by Rowan Casey
I backpedaled a few steps and my foot caught on something that made me lose my balance. I almost tripped over the professor, who hadn’t taken what I had thought was sage advice about finding a place to hide. He was huddled down on the floor, his eyes as big as pie plates.
His tie made a handy leash, so I yanked him up by it and literally kicked him in the ass. Okay, it was more of a shove with the bottom of my foot, but it sent him stumbling down the center of the room between the islands of round tables.
A puff of something hot and wet flowed over my neck. I made it a point not to make any sudden movements, then immediately violated my own resolution when the next hot and wet thing I felt on my neck wasn’t air. It was a sticky, sandpaper-like tongue, and the nape of my neck was in the Y of it.
Honestly, it wasn’t a bad move. I took off in a sprint, feinted left, then cut right. I zigged between two tables and zagged between two more and bam! Just like that, I had my eye on the dim but gloriously beautiful glow of an EXIT sign in the far corner beneath the balcony.
But another wall erupted before I could get there, this one directly in my path. This wall happened to be a leathery canvas trunk reticulated with veins. It dropped like a curtain in front of me, the taloned joint of its heel stabbing into the floor, digging into the marble with a crack like a hammer.
I could feel her breath again, but this time I was resigned. The head, shaped like a horse with four knobby horns, couldn’t have been more than a foot behind me. I inhaled, let it out, then pivoted on my heels, fists up, and screamed. If I was going to be incinerated, or eaten, or incinerated then eaten, I wasn’t going to go quietly.
“You wanna fight? Huh? Well, c’mon! Fight!”
Those eyes. They were big and close and did not show a trace of anything encouraging.
The plan…okay, there wasn’t one. But there was an idea, and the idea was to keep it wondering what the hell I had in mind while I came up with a plan. Dinosaurs had brains the size of a walnut, right? Wasn’t this just one of those? Sort of? Confusing it enough to buy some time seemed like a manageable task.
Smoke floated from its mouth, weaving through its conical teeth. A caress of heat brushed my cheek and my nose twitched at the distinct stench of sulphur. It was about to go all torchy on me. You didn’t need a degree in medieval folklore to figure that one out.
Teeth. I don’t know what made my brain play hopscotch that way, but I saw those teeth and thought, “croc,” then thought “too straight,” then thought, “Killer Whale,” then thought. “shark.” Then I unloaded a straight overhand right like a haymaker into its snout.
The best way to fend off a shark attack was to punch it in the nose. I’d never tried it, but I’d read the advice numerous times on the ever-reliable internet and it made sense. The nose is a sensitive organ, sensitive organs have lots of nerve endings. Lots of nerve endings means it is vulnerable to strikes.
Of course, this wasn’t a shark. And for all I knew, it had no sense of smell whatsoever. It barely flinched, I’m not sure it even blinked. My knuckles, on the other hand, looked like I’d run them against a cheese grater a few times.
Now, I’m fast. And by that, I mean, really, really quick in close quarters. Always was. It was how I survived boxing for a few years despite virtually no jab, no hook, and a right cross that couldn’t knock out a Girl Scout. My reflexes are my best asset, and I’m told they’re in the process of being “enhanced” as my dormant “avatar” kicks in, if I have one like the others, which I’m not sold on but I’ll take it if it’s true. Anyway, fast as I am, awesome as my reflexes are, even I was barely able to react when Lady Puff The Magic Death Beast launched a front leg into my chest and slammed me to the floor. And by react, I mean, tuck my head just in time to avoid cracking the back of my skull and having my brains spill out across the marble.
My breath abandoned me like a lost cause, even as I struggled to suck it back in. The weight on my chest was crushing. No amount of reflex or strategy was going to help. I was pinned and helpless as I watched her raise her maw and draw a voluminous breath. Extra crispy. That’s how I was about to go out.
