Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (23 page)

He made for the gap in the fence. It meant covering some fairly open terrain underneath mature evergreen bushes. No time to second-guess himself. He added extra muscle to his back legs and gave it all he had. Shadows of branches spotlighted by the handlers’ flashlights made a chiaroscuro jumble ahead of him. He had to go by sense and memory. The bushes nearest the gap were juniper, the only ones in the front hedge.

A blast of lightning followed by a clap of thunder burst overhead. The George paused for a moment, taking advantage of the brilliant light to get his bearings. He could see a tiny thread of light peeking in from the gap. The rain pelted down harder now. George scuttled underneath the edge of a heavy bush.

Something caught his right pant leg. He jerked it forward, hoping to dislodge the bramble. Instead, a whole body shot forward and landed on his back. A cold, acid gust breathed in his face. Saliva dribbled down his neck.

Instantly, George flipped over on his back. His short, powerful legs flung the creature a couple of yards away. It lunged for him again. George drew his knife and stabbed at it.

In the faint light, he saw the creature’s outline. At no time in his long career had he ever seen one like it. If the Hildebrandts had asked this monster to model for Gollum, there would never have been a second
Lord of the Rings
calendar. It was skinny, almost gaunt, with hollow cheeks in a faintly humanoid face, but its teeth were sharklike rows of filed wedges. Drool came out of both sides of its mouth as it tried to bite George. He fended it off his neck while looking for weak spots.

He didn’t find many. The creature seemed as flexible and heavy as lead. Whenever it managed to scramble on top of him, George had to fight to pull himself out from under. Its skin turned away his knife blade.

“What the hell are you?” he demanded. Its impenetrable hide suggested dragon-kin, but its narrow skull, flat at the front, made the face protrude like a rodent’s.

The next time it lunged for him, he wound his arms around its neck and forced the head upward. Back, back, back—George listened, waiting for the spine to snap. It never did. The flat skull touched the bony spine. It twisted its head and gave George a fierce grin. It wrenched out of his grasp, and George found himself hugging empty air.

A split second later, he was on his face, breathing rainwater and compost. The creature dug its teeth into the back of his neck. Well, two could play the contortionist game. He twisted his body. The teeth raked the flesh of his throat. Blood spurted. George ignored the pain and grabbed the creature’s windpipe. He squeezed. It hung on, burying its fangs deeper into his flesh. George gritted his own teeth against the pain. He could feel something start to give . . . very slightly. A pulse under his claws juddered and sped up.

Howling burst out around them as the dogs caught up. The handlers surrounded him, kicking and punching at him. The dogs worried at his clothes with their teeth.

He could kill them all, but that would blow his cover. Three of the men had radios in their hands. They were in contact with others he could not get to and silence. Once Melinda learned that he was in the area, she would redouble security or move Val, or both. Painful as it would be, he had to take the punishment.

“What do we do with him, sir?”

George managed to twist his head to see the secretary arriving. Henry actually had on a safari jacket and pith helmet. Under its shielding brim, the blond human looked as imperious as a Victorian big-game hunter.

“Let it finish him,” Henry said.

The head handler nodded to the others. They pulled the dogs back.

“No!” George pleaded, stretching out an imploring hand. “Let me go! I won’t tell anyone . . .”

Henry shook his head.

I’ll get you later, you cold-blooded son of a bitch,
George thought. Dragons weren’t the only vermin who could be merciless.

The beast let out a low, breathy chuckle, enjoying his pain. George decided to make the losing battle look good. He struggled against the fierce grip. With both hands, he pushed the jaws away from his neck. The beast snapped at his wrist, severing an artery. Blood sprayed them all. George bellowed in pain, no dissembling necessary. He brought up a knee into the creature’s skinny backside. It let go for a moment, then hopped up on his belly with both back feet. As the handlers watched with growing horror, it dug through his clothes and skin like a dog excavating a hole. George could see his own intestines burst out like pink party balloons twisted into a French poodle. It hurt, though he had experienced worse.

He glanced at Henry, who seemed to be waiting for something.

Oh, yeah,
George thought.

With a terrifying, sucking gasp, he died.

The handlers, silent with horror, leashed their dogs and sent them back to the kennel with their leader. Henry himself stepped forward to take the creature by the ear. He clipped the leash to a ring in the fleshy upper lobe and tugged. The beast obediently stepped off its prey and sat on the ground to wash itself, as if it was an oversized, hairless cat. Henry nodded to the remaining men.

“Take it around back. Bury it under the compost heap. If anyone asks, we never saw him.”

“Yes, sir,” the men said. They sounded shaken. They hoisted George’s body by his arms and legs, avoiding touching the tangle of bloody organs dangling over one side, and carried him through the now-driving rain around the perimeter of the house.

