The Gambler Grimoire
BR Kingsolver
The Gambler Grimoire
By BR Kingsolver
brkingsolver.com
Cover art by Heather Hamilton-Senter
www.bookcoverartistry.com
Copyright 2021 BR Kingsolver
License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereinafter invented, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
In ebook or other electronic format, it may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Contents
Books by BR Kingsolver
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Books by BR Kingsolver
Books by BR Kingsolver
Wicklow College of Arcane Arts
The Gambler Grimoire
The Revenge Game
The Rift Chronicles
Magitek
War Song
Soul Harvest
Rosie O’Grady’s Paranormal Bar and Grill
Shadow Hunter
Night Stalker
Dark Dancer
Well of Magic
Knights Magica
The Dark Streets Series
Gods and Demons
Dragon’s Egg
Witches’ Brew
The Chameleon Assassin Series
Chameleon Assassin
Chameleon Uncovered
Chameleon’s Challenge
Chameleon’s Death Dance
Diamonds and Blood
The Telepathic Clans Saga
The Succubus Gift
Succubus Unleashed
Broken Dolls
Succubus Rising
Succubus Ascendant
Other books
I’ll Sing for my Dinner
Trust
Short Stories in Anthologies
Here, Kitty Kitty
Bellator
~~~
Chapter 1
A movement to my left caught my eye. Above me, a man standing in a second-story corner window was looking down on my mini-circus. He was middle-aged, with dark hair and a beard, and wearing a tweed jacket. He didn’t smile or frown. He could have been the poster boy for an Oxford don. I chuckled to myself, wondering what the uniform for female faculty entailed.
I paid the taxi driver and crawled out onto the sidewalk. A four-hour plane ride to Pittsburgh, followed by the hour-long taxi ride to Wicklow, had left me stiff. The driver pulled my bags from the trunk and set them down. I gripped my purse and computer bag. At that point, two porters emerged from the building.
“Dr. Robinson?” one asked.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Robinson.”
“This way, ma’am. The stuff you shipped ahead arrived yesterday.”
I looked up, and up, at the three-story Gothic Revival building in front of me. I had dreamed about working on that campus, teaching there, and my dream had come through.
I followed the porters up the broad front steps with a metal railing in the middle, then through a high, pointed archway. A long, wide, paved breezeway open to the sky ended at another arched opening. Doors were regularly spaced off the open arcade on both sides. There weren’t any windows on any level.
To my surprise, the porters immediately turned right through the first of two doorways next to each other. A small brass plaque—shiny and new—on the open door read, ‘Savanna Robinson, PhD.’
A short hallway with a table on one side and a wardrobe on the other led to a fairly spacious room—as large as my whole apartment in Oakland. It was furnished with heavy wood-and-leather couches and chairs, and two heavy coffee tables. One wall was covered with empty built-in bookshelves that ended at a window overlooking the street where the taxi had let me off. In front of the built-in bookshelves sat the boxes I had shipped from the West Coast. My books, tools, clothing, and the rest of my few personal effects.
Next to the window, a massive stone fireplace covered half of that wall. The other walls were covered in deep red wallpaper above walnut wainscotting. All of the trim around the doors and windows, the crown molding, and the baseboard were a deep, rich walnut color.
The room would have been very dark, except the wall opposite the entrance hallway was almost all glass, with a view to the outside. That was south, I realized. I could plant herbs and flowers along the windows.
Along the wall to my left, there were three doors. The porters came out of the middle one, handed me a set of keys, bade me good day, and left. I wandered over to the room they had come out of and found a bedroom with an attached bathroom. The claw-foot tub looked inviting, but my first thought was whether there would be enough hot water to fill it. In Oakland, I had learned to shower very quickly.
The doorway next to the outside door revealed the kitchen. Not the fanciest or the largest kitchen I’d ever cooked in, or the most modern, but if the appliances all worked, I decided it would do. There was only one window, looking out over the back porch and stairs down to the garden.
The kitchen was stocked with everything except food. The cabinets were filled with dishes, pots and pans, and tableware. Everything looked rather old but in good shape, from the floral-designed china and formal tea service to the cast-iron pans and the Dutch oven.
I walked to the wall of windows and gazed out into an herb and flower garden contained within a space between a wall on the street and the building that extended beyond my apartment. The door between the windows and the kitchen opened to a stairway leading down into the garden. The narrow path through the garden led to a greenhouse. That brought a smile to my face, and I immediately opened the door, walked down the wooden stairs, and wandered among the plants.