The massive head of the creature started to drop toward me, a spark blazing to life in its mouth, when the whole picture exploded in front of my eyes. The head ricocheted sideways, a torrent of fire projected from its jaws, missing me by a few feet and leaving a charred swath of vaporized remains all the way to the other side of the hall, and whatever wrecking ball it was that caused it all bounced off the thing’s skull at an angle and rolled away.
The dragon roared, got off of me and whipped around in anger.
“Sir Regis! Your sword!”
There she was. Pip. Popping to her feet and wielding a shield almost as big as she was. This gal who’d probably never experienced an amusement park ride with a minimum height marker at the entrance leaped out of nowhere, practically curb stomped the beast’s head off just as it was about to barbecue me, and was now staring it down like a gladiator.
“Your sword!” she yelled again.
It took a moment to understand what she meant. I pushed myself off the floor and glanced around. There it was. Big and metal and sticking up from the center of a table nearby where it had harpooned itself like a giant lawn dart.
The dragon snapped its head in my direction as if sensing what was happening. It roared again, this time more like a growl, and lunged. Its neck shot forward as it did, a serpent strike, jaws opening and snapping shut.
But I wasn’t there, not by about six inches. I’d vacated the spot a split second before it got there, starting the moment I noticed it twitch. I could tell it hadn’t expected that, but I didn’t have time to pat myself on the back.
Three bounding steps and I was at the table, reaching for my sword. I used it to pull me onto the tabletop, where I was able to grip it with both hands and tug, tug, tug. The damn thing wouldn’t come loose.
I felt one of the tables soar over my head and ducked. Its path cleared, the dragon reared back onto its haunches, muscles coiling.
“Hurry, Sir Regis! Before it can recharge its flame!”
“Not helping!”
The thing sprang forward, front legs extended, wings spread for a glide, body stretched out. The head snaked toward me and I swung myself around the sword. Its jaws slammed into the blade and clamped down. The sound it made was almost a yelp. It pulled its head back twice as fast and snarled.
“Now, Sir Regis!”
I was moving before I had a chance to think, knew what she meant before the words even processed. This was my chance. The only thing I could hear was my heartbeat gushing through my veins. My vision narrowed to a pinprick. Both hands made fists on the oversized handle, squeezing the leather grips, and I felt myself twist, arching my back, contorting my head and neck to slide them beneath an elbow. My abdomen contracted, the electric sting of that one-thousandth crunch at the gym. My shoulders were screaming at me to stop before they separated.
Those jaws were sailing at me so fast, yet in slow motion. There was no way they would miss, not now. Closer, closer, wider, wider. I could see down its throat, past the tiny shark teeth and blow valve where it discharged its concentrated streams of methane, into its barbed throat.
But then the mouth turned up and sideways, tumbling, falling. The sword came down hard, its blade barely slowing down as it cleaved through the thing’s neck, finally stopping only when it wedged itself deep into the edge of the table on which I stood.
The head bounced off the marble floor and then rolled to a stop near Pip. She was standing there with the shield at her side, its bottom point on the ground. It bore the Bishop family crest and the Sigil of the Veil. I took Grimm’s word on both counts.
“You did it, Sir Regis! You slayed the dragon!”
A dragon. A round table. A sword that felt impossible to dislodge. Even an uncultured slob like me knew this had to be a setup, a deliberate test. Either that or my life was starting to play out like the sort of fairy tale the
y told before the stories became children’s books for bedtime reading; the kind where knights didn’t always live, and dark monsters feasted on their flesh. I wasn’t sure which prospect scared me more.
The sword felt stuck again. I was too weak to even try. I climbed down from the table on rubbery legs, had to steady myself on the back of a chair. The enormous carcass was already starting to bubble, gases being released.
Something made a noise on the other side of the room. I saw a curtain of table cloth flutter. The professor. I had forgotten about him.
My legs came back as I started to walk. By the time I reached him, he was sticking his head out from beneath the table, the linen draped over his head like white coif, looking up at me.