Once they had interred him under six or seven feet of rotting leaves and vegetable parings, George opened his eyes. No wonder no one ever broke into Melinda’s estate.

Compost heaps, when well maintained, generated their own heat. Hence, it was nice and warm and, thankfully, dry inside. George gave himself five minutes to pull himself together and rearrange his shape back to that of a human being. Sound from outside was heavily muffled, but his “burial detail” did nothing to keep their passage silent. As soon as he was certain all the humans and dogs had gone back to the house, he tunneled his way out of the squashy, warm humus and made for exit number four.

He still didn’t know what kind of creature had disemboweled him. Every detail of its appearance, including smell, was firmly entrenched in his memory. He’d have to put Debbie on it. If he hadn’t been what he was, it could have killed him several times over during their brief fight. As it was, he was in some serious pain. His tissues were infinitely adaptable, but there was a limit on how much punishment he could take before he needed to crawl into a hole and rest. Now, however, was not the time.

Once out on the narrow avenue, George had to make certain to hide his trail. The rain was his friend. All trace of his scent was washed off the asphalt within moments of his passage. He climbed hedges into less-well-patrolled properties, swam through three in-ground pools, and swung through hundred-year-old oaks until he was positive nothing except a high-speed movie camera in a helicopter could have followed him. It was nearly sunrise by the time he felt safe returning to his car.

It was small consolation, but some of the guests leaving the mansion near his parked sedan looked worse than he did as they staggered out to drive home.

“Debbie,” he croaked into his cell phone as he pulled away from the curb. “Bad news. They’ve got a demon.”

“I’ll double the fee,” Debbie said at once. “You sound awful. Go and get some sleep.”

Griffen
stretched his long back as he walked along Toulouse toward Annette’s at eleven o’clock in the morning. He had spent part of the night overseeing a poker game at the Hotel St. Marie, and almost the rest of it sitting up with Gris-gris. The slender gambler was crazy with impatience. The rubber plant looked annoyingly healthy. Gris-gris was ready to help it die by yanking it up by the roots and stomping it. Ann Marie had assured him that he was no more than a day or two from being liberated.

“We just want to make sure your soul is sealed up again where it ought to be,” she said.

That comment had made Gris-gris fall silent for almost a minute. His nervous energy came springing back after that. All he wanted to do was talk about Val. Griffen absolutely did not want to know about his sister’s love life. She had probably seen too much of his, and it was time both of them had their privacy. He challenged Gris-gris to a game of HORSE poker. The tournament comprised five different poker games, Hold ’Em, Omaha, Razz, Seven-card Stud, and Eight-High. Sometime during Razz, while Griffen was trying to construct a low enough hand to lose, Gris-gris had dropped off to sleep out of pure exhaustion. Griffen had quietly slipped out, waved the cluster of bones at the door, and left it in the flowerpot outside.

Griffen should have been exhausted, but maybe there was something in the voodoo magic that bestowed energy and clarity. Griffen’s back was stiff from sitting in the same place for five hours, but he wasn’t sleepy at all. Instead, he was roaringly hungry, and he wanted company. A heaping breakfast from Annette’s kitchen filled his belly, and the Irish pub awaited to fulfill the latter need.

“Haven’t seen you around for a few days,” Maestro said, as Griffen swung into a seat and signaled for a Diet Coke from the bartender. The slim fencing teacher broke off from a conversation with a couple of regulars.

“I’ve been sitting up with a sick friend,” Griffen explained. “You’re not usually in here at this hour.”

“Waiting for a student,” Maestro explained. “He’s a high-school teacher who wants to learn fight choreography. I told him it’s better to know the basics of swordplay so you understand how to make fights look realistic but still safe.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“When are you coming back up for a lesson?” Maestro’s studio was on the second floor of a nearby building. “You need to exercise those skills, or they’ll go rusty.”

Griffen made a face. He consulted his notebook. “I could use the workout. Do you have any time on Thursday?”

“Fine,” Maestro said. “I have two other épée students coming in then. That will give each of you more bouts. Make sure you take the time to stretch before you come in.”

“I will,” Griffen promised. “Looking forward to it.”

Griffen’s cell phone rang in his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he said to Maestro, and pushed the
CALL
button. “Griffen McCandles.”

Jerome’s voice came through the tinny speaker.

“Hey, Grifter, where are you?”

“Irish pub,” Griffen said. “What’s up?”

“Can I come and talk to you?”

“Sure. I’m just having a drink. Something wrong?”

“Rather talk about it when I see you.”

Griffen was puzzled by his lieutenant’s reticence. “Okay. I’ll be here.” He put the phone on the bar and returned to Maestro.

