what to do? Couldn't light a birthday candle," Mitchell snarled.

"Still tellin' ya what to do," Etienne said.

"The hound dog telling the alligator? That's rich. You got no authority over me, son. Coming from the back of beyond with no more in common with me than a tree. Back off! You don't get it. You couldn't."