I nodded, and we got to work. I suppose what Mr. Vander said made sense. The Homeland Security officer had looked middle-aged and overweight (I could hear Nadia lecturing me about healthy eating) and it wasn’t out of the ordinary that a middle-aged man would have a stroke. And maybe Max hadn’t suffered a stroke. Maybe he’d been dehydrated or something. To be honest, Max wasn’t that bright, and I could totally see him forgetting to drink enough water after exercise.
Anyway, I was busy enough that I forgot about it. After I had helped Mr. Vander clean up the range, I did some paperwork for a few hours, and by then the lunch crowd was coming in. One of the waiters failed to show up for work, so I stepped in to wait tables. I didn’t mind. I was good at charming people, and I knew how to play up the white hair of my frostfever just enough that it didn’t become pathetic, which translated to good tips.
I had been thinking a lot about what I wanted to do when I graduated from high school.
What I really wanted to do was find a way to save Nadia.
I thought it might help that process if I became rich. I could take care of her in gratitude for all she had done for me.
Also, I liked business. I liked talking to people and making deals. Sergeant Bob had told me a couple of times to go into real estate. He often boasted with great pride that he owned the lot that housed the shooting club, his own home, and a vacation condo in Florida that he rented out during the year.
He might have a point.
I thought about that as I did my work, and I admit that I didn’t think about Max Hartwell and that Homeland Security officer at all.
Then I walked back to the bar, turned around, and saw Riordan MacCormac sitting at one of the tables.
For a moment, I stared at him in surprise, and my brain went into overdrive.
Nadia had said that Riordan was working, doing a job for the Shadow Hunters. The Shadow Hunters were assassins, but from what Riordan had said, they also hunted down creatures that had escaped from the Shadowlands and wound up on Earth. (Hence the name.) I didn’t think Riordan would lie to Nadia about what he was doing.
Which meant that Riordan was here on a job.
And maybe the illnesses of Max Hartwell and that Homeland Security officer weren’t actually strokes. One of the waiters hadn’t shown up for work. I had a sudden suspicion that the waiter was lying in a stupor on the floor of his apartment, just as Max and that Homeland Security officer had been.
“Mr. Vander,” I said. “I think I’m going to take my break now.”
Mr. Vander grunted and nodded. His attention was on the computer behind the bar. It looked like he was glancing at the feeds from the security cameras.
I crossed the terrace. Riordan sat alone at a table, watching some of the shooters on the range. He didn’t react as I approached, pulled out a chair, and sat down. At last, he turned his head to consider me.
“Hi, Riordan,” I said.
He sighed. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
Riordan was a big guy. He was over six feet tall, taller than me, and he was big. Not fat big, but lean and well-muscled big. He was wearing khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and a light jacket, and the shirt and jacket were tight across his shoulders and arms. I suspected he had a hard time finding clothes that weren’t tight across the shoulders and arms.
I knew Nadia didn’t mind. She tended to get a bit starry-eyed when he showed up, and she found a lot of excuses to touch him.
“I do,” I said. “Full-time this summer.”
He looked at me for a moment, and I felt the cold pressure of his gaze. He was wearing heavy wrap-around sunglasses, which he often did during the day because his Shadowmorph granted him increased senses. The Shadowmorph also fed on life force, and the cold feeling was its attention.
“Yes,” said Riordan. “I am here for a meeting, I’m afraid, so I must ask you…”
“There’s some kind of creature loose here, isn’t there?” I said.
Riordan remained still for a moment.
“What makes you think that?” said Riordan.
“Two people had strokes today,” I said, “but I don’t think they were actually strokes. One of the waiters didn’t come into work, and I don’t think he had a stroke either. You walked through the door, and if you’re not here with my sister, then you’re here on business. And since your business is killing people and finding creatures…”
Riordan said nothing for a moment. He tapped his fingers against the table once, twice, three times, and then let out a long sigh.
“You’re a lot like your sister,” he said.
“Oh?” I said.
“Too clever for your own good.”
