by Rowan Casey
THE MEDUSA GAMBIT
ROWAN CASEY
CONTENTS
Series Summary
Veil Knights Newsletter
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
Veil Knights Newsletter
The Veil Knights Series
About the Author
Copyright Information
In book one of the Veil Knights series, THE CIRCLE GATHERS, stage magician and sorcerer extraordinaire Dante Grimm brings ten strangers together, informing them that they are the living avatars of the original Veil Knights, brave men and women reincarnated many times through the millennia, most recently as the Knights of the Round Table, who pledged their lives to protect mankind from supernatural threats and enemies.
In the distant past, the Veil Knights had combined the power of several arcane talismans into the Caeg Dimmre, the Key of Wickedness, which was used to construct a mystical barrier between our world and the Demimonde, preventing the supernatural races that inhabited the realms on the other side from continuing to ravage our humanity. The talismans were then split apart and hidden away in the far corners of the earth, there to remain until the time should come when they might be needed once more.
That time is now.
The Veil is falling, weakened by age and the machinations of those on the other side. Grimm knows that unless the pieces of the Caeg Dimmre are brought together again, the Veil will fail entirely, releasing the darkness that it has kept locked away for so long.
In desperation, Grimm convinces the knights to assume their mantles once more, to undertake the quests necessary to bring the pieces of the Key back together so that they can be used to strengthen and reinforce the Veil.
These are their stories.
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1
I doubt anyone in their right mind would believe me if I told them that here, in the 21st century, smack dab in the middle of downtown LA, there be dragons.
But there it was, sitting across the terminal, all dolled up in purple lipstick and thick mascara, legs crossed at an angle, wearing a green dress and red pumps, smoke snaking from her nose. And not a cigarette in sight.
The women were the dangerous ones. Scratch that—females. You could hardly call them women, as they weren’t anything close to human, but as dragons, they were the bigger and stronger. At least, that’s what I’d been told. You could tell it was female by the smoke. The look, that was all fake, some sort of enchantment, magical shapeshifting plus some illusion. I still didn’t understand the details, as I was new at this. But I did know that the females were the ones that could breathe fire. Like I said, more dangerous, but easier to spot.
“Do you see it, Sir Regis?” The feminine voice in my earpiece was high-pitched and youthful.
“Hard to miss,” I said, casually leaning forward in my seat, dipping my head to hide my face. “And will you stop calling me that? I told you, it’s Rex.”
“As your squire, I am obliged to observe formalities, sir. Mr. Grimm would otherwise be disappointed.”
My squire. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around any of it. Almost two weeks running now, I’ve had a squire. A five-foot nothing, one-hundred-and-zero-pound redheaded squire with a freckled nose, a page-boy haircut, and an answer for just about everything. Her name was Penelope, or so she said, but I had taken to calling her Pip. More to see if I could rile her than anything else, break through that prim and proper outer layer. Like everything else I’d tried, it didn’t work.
I reached up to rub my neck, keeping my head down. “How do you suppose it knew we were going to be here?
“I’m sure they have their sources, Sir. Just like Mr. Grimm does.”
”Right. So, do we abort?”
“I would advise against that, Sir. We are already behind schedule, as you know.”
I risked a glance, stretching my arms and leaning back. Dragon lady hadn’t moved, not noticeably, anyway. I covered my mouth as I faked a yawn. “Do you think it will try something here? Right out in the open, I mean?”
“It is impossible to know for certain, sir. We have no information regarding what they know about this lead or your purpose in intercepting him, nor how important they would deem it to stop you here and now if they did.”
“Maybe I should go strike up a conversation with it and ask,” I said, scanning the area.
Union Station was a throwback to the glory days of train travel, with shiny earth-tone marble floors, lines of art deco piping throughout and a background radiation to all of it that was distinctly Californian, like someone had set off a Spanish Mission neutron bomb at its christening. Fortunately, not many people were riding the rails early on a Wednesday afternoon and the waiting area was sparsely populated. One old guy in a cowboy hat and white button-down shirt was reading a magazine. A woman was holding a baby and trying to keep another toddler entertained. A Hispanic couple waddled in and sat down in a pair of the cushioned seats at the far end, carrying sacks and looking tired. Other than that, a few people loitered around a newsstand and some others came and went down the aisles. I wasn’t sure if more people would have been better, or worse.
“Dragons lack the power of speech, sir. I will check the perimeter for a Handler. We still have a few minutes. Would you like your armor?”
An audible laugh almost popped out, but I caught it just in time. I was never going to get used to this.
“Pip, I think if I left and came back in shining armor I might give myself away.”
“It’s not shining, Sir Regis. That type of armor was never worn in battle. It came about much later, for use during spectator events such as jousts. Speaking of giving yourself away, your choice of garments have no doubt already done so. If they knew to be here in the first place, they must have known to look for a private investigator.”
