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.And if you’reasking, yes, I was sincere about my offer to help you.”He smiled warmly.This was going even better than he had hoped.For all George’s warnings, youngMcCandles was as naive and trusting as a puppy.“I sure appreciate this,” Griffen was saying.“I keep feeling I’ve gotten in way over my head with thiswhole conclave thing.”“Conclave?” Flynn frowned.“Yeah.There’s some kind of conclave of supernatural people that’s due to hit town just beforeHalloween,” Griffen said.“I’ve gotten roped into helping with it as a moderator.”“They’re still having that conclave?” Flynn smirked.“Take my advice and don’t sweat it.”“Really?” Griffen blinked.“I thought.”“Look, Griffen,” Flynn said, glancing over to be sure the bartender was out of hearing.“The onesattending the conclave are a bunch of supernatural wannabes.As a dragon, you’re the real thing.That’swhy dragons usually don’t even bother showing up.Mostly, they’ll be afraid of your sitting in becausethey know they’re not in your league.Be polite, but there’s no need to show them much respect.Justslap them down fast if anyone starts to get out of line, and they’ll follow your lead.”“If you say so,” Griffen said slowly, reaching for his notebook.Flynn suppressed a smile as he watched the young dragon scribble a few notes.If young McCandlesfollowed his advice, there would be few happy people at the conclave.including Griffen.ElevenThe French Quarter had always seemed centered around its vice.Actually, it centered aroundenjoyment, which is only vice to some.Still, especially from the outside looking in, music and foodseemed merely runners-up to the grand vice of alcohol.That being said, between the police coverage and the well-experienced bartenders, serious problemswere few and far between.Exceptions hardly counted, such as big occasions like Mardi Gras and SpringBreak, where the majority of the drinkers just didn’t have enough experience.During the averagenonstop party that was New Orleans, difficult cases tended to be very low-key.There was always the one who needed a cab home.The occasional person curled up in a doorway whomight be homeless or might just be a tourist past his limit.A few locals staggering the handful of blocksfrom their favorite bar to their homes, with a few stops along the way.Rarely an angry drunk, much less afight, that the bartenders hadn’t handled a dozen times before.Of course there were always exceptions.The bar was one step up from the daiquiri shops and beer dispensers that littered Bourbon Street.Verylittle local trade, and all of that young and slumming.A little hole with too much neon and attractive girlsselling body shots to tourists.And, as seemed to be the pattern with such places, a little bar in the back,the music muffled, where a single bartender could keep the serious drinkers cut off from the herd.Only a single occupant occupied the back bar.She had been sitting there for the last two hours, drinking.For the last half hour, she had been ranting.Sometimes to herself, sometimes to the bartender.Sometimes to the empty bar stool next to her.Only generous tipping and a sense of self-preservation onthe bartender’s part had kept her from being asked to leave.Anyone in earshot would have known that her name was Lizzy.She had a tendency to refer to herself inthe third person.“What the hell is Lizzy drinking!?” she said, slamming her half-full glass on the countertop.The bartender winced.She had already broken one glass that way tonight.Though, miraculously, shehadn’t cut herself.“Raspberry vodka, straight,” the bartender said.“Well, I don’t want it.It’s boring me.Make me a.”Her eyes flicked about as if searching.The television in the corner caught her eye, an advertisement for anew truck.Despite no apparent alcohol in the ad, she shot a finger up as if it had just sparked an idea.“A mojito!”“Sorry, Lizzy, we don’t make those here.”Lizzy glared at the bartender, whose name she couldn’t remember, or even remember if she asked [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]