Looking back to my apartment, I saw windows on the two floors above mine, and I wondered who lived above me.
I felt like dancing, but I didn’t know who might be watching. Perhaps more dour professors, like the one who watched me arrive.
A nice salary, with a free place to live included, was more than I could have hoped for at any of Wicklow’s rival institutions. On the whole, quite satisfactory. And Wicklow Col
lege of the Arcane Arts was the oldest, most prestigious institution of arcane study in North America. In fact, other than two colleges in the United Kingdom and one in France, there wasn’t a school remotely resembling Wicklow.
I decided I didn’t care who might be watching and danced down the pathway, singing to myself. I had hit the jackpot!
Chapter 2
The whole apartment had a heavy, dark, masculine vibe. I placed the few knickknacks, pictures, and other things I had brought to try and provide a little color and femininity to the place. But when I finished with that, I looked around and realized I would need more to enliven the place.
The man overlooking the sitting area from the large, nineteenth-century portrait above the fireplace would probably have to stay. I assumed someone would have a fit if I took him down. And where would I hide it? It was too large to hang in the guest washroom.
I put my clothes away. There was plenty of storage in the apartment. A nice pantry in the kitchen, a large walk-in closet and a wardrobe in the bedroom, a linen closet in the bathroom, and a wardrobe that doubled as a coat closet in the entry hall. In addition to a walk-in closet and a wardrobe, the bedroom also had a chest of drawers.
I had started on the boxes of books when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and found myself looking at a tall, willowy blonde woman wearing wire-rim glasses. She was maybe ten years younger than I was. Her white blouse under a short black jacket and a black skirt that hit the top of her knees was basically the kind of outfit that I usually wore when lecturing.
“Dr. Robinson? I’m Kelly Grace, the college librarian.” I thought I detected a hint of a British accent.
“Hi, come in,” I said. “The place is a bit of a mess. I haven’t finished unpacking yet.”
Kelly smiled. “It always takes me weeks to find everything when I move, and you’ve barely arrived. I thought I’d drop by and welcome you to Wicklow. Has Dr. Carver stopped in?”
Carver was the dean who hired me. “No, other than the porters, you’re the first person I’ve met. Would you like some tea? I think I know where to find it, and there’s a kettle in the kitchen.”
Kelly sat at the small kitchen table while I bustled around, rinsing the kettle and putting it on to boil.
“I feel a little like I’m in a museum,” I said. “Or in my grandmother’s kitchen.”
Kelly laughed. “It’s part of Wicklow’s charm. Give it thirty or forty years, and you’ll hardly notice it. I had a feeling Carver hadn’t showed up. He’s not known for his social graces.”
“I have an appointment with him in the morning. I’ve met him only once,” I said, “and spoken with him on the phone a couple of times. He flew out to San Francisco to interview me.”
The kettle whistled, and I poured hot water in the teapot, then brought it and two teacups to the table.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any cookies or anything,” I said. “You know, I was rather taken by surprise that Dr. Carver flew out. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to go to San Francisco, but in my experience, candidates are always brought in for interviews.”
Kelly’s eyebrows raised slightly at that news. “Have you ever been to Wicklow before?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Once about seven years ago, and again three years ago. I presented a couple of papers at conferences here. I fell in love with the place. I met Dr. Carver then, but when he interviewed me, he didn’t act like he remembered me.”
Kelly appeared to be suppressing a grin. “As I said, he’s not really a people person. The stereotypical absent-minded professor. He’s much more comfortable in a laboratory, with his head buried in arcane formulae and incantations. There’s an old rumor that he was promoted to dean because he was so bad in the classroom. But, yes, usually candidates are brought in. Your recruitment was a bit unusual.”
“That’s what I thought. Wicklow did advertise a couple of positions for this fall, but they were posted in March of last year. They were in areas other than mine, though. Then, when the college advertised for this position in April of this year—to start this fall—I thought it strange, rather hurried.”
I poured the tea while Kelly sort of cocked her head to one side and asked, “Out of curiosity, what did Carver say about why the position was open?”
“I asked, of course, and he said the incumbent had left suddenly and without notice. It put the administration in a bit of a bind, I guess, having to fill the position as an emergency.” I grinned. “I was able to negotiate it as tenure-track. He seemed rather desperate.”
