Cloak Games: Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  At last Morvilind stepped closer.

  “Nadia Moran,” said Morvilind in a quiet voice. “I will only tell you this once. Never mention the Inquisition to me again. Never question me about the Dark Ones again. If you do, I will not let your brother die. I will kill him myself in front of your eyes. It will take days, and I will make sure that he curses your name before at last I grant him death. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Say it,” said Morvilind.

  “Yes,” I croaked.

  He sighed and tapped the vial again.

  I spent a bad few minutes screaming.

  “Yes, my lord,” I said when I could form words again.

  He crooked his finger, and I spun around and landed in a heap at his feet.

  “You may depart,” he said. “Await me at the Marneys’ home tomorrow. It is time for your brother’s yearly cure spell.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said. I dragged myself to my feet and left.

  ###

  The next day I took my motorcycle to the Marneys’ house.

  James wore his old dress uniform, and Lucy her nicest dress. Russell wore a suit that was too big for him, but he would grow into it. Morvilind arrived with a half-dozen of his human servants. After he had deigned to accept the Marneys’ greetings, he cast the cure spell.

  It was a work of tremendous power, drawing upon all of the elements and sources of magical power I could not identify. The spell was complex beyond my ability to comprehend. Silver light and golden fire blazed around his hands and sank into Russell. When he finished, Russell looked…stronger, a little less pale, a little less sickly.

  Morvilind was a hard and ruthless man, but he kept his word.

  He left once the spell was complete.

  Russell was fourteen. That meant Morvilind needed to cast the healing spell six more times before he was completely cured. That meant I had six years left. I had to obey Morvilind for six more years until he cured Russell of the frostfever.

  I just had to stay alive for six more years.

  Or find the power to cure Russell myself and break free of Morvilind.

  That night I sat with a cigarette and smoked with James.

  “Russell looks better every year,” said James. “When Lord Morvilind first brought him to us, I feared that he might not live to reach his tenth birthday.”

  I nodded, watching the smoke curl away into the night.

  “Your work for Lord Morvilind,” said James. “It is dangerous, isn’t it? You’ve got the look.”

  “Look?” I said, startled. “What, do I have lettuce in my teeth?”

  “No,” said James. “The thousand yard stare. The men-at-arms would come back from the Shadowlands with that look.”

  We sat in silence for a while.

  “This was a bad one,” I said at last. “I can’t tell you about it. But this…it almost didn’t go well.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Nadia,” said James.

  “It is?” I said. If he knew the truth about me, he wouldn’t say that.

  “Your brother’s alive because of what you’re doing,” said James. “When things get hard, that’s what you have to remember.”

  I nodded. I hoped he was right.

  ###

  Several days later I walked unnoticed through the lunchtime crowd on Wisconsin Avenue, my mind focused upon my new spell.

  No one noticed me.

  I grinned. That was the point.

  The scroll I had found in McCade’s temple had been a spell of mind magic and illusion, a spell called Occlusion. It didn’t turn me invisible like a Cloak, or disguise me as someone else like a Mask. Instead, the Occlusion spell made me…unnoticeable. People simply didn’t notice that I was there. So long as I did nothing aggressive, no one paid any attention to me. It wouldn’t work around another wizard, but I had been in many situations where the Occluding spell would have come in handy.

  I stepped into the coffee shop, released the spell, and looked around. It was a cozy sort of place, with wooden chairs and tables and a variety of junk pinned to the wall as some sort of art. Most of the customers were office workers stopping in for lunch or a snack.

  Corvus sat at one of the tables, waiting for me. He wore a denim jacket, T-shirt, jeans, and his oversized sunglasses, and a pair of cardboard cups waited on the table before him. He rose as I approached and drew out a chair for me. I blinked in surprise at the archaic gesture, but sat anyway.

  “You even wear those things inside?” I said as Corvus sat.

  “The Shadowmorph does not like the sun,” said Corvus.

  “Or fashion,” I said.

