Cloak Games: Tomb Howl

by Jonathan Moeller

  I almost did it.

  I was angry enough that I didn’t care, but the last shred of caution stopped me. If I fought him now, I might win, might kill him, but it was just as likely that he would win. For that matter, he had a lot of well-armed allies, some of them wizards, and if I tried to fight all of them at once, I would lose.

  If I got killed, Russell would die.

  Even if I won, it would break Morvilind’s pact with the Forerunner, and Russell would die.

  Suddenly Morvilind’s words played through my head.

  “Explain to me,” Morvilind had said to me, “how storming off in a sulk and refusing to work with your enemies will ultimately defeat them. No doubt it will make you feel righteous, but what will it do to defeat your foes?”

  And as much as it appalled me to realize it, about this Kaethran Morvilind was right.

  Getting myself killed in a blaze of righteous anger wouldn’t accomplish anything. Even killing Nicholas would not be enough. I needed more.

  I couldn’t just kill him. I had to defeat him.

  And confronting him like this would not defeat him.

  “All right, Nicky,” I said, stepping back. He blinked in surprise, and I grinned at him. “You’re going to need my help again, because none of your pet idiots here know how to Cloak. And when you do need my help, give me a call. We can continue this conversation then.”

  “This isn’t over,” said Nicholas.

  “Of course it isn’t,” I said. “You can have the last word if you want. Bye.”

  I Cloaked and took three quick steps to the side in silence. Nicholas and Corbisher and Swathe turned, seeking me, but I exited the warehouse through the truck door and jogged out of the container yard, vaulting over the yellow arm that blocked the gate.

  Cold anger burned through me, but my mind felt clear and focused.

  I was broken. Arvalaeon had sent me to hell and it had broken me. I was a ruined, dangerous, unstable person, and I had wrecked my relationship with my brother and the man I loved. I was a danger to everyone around me…and for the first time, I thought that was a good thing.

  Because for the moment, I was surrounded by Rebels.

  I thought of all the people who had died at Madison and Milwaukee, of all the people who would have died in Los Angeles, of Andrea Tocci lying in her own blood.

  I had no choice but to play Morvilind’s game, but once the game was done, I was going to find a way to defeat Nicholas Connor.

  Epilogue

  “That woman is insane,” said Martin Corbisher, pacing back and forth before Nicholas’s desk. “She hates you personally, she’s unstable, and she is far too powerful to control.”

  “I know,” said Nicholas Connor, letting Corbisher fume. He refrained from pointing out that Katrina Stoker also hated Martin personally. That would have only provoked another rant. Martin Corbisher was a brilliant financier and a superb organizer, and Nicholas had come to rely on him as a valuable lieutenant.

  But good God, the man loved the sound of his own voice, and he was still bitter about losing so many of his holdings in Minneapolis.

  “And I knew that your womanizing would get us in trouble sooner or later,” said Corbisher. “If you had handled the bitch better in Los Angeles, maybe we…”

  “That’s enough,” said Nicholas, and Corbisher shut up.

  Nicholas fought down the flicker of anger. The truth was that Katrina Stoker had caused him a great deal of trouble. It still galled him how he had underestimated her in Los Angeles. And something had changed in her in the three years since. She was angrier and wilder, somehow, but far more powerful and confident.

  His eyes strayed to the briefcase on the desk.

  Without her help, he would not have been able to retrieve the papers, and the secrets of Operation Sky Hammer would not lie open before him.

  Nicholas respected Katrina even as he hated her, and that annoyed him. Many of the great revolutionaries of the pre-Conquest era had regarded women as liabilities, as too weak and emotional for true devotion to the Revolutionary cause, and Nicholas had come to agree with them. He had very little use for women beyond using them as instruments of physical pleasure, and he had seduced Hailey (and his other girlfriends that she didn’t know about) because he had liked the way she looked. Any other traits she possessed were superfluous. That was why he had seduced Katrina in Los Angeles, after all, because he had liked the way her body looked and he wanted to sleep with her.

  But Katrina had a will to match his own, and she was dangerously clever. She was closer to his equal than any woman he had met.

  A pity she couldn’t have been made to swear to the Revolution. What a companion she would have made! Together they could have destroyed the High Queen and ruled mankind.

  But perhaps it was just as well. He, Nicholas Connor, was going to save humanity. He would be remembered as the greatest figure in human history, as the savior of mankind…and he would suffer no rivals.

  And he certainly would not permit a cast-off ex-girlfriend to threaten his plans.

