“Uninvolved observer. Right. Just be sure you keep it that way.” Debbie hesitated. “Want any of the team down there for backup?”

“No. I’ll handle this myself,” George said, glad for the offered support. “That way, if anything blows, it won’t splash on anyone else.”

“In theory, anyway,” his teammate said. “One thing you should be aware of, though. You may have some extra company. There’s a report here from one of our watchers that says Melinda’s daughter Lizzy is on her way down there if she isn’t there already.”

“Lizzy? That psycho?” George was genuinely startled. “What’s she coming down here for?”

“Unknown,” Debbie said. “As far was we can tell, her own family doesn’t know she’s headed for the Big Easy. Just watch your back, okay?”

George found himself looking up and down the street again as he signed off. Lizzy! This just kept getting better.

Ten

Flynn was tired of waiting.

He had given the McCandles boy his hotel and room number on the back of his business card when they first met, but the youth had yet to contact him. After several days of hanging around the hotel, Flynn said to hell with it and went out searching.

Having studied George’s report, he felt that Griffen should not be too difficult to locate. First of all, he knew the apartment complex where the young dragon and his sister lived. Flynn decided against approaching him there, however. First, it would alert McCandles as to how much information Flynn already had on him. Second, he wanted to hold off meeting the sister until he had a better fix on Griffen himself.

That left the young McCandles’s usual haunts.

When he ate out, it was often at either the Café Du Monde or at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill on St. Peter Street. His favorite watering hole was an Irish pub a few blocks off Bourbon Street.

Flynn decided to try the pub first.

It wasn’t hard to find, but it was nearly deserted in the late-afternoon sunshine. The bartender was reading a newspaper, and a couple of middle-aged women were sitting at the bar deep in a quiet conversation.

Remembering that Griffen was mostly a nocturnal person, Flynn decided to try again later.

He killed time over an early dinner at a small restaurant on Decatur Street, then swung by the Café Du Monde, pausing to listen to the music of the street entertainers on Jackson Square. He did enjoy the French Quarter when he visited, though it was a marked change from his normal habits to be able to walk wherever you wanted to go. In Southern California, one drove everywhere, including to fetch the mail or visit your neighbors.

It was full dark when he reached the Irish pub again, and this time his patience was rewarded. Griffen McCandles was sitting at the far side of the bar, apparently engrossed in a small notepad he had on the bar before him. The youth glanced up as Flynn walked in, and smiled in recognition, waving for the man to join him at the bar.

“Mr. Flynn,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been wanting to ask you about a couple of things.”

“You could have called me,” Flynn said. “And it’s just ‘Flynn.’ Not ‘Mr. Flynn.’ ”

“I would have, but I didn’t know which hotel you were staying in,” Griffen said, signaling the bartender for a round.

Flynn tried not to stare at him.

“It was on the back of the card I gave you when we first met,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “The name of my hotel and the room number.”

“Really?” Griffen said. “I didn’t notice. Oh well, we’re here now. May I buy you a drink?”

Flynn had to fight to keep from shaking his head. Of all the reasons he had thought of as to why Griffen hadn’t called, it never occurred to him that Griffen hadn’t bothered to look at his business card. In Flynn’s world of show business and power meetings, communication was as natural as breathing. It seemed that things were run a bit differently here.

“That explains a few things,” he said. “I was starting to feel a bit neglected as a visitor.”

“I’m sorry,” Griffen said, hastily. “I really don’t know what protocol is in these situations. I’m still pretty new to this whole dragon thing.”

“No harm done,” Flynn said casually as he gave the bartender his drink order. “You’ve probably got a lot on your mind.”

“You can say that again.” Griffen grimaced, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, I didn’t know how sincere you were when you offered to advise me. The big-league dragons I’ve run into so far haven’t been exactly helpful.”

“Who all have you dealt with so far?” Flynn said, though he already knew the answer.

“Well, I’ve had a couple of conversations with Stoner that were less than pleasant,” Griffen said. “And my sister had a run-in with a guy named Nathaniel, who’s supposed to be the son of someone named Melinda.”

Flynn made a face.

“Not exactly glowing examples of dragons,” he said. “Let’s just say we’re not all like that. And if you’re asking, yes, I was sincere about my offer to help you.”

He smiled warmly. This was going even better than he had hoped. For all George’s warnings, young McCandles was as naive and trusting as a puppy.

“I sure appreciate this,” Griffen was saying. “I keep feeling I’ve gotten in way over my head with this whole conclave thing.”

“Conclave?” Flynn frowned.

“Yeah. There’s some kind of conclave of supernatural people that’s due to hit town just before Halloween,” Griffen said. “I’ve gotten roped into helping with it as a moderator.”

“They’re still having that conclave?” Flynn smirked. “Take my advice and don’t sweat it.”

“Really?” Griffen blinked. “I thought…”

“Look, Griffen,” Flynn said, glancing over to be sure the bartender was out of hearing. “The ones attending the conclave are a bunch of supernatural wannabes. As a dragon, you’re the real thing. That’s why dragons usually don’t even bother showing up. Mostly, they’ll be afraid of your sitting in because they know they’re not in your league. Be polite, but there’s no need to show them much respect. Just slap them down fast if anyone starts to get out of line, and they’ll follow your lead.”

“If you say so,” Griffen said slowly, reaching for his notebook.

Flynn suppressed a smile as he watched the young dragon scribble a few notes. If young McCandles followed his advice, there would be few happy people at the conclave… including Griffen.

Eleven

The French Quarter had always seemed centered around its vice. Actually, it centered around enjoyment, which is only vice to some. Still, especially from the outside looking in, music and food seemed merely runners-up to the grand vice of alcohol.

That being said, between the police coverage and the well-experienced bartenders, serious problems were few and far between. Exceptions hardly counted, such as big occasions like Mardi Gras and Spring Break, where the majority of the drinkers just didn’t have enough experience. During the average nonstop party that was New Orleans, difficult cases tended to be very low-key.

There was always the one who needed a cab home. The occasional person curled up in a doorway who might be homeless or might just be a tourist past his limit. A few locals staggering the handful of blocks from their favorite bar to their homes, with a few stops along the way. Rarely an angry drunk, much less a fight, that the bartenders hadn’t handled a dozen times before.

Of course there were always exceptions.

The bar was one step up from the daiquiri shops and beer dispensers that littered Bourbon Street. Very little local trade, and all of that young and slumming. A little hole with too much neon and attractive girls selling body shots to tourists. And, as seemed to be the pattern with such places, a little bar in the back, the music muffled, where a single bartender could keep the serious drinkers cut off from the herd.