Robert Asprin - Dragons Luck

His instincts, though, those screamed to stay on guard. He puzzled over this, brow furrowing as his pulse continued to race. Something was wrong. Why was the dog approaching him? Where had it come from? Stray cats were common in the Quarter, stray dogs rare, especially one that big.

“Good boy, you just stay there, boy,” Griffen said coaxingly, while reaching out to make the command more than words.

He had learned through Jerome and Mose that dogs were one of the easiest things to control. They wanted to please. Just a little push…

The dog ignored him. Continued to walk until he was right next to Griffen. Tentatively, Griffen reached out with his hand, though not the one on the knife, while pushing harder with his will.

“Now listen here, there’s a good dog…”

He stopped, hand still a good six inches from the dog. It had lifted its head, and their eyes locked. There was a spark of intelligence that no dog should hold in its eyes. The unexpected shock froze Griffen for a moment.

A moment was all it took. An unpleasant warmth slid down Griffen’s leg. The dog, most definitely male, had decided to treat him as it might a lamppost.

“You!” Griffen started, but the dog had already lowered its leg and bolted.

After another stunned second, Griffen shouted again and took off after the dog. The head start and four legs quickly outdistanced Griffen, and the dog turned down Wilkinson, a side street that only stretched a block and was rarely busy. Griffen kept chasing, enraged. His sock squished.

What Griffen found when he turned the corner was a scene from a horror movie. Not one of the modern hack-and-slash travesties, a classic. At some point, the canine monster must have stepped in a puddle. Along the sidewalk were paw prints. First distorted from running. Then just distorted. Then they were human.

Griffen froze, rage freezing to ice. There was no one on the street, and the prints only went for a few more feet. Griffen didn’t even think about continuing his pursuit. It could too easily be a trap. He backed up, carefully, returned to Chartres. His mind was full of new ideas.

The main one was simple though frighteningly close to overwhelming. He was going to have to get used real quick to there being more than dragons and ghosts in New Orleans.

Another thought took longer to fully form. In fact it only hit him halfway to the apartment complex, where he planned to change, and maybe burn, his pants. The footprints hadn’t been of a bare human foot. They were prints of shoes. That alone sent his mind tumbling into confusion. It went against everything that should be logical.

More to the point, though, the dog had most definitely been male. The shoe prints had most definitely been those of high heels.

Cross-dressing shape-shifters—only in the French Quarter.

Despitean increasingly hectic life, Griffen had made it a point to get out a bit early and stop in during Val’s work shift at least once or twice a week. If she was actually busy, he would wave and pass on by. More often than not, though, she had, at most, two customers who couldn’t bother giving her the time of day. Then he would step in, chat, catch up on gossip. It was a way of staying connected with his sister, and that was very important to him.

Today was a normal shift, which was to say, pretty much empty. Val sat at the end of the bar, reading a novel. Occasionally she would glance up at the one customer—a boring-looking man sipping at a coffee and reading the local paper. When she saw Griffen, her face lit up, and she waved him on in, obviously glad for the relief.

“Hey, Big Brother. Long time, no see!”

Griffen sat in a chair a few feet down from the customer and rolled his eyes at his little sister.

“You saw me last night,” Griffen said.

“That was this morning, and you had Mai on your arm and more than a few whiskeys in you, so I don’t think you qualified as seeing much of anything.”

“Oh, come now, you were just getting in yourself and complaining about needing to crash before work,” he said.

Val put a drink out for him.

“And again back to Mai on your arm. Damn, am I glad that place has thick walls and ceilings,” she said.

“We didn’t do anything… well, not anything too athletic,” Griffen said.

“Ugh! Please spare me the sordid details of your nocturnal habits. I’m going to start leaving the stereo on when I go to bed. Loud!”

“Better than your spending four nights a week sleeping somewhere else. Who is it this week?” Griffen said.

“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. That will be four fifty for your cocktail, sir.”

Griffen grinned at himself; as soon as she slipped into bartender mode, he knew he had won this round. Of course, the first time he forgot to tip, she had changed the locks on his apartment door. He made sure to put an extra couple of dollars on the bar.

“So how is life as a French Quarter bartender?” Griffen asked.

“Oh, the usual. I picked up a German tourist who keeps calling me Brunhild and trying to pinch my ass. And I hear that Mitch down in that little dive on Conti got fired… again. Pretty boring on the gossip fare.”

“Well, here’s one for your pot, then. There is supposed to be a convention of Bible thumpers in next week,” Griffen said.

“Good God, no, isn’t that the same weekend we are getting in a bunch of porno types from California?”

“In theory, no, they are just low-budget filmmakers, but that’s the rumor. Expect some real clashes,” Griffen said.

“Pardon me,” she said.

Val walked over to one of the wooden beams running from floor to ceiling in the bar. She quietly put her hands on both sides of it, and knocked her head firmly several times. Dust fell from the ceiling.

“I take it you finally managed to get a night shift?” Griffen said, sipping his drink and trying very hard not to laugh.

“Next Saturday.”

“Kind of what I had figured.”

Valerie glared and picked up his empty glass.

“Jack and Coke, right?” she said, a glint in her eye.

Griffen put the money on the bar for his next drink before she even poured, and left it up to her. She slumped her shoulders slightly and poured him his usual Irish.

“So, how about with you. What life-threatening madness encroaches on your life this hour?” Val said.

“Well, most recently…”

“Excuse me, sir, could you pass the sugar?” the sole customer at the bar asked.

“Sure.”

Griffen absentmindedly passed the sugar to the man. Then did a double take. Between being asked and passing the sugar, the man had changed into someone else.

George smiled blandly at him.

“Thank you. And perhaps the cream?” George said.

“You!”

Val was coming around the bar as she said it. In her hand was the blackjack kept for emergency use only by the bartenders. Griffen was on his feet, moving to intercept, and knew it wouldn’t do any good.

George’s stool was empty.

“Teleporter,” he said from behind the bar, “remember? I thought you dragons were supposed to be quick.”

Val swiveled toward him, but now Griffen was firmly in the way. Unless she wanted to climb over him, George was reasonably safe. At least, from her.

“What are you doing here?” Griffen said.

“You know, I rather like it on this side of the bar. There is a sense of power. I can see why you would be drawn to it, Ms. McCandles,” George said.

“Please come over here so I can wring your damn neck,” Val said.

Griffen waved her off.

“Again, ‘George,’ what are you…?”

“Oh, relax, the both of you. I’m on vacation. I always loved this city during Halloween. Just think of this as a courtesy, so you know I’m not here to cause you trouble.”