Robert Asprin - Dragons Wild

Mostly, he was coming to grips with exactly how spooked he was by the events of the last week. He didn’t usually come in this early, but somehow cruising the Quarter late at night had lost its appeal. He realized now that he had been reluctant to come out at all. It wasn’t so much that he was scared. Just totally out of his depth.

Voodoo queens and dope dealers. People using animals to spy on him or perhaps even to attack him. Life on the University of Michigan campus in sleepy small-town Ann Arbor had failed to prepare him for this.

The now familiar scenery of the Quarter suddenly seemed a bit ominous and threatening. Was the rolling boom box that had cruised past him a few blocks ago just showing off, or was it one of the packs of dope dealers keeping tabs on him? Was it his imagination, or did the tarot readers on the Square stop talking to each other to watch him as he walked past?

He suddenly focused on the splatters on the sidewalk. Originally he had dismissed them as splashes or a leak from some tourist’s go-cup. But the red was too dark for a hurricane, the lethal rum drinks they served at Pat O’s. Besides, they were too regularly spaced.

It was blood! Someone who passed by recently was bleeding!

Griffen stopped in his tracks and studied the splatters. Squinting slightly, he tried to see how far ahead of and behind him they extended.

The immediate problem was, they seemed to be the same size in both directions. Was he walking away from whoever was bleeding, or walking up on them from behind. Given a choice, which would he want it to be?

Lacking any data or plan to base his moves on, he decided to continue on home. It was a block and a half farther, and if he made it without incident, it would be someone else’s problem.

Watching the street around him, he proceeded. There was someone sitting on the curb at the corner ahead. Griffen was about to cross the street, when he recognized the figure as Gris-gris.

“Hey, Gris-gris,” he said, approaching the man.

“That you, Mr. Griffen?” Gris-gris said, looking up.

“Yeah. Say, did you notice…”

Griffen suddenly realized the man was hunched forward slightly, pressing his hand against his side.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Some dude stabbed me,” Gris-gris said. “Just walked up and nailed me as I was walking along.”

“Hold tight. I’ll call an ambulance,” Griffen said, reaching for his cell phone.

“Don’t bother,” Gris-gris said. “I’ve been stabbed before, and worse than this. Couple stitches and some tape and I’ll be fine. It’s more embarrassing than anything.”

Griffen had run into this before in the Quarter, but still wasn’t used to it. Where he came from, if you were hurt you went to a doctor or an emergency room. Here, people tended to doctor themselves, up to and including setting broken bones.

“Who did it? Did you recognize him?”

Griffen was thinking of the dope dealers he had tangled with recently.

“Never saw him before,” Gris-gris said. “That’s why he caught me flat-footed. Just some white dude. ’Bout your height, military haircut, built like a football player. Thing was, he knew me. That’s why I come looking for you.”

“What do you mean?” Griffen frowned.

“It’s what he said after he stabbed me,” Gris-gris said, wincing slightly. “He said, ‘Stay away from Valerie. This is to let you know I mean it.’ Then he just walked away. Didn’t even run.”

“Valerie?” Griffen said, trying to absorb the information.

“That’s how I know he knew me, or leastwise that I’ve been seeing your sister. I thought you should know, so I came looking for you.”

With a stab wound in his side, Griffen thought.

“You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” he said aloud.

“Naw. Jumbo’s working door tonight on Bourbon,” Gris-gris said. “He’ll patch me up. Bouncers keep a pretty good first-aid kit on hand all the time.”

“At least let me walk you there,” Griffen said.

Gris-gris flashed a smile.

“That’d just be embarrassing,” he said. “Like I say, the dude shouldn’t have been able to walk up on me that way. The fewer that know about it, the better I like it. Just help me up and I’ll be on my way.”

Griffen thought as he watched Gris-gris walk away, no more unsteady on his feet than half the drunks in the Quarter.

What exactly was going on?

From what he had heard of the George, it wasn’t like him to threaten, much less injure a bystander. What was more, the comment about Valerie would make no sense.

He had met Nathaniel, the guy Valerie was currently dating, but Gris-gris had seen him as well and would have recognized him. Was she seeing someone else? Was it just another jealous clash, or was there something deeper involved. Because she kept a low profile, Griffen tended to forget that she was a coming-of-age dragon, too. Maybe there were others not as inclined to forget.

He realized something else as well. He wasn’t spooked by what was happening anymore. Instead, he was getting mad.

Wednesday was pool-league night and the Irish pub was crowded when they rolled in. Jerome was trying unsuccessfully to explain to Griffen about the Saints.

“I know it’s crazy,” he said. “But that’s the way it is. However lousy their last season was, the fans still hang in there and follow them. I am; last year was one of their worst seasons ever, and people are still lining up to buy season tickets.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Griffen said. “I mean, if it’s basically the same team and the same coaching staff, won’t the fans bail out on them?”

“The publicity people always manage to cook up some line, and everybody eats it up. The starting quarterback, Aaron Brooks, had an injured shoulder during the final games of last season and gave a piss-poor performance. The fans wanted him replaced, but Haslett insists that now that his shoulder is better, he’ll be his old self again. People believe it because they want to believe.”

Griffen shrugged.

“If you say so.”

“You’ve just been spoiled cheering for the Wolverines.” Jerome laughed, elbowing his way to a spot at the bar. “It’s always easy to cheer for a team that’s a perennial winner. It takes a special kind of fan to keep cheering for a team that usually ends up in the bottom third of the division.”

The bartender set their usual drinks in front of them.

“These are on the lady at the table by the door.”

They craned their necks around for a look, then turned quickly back to the bar.

There was a moment’s silence, then Griffen spoke.

“Didn’t you tell me something about how the locals here in the Quarter will never give you away to an outsider?”

“That’s the way it usually is,” Jerome said softly. He beckoned the bartender over. “What did you tell her…exactly?”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” the bartender said. “She came in an hour ago and ordered a white wine, then said that when Griffen came in, she’d buy the first round for him and anyone he was with. I assumed she was someone you knew. Why? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, we know her all right,” Griffen said. “I just didn’t expect to see her here.”

He glanced over at the table again, and made eye contact this time. The woman waved gaily and beckoned him over.

He gathered up his drink.

“Well,” he sighed, “I might as well find out what she wants.”

He picked his way through the crowd, pausing for a moment to let someone complete their shot on the pool table, then pulled up a chair at the woman’s table.

“Long time, no see, Mai,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”