"Thanks, Lucinda," Griffen said.
". . . Think it's the prophecy?" Doug asked, as he turned back to the conversation.
"Oh, not that again!" Matt moaned. Griffen pretended not to hear. But the speculative gazes turned back to study him.
"Well, that's it," Callum said, standing up to offer him a hand. "Welcome, King of Fafnir. This is going to be a fine Mardi Gras."
Griffen gripped it firmly. The gesture was no longer a challenge, so he kept his shake friendly. "It sure will," he said.
"Come on, folks," Callum said, leading them toward the door. "We'll talk more later. Lucinda will have my head on a white china platter if the food gets cold."
Ten
Griffen left the Fenway mansion after midnight. He wore a pair of black sweatpants and T-shirt borrowed from the wardrobe of their elder son, who was away at college in Texas. He refused the offer of a ride home from a number of the members who had offered to drive him. It wasn't that far from the Garden District to the French Quarter. He wanted some time alone to clear his head. What an evening!
Lucinda had been a wonderful hostess. She had served them an epic gumbo, bursting with shrimp, sausage, and, for a wonder, crisp okra. He had never tasted it before he had come to New Orleans, but he could never imagine becoming tired of andouille sausage. The fire of the spices still played upon his tongue. Dessert had been a play on the famous Brennan's bananas Foster: a blond layer cake with frosting flavored by banana and orange, served with a brandy caramel sauce that was still on fire when the regal Edith brought it to the table.
The excellent dinner made up a little for the fact that he had almost turned his pockets inside out for the membership fees, and he still owed the krewe ten thousand dollars for his kingship. He ached for his bank account. It had further suffering ahead of it; the lieutenants wanted to know (1) if he was going to host a king's party, (2) if he had given any thought to where, and (3) how many people he was thinking of inviting. An address list for the entire krewe was available to him as a printout or a computer file.
He had called all four places holding rooms on Etienne's say-so, and the damages would be a king's ransom, around ten thousand for a large-scale blowout in the most expensive of them for the entire krewe plus spouses or "plus-ones." There would also be the cost of invitations and favors, plus entertainment, and so on. And tuxedo rental. Griffen had a slip of paper from Etienne's little notebook with all the things he was expected to do in the coming season, and what would be supplied to him by the krewe.
Once he had passed the dragon test, as he was calling it in his mind, the other members had changed from casual smugness to polarization at two different extremes. They were starting to align themselves with or against him. He knew they had heard of the prophecy, but certainly weren't going to say whether or not they believed or even could consider Griffen the "young dragon." Still, he noticed Mitchell and Doug, for example, had begun to look directly at him when they were discussing krewe business, as if looking for his approval. On the other side, Matt kept his distance. He was not hostile, but Griffen felt he was not on his side. Others had yet to make their choice evident. Griffen was aware of a lot of speculation and jealousy, and not a lot of admiration. They had all accepted, as Etienne claimed he had known for years, that he was going to be their king.
Griffen didn't feel like a king. He felt like a little boy in the middle of a board meeting and didn't like feeling that way. The others showed him the deepest of respect. He didn't deserve any respect. He could not get past the fact that he had attacked another living being out of pique. His life hadn't been at stake. He had not been threatened; nor had his sister. Griffen had been tricked into transforming. That was not enough reason to let himself, well, go dragon. He was ashamed of how good it had felt, how natural. This must be what Terence Killen meant by his dragon soul.
The others had thought nothing of his outburst; all had accepted it. In fact, most of them had enjoyed it. But they had been raised as dragons. Was that kind of behavior acceptable in dragon society? Mose and Jerome had both warned him that dragons usually couldn't be bothered with "lesser beings," like humans. Griffen did not like the arrogance that seemed to be the hallmark of most of the dragons he had met so far. If superiority meant manipulation, humiliation, greed, casual violence, and scorn, he rejected it. He didn't like the way the other dragons looked down on Etienne. For all the captain's good nature and organizational abilities, he was only a fraction of a dragon, and the added werewolf blood made them consider him even lower than humans. They had made it clear, however, that they would like to socialize with Griffen. He had received invitations to dinners, country clubs, and golf outings, delivered right in front of the captain without including him. The lieutenants were snobs.
On the other hand, he mused, human beings acted like that, too. He didn't like the behavior any more when it came from them.
Griffen stopped in his tracks in the bougainvilleascented dark. Funny, he had not separated himself from the "them" of humanity before. Perhaps he really was beginning to understand that he was different. But was it nature or nurture that governed one's real self?
It almost made him dizzy to know that he belonged to two different worlds, the one in which he had been raised and the one into which he had been born. He couldn't deny he was a dragon, but he refused to let go of those traits that were human, at least as he saw things. He needed to give himself time to think about that.
But there were good things going on in the krewe, too. Charity, for example. Phil Grover, one of the lieutenants, had bent his ear during dinner over a charity that Fafnir supported. Ladybug, Ladybug had been established to support families, especially children, who had been made homeless by fire. New Orleans's old houses were made of wood and asphalt shingles, both of which went up like torches in a fire. Even though the resurrected krewe had been in existence again less than two years and had yet to march, it had raised tens of thousands of dollars for good works. Phil had hit him up shamelessly for a donation, or, if he wished, to donate a portion of his business's proceeds to it, they would consider it a favor. A mandatory favor, Griffen understood, but he didn't really object. He knew he had been fortunate in his life. Now that he was making decent money, some of it ought to go to those who had worse luck than he. He had a stack of flyers for Ladybug, Ladybug that he intended to put on the table in every suite where his people organized a game.
But that wasn't Fafnir's primary mission. Callum had alluded to one, but when Griffen asked the others about it, they were vague. They said that their job was to protect the city. But wasn't everyone's?
He now had a list of the dates involved. January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, the day after Twelfth Night, kicked off the Mardi Gras season. Fafnir's parade was scheduled for February 24 at seven in the evening. The parades ran for two weeks before Mardi Gras itself, the Tuesday that preceded Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. On weekends, there were parades all day, but on weekdays they started after six o'clock. Fafnir would be the last of four to march that day. He had a map of the assigned route. Etienne emphasized more than once that they must kick off on time. The parade would last anywhere from three to five hours, depending on the pace and how many units would be marching. That still hadn't been determined, as more people got in touch with the krewe to be included.