Before I could speak, Pip was by my side, the shield hung over her shoulder like a backpack. She was holding out an arm.
“Your hat, Sir Regis.”
I took it, punched it back into shape, and placed it on my head. I had started to grow attached to it for some reason, even though I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it. “Thank you.”
“That was a marvelous showing, Sir Regis! I knew you could do it!”
“Uh, sure. I still have no idea where you came from, out of the blue like that.”
“Oh, that was easy! Your brilliant code about the wedding told me where you were. I realized the main doors may be inaccessible, so I found a utility access from the roof that led to the platform balcony. It was the perfect place to unpack your armor. Great job in picking this as your battleground, Sir!”
The professor started to crawl out from beneath the table. Pip seemed surprised to see him and stepped back. I moved forward to help him stand. “Would you please tell me what the hell is going on? Are you talking to me? What are you babbling about?”
“I have some questions for you, Professor Kirk. You worked on an analysis of a sliver of metal a few months ago, one rumored to have been one of the nails from the Crucifixion. From what I’ve been able to piece together, you were the last person to have access to it before it was supposed to have been returned to safe storage.”
“You’re wasting your time, I’ve been trying to tell you—“
“Look, I’m sorry for the rough treatment. Really I am. But this is extremely important, more important than I could probably explain. That’s why I’ve been calling your office, trying to schedule an appointment for days. That’s why I found your schedule, knew you’d be attending the UCLA forum, and that you always take the same train when you do. I need to find that artifact. A lot depends on it. You were the last person in the chain of custody, the last person to see it. Anything you can tell me about it is paramount.”
“You’re not listening to me. I can’t help you. Not because I don’t want to, but because, I’m not Alan Kirk. We teach together, even co-wrote a few papers over the years. But I’m not him. My name is Coulter. Brian Coulter.”
I heard myself swallow. My ears popped as if I could get those last words out of them. I looked at Pip, who gave a tiny shake of her freckled face.
“If that’s true, where is he?
The man who wasn’t Professor Kirk mopped his face with his palm and tugged at the collar of his shirt, out of breath.
“That’s the thing, I’m filling in for him. He’s been missing for well over a week, maybe two, and no one’s heard from him.” He looked at his shoes and then leveled his gaze at me. “The last time anyone saw him, he was walking through campus, talking loudly about how if he didn’t defeat an unwinnable contest, a nightmare of creatures was going to take over the world, and that it was all his fault.”
2
By the time I got back to my office, the sun was a smooth glowing ball hovering over the Pacific. Of course, I take the Pacific-part on faith, assuming it’s still there, since I can’t remember the last time I actually saw it. The great thing about living in LA is supposed to be the ability to drive to the beach for a swim in the morning and the mountains to go skiing in the afternoon. Being a true Californian, I haven’t been to the beach since my teens, and I’ve never even set foot on a slope.
But one aspect of LA that I am intimately familiar with, having interactions on a daily basis, is the knock-off consumer goods industry. The retail end, I should say. Especially belts and purses. I have to weave my way through tables and hanging displays of them to get to and from my office, which occupies three rooms—a foyer, a main office, and a closet with a toilet that I’m still not convinced was ever hooked up to a sewer line. My space was above a narrow store called—without irony—“Genuine Accents” in Santee Alley.
“Somebody’s looking for you.”
I glanced over at Claudia, who was perched on a stool behind a small glass counter in the store. Her head was bent over her phone, which she thumbed in a succession of rapid, smooth movements.
“Did he leave a card?”
“No.” She paused, pulling her eyes away from her phone to lay a skeptical gaze on me. “What makes you so sure it was a guy?”
“Because if it weren’t, you’d describe her as if you were talking to a police sketch artist. You always do.”
She bristled at that. “No, I don’t.”
“Fine. Was it a woman?”
The side of her mouth curled into a dimple and she lowered her head back to her phone. “No.” She slid an envelope forward on the countertop. “But he left you something.”
