"Cheers, brother king," she said. "We're going to make this a memorable Mardi Gras."
"To the safety of New Orleans," Griffen said.
The river had had many names since human beings came to live on its banks. It had a consciousness, but it had never given itself a name. Why limit itself with syllables, when its definition was the riverbanks, the earth beneath it, and the sky? When the rains were heavy, it grew. When the air was dry, it shrank, but it moved to its own rhythm.
It had been there millennia, long before the tribes of humans came to stay, long before the first blues musician beat out the long, slow, sad pace of his song inspired by the majestic flow. The Mississippi, as humans called it now, was the life's blood of New Orleans. It was vital to the city. None of its unique history, its music, or its people would be in that place without it.
Usually, the river made little note of the time it spent passing through this place. All water throughout the world was one great pool, like the blood dispersed through the vessels in a living body. But today, it picked up a rhythm of ancient power. It had felt this beat before. It stirred the waters a little, unsettled them. It called for them to wake up and be aware. And act.
The sun's rays beat down upon the river's dancing surface. The heat, coming from both above and deep below, felt the imbalance. Steam rose in tiny curlicues from the surface. The winds, too, felt it, zigzagging against the predicted weather patterns. The muddy bottom of the river rumbled, sending bubbles of gas to the surface. Within one of them, a creature that had been asleep for decades stirred and woke up. It kicked itself free of the diaphanous cocoon and shot away into the flow.
"We'll be dockin' in a moment," the master of ceremonies aboard the Delta Queen riverboat announced into the public address system over the mellow strains of the Dixieland jazz band at the stern. "We all certainly hope you enjoyed your lunch cruise with us. Tell all your friends! And come on back! We'd love to see you all again."
The diners seated at the white-covered iron tables didn't notice the hulking figure homing in on the riverboat. It was attracted to the sound of the engine driving the paddlewheel, thrumming like a heartbeat. The creature zipped around under the surface, listening.
Mama? it wondered.
But the boat didn't reply. The river creature, hoping to get an answer, nudged hard. The boat rocked gently. The creature levered itself up and smacked down hard on the surface of the water.
A wave of dirty green water washed up and over the lower deck of the paddleboat. Diners and musicians stood up hastily as the wave swished over their shoes.
"What in hell was that?" demanded an accountant from Illinois.
"River monster," said the trombone player, an elderly black man whose white hair was clipped very short under his straw boater. "Dey turn up once and again."
The tourist shook his head and sat down to empty the water out of his shoes.
"Somebody," he said to his wife, "has had a few too many Sazeracs."
"You saw it, too?" the saxophone player asked his comrade.
"Sure did," the trombone player said, turning the page in his sheet music. "Oh, yeah. Reminds me of dem days before de war."
The boat still didn't answer the creature. It slithered away, listening hard for the right voice.
"Hey, babe, can a guy get some service around here?"
Val jerked her head up from the book she was reading. The man who had spoken was only two seats away from where she stood behind the bar. She glanced at the clock. It was five thirty. The bar had been empty since she had started her shift an hour before. She hadn't expected to see anyone but a local for a half hour yet. She smiled at him.
"I'm so sorry. What would you like?"
"The house special." He looked her up and down, evidently liking what he saw. He flirted his eyes at her. He had very long eyelashes over dark blue eyes. In fact, he was good-looking enough to be a movie star. The shoulders under the blue pin-striped white shirt were broad and the midriff appealingly slim. "Can I get that to go?"
"Bloody Mary or Hurricane?"
"Hurricane sounds like more fun."
"One Hurricane, coming up," Val said, reaching for a plastic go-cup. She poured four ounces of rum into a shaker, added passion-fruit syrup and a stream of lemon juice, then poured it over ice.
"Is that what you call yourself, lovely lady? Hurricane?"
Val smiled at him and felt for the blackjack under the bar. "Sorry, but I'm not on the menu."
"Too bad," he said. "I'm Dale, by the way."
"Val." She put the drink on a paper napkin in front of him. "Three-fifty, please."
He put a five-dollar bill down and slid it toward her. "Sorry to come on so strong, but wow! I never expected to see anyone like you serving drinks in a, well, dump. You ought to be modeling high fashion."
Val had no illusions about being a member of the ranks of underweight waifs who pouted on magazine pages. "They'd never want me. You look like you probably modeled, yourself," she said.
Dale grimaced. "You guessed my dirty secret. Yeah. I paid my way through college doing catalogs. I'm in town for the convention. I bet you get a lot of people coming in here." He lifted the Hurricane to her and drank. "God, that's sweet."
"They're very popular with tourists."
"Touche," he said. "Normally, my drink is a dirty martini."
"All the martinis are pretty popular these days," Val agreed.
He grinned. "Oops. Didn't mean to be trendy." He was trying hard to make up for being a jerk when he came in.
He was cute. Val admired the line of his jaw. His hands were long and fine, with oval nails. "It's quiet in here. Don't you get much business?"
"Not during the day," she said. "This place is a little out of the way for conventioneers and sports fans. We have a lot of local clients starting about now."
"Oh, so you're not getting off for a while." He looked disappointed.
"Not until midnight," she said. She did find him attractive. It might be nice if he came back at the end of her shift. A little attention from a handsome stranger went a long way toward brightening the day.
She's not really showing yet, the thought popped into Val's head. I bet she'd look sexy in her underwear.
She frowned. Was she projecting what he might think of her without her clothes? He lifted the glass to her again, drank, then set it far away from him. "That's really god-awful. How about a martini? Would you like to join me?"
"I'll have a Diet Coke, thanks," she said, pouring fresh drinks for both of them. He paid and added a tip. She liked that he was even generous in offering a gratuity for the drink he had bought her. Of course, it might just be because he was trying to pick her up.
I don't want to have to wait for midnight, the thought came urgently.
Val licked her lips. Her subconscious rarely seemed so loud. Maybe she really did want to be with him that badly. She liked the way he moved, the way he smiled, the warm baritone of his voice.
"So, you thinking of hanging around for a while?" she asked, casually. "I mean, it's a long time."
"If that's what it takes to get a chance to be alone with you, it'll seem like minutes," Dale said, winking at her.
She's going to be impatient if it takes until midnight to get out of here, the thought came.
She? Val didn't think of herself in the third person. Those insistent thoughts weren't hers. She had never had that happen before. Was this a new facet of dragon power that was just starting to manifest itself?