  He smiled a little at that. “I am surprised you came.”

  “So am I,” I said. “I half-expected that this would be a trap to kill me.” In fact I had circled the building three times while Occluded, looking for signs of an ambush, but had found nothing.

  “No,” said Corvus. “I keep my word.”

  “I think I know that now,” I said. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

  “I repay my debts,” said Corvus, reaching into his coat. He withdrew an envelope and handed it to me. I opened it and my eyes got wide. It held hundred-dollar bills, a lot of them.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Half the bounty for the decree,” said Corvus. “You earned it. I would have failed if not for your help.”

  I hesitated. This was blood money. Stealing was one thing. Killing people for money was something else.

  But I really could use the money.

  I tucked the envelope into my purse.

  “There is a card with a phone number in the envelope as well,” said Corvus. “If you need my aid, call that number.”

  “Giving me your phone number on a first date?” I said. “Little forward, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t even blink at that. “Technically, this would be the second date.”

  “Robbery and infiltration do not count as a date,” I said.

  Corvus shrugged. “I am not familiar with modern standards of courtship. There is something else I can do for you.”

  “What?” I said.

  He raised a hand. I flinched, fearing that he was about to cast a spell, but he only reached out and touched me on the forehead. It drew an odd glance from a passing couple. As he did, I felt a surge of magical energy, and the symbols and patterns of a spell burned themselves into my mind.

  A spell. He had just given me the knowledge of a spell. It was the spell he used to conjure globes of lightning.

  “Why…why did you do that?” I said.

  “Because,” said Corvus. “You saved my life, and it is an appropriate gift. You have no magical means of defending yourself. Now you do.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I…thank you.” It was a tremendous gift.

  He rose. “Take care of yourself, Katerina Annovich. Don’t follow any more strange men into alleys.”

  I imitated the mocking little salute he had given me in the temple. “You have my solemn promise. Corvus…thank you. Really. You don’t know how useful this will be for me.”

  “I can guess,” Corvus said, and then left.

  Later I sat in my Duluth Car Company sedan, and I cast the spell. A little snarling globe of lightning appeared over my fingers, and I smiled and dismissed it. Corvus had indeed given me a powerful gift.

  Perhaps I could put it to good use.

  For I was still alive, and Russell needed only six more healing spells. Russell was still alive, and I had survived my latest mission from Morvilind.

  For now, that was victory enough.

  Epilogue

  Corvus stood in a New York City penthouse, finishing his report.

  The Firstborn of the Shadow Hunters sat by the window, gazing at Manhattan’s skyline as he listened. He looked about sixty, thin and tough and wiry as an old tree, but he was older than sixty, far older.

  “This Katerina Annovich,” said the Firstborn at last, “you do not th
ink she is a servant of the Dark Ones?”

  “No,” said Corvus, thinking of the strange gray-eyed thief. “I suspect she is being coerced. Likely a cult of the Dark Ones is holding her family captive, using them to compel her obedience.”

  “She knew illusion magic,” said the Firstborn. For a moment the lines of his Shadowmorph stirred against his seamed face. “Someone must have taught it to her.”

  Corvus nodded.

  “Find her,” said the Firstborn, “and keep watch over her. She might be the key.” The ancient man looked up at him. “This is vital, Corvus. Find her. If we can find her, perhaps we can find her master…and strike the greatest blow against the Dark Ones since the High Queen was driven from her homeworld. Go with my blessing, my son.”

  Corvus bowed and strode to the elevator, thinking of the gray-eyed thief. He hoped she wouldn’t need the spell he had given her. He hoped he could find her before the Rebels or the Archons or the cultists of the Dark Ones did.

  The woman who called herself Katerina Annovich was in far more danger than she realized.

  THE END

  Cloak Games: Frost Fever Description

  Nadia Moran wants freedom, and she wants power. Unfortunately for her, she has little enough of either. To make matters worse, her baby brother Russell is dying of a rare magical disease, and the only one who can cure him is the cruel Elven archmage Morvilind.

