by Rowan Casey
The Circle Gathers
Veil Knights #1
Rowan Casey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Copyright Information
1
I can take him.
That was the thought that kept repeating itself in Jessie Noble’s mind as she stared across the makeshift ring at the mountain of a man who stood opposite her.
I can take him.
Her opponent was big, heavyweight big, with a good hundred pounds on her and shoulders half-again as wide as her own, and she’d never been taken for a dainty woman by anyone’s standards. He was a good four inches taller as well, which meant he had a reach advantage, too. His upper body was covered in tattoos of a type that would tell those in the know of the man’s allegiance to the Bratva, the Brotherhood, Russia’s equivalent to the mob, but she didn’t care about that. He was a means to an end, no more, and she intended to deal with him the same way she’d dealt with every opponent that had come before him, quick and sure.
She smiled to show she wasn’t afraid.
The predatory smile he floated her way in return revealed front teeth plated with steel and an overinflated ego full of smug superiority.
Jessie intended to make him eat both.
I can take him, she told herself for a third time, and she finally believed it.
Fact was, she had to take him.
She needed a fix and the only way she’d have the cash to get one was to win this fight.
And she needed to get through him to do it.
The ring in which she stood was nothing more than a white circle painted on the floor of an old warehouse in East L.A., a far cry from the fenced octagon and the sellout crowds she’d dealt with during her time in Vegas. The warehouse had been condemned years before but never torn down and so Dex, the mastermind behind the illegal fights that took place here on nearly a nightly basis, had quietly bought up the property with no one the wiser. He’d converted half of it to an old-school gym; none of those fancy machines, just racks of free weights, benches and punching bags.
The rules here were simple, especially since there was really only one. Stay inside the ring. Stepping out meant forfeiting the match. Anything else was fair game. That was why she’d taken the time earlier that afternoon to cut her own long blond hair within a half-inch of her scalp. She didn’t want anyone using it against her. This was no-holds barred, anything-goes, bare-knuckle fighting of the most ruthless kind and more than one fighter had been reduced to a battered wreck that needed to be carried out of the ring at the end of their match.
Jessie had no intention of allowing that to happen to her, no matter how big her opponent was.
Cheap halogen lamps on metal stands were set up around the perimeter of the room, casting a harsh light over everything, and the warehouse air was thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and decay.
The crowd was thick tonight as well. Mexican and Latino homeboys from the west side mixed with Asian gangbangers from Chinatown and Little Korea. Blue collar workers with grease under their fingernails rubbed elbows with the super-rich from the canyons high above Hollywood in thousand dollar suits and gowns. It was a regular melting pot of humanity come together to watch two people brutalize each other for as long as one or the other fighter remained standing.
With that much diversity so close together, you’d think the place would be a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode, but Dex had a simple system for dealing with such problems. First time offenders got a beating from his hand-picked squad of mercenary thugs and were instructed not to show their faces around the place a second time. Those who ignored that warning ended up in a shallow grave somewhere with a bullet in the back of the head.
Simple but effective; there were no fights except the sanctioned ones in Dex’s arena.
Money changed hands here faster than on the floor of the stock exchange, with odds on everything from who would land the first blow to how many bones would be broken before the night’s entertainment was over.
Word had apparently gotten around that a new challenger had stepped up to take on the reigning champ, the Russian fighter known in the circuit only as the Cossack. Normally a rowdy bunch to begin with, the crowd’s enthusiasm was hyped to a fever pitch due to the uneven match-up. They smelled the proverbial blood in the water and like a school of sharks caught in a feeding frenzy, they couldn’t contain their excitement at the thought of the big Russian pounding Jessie into submission.
Shows what they know.
There was going to be a pounding, all right, but she was the one who intended to deliver it.
The only thing she had to figure out was how.
Her opponent was bigger and heavier, which meant he was most likely going to be slower than she was. And even a quick glance was enough to show that most of his muscle was distributed above the waist in that big chest and those broad shoulders, so chances were good he was going to be less centered than she was. She could use both of those things to her advantage.
If I can get him on the ground somehow and take his back…
Her gaze drifted downward for a moment, and just like that she knew what she was going to do.
When she looked up she found the Cossack staring across the ring at her, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face. He clearly wasn’t seeing her as a threat. That was fine with her; she’d just have to remind him of one of the most basic lessons every fighter learns at one point or another – never underestimate your opponent.
She grinned back, knowing it would confuse him, and for just a second she saw it in his eyes, that tiniest bit of self-doubt, that concern that she knew something that he didn’t.
Let the smug bastard wonder; it will be over for him soon enough.