“You were the one who said wearing this hat was a good idea.”
“I agreed wearing a hat, was a good idea, Sir. So that I could maintain visual contact from a distance in a crowd, if necessary. That one you always choose to wear, I must say, lacks discretion. It looks like it completes an outfit from a pulp detective novel.”
Ouch. That was low. Outfit? For one, I liked this sport coat. It was functional and looked good. Not to mention it was the only one I had. And it wasn’t like my closet was full of pressed shirts and power ties. As for the fedora, I don’t have much of an excuse. It was in the window of a vintage clothing place one day and I bought it. It sat on a shelf until a couple of months ago when I decided to give it a spin and I’d been wearing it ever since. Was that a crime? Sheesh.
“The professor isn’t expecting me, or anyone else as far as I know. I didn’t think approaching him in jeans and a Dodgers shirt would start things off well.”
“Regardless, sir, I will circle the station. Please advise immediately if you move so I can keep your equipment accessible.”
The thought of it made me shake my head. My own personal squire, all five-foot zilch of her, walking the outside of Union Station, the little rolling bag of hers trailing behind. With a suit of armor. For a Knight.
Before I could respond with something clever, dragon lady stood. S
he eyed me for a moment, almost striking a pose, then walked to the aisle and veered toward the front exit. I glanced over to the status board. The 784 Pacific Surfliner switched to ARRIVED.
“Pip, train’s here. Draco looks like she’s heading your way.”
“Roger that, Sir. Be careful. I’m quite certain the plan was not to ascertain the location of your acquisition, monitor you until the arrival, then leave you to your business.”
“Maybe I scared her away with all my knightly valor.”
“I think we must assume otherwise, sir.”
I was definitely going to have to do something about her sense of humor. Like find her one.
A small wave of people started to move through the station from the direction of the platforms. The only picture I’d seen of Professor Alan Kirk had been on the faculty page, taken from a distance at a lecture by someone seemingly determined to thwart facial recognition software. Google didn’t help, since there had to be a hundred thousand Alan Kirks. All I could really be sure of was that he was a middle-aged white guy with thinning hair and a beard. Unless he’d shaved, which was always a possibility. So that narrowed the photo choices to around thirty or forty thousand.
My eyes braked on one guy in the herd. Short, on the stocky side. Navy blazer, thick horn rimmed glasses. Hair less thinning than it was receding into a horseshoe, beard trimmed into a goatee. Small portfolio tucked under his arm with the Cal-Poly logo on it.
He was walking with his head down, dragging a small overnight bag on wheels, thumbing through his phone. I weaved my way through the intermittent flow into his path.
“Professor?”
The man looked up. “Yes…? Do I know you?”
“My name is Bishop.” I took a gentle hold of his arm. Friendly. At least, I thought it was rather gentle and friendly, all things considered. “We need to talk.”
“What is this about?” he asked, yanking his arm away and, frankly, making quite a show of it.
“If you’ll just come with me. I promise I’ll explain everything.”
The man turned his head to each side, looking around, his gaze bouncing from person to person, trying to make a connection. A quiet plea for help. “You…must have me confused with someone else.”
Great. Any second, he was going to cause a scene. I could see it in his eyes, the way they widened, the way they darted, the way his back was stiffening.
So I did what any noble knight steeped in chivalry and virtue would do. I punched him in the gut.
A quick blow. Short uppercut, right about the solar plexus. I wrapped my other arm around him as I did it, just a close associate offering assistance, dropping all kinds of concerned phrases for anyone passing by to hear, asking if he was okay and commenting about how he didn’t look so good. Did he need some water? Would he like to sit down? He was trying to double over, but I held him up and led him across the concourse to a corridor where I found a large pair of doors that were mercifully unlocked. I pressed him through and slipped in behind him. No one seemed to have paid us any mind.
“Sorry about that. I can’t afford to draw attention.”
I stepped back and pressed the doors closed all the way until I was sure it was latched shut. There was a vertical sliding rod to lock one door in place and a bolt to secure the other. I engaged both and turned back to see where we were.
The room was big, a huge event hall of some kind. There were large round tables with white tablecloths and settings. The ceiling must have been thirty feet high with gargantuan windows along the outer wall starting at about ten feet and rising the entire height. At the far end was a balcony, maybe for a band or light director or something. A sign on an easel announced a wedding reception later that night. For the moment, though, the place seemed unoccupied. Except for us.
“You can have my money,” my new friend said as I approached. He was wheezing through a grimace, hand on his stomach. “Whatever’s in my wallet, just take it.”
“I’m not here to rob you, Professor.”
Rather than calming down, he seemed to get more scared. Like something was pushing on his eyeballs from the inside.
“If this is about those allegations…that student…look, most of what she’s saying never happened! I swear! I mean, not that I’m calling her a liar…I mean to say, I paid just to avoid the scandal of it!”