  If that were not enough, Morvilind demands a steep price for his cures.

  Specifically, he wants Nadia to use her skill and magic to steal treasures for him, and this time he’s sent Nadia to steal a priceless relic from the ambassador of the frost giants.

  And the frost giants never forget a grudge…

  Chapter 1: Business Complications

  I had a problem.

  Specifically, I needed money.

  I “worked”, if you could call it that, for the Elven Lord Morvilind, a vassal of Duke Tamirlas of Milwaukee. Lord Morvilind had money, a lot of money, but he didn’t pay me a salary or give me an allowance or anything like that. No, he thought that would make me weak and dependent, and he wanted me to be strong and clever so I could fulfill whatever insanely dangerous task he assigned me. To make matters worse, Morvilind employed me to steal various rare and valuable items, and pulling off jobs like that required a lot of specialized equipment.

  A lot of specialized, expensive equipment.

  So I was always short of money, but I had learned to finance myself. When Morvilind sent me to steal something, it was usually in a bank vault or a museum or the mansion of some rich businessman or Elven noble. There were usually a few other valuable things lying around, and I helped myself to one or two (or five or six) while stealing whatever Morvilind wanted. Once I escaped and fulfilled my mission for Morvilind, I went to my various acquaintances in the black market and turned my valuable items into cash.

  That was how I found myself sitting in a smoky bar called the Silver Dollar in Los Angeles, listening to the low beat of the background music as I met with a group of gangsters.

  The bar was dim and dank, lit mostly by neon beer signs upon the walls. A babble of voices filled my ears, most of them speaking Spanish. Ever since the days of the High Queen’s Conquest of Earth three hundred years ago, Spanish had been the dominant language of the southwestern United States, so Morvilind’s tutors had taught me the language as a child. Unfortunately, they had taught me formal Castilian Spanish, which meant I invariably sounded formal and stiff, which was a liability when talking to a man like Mr. Rojo and his associates.

  Mr. Rojo and three of his “associates” sat across the booth from me. Rojo and two of his men were Hispanic, and the third was white. All four men were grizzled and weathered, with the stern looks of men who had served in the armies of the Elven nobles and the hard eyes of professional criminals. All four of them had guns concealed beneath their coats. There were armed bouncers, but Mr. Rojo owned the building. If he wanted, he could have carried a crate of dynamite inside, and the bouncers would have asked if he needed help lifting it.

  Not that he would have done it. Mr. Rojo was far too savvy of a businessman to indulge in violence except when necessary.

  He wore a suit that could have paid the rent on my apartment for a year or two, and a magnificent gray mustache that somehow managed to look dignified. While he had the paunch of a man settling into comfortable living, he still had the shoulders and arms of a man who could break some heads if he felt it necessary. On TV, a Hispanic crime lord would sip tequila, but Mr. Rojo invariably drank warm Milwaukee Ducal beer straight from the can.

  He was a polite and charming, pleasant and reasonable, and perfectly capable of killing someone who crossed him with his bare hands. Or delegating the task to one of the many, many rough men that filled his bar.

  The Silver Dollar was not the sort of place a woman should go alone.

  Fortunately, no one here knew that I was a woman.

  Lord Morvilind had given me some help with that, at least. He had taught me several magical spells, most of them dealing with illusion and magic of the mind. Granted, if the High Queen’s Inquisition discovered that I knew spells of illusion, they would execute me without a trial. Nevertheless, the spells were useful, and the Masking spell let me change my appearance. Right now I held the Masking spell in place, giving myself the appearance of a gaunt middle-aged man in a battered denim jacket and ragged jeans. It took an effort of will to keep the Mask in place, but it was useful. Mr. Rojo would not take a twenty-year-old woman seriously, but he would pay attention to a middle-aged man.

  Especially since the gaunt middle-aged man kept bringing him such valuable merchandise.