I thanked her and picked up the envelope, then continued to the back of the store, breathing in the smell of cheap leather and vinyl and the cleaning solvents Claudia’s mother uses on the tile floor. I was almost to the rear door when Claudia added, “Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Pops wants to talk to you. Said it’s important.”
Pops was Claudia’s stepfather. I guess technically he owned the place, or the business, at least, but her mother was the only one who ever seemed to be there. Other than Claudia, who was only there in the technical sense of the term.
I nodded. “Did he say what it was about?”
“Important stuff,” she said. Trying to get more out of her seemed like a low-percentage proposition, so I pushed against the bar on the rear door into the back alley and let it close behind me as I looked at the blank, sealed envelope. I ripped it open with a thumb and read the letter, my nostrils bombarded by the pungent mix of nearby dumpsters and some sort of Thai restaurant on the other side of the fence.
I stared at the paper, thinking, before stuffing it back in and sliding the envelope into my breast pocket.
My legs were a bit shaky by the time I reached the top of the stairs. The door was already unlocked.
“Sir Regis!” Pip bounced out from behind my desk, rushing to greet me. “I was getting worried.”
“I needed to grab something to eat.”
That was certainly true, but mostly I just sat and thought for a while.
“Well, I’m so glad you’re here! I think we have another lead!”
“Great. I’m sure it will hold until tomorrow.”
Pip searched my face for a moment, then tightened her lips. “Right. You should rest. You’ve just won a major battle! You can lie down on the couch and I’ll do some research. Then we’ll get at it bright and early.”
Rest sounded nice. If only.
“I can’t lie down, Pip. I have to go out.”
“Did you come up with another lead yourself? That’s wonderful! I can explain what I’ve discovered while you’re driving.”
“It’s not like that. I have to go see someone.”
It didn’t take long for it to register on her face. “Her. You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I let it out.
“We have important work to do, Sir Regis. Mr. Grimm was adamant that no second is to be wasted.”
“I know. This isn’t wasted time. I have to do this.”
She crossed her arms, then caught herself. “Obviously, it is not my place to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do. Tho
ugh I think you know it’s a very bad idea and…Mr. Grimm would not approve.”
There wasn’t anything I could say that would change that so I didn’t respond. This was the only subject Pip seemed to get emotional about. Or at least broody. I wasn’t sure why.
Here’s the thing. I have a crazy ex-girlfriend. Crazy, in the general sense, girlfriend in that it’s easier to say than, “gal I went out with four or five times.” I’m not sure whether she’s certifiable, but considering she’s been found fit to stand trial, I guess that’s just one more difference of opinion I have with the law. But she was certainly crazy enough to try to kill me, then escape from jail and try to kill me again, this last time failing only because of Pip. It was a strange way to meet someone, having them come between you and a knife.
“Her trial starts next week. Prosecutor told me to expect a subpoena. But her lawyer just left me a letter. Said she’s offering to plead guilty, agree to a protective order and anything else I want. But she asked that I come to the jail. Tonight. Visiting hours end at seven.”
“Oh, well. In that case.”
“She’s in custody, Pip. She can’t hurt me.”
Her eyes, a deep, almost purple green, latched onto mine. “She has already hurt you, Sir. And she will continue to do so for as long as you allow her to.”
With that, she looked away and returned to my desk, getting back on the computer. I didn’t know what to make of her attitude. Jealousy? That didn’t make sense. I’d only known her for six weeks. And she was like a kid sister. Cute, no doubt about it, but tomboyish and focused and, honestly, she hadn’t shown the slightest hint of physical attraction toward me. Which was a relief. My life was fucked up enough. Which was an understatement. Which was why Dante Grimm assigned her to me as a squire. A fact he made clear in language only slightly less blunt.
I looked around my tiny office—which for the moment doubled as my home—and rhetorically asked myself how the heck I got to this point in my life. The same question I’d taken over an hour pondering while eating three power bars and downing a large Mountain Dew.