“I’m told we’re a lot alike,” I said. “Except she has a smarter mouth.”
“That is debatable,” Riordan said. He got to his feet with a quick, fluid motion, and I glimpsed a pistol in a shoulder rig beneath his jacket. “Come with me.”
There wasn’t any room for argument in his voice. I followed Riordan across the terrace and to a side door that led to the utility basement. Riordan shouldn’t have had access to it, but he produced a keycard, unlocked the door, and gestured for me to step inside. I complied and walked into a room that held grumbling HVAC equipment. Likely that would make it harder for anyone to overhear us.
Riordan closed the door behind us.
It occurred to me that I was alone in a room with a Shadow Hunter, and between his strength, his magic, and his Shadowmorph, Riordan could kill me in a half a second if he happened to feel like it.
I didn’t think he would. Nadia would kill him if anything happened to me, and it was pretty obvious that Riordan was in love with her.
“So,” I said. “What’s up?”
“The Archon gates back in September,” said Riordan. “You recall them?”
“Since one opened in front of my house, they are difficult to forget.”
“The Archons opened at least a dozen gates before they were defeated,” said Riordan. “Before they were, some creatures from the Shadowlands got through and have been wandering uncontrolled through the area. We’ve been busy hunting them down.”
I knew that “we” likely meant him and the other Shadow Hunters.
“So there is a creature from the Shadowlands here?” I said.
“Yes,” said Riordan. “It’s called a cognophage.”
I blinked. “Is that like an anthrophage?”
“Not quite,” said Riordan. “The anthrophages are dangerous, but the cognophages are subtle. Anthrophages prefer to hunt in packs. Cognophages always hunt alone. They’re better at illusions than anthrophages, and can disguise themselves effectively as humans.”
“Do they eat people?” I said.
“Not quite,” said Riordan. “They eat…minds.”
I grimaced. “They crack open the skull and eat the brain? That sounds gross.”
“It would be,” said Riordan in a dry voice, “but it’s subtler than that. I’m not sure how it works, but they eat thoughts and memories. No blood or flesh is required. Their usual tactic is to take the form of someone the victim knows, lure them to a private place, and then drain out their memories. The process takes about five minutes, and the victim falls unconscious during the process.”
“That’s what happened to Max Hartwell and the others?” I said.
“Who?” said Riordan. “I don’t know the name.”
“He works here,” I said. “I heard he had a stroke, that they found him on the floor unresponsive. And the same thing happened to some Homeland Security officer in the bathroom this morning.”
“It wasn’t a stroke,” said Riordan. “The cognophage took their memories.”
I shuddered. “Then…they’re going to be vegetables for the rest of their lives? There’s no cure?”
“If I can move fast enough, I can still save them,” said Riordan. “The cognophages are like pythons. It takes them a long time to digest the memories. If I can kill the thing fast enough, the memories
will be released and returned to the victims. They’ll suffer some memory loss, depending on how long ago the cognophage took them, but eventually, they’ll recover.”
“What can I do to help?” I said.
“What you can do,” said Riordan, “is go back to work. I don’t need any help, and this is dangerous.”
“There’s a creature from the Shadowlands rampaging around Sergeant Bob’s,” I said. “It’s my responsibility to help.”
“It actually isn’t,” said Riordan.
“I was able to help fight off those orcs last year,” I said.
“That isn’t a good argument,” said Riordan.
“Why not?”
“One,” said Riordan, “a cognophage is more dangerous than a band of orcish mercenaries. Two, if you recall, we lost that fight. The Archons would have killed us if Lord Morvilind hadn’t slaughtered them and their orcish mercenaries.”
“I know Sergeant Bob’s better than you do,” I said. “I know the layout of the building, and I know the people. If someone is standing out, I’ll be able to tell you.”
“No,” said Riordan. “Go back to your work and make sure you’re not alone. I don’t want your help because I don’t want to explain to Nadia how I got you injured or killed.” She would probably go berserk, come to think of it. “If I can deal with this quietly, all the better. No need to involve the Inquisition or the local Elven nobles…”
Someone screamed.
