The Gray Tower Trilogy: Books 1-3

by Alesha Escobar

  “I got the letter...from Otto.” A letter that was either a lie or pointing toward one.

  “Wh-what did it say?”

  I took a moment to clear my dry throat. “I think it’s from my father.”

  “Is he in France?”

  “He died sixteen years ago in Rome.” Both the U.S. Army and the Gray Tower confirmed it.

  “My God...” She placed her hand on her chest as she exhaled; her shocked expression mirrored my own. “Are...are you sure he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know anymore.” I felt my stomach tighten. If this note had truly been penned by him, then that meant I had been lied to about my father, and so everything I had believed about him...I didn’t know what I believed anymore. It was his handwriting, a reference that he knew I would recognize, and it was addressed to my codename—eerily enough, the same name as my favorite poet.

  “What did the letter say?”

  I repeated the lines to her and realized that the first four lines were an excerpt from an Emily Dickinson poem about time and eternity. Why this poem?

  “I have that poetry collection!” Renée shot up and went into her son’s old room, leaving me to recall what I did know about my father.

  He rose through the ranks of the U.S. Army and was also trained by the Gray Tower. Both institutions readily assented to my father being a liaison between the military and the Order of Wizards, and, by all accounts, he served honorably. One November evening, when another Elite Wizard, Serafino Pedraic, came from the Gray Tower to meet with my father in Rome, he found my dad’s bloodstained apartment ransacked. No one had seen my father since.

  After a lengthy investigation, Serafino arrived at our house along with General Robert Cambria, delivering their final verdict—Major Carson William George was dead. Though I was ten years old, certainly old enough to understand, part of me wanted to deny it and keep believing that my father would come through the front door any day with candy for me and Jonathan, and flowers for my mother. But he never came home.

  All other kinds of emotions rose inside me, and I didn’t know what to make of them. I believed my father wrote the note, but where was he if he was alive, and why had he been missing all those years? I kept ruminating over his words. What exactly did he mean by shielding me from our friends? He mentioned alabaster chambers and resurrection; could it be about death? Dickinson was a bit preoccupied with it. Maybe it was a warning that someone would die.

  “Here it is.” Renée nearly bumped into the table. She held the book open and started reading the poem to me, pausing after each stanza to see if I recognized any significance in them.

  I shook my head, having only listened to half of her words. “I need to think about all this.”

  “Sooner or later, it will come to you. You say you haven’t seen your father in years...perhaps there were things he said to you or that you’ve heard while he was still around.”

  “Maybe.”

  She closed the book. “Penn is with The Red Lady. Will you be going down to the nightclub later?”

  I gestured toward the back, where my guestroom stood. “Do you have any extra dresses in that armoire?”

  “Do you like purple satin?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  5

  Penn Margaux bootlegged liquor, smuggled weapons, and claimed to be a spy from Orleans—but for what it was worth, he wasn’t on the Gestapo’s side. I had known him for as long as I’ve been working with SOE, and he always managed to obtain information for me when no one else could, or hand me a passport at the last minute. I even bought ingredients off him that I needed for some spells.

  I would usually reach him through La Dame Rouge—the Red Lady, Jasmine Léon. She became a wildly popular entertainer at the Éclat nightclub after moving to Paris. While some of the locals believed that the Gestapo didn’t shut down the club due to the threat of an utter uprising (the people adored the Red Lady), the truth was that Éclat served as a useful tool for the enemy in the constant game of espionage. The danger lay in the presence of Gestapo agents, both uniformed and plainclothes. They knew half the spies in there, and have blackmailed some into working for them, or betraying employers when it suited their interests.

  I once knew a spy from Madrid who had claimed he was sent to gauge how things were going in France. Despite Spain’s claim of neutrality, the Gestapo didn’t like General Franco sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and so, as the spy left Éclat one night, two agents followed him to a woman’s house—his French sweetheart. The problem was that the spy had a wife back in Spain. They used this information against him and forced him to spy on the Spanish government. They even made him turn over information on other spies who came into Éclat. I guess he couldn’t take it any longer, because one day his Gestapo handlers found him hanging from his necktie in his hotel room.