She glanced out over the crowd, drinking in their excitement, letting it flow into her like an electrical current through a wire, her pulse quickening in response. She knew most of them were waiting for her to get her ass kicked, but that didn’t bother her; she’d been the underdog for most of her professional career and certainly for every fight after that. Tonight was no different. Let them jeer and jest; their opinions didn’t matter. All that mattered was what she did in the moments after that horn went off.
One of the spectators caught her eye and she stopped turning her head, focusing on him alone for a second. Those around him were shouting and cheering, but he stood silent, watching her with a steady gaze. He was in his mid-thirties, with thin lips and a narrow face, but eyes that sparkled with vitality and mischief. His dark hair was cut medium length in that artfully unkempt look and was streaked with a deep, almost crimson color that gave it a life of its own in the harsh light of the arena.
Something about him was familiar; she knew she’d seen him before. Movies? TV? She wasn’t sure. She had the sense he was somebody, though, maybe a B-list Hollywood star or someone like that, with a recognizable face but not so memorable name, out for a night in the gritty underbelly of the city, slumming with the lesser folk.
Jessie turned away, continued her sweep of the crowd, but even as she did, she could still feel his gaze upon her, watching with an intensity that was just
sharp enough to be uncomfortable.
She’d have to watch that one later, she decided.
She turned her attention back to the matter at hand, shaking out her arms and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, getting her blood flowing and keeping her muscles loose. She knew she was only going to get one shot at this and she had to be sure to get it right. Once he knew what to expect, it was going to be an entirely different fight, one she wasn’t certain she could win.
The air horn went off, signaling the start of the fight, and Jessie leaped into action, not wanting to let even a single second go to waste. She rushed forward, directly at her opponent, knowing it was the last thing he would expect. Most fighters facing a bigger opponent take their time, looking for an opening while trying to stay out of the other’s reach, and she saw the surprise on his face in those first few seconds as he reacted to her unorthodox approach.
Rather than coming forward to meet her, the Cossack stayed where he was and Jessie smiled inwardly at the sight. The move left him flat-footed and stationary, which was just what she wanted. The extra few seconds it was going to take him to react would be all she needed to do what she’d come here to do.
Win.
She rushed right up to the Russian and feinted with a high kick to his head. He reacted predictably, bringing his arms up to defend himself, and as he did so she dropped into a spinning crouch, using the momentum she gathered in the process to bring her other leg around in a sweeping arc that ended with her heel crashing into the outside of his knee.
There was an audible crack as the joint gave way against the force of her kick, sending the big man’s knee buckling in a direction it was never meant to go.
He let out a roar of pain and collapsed to the floor, ending up on all fours with his injured leg splayed out the side.
Jessie popped back up to her feet, fists at the ready. She saw that the Russian’s back was exposed and for a half-second considered jumping atop her opponent and slipping an arm around his neck in an effort to choke him out, but saw it for the trap it was. He was injured, yes, but the minute she took his back he would roll over and try to crush her beneath his weight. Pinned beneath him, she would be in serious trouble.
Instead, she stepped forward, delivering a series of punishing blows to his face to keep him disoriented and unprepared for her coup-de-grace, a double flying knee that left him lying on the floor in an unconscious heap.
Thirty-three seconds.
That’s all it had taken for her to beat him.
Even she was impressed with herself for that one.
A howl went up from the crowd as they realized what she’d done; against all odds, she’d not only beaten the Russian but taken him down with minimal effort and in such a fashion as to make it clear to all assembled that the two of them weren’t even in the same class of fighters.
For a moment Jessie thought their frustration and anger was going to get the best of them, that they were going to close ranks and rush her, taking out their losses on the one responsible for them, but then Dex was there in the midst of the ring with her, holding her hand aloft with a big grin on his face and declaring her the night’s winner by knockout. She kept her face toward the crowd, staring them down, letting them all know that if any of them thought they were going to make her the object of their frustration she’d take them apart even quicker than she’d dealt with the Russian.
Whether it was the ferocity on her face or their respect for Dex and the “entertainment” he provided, Jessie didn’t know, but either way the crowd managed to swallow their disappointment in appropriate fashion as Reggie led her in a single victory lap around the center of the fight ring and then turned her over to the twin Samoan brothers who acted as his fight security and sometimes his personal bodyguards. Tonight they created a path for her through the crowd and over to the door of the ladies’ restroom that doubled as the challenger’s warm-up and prep room, where she slipped inside to await Dex with her share of the night’s earnings.
She’d done it.
Against all odds, she’d done it.
But all she could think about was that fix waiting for her. That fix that would keep the visions at bay for just one more night. That fix that would allow her to hold onto what little remained of her sanity until the sun rose the next morning.
Where the hell was Dex with her money?!