  Mr. Rojo sipped his beer and waited for me to speak first. His associates sat with blank expressions on their faces, though I knew they kept watch on the Silver Dollar’s patrons. If I did anything threatening, I would likely be riddled with bullets before my corpse hit the ground.

  “It is always good to visit the Silver Dollar,” I said. A waitress clad in a skintight red skirt, a white halter top, and red heels approached, wiggling a bit with every step, and put down a tray with drinks. Mr. Rojo lifted his next can of Milwaukee Ducal beer, his associates took their beverages, and I helped myself to a cup of coffee. I needed to keep a clear head for this, and I didn’t want to maintain a Mask while drunk or even buzzed.

  A brief smile went over Mr. Rojo’s stern face. “You always speak such polite Spanish, Mr. West,” he said, using the alias I had given him. “So very polite. I would speak to my priest and my aged mother with such language. Or even the High Queen herself.”

  “It is a sign of the great esteem I have for you,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. It tasted like motor oil. Whatever virtues the Silver Dollar possessed, a good cup of coffee was not among them. “Also, a very expensive and very wasted education.”

  “Wasted? Not at all,” said Mr. Rojo. “It is a relief to find a polite man in our field of work. Speaking of which, perhaps it is time to turn our attention to business.”

  I nodded, reached into the ragged denim jacket I wore, and drew out a small wooden box. It took some concentration to integrate the movement into my Mask, and I moved with careful, slow motions. That was just as well, since it helped encourage Mr. Rojo’s associates not to shoot me. I set the box on the table, flipped open the lid, and slid it towards him.

  The gangster leaned forward, gazed at the glittering gemstones within the box for a moment, and then took another sip of his beer.

  “A remarkable collection,” said Mr. Rojo. “Where did you acquire them?”

  “Their provenance is somewhat cloudy,” I said. That was a polite euphemism. In truth, I had stolen them from the mansion of a Midwestern food magnate. The magnate in question had wound gotten killed during that job, but Mr. Rojo did not need to know that.

  Mr. Rojo also didn’t need to know that the food magnate had been a worshipper of the Dark Ones. The Inquisition killed people for possessing that kind of knowledge
.

  “I see,” said Mr. Rojo. “I assume you wish to liquidate these assets?”

  “With all speed,” I said. “I find myself in need of cash, and am willing to sell as quickly as possible.”

  A flicker went over Mr. Rojo’s eyes before he could stop it. My need for haste meant that Mr. Rojo could turn an enormous profit on the stones. He need only buy them from me at a reasonable price, wait until the market price went up, and then sell the stones at a high margin. Another man might have tried to murder me and sell the jewels without paying, but Mr. Rojo would not. He was a ruthless criminal boss, but he kept his word, and within certain boundaries his word was irresistible as gravity.

  A pity more men did not think like him. It might have been a more practical, if not necessarily better, world.

  “A need for a hasty sale implies that this merchandise is…shall we say, rather hotly sought?” said Mr. Rojo. “I do hope you have not brought Homeland Security to my doorstep, Mr. West. While no man is my equal in my devotion to our noble High Queen,” he glanced at where the portrait of the High Queen hung in a place of honor above the bar, above a smaller portrait of Lord Raithmyr, Duke of Los Angeles, “I would not wish to trouble Her Majesty’s servants over such a trifling matter.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I said. “It is unlikely the original owner shall come in pursuit of the gems.”

  Mr. Rojo offered a thin smile beneath his bushy mustache. “Why is that, Mr. West?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Mr. Rojo grunted. “That could be bad for business.”

  “In this case it is improbable,” I said. “The original owner of the gems was killed by a Shadow Hunter.”

  His associates shared a look.

  “A lie,” said one of the bodyguards, scowling at me. “There are no such things as Shadow Hunters. You have watched too much TV.”

  “No,” murmured Mr. Rojo, his black eyes distant. “I met one, long ago.” The eyes became hard and sharp again. “This assassin. How did you know he was a Shadow Hunter?”