  “Milwaukee,” said Nicholas.

  “Sorry?” said Corbisher.

  “When Katrina was talking to the late Dr. Tocci, she mentioned the Archon attack in Milwaukee,” said Nicholas. “That means she witnessed it. It is probable that Katrina has family in the Milwaukee area. Perhaps this husband and child she mentioned, or if they are fabrications, maybe parents or siblings. If we find them, we have all the leverage we need to make Miss Stoker more compliant.”

  Corbisher frowned, rubbing his scarred face. “Stoker won’t be her real name.”

  “Of course not,” said Nicholas. “Not all our assets in Milwaukee were killed with Rogomil. Send Miss Stoker’s description to them, and promise a reward of a hundred thousand dollars for the location of any of her family members.”

  Nicholas hoped that Katrina hadn’t invented a fake husband to fool him. If the man existed, Nicholas would take great pleasure in sending pieces of him to Katrina.

  That would wipe the smirk off her face.

  “I will do it immediately,” said Corbisher.

  “Meanwhile,” said Nicholas, lifting one of the coded documents describing Operation Sky Hammer, “we must prepare for the next phase of our plan to destroy the High Queen.”

  And anyone else who got in his way.

  But a little collateral damage was acceptable.

  After all, what did a few million deaths matter here and there?

  ###

  “Then,” said the High Queen, holding out the heavy bracelet, “do you accept this task?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” said Riordan MacCormac, taking the bracelet from her hand.

  He stood in the New York penthouse of the Firstborn, the oldest of the Elders of the Family of the Shadow Hunters. The Firstborn himself stood a few yards away, clad in a simple and inexpensive suit, his hands behind his back. He looked about sixty and was as thin and tough as an old tree, but Riordan knew that he was far older.

  Save for the Forerunner himself, the Firstborn was probably the oldest living human being on Earth.

  Seven Elves stood in the penthouse, outlined in the glow coming from the illuminated nighttime skyline of Manhattan. Four of them were men of the Royal Guard, clad in white armor of a metal stronger than steel, each Elf an experienced warrior and a powerful wizard. Riordan thought he might have been able to overcome one of the Royal Guard in combat, but not two, and certainly not four of them at once.

  The fifth Elf wore black armor, his face marked with old, faint scars, his hair the color of iron. He was Lord Mythrender, the Duke of New York, the commander of the Wizard’s Legion, the High Queen’s Lord Marshall and iron right hand.

  If Lord Mythrender was the High Queen’s right hand, the sixth Elf was her subtle left hand. The Lord Inquisitor Arvalaeon wore the long black coat of an Elven archmage over the uniform of a Knight of the Inquisiton, and he looked tired. His eyes seemed heavy as he stared at Riordan, as if he knew some secr
et that Riordan did not, but right now Riordan could spare him no attention.

  The High Queen of the Elves held his focus.

  She was beautiful, unearthly beautiful, tall and strong, with hair like a banner of flame and eyes like discs of ghostly blue fire. When among humans, she wore silvery armor that gave off a faint gleam, and she looked tall and terrible and beautiful, perhaps the way the ancient pre-Conquest pagans had imagined their goddesses of war. After a century of life, Riordan had become jaded about the Elves. He did not think the Rebels could do any better and would probably be much worse, but he no longer held the Elves in the unthinking reverence that was trained into humanity.

  But standing before Tarlia, he saw how she had inspired the Elves to follow her to Earth, how she had held the exiles together and ruled humanity for the three centuries of war against the Archons.

  “Very good, Mr. MacCormac,” said Tarlia. “The arrangements have been made, and your own Firstborn and Elders have issued a writ of execution for Nicholas Connor. Kill him, and ten million dollars will be yours.” She considered him for a moment with those eerie blue eyes. “But I can see that money matters little to you. Consider this, then. Connor is possibly the most dangerous man now living. He hates me, yes, but to strike at me, he will inflict appalling causalities upon your own race, many times the number I have executed during my reign here.”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” said Riordan. He offered a bow. “I shall find Connor and execute him.”

  “Riordan MacCormac,” said the Firstborn, “is the most experienced member of the Family, save for the Elders and myself. He will not fail.”

  “I hope not, Master Firstborn,” said Tarlia, glancing at him. She considered Riordan for a while. “You are troubled.”

  Riordan did not want to tell her the truth, but neither did he dare lie when the Lord Inquisitor stood next to her.