“How’s Ms. Dunbar?” the older man asked. “She looked pretty bad when the debate ended the other night.”

“I don’t really know,” Griffen said. “I haven’t seen her since then. Too much going on.”

“I assume you haven’t heard from Val because you haven’t posted a huge ‘Welcome Home’ banner up there.” Maestro pointed his own Diet Coke at the longest wall in the bar.

“No,” Griffen said. He looked speculatively at his phone. Was it too early to call George?

Maestro patted his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s all right. By the way, I have some pictures from the Fafnir parade last Mardi Gras that my cousin took for me. They were pretty spectacular. Do you want copies?”

Griffen had a mental flash of the condition of his float by the end of the parade and laughed. “Sure! Did you ride on our floats?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Maestro assured him. “I rode in a couple of others, too. The costumes are pretty similar. I must have tossed a thousand strings of beads. I love it. Halloween’s better, though. That’s just for us local folks, not for all the tourists.”

“I’m looking forward to this year,” Griffen said. “I was too busy last year.”

“I hear you.”

Griffen mused while the bartender topped up his soda. Had Mardi Gras only been a few months before? It seemed like another age.

“What’s up, Griffen?”

He turned to see a man smiling at him. Griffen did a double take. The newcomer was a light-skinned black man with caramel brown eyes, wearing a handsome, lightweight gray designer suit and polished black leather shoes.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Griffen said, putting out a hand. “How are you, Callum?”

Callum Fenway laughed. “I wasn’t sure how well you’d remember me,” he said.

“Are you kidding me? We were just talking about the parade.” He gestured at Maestro.

“Must be something in the air.”

Griffen introduced them. The two older men shook hands. “Yes, I remember you. Paid up in full, for ‘The Pen Is Mightier Than the Dragon’ float.”

“Right!” Maestro said. “Nice to meet you again.”

“Same here. Do you have a moment, Griffen?”

“Sure, Callum. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Callum glanced at Maestro, who tactfully turned away. “Haven’t talked to you in a few months. We had a meeting a couple of nights ago, and you came up in our discussions.”

“That sounds ominous,” Griffen said.

“It’s not. We just figure that now that we have a leader, we’d like to check in with you now and again.”

Griffen knew exactly whom he meant by “we.” Fafnir Krewe was made up entirely of dragons, from one who had a trickle of the blood in the midst of an almost completely werewolf heritage, up to just over half-blooded.

“I am not exactly your leader.”

“Well, by virtue of blood, you outrank any of the rest of us. We don’t mind. We kind of like having a clear chain of command. Etienne is good for running the krewe, and I’m good with the books, but as an overarching structure, we go by the old ranking. You’re the big boss now.”

“That’s not necessary. I don’t need to run anything. You’re all doing fine.”

Callum shook his head. “Son, you saw what a bunch of sheep the others were. We were ashamed to have human beings step up where dragons should have been out in front. I’m proud to know our fellow elemental krewes, but you’re the boss. Even if you want to call it a nominal appointment, I suggest you accept it.”

Griffen couldn’t argue with that. “Just don’t ask me to adjudicate à la Solomon. So, what can I do for you, as big dragon?”

Callum pulled up the next stool and put his hands on the bar.

“Well, you know that the election is coming up in November. The jungle primary’s October 5. Representative Penny Dunbar came to me and asked for a donation for her campaign for governor, on behalf of Fafnir Krewe. Since y’all were working with her, we figured it sounded like an endorsement, but I thought I should ask. She’s the only candidate in the race who’s one of us. Dragonkind has to stick together.”

“She used my
name
?”

“Sure did. She told us that you’d consider it a personal favor if we threw our support behind her.”

“I’m not working with her,” Griffen said, feeling his temper rising. “That was a lie.”

Callum gave him a strange look. “I saw you on television the other night, right behind her during that debate, where she had a fit of some kind? And I am sure that I caught sight of you when she made one of those speeches from a mangrove farm.”

“My girlfriend is volunteer coordinator for one of the parishes,” Griffen said, more calmly than he felt. “Penny has asked me to run security for her. She’s had some run-ins that, uh, the police can’t handle.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Callum nodded. “I see. Anything you are going to need help on from any of us?”

“I hope not,” Griffen said. “I’m waiting for a meeting that might clear things up.”

“I see. Diplomacy’s always a better option than confrontation. Well, it’d be good to have one of our own running the state. Never thought about it before. We were proud when she was elected to the state house of representatives. So, what do you want us to do?”

“Do?” Griffen echoed blankly. “No matter what my feelings are about her, I have no intention of deciding for other people. Make up your own mind about it. Do you think that her aims are the same as yours? Will she support programs you consider worthwhile? Do you think she’s honest?”