Riordan’s head snapped around at the same time as mine. The faint scream had come from a metal door on the far side of the HVAC room. Riordan looked at the door, at me, at the door, and then back at me.
I saw him realize that I was going to follow him.
“Fine,” said Riordan with irritation. He reached into his jacket, drew his pistol, and passed it to me. “Don’t shoot me in the back.”
“I wouldn’t want to explain to Nadia how I got her boyfriend injured or killed.”
He was wearing sunglasses, but I bet he rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to do this, then do exactly what I tell you. Understand?”
I nodded. I wasn’t ever going to be a man-at-arms, but I had been in fights before, and I knew that listening to an experienced fighter like Riordan MacCormac was my best chance of survival.
“Do you have another gun?” I said.
“I shouldn’t need it,” said Riordan, and he rolled his right wrist. Lines of shadow flowed across his palm and fingers and knitted together to form a blade of darkness about three and a half feet long. It looked like he was holding a sword fashioned from pure shadow. His Shadowmorph symbiont had formed itself into the weapon, and I knew it could cut through almost anything.
I had seen him use it against a bunch of anthrophages.
“Guess not,” I said.
“Watch my back,” said Riordan, and he crossed the HVAC room and opened the door. Beyond was a corridor with a polished concrete floor and cinder block walls. A short flight of stairs led down to the corridor that ran behind the shooting range and the various machines that rotated out the paper target outlines. Riordan glided down the stairs in absolute silence, and I followed him, the pistol’s grip in both hands and the muzzle pointed towards the ceiling.
Riordan froze, his sword coming up, and I peered over his shoulder.
A middle-aged woman in a Sergeant Bob’s polo shirt lay on her back, her eyes staring at nothing. In a flash, I recognized Claudia, one of the waitresses who usually worked the late shift.
Mr. Vander stooped over her, hand on her neck. Conflicting thoughts flashed through my mind. Was the cognophage impersonating Mr. Vander? Or had it killed Mr. Vander and taken his place?
Or had Mr. Vander always been a cognophage?
Mr. Vander moved his hand over Claudia’s neck, and a red light shone from his fingers.
Was he casting a spell? I had seen a similar light from Nadia’s fingers when she used her magic.
Riordan stepped forward, his expression hard.
“Russell?” said Mr. Vander, straightening up and frowning.
Then he saw Riordan and his dark sword, and shock went over his face.
“What?” Mr. Vander said. “A Shadow Hunter? No. No! I haven’t violated the terms of my parole. I haven’t!”
Parole?
“I need to ask…” started Riordan.
“No!” said Mr. Vander, the shock turning to panic. “I was promised. The High Queen promised!”
He whirled and ran down the corridor behind the range.
Riordan took off after Mr. Vander. I hesitated, looking at Claudia, but she wasn’t physically hurt. There wasn’t anything I could do for her.
The only way I could help Claudia was by finding the cognophage and releasing her memories.
I sprinted after Riordan. Mr. Vander whirled, gesturing with his left hand, his face tight with concentration. There was a flash of light, and he hurled something that looked like a sphere of lightning at us. Riordan did something with his hand and cast a spell of his own. There was a flash of gray light, and the sphere vanished in a spray of brilliant sparks. Mr. Vander cursed and ran faster, reaching the end of the corridor. He wrenched open the door and tried to jump through it, but he tripped on the threshold and landed on his face.
He started to push off the floor, but the short delay was all that a Shadow Hunter needed.
Riordan shot forward in a dark blur. His boot impacted on Mr. Vander’s side, and Mr. Vander flipped onto his back. Riordan’s shadow-blade came to rest an inch from Mr. Vander’s throat.
“I surrender,” croaked Mr. Vander. “You can’t just kill me. I was paroled. Paroled! By the High Queen herself.”