2
After what felt like an eternity, the door to the “locker room” opened and a large black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bob Marley, right down to the tie-dye and the dreadlocks, walked into the room.
Of course this Bob Marley was two hundred pounds heavier and couldn’t sing a note, but Jessie didn’t know anyone who held that against him. People liked Dexter “Dex” Bannister, even if he was a ruthless gangster. It was as simple as that.
And right now, Jessie couldn’t remember being happier to see anyone.
Ever.
“Hollly Shiiiiit, girl!” he said with enthusiasm, as he came through the door, a big smile on his meaty face. “You been eatin’ your Wheaties or somethin’? I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that!”
Jessie tried to stay calm.
“I’ve got to get going, Dex. You got my money?”
Dex wasn’t listening. “Talk about beauty in motion!” he said, dancing around the room throwing out shadow punches. “Pow! Pow! Pow-Pow-Pow!”
The fighter in her noticed that Dex was much faster than the Russian, despite being about the same size and weight as the other man, but the Jessie that was craving a fix, the Jessie that had a tendency to lose her temper when things weren’t going her way, that Jessie wanted to grab the big man and shake him until her share of the winnings fell out of his pockets.
Needless to say, that wasn’t the smartest idea she’d had all week.
She curled her fingers into her palms and fought the urge to reach out and grab him.
“My money, Dex! Do you have my money?!”
This time, her tone was decidedly more sharp.
The Jamaican gangster didn’t care for it, that was immediately obvious. He stopped bouncing around the room and stood still, staring at her, a deep scowl on his face.
“Be cool, girl, be cool,” he admonished her. “Of course I got your money. Or perhaps you thought good ol’ Dex was going to screw you over for your share, huh?”
Jessie knew that Dex’s personal code was simple. Respect those who show you respect. Completely and utterly fuck up those who do not. There was no middle ground, no grey, for him. Either you were with him or you were against him.
You didn’t want to be on the wrong side of that equation.
He had the memory of an elephant and the patience of Confucius. He might not deal with an issue of disrespect when it happened, might not even acknowledge that he thought there had been a slight, but then you’d come home one night and find him and his Johnny boys sitting in your darkened living room, waiting. Waiting for you. And the rest of your life – if there was any of it to enjoy – would never be the same.
The fact that he was still talking told Jessie that she had time to fix things before they went down the wrong road.
She held up a hand, shaking her head and smiling as she did so.
“Of course not, Dex. Sorry. Just still pumped on adrenaline, ya know? Makes me a bit jumpy after a fight.”
The big man smiled in return. “I’d say you were jumpy during the fight.” He did a little skip and jump, which she supposed was meant to mimic the double knee strike she’d used to drop the Cossack, and let out another rowdy, “Pow! Pow!” followed by a hearty laugh. “That idiot is going to feel mighty stupid when he wakes up later. And mighty broke, too!”
“So we did good?” she asked, trying to focus the conversation back on the money so she could get her share and get the hell out of there.
“Good? Shit, we did better than good. Odds were fifteen to one against you, girl, and them folks were throwing out money like it was confetti in the middle of Ma
rdi Gras. We cleaned up!”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills. He counted off exactly eight of them and handed them over.
Jessie stared down at the cash in her hand and had to clench her jaw to keep from speaking her mind. She’d walked into the ring against an opponent ready to break as many of her bones as he could get away with breaking, had literally put her life on the line so Dex could quote - Clean Up - end quote, and all she got to show for it was a lousy eight hundred bucks?
Things were definitely rotten in Denmark.
Some of what she was thinking must have shown on her face because Dex said, “That’s your ten percent, just as we agreed.”
Ten percent. Right.
Like she’d had any choice.
But she didn’t say any of that. She just glanced up at Dex’s face, flashed a quick smile, and said, “No problem here. Glad we did well.”
She folded the thin stack of bills in half, stuffed them into the pocket of her sweats, and headed for the door. Her supplier wouldn’t wait around forever, she knew, and given the hour, she was already pushing it. If she didn’t want to go another night without a fix, she was going to have to hustle.
But as she reached the door, Dex called out to her.
“That Dante guy was asking about you tonight.”
Noble frowned, then turned back to face Dex. “What Dante guy?” she asked.
She didn’t think she knew anyone by that name, but even as the thought came to her an image swam up from the depths of her mind, an image of that guy she’d spotted in the audience earlier, the one with the eyes that seemed to see right down into the depths of her soul.
“Come on, girl, you know. Dante Grimm. The illusionist?”
She just stared at Dex; she still didn’t know who he was talking about.
“The guy who had himself frozen into a block of ice and then hung up in the middle of Times Square for a month?”
It sounded vaguely familiar.
