Her feeling of superior smugness lasted all the way back to Jordan Ma's suite, where he was expounding to the others about the game he had just played. He gestured Rebecca to a chair. She could hardly sit still, so eager was she to tell her story.
"The sad looks on their faces," Jordan said. "That man Jerome did not want to offend the manufacturing millionaire from Ohio, but he did not like yet another accusation of a fraudulent game. We have all our stake back, and the house loses its percentage and, if I am not wrong, at least two of the high-betting players they entertain."
"Cool," Peter said, blowing ring after ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "How about you, Rebecca? Break a few hearts tonight?"
Rebecca smiled. She opened her purse and dumped the piles of cash onto the coffee table. "I did not leave them a single dollar."
Winston Long looked at her blankly. She knew that meant disapproval. "You were supposed to lose."
With a shock, she remembered. Her jaw dropped.
"I am sorry," she said.
Peter hit himself in the forehead with the flat of his hand. "You only had to remember one thing! You are so stupid!"
Rebecca glared at him. "I do not answer to you!"
"But you do answer to me," Winston said, putting a fingertip down on the tabletop. "Why did you not follow instructions?"
Rebecca hated to answer in front of the others. Peter grinned at her. "I lost my temper. But I beat all of them! They did not leave happy!"
Winston and Jordan exchanged glances.
"You are young, child," Winston said. "Are you too young for this mission?"
"No, elder one! I promise!"
"You must calm down. It will serve you well in future. Do you need a mantra or a mnemonic to remember your instructions?"
"No, sir." Rebecca was shamed. She felt her whole body grow hot. She pulled her consciousness in on itself so as not to give Peter the satisfaction of knowing how much she had disgraced herself.
Jordan Ma lit a cigarette with a breath of flame. "It is not all bad that we have taken all the money. That will annoy the players as well. They will go where they have a chance of winning."
"It is not a bad strategy--once in a while," Peter said.
"I agree," Winston said. "Follow orders next time."
Rebecca was stung, but she understood her error. Still, it had been delightful to see the stricken expressions on the other players' faces. Winning was much better than losing.
"I shall obey, elder one."
"Good. Come with me next time, child," Winston said. "I will show you how it is done."
Thirty-one
Griffen turned over a page, drawn in by the flowing prose. He admired the superb writing, feeling as if he had discovered a marvelous secret. He had heard of Montaigne's essays in college but had never read any of them. At two dollars, the little leatherette volume was a bargain. Griffen tucked it into his elbow along with a Louis L'Amour Western, and went on browsing.
Used bookstores were one of the great treasures among many in the French Quarter, as they were in any other city. Except for Ann Arbor, he had never found such eclectic choices anywhere but New Orleans. The two-story bookstore was Griffen's favorite. It seemed to be the repository for books discarded by superbly literate people with incredibly eclectic tastes. There were always copies of some of Shakespeare's plays, alongside white-spined romance novels by the hundred, cookbooks galore, popular novels, science fiction, travel books, and local history. Hidden among them were antique atlases, medical textbooks, poetry, Restoration drama, and so many wonderful one-off oddities that Griffen could hardly resist visiting every few days to see what had come in. He loved the smell of old bookstores. The combination of dust, a little mold, paper, glue, leather, and the wood polish that the owner used on the glass-fronted cases that held the genuine rarities up near the cash register gave Griffen a feeling of contentment. He never left without making a purchase, even if it cost him only a quarter. The bookstore was one of the great bargains in entertainment in the city. The regulars at his local were big readers, too. He often ran into his drinking buddies in there.
He had an hour or two before a poker game. Jerome had let a few selected high rollers visiting town know that Mr. McCandles himself might sit in. He had a full table booked out in four phone calls. Griffen promised himself that he would be moderate in winning, but he really needed some extra cash.
A dragon walked into the bookstore. Griffen could tell without even looking around by the feeling of power. Thanks to his time hanging out with the krewe, he was learning how to distinguish his kinsmen from the other supernaturals in town. It was a terrific opportunity. Except for Mose, Jerome, Val, Mai, and himself, he had known few others with dragon blood. Now he knew dozens.
Not that it helped him distinguish who was who. He felt tension in the air as lines of force were drawn. He was familiar with the sensation; wards had been used by wiccans and voudons at the conclave to prevent the hotel staff wandering into the middle of an activity that Griffen and the organizers would find hard to explain. So it was not serendipity that brought a fellow dragon in. Nor was this an inconsequential dragon. In fact, the feeling he got was that the new arrival was someone formidable.
Griffen considered leaving through the rear door of the shop. The owner wouldn't have minded. He didn't question why one of his customers didn't want to meet someone coming in. He knew all about jealous girlfriends and overdue rent. Griffen braced himself. If there was going to be a confrontation, it was better to have it in there than out on the street. Fewer people would see it, but more important, fewer could get hurt if it turned into a fight. It could be Stoner. Griffen's consciousness hadn't been raised the last time he met the representative from Homeland Security; now that he could detect dragons from others, Stoner might feel differently to him. He braced himself. But this person was not alone. Griffen could feel five other strong presences, three in the street, and two more that had just entered the bookstore. Stoner would not bring such an entourage. It had to be ...
"You've been avoiding me," a deep voice suddenly said at his back.
Griffen whirled. And had to drop his eyes.
Instead of the well-built former serviceman with the buzz-cut hair and cold eyes, he faced a short, zaftig woman in a two-piece suit dress, closely controlled, wavy, chestnut brown hair going gray at the temples, and cold eyes.
"Melinda, I presume?" he said, with all the aplomb he could muster.
"Griffen," she said, looking him up and down. "Well, well. You are just as handsome as Lizzy described you. Very boy-next-door."
Griffen could have made a flip comment, but her eyes brooked no nonsense. He knew instinctively that whatever trouble that Lizzy and her siblings had caused him, they would never misbehave in front of their mother. "Formidable" was the perfect adjective to describe her. She could probably command a battalion with that glare.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
Melinda was terse. "Your sister is avoiding me. I have telephoned her several times to arrange a meeting. Every time she hears my voice, she hangs up on me. I have tried other methods to make a connection. She has declined each of those. Therefore, I have sought to speak with you. You, too, have declined to meet me."
"I am busy," Griffen said, just as tersely. "I have a business to run, among other things."
"Neither of you can avoid me forever. I have been here in New Orleans for more than two months, waiting for one of you to take the time out for a simple face-to-face conversation. Valerie clearly would prefer that I deal with you. So, I am dealing. I don't want to harm you. I want to establish friendly connections with your family. We are linked now. And it is important to form a bond of cooperation."