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were less than pleasant,” Griffen said. “And my sister had a run-in with a guy named Nathaniel, who’s supposed to be the son of someone named Melinda.”
    Flynn made a face.
    “Not exactly glowing examples of dragons,” he said. “Let’s just say we’re not all like that. And if you’re asking, 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, young McCandles 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 this whole conclave thing.”
    “Conclave?” Flynn frowned.
    “Yeah. There’s some kind of conclave of supernatural people that’s due to hit town just before Halloween,” 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 ones attending the conclave are a bunch of supernatural wannabes. As a dragon, you’re the real thing. That’s why dragons usually don’t even bother showing up. Mostly, they’ll be afraid of your sitting in because they know they’re not in your league. Be polite, but there’s no need to show them much respect. Just slap 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 McCandles followed his advice, there would be few happy people at the conclave… including Griffen.

Eleven
    The French Quarter had always seemed centered around its vice. Actually, it centered around enjoyment, which is only vice to some. Still, especially from the outside looking in, music and food seemed merely runners-up to the grand vice of alcohol.
    That being said, between the police coverage and the well-experienced bartenders, serious problems were few and far between. Exceptions hardly counted, such as big occasions like Mardi Gras and Spring Break, where the majority of the drinkers just didn’t have enough experience. During the average nonstop 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 who might be homeless or might just be a tourist past his limit. A few locals staggering the handful of blocks from their favorite bar to their homes, with a few stops along the way. Rarely an angry drunk, much less a fight, 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. Very little local trade, and all of that young and slumming. A little hole with too much neon and attractive girls selling 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 on the 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 in the 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, she hadn’t cut