Kelly laughed. “Oh, that is rich. Accurate, I guess. Yes, Dr. Kavanaugh did leave his post rather abruptly, and he didn’t give any notice. He was murdered.”
“Here?” I glanced toward the doorway to the sitting room.
“Oh, no. This wasn’t his place, but yes, in his apartment in this building. Bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker. A very stereotypical way to die, don’t you think? I thought it was in keeping with the traditional, stodgy Wicklow atmosphere. Agatha Christie would have approved.”
“Did they catch who did it?”
Kelly shook her head. “Not a clue. Of course, everyone on campus has their own pet theory and suspects.”
“Who investigates crimes here?” I asked.
“The campus police, who are all witches, and the city cops, who are generally not. Mostly, the city stays away from here, but there is one detective, Lieutenant Sam Kagan, who is a witch and assigned to the campus, and the city chief of police is a witch, as is the mayor. Kagan doesn’t have much to do, since there’s almost no serious crime here. You are aware of the situation with the city, aren’t you?”
“I know that a lot of witches live here,” I said.
“Yes. It’s estimated that between a quarter and a third of the population are witches, and maybe another fifth have other paranormal abilities or are not human, if you know what I mean. In my experience, the majority of the city believes in paranormal abilities, and those who don’t must be willfully ignorant. We don’t flaunt it, but no one takes particular care to hide it, either.”
“You don’t have a vampire problem, do you? Parts of San Francisco are practically overrun with them.”
“No, but there are a few wolf shifters here. Lots of forests and mountains in the area. They usually keep to themselves. Unless you’re into that sort of thing, stay away from a biker bar called the Wolf’s Den.”
Kelly invited me to dinner that evening. “I have a car, I can show you some of the city, and we can swing by a grocery store on the way home.”
“That would be great. Thank you.” As I showed Kelly out, I said, “Oh, there was a man watching me from that window over there when I arrived.”
“Dark hair, beard, maybe a bit of salt-and-pepper? Dr. Hamilton. David Hamilton. Elemental magic. Rather a traditionalist, been here a long time. I’m not sure he’s completely comfortable with all the new women faculty, but he’s civil. He was a friend of Brett’s.” I must have looked a bit puzzled because Kelly clarified. “Dr. Brett Kavanaugh, the man who was murdered.”
Chapter 3
Kelly was a Wicklow graduate who had gone on to take a master’s degree in library science at the University of Maryland before returning to Wicklow as the library’s associate director. She took the top job when her boss retired.
She gave me a whirlwind tour of the city. As she drove me around, she told me about the city and the college. Some of it I already knew, but it was interesting to hear about it from one who obviously fancied herself as an area historian.
“This is all here because of John Howard, bastard son of the fourth Earl of Wicklow. His father packed him off to the New World because not only was he a witch—inherited from his mother—but also a bit of a rake who caused his father some embarrassment,” Kelly said with a grin. “The earl evidently also supplied him with enough money to start a very successful business in Philadelphia. But there was some sort of scandal involving the daughter of a wealthy merchant, the daughter o
f a preacher, and a woman who told fortunes. As far as I can determine, they all became pregnant at about the same time, which angered not only their families but also the young ladies themselves.”
Kelly took a turn that led us away from downtown. “I come up here to be alone sometimes,” she said as two more turns put us on a winding road up a steep hill. When we reached the top, the road ended in a small parking lot.
“There are hiking trails from here,” Kelly said, unbuckling her seat belt and getting out of the car.
I followed her. We walked about fifty feet along the trail in front of the car, and it opened up into a glade at the top of the low mountain. Wicklow was below us. It looked like a normal, sleepy rural town with a river running through it, but the massive stone buildings of the college on the south edge of the city reminded me of a castle looming over a village in the English countryside.
“As I was saying,” Kelly resumed, “John Howard left Philadelphia rather in a hurry, selling his business, and evidently taking some of his clients’ money as well. He came out here, bought land, and built the college. The first building is that one, Howard Hall, his home.”
She took a deep breath, then wandered over to a large fallen log and sat down. “I don’t know if he had the idea of the college at first, or it came to him later. The workmen and their families were the first settlers in the area. And since construction continued for almost eighty years, the town sort of grew around them.”
The Gambler Grimoire: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Wicklow College of Arcane Arts Book 1) Page 1