I gave him the once over, reassessing the man. Still waters. Go figure. “I’m not some angry brother or jealous boyfriend. Though I would love to hear about that sometime, as I’m always down for any story involving a co-ed and hush money. No, Professor, this is about—”
“Sir Regis!”
Her voice kicked in through the earbud. Pip had changed the setting on the phones to make them automatically answer each other’s calls without so much as a buzz or vibration, if you tapped the screen a certain way. She called it a direct line. I’m not sure if that was a manufacturer’s option or not.
I cupped my ear and held up a finger, offering an apologetic smile. “Sort of in the middle of something, Pip.”
“The Hostile did not exit! Repeat, the Hostile did not exit!”
“Okay.” I pulled the phone out of my side pocket, ready to thumb the end-call button. “Let me know when you reacquire her.”
“You don’t understand! I found the truck, completely uncloaked!”
She was right. I didn’t understand. Dragons and enchantments and arcane rules that seemed like they were made up for a board game by kids on LSD, it was all new to me. But I was starting to catch on. A little.
Dragons were, from what I had been told, large. It took considerable force generated out of each creature’s own, innate magic to compress them to the size of a person, and some kind of external enchantment to provide the illusion of personhood. They couldn’t stay that small for long periods, so they were often transported by Handlers in large semi-tractor trailers, lest giant winged serpents soaring overhead were to become nightly news fodder and YouTube sensations. Those trucks loitered nearby whenever one was out and about, doing whatever dragons do, and because a parked semi was a dead giveaway, they were usually cloaked by a separate spell.
But magic was not what one would call energy efficient. It took power, lots of it, and that power was in finite supply. Only so much was portable.
“You’re saying they’re using that juice for something else.”
“She may have cloaked!”
I scratched my chin, looked down at the professor, who was still hunched over and appeared extremely confused. I tried to remember the highlights of what I’d learned. It was a crash course. Cloaking a moving object took a lot of magical kilowatts, way more than something stationary. Even a few seconds would be a major drain. Hence, no invisible flying dragons hovering the city.
“Okay, keep an eye out while I finish up my conversation with the good professor here. Let me know if you spot her.”
“Sir, I need to know your exact whereabouts. The GPS tracker is not that precise. In case you need your armor.”
“Pip, you worry too much. This isn’t the first wedding I’ve crashed. Gotta run.”
“Sir?”
I ended the call with a screen tap and turned back to my reluctant interviewee.
“Sorry about that, Dr. Kirk. I’ve got just a few questions, then you can go.”
The man’s breath was strained. He was still wincing as he looked up, narrowing the gap between his eyelids. “I don’t understand. You think I’m—”
His gaze suddenly shifted off my eyes. I spun to look.
She was standing there, tall and purposeful. Between us and the door.
“Hi,” I said. I held up a finger. “I don’t suppose I could get you to wait outside. Just for a minute? Almost done here.”
She didn’t respond, though her eyes did flash. Then something changed. It looked like a bucket of water had doused her, washing away a paint job. A ripple that crept down to the floor. She was still standing there, hadn’t moved. But now she didn’t look quite r
eal. More like a sloppy sculpture. Bad Claymation.
“Uh, Professor?” I angled my jaw to talk over my shoulder. “You might want to grab a table to crawl under. Like in the farthest corner you can find.”
The woman raised her arms out to her side, shoulder-high. She bent them at the elbow until her hands disappeared behind her back. She held them like that a moment then flung them wide and something much larger ripped out of the skin, long knobby scythes of scale and bone tented over vein-webbed sheaths of leather that popped open like a sail catching wind, first one, then the other.
I reached into the pocket of my coat and tapped the screen three times, counted two, then tapped it twice more. And hoped her hack didn’t have any bugs to work out.
“Pip?”
They were big wings. Like, pterodactyl big. Way too big for the armless body of the play-doh woman they were attached to. They stretched out, gave a flap that made me close my eyes and almost forced me to step back. They pulled back as she bent forward at the waist until her chin touched her knees. She didn’t stay that way long. With a loud shredding sound she snapped up, arms bursting forward through the putty skin of her legs, tearing through her dress, flesh and cloth or whatever passed for them shedding in pieces and flying off.
So, I thought, swallowing hard and reminding myself to breathe, That’s what a dragon looks like.
Okay, sure, I had seen pictures. Drawings, etchings, even movies that, as it turned out, weren’t too far off the mark. But up close and personal like we were, well, this was different.
First off, it was big. I knew it was supposed to be big, but there was something more imposing about it than the sum of its dimensions. Its head was about eight feet off the ground, hovering over me at the end of its stout neck, but it had to be at least twenty-five feet long from its nose to the tip of its spiked tail. Its eyes were definitely reptilian, as was its hide, but there was also something distinctly feline to it. It looked like someone had crossed a crocodile with a snake on one side, a bat with a panther on the other, then bred the two offspring.
