Robert Asprin - Dragons Luck

Hobb laughed and swiveled her around for a kiss. Griffen smiled and discreetly turned back to his drink. After a few moments, the girl’s small hand reached out and smacked him on the back of the head.

“And that hurt!” she said, rubbing the elbow she had put into his side.

“One of the perks of being a dragon. Tough skin,” Griffen said.

He was beginning to warm to the changelings. At least to these two. Though they were a little too much in your face for his liking, they had more variety than most of the other groups he had encountered. He liked the bit of randomness.

He could do with the one being a bit less physical, though. Tough skin or not, she’d almost made him spill his drink.

“Okay, Griffen,” Hobb said, “I have been with this one long enough to know when she is getting too loopy for her own good. Time to tuck her in before she starts yet another bar brawl.”

“Oh, you are no fun! Just ’cause you claim to be a lover not a fighter—” Robin started.

“Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Hobb interrupted.

“Ooo, I can beat you up any day!” Robin said, and swung at him, almost dumping herself out of her chair.

He caught her and steadied her, with what Griffen noticed was much practice.

“Come on, dear. We’ve got a big week ahead of us.”

He gently pulled her to her feet, and despite her protests, she didn’t fight him too hard. Griffen had to shake his head and smile.

“Good night, you two.”

“Good night, Griffen,” Hobb said.

“It’s not a good night if I’m only going home with one of you.” Robin pouted but winked at Griffen.

For all her talk, it was clear she didn’t mean it. It was actually a nice change for him. He waved as the two walked out the door, and took the opportunity to hit the sandbox.

When he came out again, the bartender was waiting by his seat.

“Hey, Griffen, should your two friends be headed toward Rampart?”

“Not that I know of, why?”

“ ’Cause they stopped on the corner and looked both ways like they were confused. Thought you might want to go make sure they weren’t lost. Play wingman maybe.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll be back soon.”

Griffen headed out the door and started toward Rampart. It wasn’t after midnight yet, so he didn’t worry too much, but the bartender was right. It was best to check. If it hadn’t been a busy night, the bartender would probably have done it himself.

Griffen heard the shouts from a block away.

“Get the fuck away from her!” Hobb shouted.

“Stop!” screamed Robin.

Griffen was running.

Robin was down on the ground, a hand cupped to her face. Two black kids, both taller than the two changelings, were closing on Hobb. One held Robin’s purse.

Griffen was still a half a block away when one of the muggers hit Hobb in the nose. Blood sprayed, spattering both of them. The other fisted him somewhere in the torso. Hobb raised an arm to ward them off, but he clearly had no fighting experience. Another hit to the head sent him down to the pavement.

One of the muggers seemed to be reaching for something at his waistband.

“Stop! Police!” Griffen shouted.

The muggers didn’t look up. They just turned and ran.

Griffen almost chased after them but stopped instead next to the fallen couple. He started to reach down to help Hobb up.

He half jumped back when the changeling screamed like a trapped animal and scrabbled away from him.

“Hobb… Hobb! It’s me, Griffen.”

“Mr. Griffen, stop,” Robin said. She was on her feet. Her cheek seemed to already be swelling.

Griffen stopped, holding his hands out to his sides.

“It’s okay, Hobb. I’m not going to hurt you,” Griffen said.

Hobb got shakily to his feet, blood was running down from his nose. More blood than Griffen would have expected. It covered his shirt.

“That’s pretty much the opposite of what he was worried about,” Robin said. “Hobb was born cursed… It’s the blood, you see.”

Griffen stared from one to the other, not comprehending. Hobb sniffed, and pulled out a wad of napkins from his pocket. He started to plug up his nose.

His eyes were very sad. Griffen would have expected fear or anger. Not that.

“Those muggers,” Hobb said. “They won’t be waking up happy… or maybe at all.”

Griffen began to remember something important. Something he had forgotten when dealing with these boisterous changelings.

Every fairy tale has its dark side.

Ithad started simply enough. Things seemed to these days, then grew out of control. Griffen and Mai had been enjoying a friendly chat with Maestro on the “family side” of the bar at the Irish pub. The conversation had been light, mostly a criticism of the current coach of the Saints, and hopes that next season would be better.

“They still have a shot this year of course,” Maestro was saying.

There was a glint to his eye that had Griffen pretty sure he was just playing devil’s advocate. More and more he was liking the company at the Irish pub. Maestro was a perfect example. Always ready to talk movies or sports with his fellow Michigander, and very good about not prying into personal areas. Griffen rose to the bait.

“They haven’t won a game yet,” he said.

“Didn’t they win one or two at least?” Mai put in.

“Those were preseason games,” Griffen said.

“But the season is still early. Never know what’s going to happen,” Maestro said.

“Still… it just isn’t the same as college football,” Griffen put in.

The doors of the pub opened, and a noticeable lull fell on the place. That wasn’t a common occurrence at the Irish pub. Everyone noticed newcomers, especially strangers, but usually there wasn’t much in the way of reaction. Tourists did find their way off Bourbon Street now and again after all.

This group was different. Griffen had never seen five people look more out of place. It wasn’t anything about their appearance. Each was dressed in fairly upscale business attire, except one woman in a clingy dress of a deep burgundy red. They seemed a little pale perhaps, their eyes a bit sunken, as if they had just woken up. That wasn’t the problem, though. In the Quarter, where a good number of people didn’t wake till after noon and rarely if ever saw the sunlight, those sorts of qualities went largely unnoticed.

They just didn’t belong, and he was hard-pressed to think of anywhere they might belong. A funeral parlor perhaps. Griffen didn’t know what he was looking at, but he was sure he didn’t like it.

A cloud hung over them, he decided. Griffen had never seen a person, much less a group, who better fit the old expression. It was like an aura of dampness surrounded them, not malicious or volatile. More like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating.

All around the bar, conversations died off. Smiles slipped from faces. A few of the moodier drunks hunched over a bit more into their beers. One of the video poker machine addicts spilled his drink. In a few moments, over half the bar was silent and either casting sidelong glances at the group or staring openly.

What Griffen noticed most, though, was that they waited until they had at least that much attention before moving into the bar enough even for the door to close behind them. They had stood there for those few moments, almost posing, then they’d advanced toward a few empty seats at the front of the bar. Those people sitting on the edges of the gap seemed to edge away unconsciously, one even scooting his stool a few inches to the side.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Wine, white,” said one who looked just a bit more pallid and clammy than the rest.