  This taught me to keep a low profile. I had carefully crafted a persona that blended in easily with the many young women who patronized the club. This also reminded me to remain aware of the fact that people still watched me, just like the others at the club, which meant that I would have to be careful when leaving, and I certainly wouldn’t leave with a man. But as foolish and single-minded as many men were, I had seen several leave with women from the club without a thought.

  When evening fell, I hailed a taxi to take me down to Éclat. Well, I had to stand near the chapel and flag one down. I kept brushing off my dress and feeling like something was crawling down my back. I swore that I’d find a workable invisibility potion so that I could just go straight to Renée’s front door instead of through that creepy underground tunnel. I felt I needed the cab because it would’ve been awkward to approach the club on foot, and nothing screamed I’m a Spy Who Doesn’t Belong Here like pulling up on a foldable bike and trying to get into a swanky Parisian nightclub.

  I wore a slinky purple gown and a black sequined wrap—and of course, my Agate stone ring, which I never took off. Renée had to beg me to wear full eye makeup, but I had to admit that I liked the rouge on my cheeks and lips, and my hairstyle. I looked damned good, if I did say so myself. I checked my makeup in a compact mirror one last time before tossing it into my purse and instructing the bloated taxi driver to halt.

  “If you leave that club alone tonight,” he said facing me, “out of compassion I will take you home with me.”

  “Go to hell.” I threw him a few francs and slipped out. Maybe I looked a little too good.

  I strutted toward the entrance like I was a Hollywood starlet, making sure to give the doormen a wink and a smile. They readily admitted me. I came in just as Jasmine began singing Blue Moon up on stage. People swayed to the music, oblivious to the haziness created by cigarette smoke. The scent of perfume wafted toward me, and I narrowed my eyes as I silently critiqued or approved of some of the ladies’ choices in shoes.

  I acknowledged a group of handsome guys at one of the tables with a smile, but kept it moving since most of them were spies. I tasted the essences of silverware, gold jewelry, and even guns. There were about twenty tables in there, and those closest to the stage were reserved for Jasmine’s most ardent admirers and paramours—or those pretending to be.

  I nearly stumbled when I saw him sitting at one of those tables. At first I pretended not to see him, but then my gaze met his, and I headed straight toward him like a moth to a flame. I probably shouldn’t have made a move to join him, but sitting in that area made it easier to keep an eye on who entered the club; besides, it looked like both of us had business with Jasmine tonight.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Emelie.” He flashed me a seductive smile.

  “It’s good to see you again, Drake.” His real name was Kenneth Aspen. He knew mine as well. We had obtained illegal copies of one another’s files after we first met, which wasn’t quite your typical romantic gesture.

  “How long are you in Paris?” He pulled out a seat for me next to his and gently brushed his thumb against my cheek. I forced myself not to smile.
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br />   “I’m here long enough to enjoy the scenery.” I clapped along with the audience and gazed at Jasmine as she finished her ballad. She came down and stopped at a nearby table, where an enthusiastic man with a thick mustache greeted her with flowers.

  “The Boss sent me to take a look at some cars.” He took his seat and offered me some of his pochouse. I couldn’t refuse the stewed fish. It smelled delectable, having been cooked in red wine and flavored with a savory spice.

  “Then I’m glad your Boss sent you.” I grabbed a knife and fork and dug in.

  By “Boss,” he meant the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the American counterpart to SOE, and by “looking at cars” he meant sabotaging factories that produced machinery and weapons for the Nazis. I thought I heard him say that I looked beautiful, but I was already on my feet, welcoming Jasmine into my arms. We planted kisses on one another’s cheeks and gave each other a tight hug. As befitting her stage name, she wore a red rose in her hair and a scarlet dress.