I caught up with them, wheezing a bit. The frostfever had several deleterious physical effects, and one of them is that I run out of breath quickly. I gripped the doorjamb with one hand, keeping the gun pointed at Mr. Vander with my other hand as I caught my breath.
“Don’t kill him!” I said.
“Russell?” said Mr. Vander. “What are you doing? You took your break!”
“What were you doing to that woman?” said Riordan.
“I was trying to help her,” said Mr. Vander. “I thought she might be like the others…”
“Like Max Hartwell and that Homeland Security officer,” I said.
“Yes, like them,” said Mr. Vander. “I thought…wait. How do you know about that?”
“I’m not stupid,” I said.
Both Riordan and Mr. Vander gave me a look.
“Mostly,” I said. “But I know Mr. Vander isn’t the creature you’re looking for.”
“How?” said Riordan.
“Because he said he was paroled,” I said. “That thing we were talking about. I doubt they get parole.”
“They do not,” said Riordan, his eyes still fixed on Mr. Vander. “Which is why you’re still alive. Who are you really?”
“My name is Nathan Vander,” said Mr. Vander, “and I’m a shop teacher at…”
“Shop teachers can impart many useful skills,” said Riordan, “but casting lightning globes is not one of them.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Mr. Vander.
“Did you attack that woman?” said Riordan.
“No,” said Mr. Vander. “I was trying to help her. I was back here to check on the machinery, and I saw her on the floor.”
“What could you do to help her?” said Riordan.
Mr. Vander hesitated. “First aid.”
“First aid typically does not make your hands glow with red light,” said Riordan.
“Then you’re doing it wrong,” said Mr. Vander.
“Who are you really?” said Riordan. “I’m not going to ask again.”
“You tell me,” said Mr. Vander. He frowned, thoughtfulness overtaking fear. “You’re…not here for me, are you?”
“No,” said Riordan. “Not unless you’re a cognophage.”
“A cognophage?” said Mr. Vander, eyes widening. “Oh. That does make sense. E
xplains a lot.”
“It doesn’t explain who you are,” said Riordan.
Mr. Vander looked at me, and then back at Riordan. “Aw, hell. Fine. I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to keep it a secret, both of you. Suppose it’s the only way I’m getting you off my back. Course, it might work better if I show you.”
“Show us?” said Riordan.
“Yeah,” said Mr. Vander. “All right. I’ll show you. No tricks. I just have to take something off my right wrist. Uh. Please don’t cut off my head when I do.”
“Certainly,” said Riordan. “So long as there are no tricks.”
Very carefully, Mr. Vander reached for his right wrist with his left hand. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t wearing a bracelet or a wristband or anything, but he grasped his wrist and tugged.
Something glittered as he pulled it away from his wrist.
Then Mr. Vander vanished, and in his place…
“Holy shit!” I said and then regretted using profanity.
Mr. Vander had vanished, and in his place lay an Elf.
The Elf sort of looked like Mr. Vander, with roughly the same facial features and the same eye color, but his face had the alien cast of the Elves, and his ears came to sharp points. He was still wearing jeans and his Sergeant Bob’s polo shirt, and seeing an Elf wearing a Sergeant Bob’s shirt was so incongruous I felt the sudden urge to laugh.
“Ah,” said Riordan. “How? A Masking spell? I would have sensed that.”
Mr. Vander smiled and lifted something that looked like a thick silver watchband. “A Ghostwright Mask. Undetectable by any wizard or magus without the skill of an archmage. The High Queen herself made it for me as part of my parole.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. A lifetime of education and social pressure kicked in. “Lord Elf.”
From early on, we learned in school about the Elves. How the High Queen had conquered Earth, overthrowing the corrupt human governments who had once reigned in blood and fear and tyranny across the world. How we were always to respect and honor the Elves who had brought peace to the world, always to defer to them. In practical terms, that meant anyone who was accused of elfophobia was arrested by Homeland Security and wound up on a Punishment Day video. I knew Nadia didn’t like the Elves very much, but even she wouldn’t badmouth them.
Dragon Pearl Page 2