  “You are perceptive, your Majesty,” said Riordan. “I fear it is a personal matter. I was courting a woman, and she decided to end the relationship. I cannot blame her. I am a difficult man to know, and perhaps the decision is the best for her. I regret that I have had to waste your Majesty’s time by discussing it with you.”

  She glanced at Arvalaeon, and the Lord Inquisitor nodded. He had detected no lie in Riordan’s words.

  Riordan hadn’t told the entire truth, but he hadn’t lied. Perhaps Nadia would be better off without him in her life.

  “Loss and regret,” said Tarlia in a soft voice. “You did not waste my time, Mr. MacCormac. I understand these things very well.” A faint smile went over the features of alien beauty. “They are something Elves and humans share in common. Go, Mr. MacCormac, and find and kill Nicholas Connor. For you do not, both Elves and humans shall suffer far, far more loss and regret.”

  Riordan bowed to the High Queen once more, and then turned and shook the Firstborn’s hand.

  “Good luck, Riordan,” said the Firstborn. His eyes flickered black for a moment as his Shadowmorph reacted to Riordan’s own. “Go with my blessing. If you have need of any aid, simply contact us.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Riordan, and without another word, he walked from the Firstborn’s office and headed for his own rooms in the Haven of the Family, the Family’s headquarters in Manhattan. He slipped the High Queen’s heavy bracelet into his jacket pocket as he walked, thinking through the next steps.

  Nicholas Connor. The most dangerous Rebel now alive, and the Family’s most likely link to the Forerunner.

  And, somehow, Nadia had gotten entangled with him.

  Riordan’s hand tightened against the heavy bracelet, remembering the last time she had talked to him.

  He had not been entirely surprised that Nadia had wanted to end things. He loved her, and he had been pretty sure that she had loved him. But she was right. Riordan had failed Miranda, and he had failed Sasha, and both women had gotten killed. Granted, they had both tried to murder him, but he still blamed himself. Nadia was right that he had a pattern, that he was a dangerous man to know. If she wanted nothing more to do with him, that was that.

  Riordan could accept that, and he would let her go.

  Though it was surprising. A hundred and ten years old and he had known so much loss, but he could still be so heartbroken.

  Then, three days later, Russell Moran had called him.

  “You’ve got to help her, Riordan,” said Russell. “She’s disappeared, and we can’t find her anywhere. Lord Morvilind’s people won’t tell us where she went, and I don’t think they even know. She’s not in her right mind at all. James thinks something horrible happened to her, and I think he’s right. You might be the only one who can find her, and you might be the only one she’ll listen to.”

  Russell had talked for some more after that. That boy did like to talk. Riordan had argued that Nadia had left him, that he had no right to interfere in her affairs, but in the end, he had agreed to find and help Nadia. Her little brother was damned persuasive when he wanted to be.

  Though Russell had persuaded Riordan to do what he really wanted to do anyway.

  Then had come the word that the High Queen wanted the Family to find and execute Nicholas Connor after a disturbance and a string of explosions in the ruins of Chicago. A passing Homeland Security plane had captured some of the incident on video, and Riordan had watched the video, curious. Nadia had told him, with great embarrassment and regret, that Nicholas Connor had been her first lover until she had found out the truth about him. Had Connor done something to her?

  In the video, he had seen what the Homeland Security analysts had identified as a man in a black coat, face concealed by a ski mask and goggles.

  Riordan knew better. After seeing that video, he had insisted upon receiving the writ of execution for Connor, and the Firstborn had given it to him at once.

  That was Nadia in the video. He would recognize her anywhere, and more to the point, he recognized that ski mask and those goggles. She had used them before to conceal her features while on jobs for Lord Morvilind.

  Which meant that Nadia Moran was working with Nicholas Connor and the Rebels.

  Riordan couldn’t imagine why. Nadia hated the Rebels, a hatred that had only intensified after the events of Madison and Milwaukee. Maybe Connor had found out her real name, and threatened Russell to force her compliance. She would do anything to save her brother.

  Or maybe Morvilind had forced her to help Connor, though that seemed unlikely.

  Or maybe…

  Maybe Nadia had finally snapped. She had feared that she would become someone like Rosalyn Madero, driven mad by her hatred of Morvilind. Madero had allied herself with the dark power of the Knight of Venomhold. Could Nadia have allied herself with Nicholas Connor?

  Riordan didn’t know.

  All he knew was that he was going to kill Nicholas Connor and save Nadia.

  If he could.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading CLOAK GAMES: TOMB HOWL. Look for Nadia's next adventure, CLOAK GAMES: HAMMER BREAK, to appear in 2017. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

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