  “Well, look who’s in town!” She accepted a cigarette from a waiter passing by and asked for a lighter. Apparently both Ken and I had messages to slip her (conveniently hidden within our cigarette lighters), because we eagerly asked for her to keep them as gifts. She wiggled her way between us, lighting her cigarette with her own lighter and giving a rich, sultry laugh.

  “I’ve missed you, Emelie...you too, Blondie.” She patted Ken’s cheek. I glanced toward the front entrance to see who entered and left, before facing them again.

  “By the way, Jasmine, there’s another gift waiting for you in your dressing room.” He gave her a knowing look. It was probably the stipend OSS paid her for her services.

  “Is it five thousand, like I asked?” She blew out a thin stream of smoke, her deep-set eyes watching Ken like a hawk.

  “Would you mind telling me why you needed an extra two?”

  “Things are getting tough around here.” She shifted toward me and lazily eyed the band, who started up a tune.

  Ken leaned in. “I know about your side operation. For goodness’ sake, Jasmine, don’t get yourself killed.”

  Not satisfied with just being an informant, she also took it upon herself to hide and smuggle stranded Ally soldiers across the border, Maquis resistance leaders with bounties on their heads and Jews who’ve fled the slaughter in Czechoslovakia...anyone who needed it. I had been meaning to ask her how she did it and who helped her.

  She rolled her eyes and faced me. “How are you, Emelie?”

  “I’m doing well, and I love being in Paris. Do you miss New York?” She acknowledged my code phrase referencing Paris, which meant that the city would be ripe with action within the next week or so, and that the Maquisards should be on alert. This time, Ken watched the door.

  “I’ll tell you what, I don’t miss performing in New York.” She faced Ken, and I turned to watch the front. “Tell that to your Boss. Tell him as long as I can’t walk through the front door of a New York club that I’m performing in, then he can kiss my black ass and keep paying me my five grand.”

  I smirked.

  “Jasmine...” Ken began blustering.

  “I know, I know—times are changing.” She fell back into her earlier jolly mood, welcoming the glasses of cocktails another waiter brought over. “But I just love that Eleanor Roosevelt. Remember that incident a couple of years ago where she left that women’s organization and told them off because they were talking about being whites-only? Ha! We need more people like her!”

  “Yes, we do.” My cocktail glass chimed with hers in a toast.

  I always hated when people told me not to aspire to certain things because I was a woman. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be told this simply because of my skin color. One of the many things I’ve learned is that when you’ve been holed up in a safe house with someone who doesn’t look like you or speak the same language, but who was ready to break bread with you and even fight by your side—you quickly realized that there were a lot more important things to gripe about. At the end of the day, people were just people—blood, sweat and tears, heart and soul.

  “Jasmine,” Ken said, gazing at the front entrance, “get your things and go lock yourself in your dressing room. Emelie, I think our covers are blown.”

  I looked toward the front and saw four Gestapo agents heading through. Ken covertly drew his pistol as Jasmine hid the cigarette lighters beneath her flowers. She rose from her seat and wasted no time in leaving the lounge.

  The music died and people shied away or headed toward the exit. For a moment, I hoped that the Gestapo were after someone else, but, sure enough, they came straight toward Ken and me. I felt the presence of other wizards as easily as I detected metals, and, despite the fact that the agents all wore black gabardine jackets with swastika armbands, I knew one or more of them were warlocks in disguise.

  I turned back toward the table and immediately retrieved my golden knife from my purse. I began carving the alchemical symbol for the sun on the table’s smooth surface. It was a simple circle with a dot in the middle, and, since it dominated gold, any spells I performed would be amplified. I carved the zodiac sign for Libra next to it, which would set off my Sublimation spell, which turned solids into gas. I charged the symbols with magical energy until they glowed, and held off the effects until I was ready.

  I looked at Ken. “Remember that crime lord in Cairo?”

  “You mean the sadistic wacko who wanted to sell a ship-load of grenades up here to the Nazis? Yes, vaguely.”