“Well, son, you know her better than we do. Is she?”

“Not really,” Griffen said, lowering his voice, knowing Fox Lisa would take him apart if she heard him say so. “I’ve seen her take bribes.”

Griffen got a cool look from the other dragon. “I’ve paid some of those myself, Griffen. That’s just the cost of doing business in this state. Sometimes you need a little grease to make the wheels turn. But is Representative Dunbar effective? Does she take that money
and
do something, or just sit there?”

“She’s definitely a doer,” Griffen said, relieved to be able to give Penny kudos where they were merited.

Callum let out a gust of breath.

“Well, all right, then. I was going to throw my support behind Bobby Jindal, but if you like Penny Dunbar, then she’s our candidate.”

“That’s up to you,” Griffen said firmly. “I refuse to make up your minds for you.”

Callum eyed him with a summing expression. “That’s why you’re the big boss around here, Griffen. You don’t force your views on anyone. I never heard of a humble dragon before, least of all one with the abilities and talents you have.”

Griffen was embarrassed. “Thanks, Callum.”

“Like to sit down with you sometime, me and the rest of Fafnir. We want to know what plans you have for us all for the future.”

Plans?
But Callum looked so hopeful.

“Sure,” Griffen said. “When this whole election thing is over.”

“Sure thing. By the way, my wife Lucinda said to come to dinner on Friday. You free? Our housekeeper Edith promises to bring out some of her grandmother’s best recipes. Brought up to date, of course. The cholesterol counts can kill anyone who’s not actually out working in the fields. Her raised biscuits are good enough for a man to give up his hope of heaven.”

“Thanks,” Griffen said. “It would be a pleasure.”

“Bring that pretty red-haired girlfriend of yours, too. There’s always plenty.”

Callum left. Griffen snorted the smoke he had been holding back. People kept putting him in charge of their lives when he didn’t want them to! And how dare Penny use him to get to the krewe! She knew he was only helping her because Malcolm asked him to! The air around him turned gray. Inside him, the little spark danced for joy. Sourly, he tamped it down. Pouting, it subsided.

Griffen waved a surreptitious hand to clear the air. He glanced around. He hoped no one had seen him shooting plumes of vapor from his nostrils. To his dismay he spotted one pair of eyes on him. Fortunately, it belonged to Jerome. His lieutenant grinned and slid onto the barstool that Callum had vacated. He signaled to the bartender for a beer.

“Hey, boss, do those smoke signals mean a distress call? Anything I can help with?”

“Penny!” Griffen said, fighting to get his temper under control. “She’s using my name to solicit donations. I am going to have to come down heavy on her. What’s up?”

“Problem. Had a couple of dropouts for tonight.”

“Does it leave us with enough for a table?” Griffen asked.

Jerome wrinkled his nose. “Not really, Grifter. And I had better tell you: two of them called to tell me they saw you on television Friday at the debate.”

“Half of New Orleans did.”

“Yeah, but they said they didn’t know you were supporting Dunbar. They don’t like it. They prefer their poker nonpartisan.”

Griffen felt another burst of fury. The spark of fire in his belly kicked up against the breakfast he had recently consumed and crisped it to charcoal.

“I was afraid this was going to happen.”

“It’s
been
happening, Grifter,” Jerome said patiently. “I’ve been running interference for you, telling them about Fox Lisa, but this time I failed the saving throw. It’s not the first time. Remember the other night? I offered to bring you in as a substitute when the little mama went to the hospital, but they didn’t want you.”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to mention it before. You’ve had so much on your mind. I thought it would blow over, but it’s really turning into an issue. This election’s got people polarized. It wouldn’t have mattered in years gone by. No one wants to play nice with the other parties.”

“What about tonight’s clients?”

“They’re both big-bankroll types, both of them have been at our tables before though not since before Mardi Gras. Trouble is, one of them works for the lieutenant governor, and he doesn’t think it’s prudent to be in the same room with you. The other, Penny, had his son busted at college last month for dealing a little dope from his dorm room. Made a big example of him. She was there for one of her speeches and got a tip about him. The roller thinks she has a snitch in the Vice Squad.”

Griffen raised his eyebrows. “Harrison might like to hear about that.”

“Yeah, but in the meantime, what do we do about the shortage?”

“How’s the fill tomorrow evening? How about just canceling this one and bringing the remaining players in then?”

“No can do. Got a real whale from Florida, a new guy we were going to try and impress with our Big Easy style tonight. Marcel overheard him ask the concierge at the Sheraton where he could get a little action. He started a casual conversation and got him interested. Said we always have plenty of action. The three players who did stay are small-time, five-dollar chips. They won’t impress him much.”