Twelve

The cell phone rang. Despite the fact only half a dozen people alive in the world had the number, George had had a bit too much fun programming the ring tones lately. Especially after the last call he had received, “Murder by Numbers”—it had just been too much to resist.

“Hello, Debbie,” he said.

“Whoever invented caller ID really needs to die,” the woman on the other end said sourly.

“You write me a contract on him, and I’ll be happy to oblige you,” George said.

“Interoffice bribery is against your regulations.”

“I thought we were beginning flirtation. Wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.”

“Also against regulations. Now stow it. We, well, you have got problems, George.”

“I always have problems.”

“And I bet you bring each and every one down on yourself,” Debbie said.

George looked at the time. It was a little past midnight, and he had been planning on an early night. The hotel room he was staying in had next to no luxuries. It did have a coffeepot, though, and something in his teammate’s tone sent him over to it.

“So what did I do now?” he asked. “Everyone over there falling apart because ol’ George isn’t there to beat down the big scaly baddies?”

“There is no need to be snooty. You’ve trained some excellent hunters on staff, and those of us in auxiliary service have never needed you to hold our hands.”

“No flirtation, no bribery, no hand-holding. God, when did this bureaucracy turn into no fun at all?”

“Again, stow it. I got a call from your latest client today.”

George held the phone away for a few moments and reined himself in. The first things he thought about saying were counterproductive.

“If that supercilious bastard wants a refund, you can kindly inform our ‘client’ that he, too, can be turned into a set of matched luggage.”

“Hmm, do we have a record of his preferred dragon form on record? He doesn’t strike me as a type to stick to the traditional scales and leather motif. Anyway, he asked for just that, but it was by way of an opening gambit. Claimed that since McCandles is unharmed and still breathing, you owe him another pass.”

“To which you replied that our contracts specify one pass, and he did not pay for a guaranteed kill, only a direct confrontation,” said George.

“Yes, I did, so he tried renegotiating for a direct-kill contract, at a discount of course,” Debbie said.

George watched drips fall into the coffeepot. Idly he put his thumb against the hot plate. The sting of it gave him a reason for groaning.

“That’s it, we never deal with anyone from California. Ever, ever again. Make a bylaw.”

“We’d get busted for discrimination. Besides, good money out of that part of the country. Come on, George. Focus a bit, won’t you? Vacation or not, you are slacking,” Debbie said.

He had been focusing. Obviously, Flynn was unsatisfied with his own attempts to “test” young McCandles and wanted some serious pressure put on. Or maybe Griffen was just getting under Flynn’s skin enough that he was ready for murder. That thought alone made George like the kid a little.

Mostly, though, George was thinking about his little “vacation” here. He had intended to cause Flynn some trouble, and so far hadn’t done much but monitor. That and a bit of indirect contact with McCandles, just for kicks. Maybe it was time to take things up a step.

“And what did you tell him, Debbie?”

“That you were on another assignment. He, like most of our clients, doesn’t know he is dealing with a team of hunters, so he didn’t ask for another agent. I did give him a referral to another hitter. A human, solo act but good contacts, someone we wouldn’t mind seeing disappear from the face of the earth.”

“Any chance of dropping a dragon?” George asked. Human or not, he was always keeping his ears open for new talent.

“Unlikely; if Flynn goes that way, it will be mostly a scare tactic. Though a few shots from the right type of rifle will put the kid in the hospital. From your report, he hasn’t learned regeneration yet.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of it, and it seems more his sister’s kind of talent anyway.”

George paused, thinking things through for a moment.

“Debbie, I need a favor.”

“No.”

“Debbie, this is me. I need you to track this hitter you referred Flynn to. If he comes to New Orleans, I want to know, and I want to know everything else about his movements when he is here.”

“George, this is a noncontract. You have no business using company resources because you have decided to keep a pet. He’s a dragon, George! A scaly, power-hungry, arrogant beast. You’ve hated them for as long as I have.”

“Yes, and I’m telling you Flynn is worse. The kid on his own, he’s no threat. He might even be okay. If Flynn gets his hands on him, then it will be a real mess. If Flynn drops him, well, it won’t be so bad, but do you really want the reputation spread that a human could do a job we couldn’t?”

“That’s not—”

“You know that’s the way Flynn will spin it,” George said.

There was a long pause. Long enough that George poured himself half a cup from the still-brewing coffee, just to keep from saying more. A few drops steamed and sizzled on the hotplate.

“Okay, but we keep this quiet. You might be all right with breaking the rules, but I’m more in the trenches when it comes to office politics. And, George, no markers if you take the hitter. No cards.”

“Why?” George asked.

“Because Flynn was also prying into your other assignment. Apparently ‘someone’ left a Knight of Swords on his door.”

“Hmm…”

“No. No card, George. You are not hunting this man. Don’t poke the bear more than you need to, at least not till we have paper on him.”

George sighed.

“You are right. If I interfere, and I haven’t decided I will yet, I will keep it anonymous.”

“Good… thank you. I’ll keep you informed.”

The phone went dead. George sipped his coffee. He had a minor tinge of guilt. He really shouldn’t have lied to her. But at the very least he had already decided to interfere.

He’d have to think about a card.

Thirteen

Griffen was brooding. He had holed up with a whiskey on the very end of the “family side” of the Irish pub bar. Which meant that other than when the bartender and the occasional person headed to the men’s john, he was left alone with his thoughts.

Those thoughts were all about the conclave. He had started to feel more and more overwhelmed, a surge of near panic pushing him out of his apartment late afternoon. He just couldn’t seem to get his head straight and was feeling antsy and nervous. Eventually, he had stopped by the A&P and picked up a new notebook and a pen. His plan was to sit at the bar and write out what he knew, and some of his own thoughts. Mostly he was hoping to pin down some thoughts in words he could organize and examine to get his own head straight.

That notebook was depressingly empty. He had filled up a whole two pages with the various groups supposed to be involved and the little he knew of each thanks to Slim and Flynn. Then he had drawn a blank. His own thoughts were too chaotic to get a toehold on. And he had begun to realize he only had the smallest clue of what actual issues were going to be discussed.

What was worse, he didn’t quite know what a “moderator” was supposed to do. Was it his job to settle debates? Or just hold the peace? How far was he supposed to go to keep order? Much more, how far was he willing to go? Maybe it was just his mood and Irish, but he was beginning to feel even more lost than he had when he first found out about dragons.

He was so wrapped up that he didn’t notice Jerome till he was pulling up the stool next to him. Griffen looked up, eyes not quite tracking, then did a double take and smiled. He reached out and shook Jerome’s hand.