The Dragons of Winter by James A. Owen

projects an image through a special lamp on the bumper, like . . . so ,” he said, switching on the device. Immediately a large projection of the image on the slide appeared on the wall of fog in front of them, and Uncas gunned the engine.
    “It works best with brick walls,” said the badger, “but fog works pretty well too.”
    Before the detective could vocalize his astonishment, the Duesenberg had barreled through the projection, bouncing jarringly from the country road in England and onto a nicely paved cobblestone road in a hilly area that was clear of fog. Palm treeslined the streets, and the smell of seawater was strong in the air.
    “I’m impressed,” said the detective.
    “So,” Uncas said. “Where to first?”
    “I’m almost afraid to say,” said Aristophanes, “but you’re going to need to turn around.”

    As the rest of the Caretakers converged in the portrait gallery to discuss the recent events, Jules Verne quietly pulled John down the adjacent hallway and closed the door behind them. “I need to take you with me to consult some of our allies in the war,” Verne said, his voice quiet until they were a safe distance away from other ears, “and I don’t want anyone else to know we’re going—not yet.”
    “Isn’t that a bit chancy?” John asked, glancing around. “We ought to—”
    “Poe knows,” Verne said, interrupting, “and Kipling. And for now, that must be sufficient.”
    He chuckled to himself, then looked at John. “You’ll never believe that the pun wasn’t intentional, but I told Poe we’re going to see the Raven. Dr. Raven, to be precise.”
    “The Messenger?”
    Verne nodded. “The only one among them who is still wholly mobile, and therefore wholly useful,” he explained, “and that in itself brings some degree of risk, because he is also the most unknown.”
    “How so?”
    “He’s the only one we didn’t actively recruit,” said Verne. “Bert and I were taking a breakfast meeting in Prague in the late eighteenth century, and we observed that we were being observed ourselves. We took no notice of him, but quickly made our departureso as not to attract more attention—but then he turned up again at a café in Amsterdam.”
    “You have refined tastes,” John said. “Perhaps he was simply running in similar epicurean circles.”
    “Ahh, that explanation may have sufficed,” offered Verne, “if our lunch in Amsterdam had not been a century later.”
    John stopped in his tracks, blinking in amazement. “He was a time traveler?”
    Verne nodded. “All the Messengers are, of course—but he was doing it before he became a Messenger, and,” he added, with just a hint of menace in his voice, “he already had an Anabasis Machine.”
    John removed his watch from his pocket and examined it carefully. His was identical to the one Verne himself carried: a silver case, emblazoned with a red dragon. “How is that possible? I thought only the Caretakers possessed the watches.”
    “The Watchmaker gives them to us to use,” said Verne, “but we may not be the only ones he has made them for. I’ve never been able to wheedle a straight answer out of him regarding that particular question. But in any regard, Dr. Raven, as he introduced himself, has never been anything but faithful to our goals. We asked him to join us, and he has made himself available at each point where he’s been needed. As far as I know, he keeps rooms in Tamerlane, but as to the rest of his life, he is still a mystery.”
    “He sounds more like a secret,” John said as he pocketed his watch.
    “Secrets and mysteries, mysteries and secrets,” a voice purred from somewhere above their heads. “Answer one and win, answerthe other and lose. But who can tell which one is which? And which of you shall choose?”
    John glanced above his left shoulder and smiled. “Hello, Grimalkin.”
    The Cheshire cat began to slowly appear a piece at a time as the men made turn after turn down the