Griffen McCandles is adjusting well to running his gambling operation in the French Quarter of New Orleans and to his newfound status as head dragon. Other dragons are getting a whiff of his reputation, though, and they're not happy about it. Which is why there's suddenly a hit out on him. And, just in time for Halloween, the ghost of a voodoo queen wants Griffen to moderate a supernatural conclave. And though the strange goings-on will barely be noticed in a city used to drunken conventioneers and wild revelers, it's Griffen's chance to spread his wings - or crash and burn.
George was impressed, though, he suspected, not as much as he was supposed to be.
Southern California wasn’t his normal hunting ground, and every time he visited it, he found he liked it less and less. He kept being reminded of something he had once heard said about the area: Once you took away all the tinsel and glitz, what you had left was tinsel and glitz.
He found all the faddishness of what restaurant or club was in, much less what designer clothes one wore or food one ate, to be depressingly shallow and frantic. In his own private protest, he had long since consciously decided not to play their reindeer games.
He was an out-of-towner and an outsider, and made no effort to hide the fact. His suit was off-the-rack and not custom-tailored, and his shoes were comfortable and durable rather than one of the flimsy, short-lived imported fashions.
In one sense, this was appropriate, as George was himself an unimposing man. Anyone passing him on the street in the Midwest or the Northeast would barely notice him, much less remember him a half dozen steps later. In the youth-and-beauty-oriented culture of Southern California, he was as invisible as a homeless person, noticed, if at all, with distaste.
Even his rental car was an economy-sized Ford, readily sneered at by the valet at the trendy restaurant he pulled up at. At least, he assumed it was trendy. The girl at the car-rental counter had recognized it readily enough when he asked for directions.
None of this bothered George in the slightest. It was expected and, in some ways, gratifying. Anonymity was a plus, if not a necessity, in his chosen profession. What was more, he was sure enough of himself and what he could do that he did not feel the need for outside admiration or reassurance.
The hostess sized him up and dismissed him with one glance before asking if he had a reservation in a voice that assumed he didn’t.
“I’m here to meet with Flynn,” he said with deliberate casualness.
It was entertaining to watch the transformation that came over the hostess at the mention of Flynn’s name. Her bored, skeptical expression changed in an instant to a beaming smile of welcome. With a smooth glide she came out from behind her reservation stand to escort George personally to Flynn’s table.
Yes. People knew who Flynn was. Even George knew who he was, though they had never met or spoken before he was contacted for his recent assignment.
There was a noticeable break in the deal-making conversations throughout the room as the combatants realized where George was being led and paused in their negotiations to appraise him.
Yes. Everyone knew who Flynn was. What amused George was the knowledge that while everyone knew that Flynn was, perhaps, the most sought-after agent in the country, very few knew what he really was. George knew. Flynn was a dragon.
Though not a dragon himself, George was more than familiar with what they were: descendants of a shape-shifting, size-changing race that first resisted, then blended with the humans when that species rose to prominence. Centuries of mixing with and interbreeding with humans had thinned the blood and weakened their powers, but their basic characteristics remained the same. They were long-lived, resistant to disease or injury, and highly charismatic. They were also selfish, greedy, power-hungry, and utterly ruthless regarding any perceived threat to their amassed fortunes or power bases.
George knew all this because he was not human himself, and had made it his life’s work to hunt dragons . . . for pay, of course.
Flynn rose to greet him as George was led to the table. He was tallish, with dark, wavy hair, gleaming white teeth, and what could only be called a California tan. Impeccably dressed, he could have been the poster boy for a “Beautiful California” ad campaign.
“George,” he said, flashing his teeth and extending a hand. “So good of you to join me.”
George ignored the hand as he seated himself.
“I was under the impression that I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” he said, flatly.
“I simply felt that, considering the substantial fee you charge, I deserve a face-to-face debriefing.” Flynn smiled. “Not just a few written pages in a report.”
“There was also something said about withholding the balance of my fee until we met,” George said.
“That was an unfortunate misimpression,” Flynn said. “The balance of your fee has already been deposited in the designated account.”
George calmed down but was still not completely mollified.
“Well, there’s also the matter of this breaking my rule against meeting my clients face-to-face.”
Flynn shook his head.
“I understand. It’s the whole ‘man of mystery’ thing where no one knows your face,” he said. “Well, I’m certainly not going to share your description with anyone. The whole trust thing should be a two-way street.”
