Robert Asprin - Dragons Luck

Ah, so that was why he had been picking up some tension from Slim toward the shape-shifters and back again.

“So, unless it is some personal matter, we only discuss at the conclave what affects all shifters, regardless of type. That is why we are here,” Jay said.

That made a certain type of sense to Griffen. A personal gripe or issue could be brought up by anyone. But having a set spokesmen at the outset for dealing with the larger matters, the ones that affected everyone, would prevent confusion.

“So, why you?” Griffen asked.

“Ah, natural ranking. We four are the most powerful shifters attending. And though I am not the most powerful”—Jay paused to nod to a wild-looking man whose eyes were constantly flicking from face to face—“it is agreed I speak best and fairly. In my day job I am a judge, so I also have knowledge of human laws.”

“Good to know, but what makes one shifter more powerful than another?”

“Variety. How many forms? What are his limitations? Does he have to maintain mass? Side benefits and powers like being able to shift objects, such as one’s clothes. I believe your chimera not only had multiple unrelated forms, but also had other tricks, including protection from fire. He might even be more than he claims. This really sets him fairly high compared to the young lady who howls at full moons and may fear silver bullets.”

“Does that really…?”

“I do not know. I have never tried shooting her,” Jay said.

Griffen shook off the thought and instead focused on something that was nagging him.

“Okay, but how can you speak for them if you don’t speak with them? Standing and sitting segregated seems awful cliquey to me.”

Jay blinked, obviously taken aback. Several of the others stirred, and the wild-looking man chuckled, before saying, in a voice like gravel, “We don’t do it to them, they do it to themselves.”

“Quite,” Jay said. “We have had no fights for dominance or any of that nonsense. Any of them could have taken the empty chair, but they hold themselves back in mixed admiration and fear. Even if they could have brought up the courage to step forward, most of them would ask ‘May I join you?’ and would have taken a ‘No’ without hesitation. The fact that you sat without asking marks you as one of the elite, even though they are setting the standards of the elite.”

Griffen looked back now, at the faces of all those listening to the conversation. They were right, each one held that nervous admiration of a… well, of a fan. These four were the equivalent of shifter rock stars, at least as far as the conclave was concerned.

“Okay, so what about that other group I saw?” Griffen said.

“Actually, they were locals. You’ll probably have some trouble with them. They call themselves ‘loup garou,’ the French, or, I am told, Cajun word for werewolf. They are quite powerful as far as variety. They have complete control, not just man to wolf but all stages in between, including a monstrous form to make a Hollywood effects man slit his wrists for being a dismal failure. Very pack-oriented, but independent, too. They only showed up to make it clear that what any of us says does not apply to them. Arrogant thugs,” Jay said.

Much as when he had first met the changelings, Griffen felt overwhelmed. Too many new concepts too quickly. He was going to need some time to think of some better questions, but at least now he had a small grip on who, and what, he was dealing with.

“One last question, if you don’t mind me asking. What ‘variety’ are you?” Griffen said.

“That in some circles is a very rude question, Moderator,” Jay said, smiling coldly.

“I did say ‘if you don’t mind.’ ”

“True, and I don’t. There is no name for me. I do birds.”

“What birds?”

“Any birds, size, shape, color, even sex. It makes no difference. I am limited to that, but within my bailiwick have no limitations. If it has feathers, I can manage it with a bit of work.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look much like any bird I have seen,” Griffen said.

Jay smiled and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled the short strands up enough that Griffen could see they weren’t strands at all. They were very soft, downy black feathers. So fine he would never have been able to tell.

“You just haven’t seen one that has evolved enough.”

Oneof Griffen’s oddities since leaving college life behind in Michigan and beginning a dragon’s life down in New Orleans was that he simply did not own an alarm clock. It was a trivial thing, something he rarely noticed and never commented upon. His sleep schedule was open, and if he ever needed to set an alarm, there was always his cell phone.

In fact, the cell phone was often his wake-up call, whether he set it or not. The loud buzz of an incoming call was the first thing he heard on any given morning. It never failed to annoy him.

This morning was no exception. The phone yanked Griffen out of a deep sleep, the kind of truly black nothing-ness that comes before the real dreams start. He jerked upright with a gasp, lunging for the phone. The bedside table still showed faint gouges from similar surprise wakings, but Griffen was learning to control his reflexes.

He popped open the lid of his phone and saw just why he felt so startled and groggy all at once. He had gotten a generous four hours of sleep.

“Mr. McCandles, we gots some big problems down here.”

“Slim…”

Griffen recognized the voice through the haze of sleep and shook his head, trying to clear it more. Not quite tracking, he said the first thing that came into his head.

“Isn’t it time you started calling me Griffen?”

“Well… let’s just wait till after this here meet is done with. Might feel different ’bout that by then. We got problems,” Slim said.

Griffen was already up and getting dressed.

“It’s nine in the morning, Slim,” Griffen said, voice slightly muffled as he pulled on his shirt.

“Sorry ’bout that, but not every attendee is quite as nocturnal as you. Be glad it ain’t a normal convention, or you’d have to get here every day by now.”

“Right. I’ll try to remember to be more thankful that these aren’t ‘normal’ conventioneers.”

Despite his sarcasm, a wry smile pulled at his lips. As troublesome as it might be, at least his life wasn’t boring. He hurried out the door, cell phone still pressed to his ear.

“Fill me in while I’m on my way,” Griffen said, heading out the security gate and onto the street.

“Sure thing, but not the Sonesta. The problem is in the garous’ hotel room.”

Griffen quickly changed his course, taking a right at the first street he came to.

“The Best Western? Up on Rampart right?”

“Right, which may or may not be a helpfulness. Anyways, I’m headin’ up there myself, so you might beat me. Just head on up to the room. They is waitin’,” said Slim.

“Okay, but you still haven’t told me just what is going on.” Rampart was only a few blocks away, but a few blocks on hurried feet without proper sleep or anything resembling breakfast seemed to drag on forever. Griffen kept his strides long and fast, but didn’t run. He had learned the hard way that running through the Quarter was great fodder for the local rumor mills.

The last time he had just been trying to pick up a snack at the A&P during a commercial break. By nightfall he had gotten a full barrage of everything from jokes about his taking up jogging to whispers that he had been running from someone. He didn’t even want to think about what would spring up if he ran and looked worried at the same time.