  I steadied my shaking hands. “And do you remember when he and his goons confronted us in that bar one night?”

  In one smooth move, he jumped away from the table and took a shot at one of the Gestapo agents. All remaining employees and patrons finally broke into an open panic and evacuated the building. Two of the Gestapo officers shot back at him as he dove behind the bar for cover, while the other two agents—the warlocks—came after me. I used more of my energy to create an invisible shield with my Agate stone ring, which helped deflect bullets.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood when I saw the warlocks approaching with searing red daggers. I had seen less fortunate wizards hit with those, and, as soon as it touched a person’s flesh, the skin would tear and fold, blood would sizzle and spill forth. My stomach churned, and all I could hear was the distant sound of gunfire. I reassured myself with the fact that at least these two warlocks weren’t Black Wolves.

  With a swift move of his arm, the warlock on the right sent a red-hot dagger flying toward me as he charged forward. I dodged the blazing weapon by dropping to the floor and grabbed hold of him when he came within reach. I flipped him over and made him land on the other side of me with a thud. I quickly rolled in the direction of my table, where I had carved my symbol. The other warlock flung another fiery dagger toward me. I released the Sublimation spell, letting the flames mingle with the gas accumulated in order to create an explosion. The building shook as I dashed away to avoid the blast, and I took cover behind the bar where Ken had been. One of the Gestapo agents that had engaged Ken lay dead by a doorway. It led to an emergency hall exit. I heard a physical fight ensuing in the hallway.

  I began coughing from the smoke that filled the room and knew that I had to leave the lounge if I wanted to keep breathing. On hands and knees, I peeked around the corner of the bar and saw only one of the warlocks still standing. The bastard had been waiting for me. He spun a pestilential black mist that flew straight toward my face. I didn’t jerk back quickly enough to escape it and grunted in pain when my eyes burned. My vision blurred and darkened to black—I was blinded.

  I rushed in a panic toward the doorway, tripping over the dead agent’s body and bracing my fall with my hands. I crawled in the direction where I remembered the door standing and heard the warlock’s footsteps and heavy breathing. I stiffened and timed the swing of my leg just in time to kick him. I didn’t know where my stiletto landed, but the kick stunned him, and I got back onto my
feet, rushing through the doorway and staggering down the hallway.

  Believe it or not, I began to worry. I wondered why the warlock didn’t blast me with another spell since I was vulnerable and running blind. When the obvious answer dawned on me, I started running even faster. I cursed when I stubbed my toe against a utility box against the wall in the hallway and nearly lost my balance. The warlock caught up to me and I swung my knife, driving my blade into him. He cried out in pain and struck me; I hit the wall with a smack and tried to pry his forearm away from my neck.

  I froze when I felt the blade of my golden knife sweep across my cheek. I heard his harsh breathing and felt the heat of his breath near my neck. I squirmed when he made a cut across my shoulder with the knife.

  “God, no...” My voice grew hoarse and I was sick to my stomach. Repulsed, I felt his mouth on my wound, lapping up the blood flow.

  A single gunshot reverberated throughout the hallway, and I jolted. I felt the pull of his body as we both slid down and hit the floor.

  “Isabella! What happened?” I heard footsteps and knew that it was Ken who rushed to my side. I heard a rustling of clothes and felt his jacket being wrapped around me as he helped me to my feet.

  “Ken...” My darkened sight seemed to spin in gray and red colors all about me. I tried to speak, but my throat burned with every syllable uttered.

  “That’s a nasty cut you have. We need to get you patched up quick to stop the bleeding.”

  “Ken...”

  “What is it?” He held me with a firm grip and pulled me along down the hallway.

  “Cut his head off.”

  “What?”

  People in the normal world called them vampires. To wizards, they were a nasty bunch of warlocks called Cruenti. Blood Magic was one of the most powerful forms, and Cruenti fed off other wizards. They drank wizards’ blood to cast spells, enhance their own powers...and to regenerate from gunshot wounds.