Cloak Games: Shadow Jump

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Pineapple?” said Riordan. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “I’m surprised you Shadow Hunters need food at all,” I said. The stoplight changed, and I managed to get another car length forward before it turned red again. “What with feeding upon stolen life force and all that.”

  “The Shadowmorph feeds on stolen life force,” said Riordan. “It needs surprisingly little. A human body still needs human food.” He glanced at the compass again, but it remained motionless, pointing to the driver’s side of the car. “Preferably healthy food. I’ll have to remember the smoothies. I have spent more time waiting in cars eating garbage than I care to remember.”

  I laughed. “The rest of the Shadow Hunters are not into healthy eating?”

  Riordan grunted. “To my great annoyance, no.”

  “Well, I promise that if you stick with me,” I said, “we won’t go through any drive-through restaurants, and I’ll make you eat your damned vegetables.”

  He laughed once, and then watched the compass some more. I grinned and looked back out the window, surprised at how…relaxed I felt around Riordan. I am, without question, paranoid and ruthless, and I have good reasons for that. But I felt relaxed around Riordan, even if he was a Shadow Hunter, maybe because he was a Shadow Hunter. Part of my brain pointed out that I had spent the night in my van more than once, and there was ample room for Riordan to share…

  Hell. I was infatuated, wasn’t I?

  A phone started ringing in a pocket of Riordan’s heavy coat. He reached into his coat, and drew out his phone, hitting the speaker button. “Riordan.”

  “Hello, Riordan,” said a woman’s voice, precise with a British accent. (English, technically, I suppose.) “I’m afraid you’ve gone and gotten yourself into more trouble, haven’t you?”

  “Actually, I’m fine, Nora,” said Riordan. I had met Nora during the Archon attack. She was a statuesque, dark-skinned woman who could break me in half even without the aid of her Shadowmorph. “I just had breakfast and I’m sitting in traffic.”

  “I looked up this Armand Boccand fellow,” said Nora, “and we do have some information. Likewise, we have no active writs of execution again Boccand, and therefore no reason to be investigating him.”

  “I am indulging my curiosity,” said Riordan.

  “Oh, rubbish,” said Nora without rancor. “We both know that it is pure and utter rubbish. It’s the skinny white girl, isn’t it?”

  I lifted my sleeve to my mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “I am at liberty until I return to my duties,” said Riordan. “What I do is my own business.”

  “Of course it is,” said Nora, “but you do have a type, Riordan. The tigress is just the latest one. Skinny white girls…and skinny white girls with a tragic past.” She sighed. “She’ll turn on you, Riordan. They always do.”

  “That was different,” said Riordan, his jaw tightening a little.

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Nora.

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Hi, Nora. You’re on speaker phone.”

  “Hello, tigress,” said Nora. “And, yes, I know I’m on speaker phone. I like you, and you saved our lives against that madman Rogomil. But I know people like you. You’ll destroy yourself in some spectacularly messy way, and because Riordan has a weakness for skinny white girls with tragic pasts, you’ll take him with you.”

  She…wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “Anyway,” said Nora, “I’ve said my piece, and that’s that. You’re both adults, and you may do as you wish, no matter how stupid. You wanted to know about Armand Boccand?”

  “Please,” said Riordan, all cool business. “Anything you have would be helpful.”

  “Very well,” said Nora. “Armand Boccand, then.” The light changed and I got the van forward another car length. “There are outstanding warrants for his arrest in the States, the European Union, the United Kingdom, the Russian Imperium, Australia, and…well, pretty much all the other English-speaking countries. He hasn’t drawn the notice of the Inquisition yet, but with so many outstanding warrants, they’ll come after him sooner or later.”

  “What did he do?” said Riordan. “Thefts?”

  “Spectacular thefts,” said Nora. “Mostly art and jewels and paintings, that kind of thing. Basically, he was stealing from rich people and selling to other rich people in different countries, which I suspect is why no security agencies have made serious efforts to find him. They’re more focused on Rebels and subversives, not thieves. What’s interesting, though, is the timing of the warrants.”

  “How so?” said Riordan. I glanced at the compass’s needle. It still hadn’t moved.

  “Of all his warrants, fully half of them have been issued in the last six months.”

  “Really,” I said. “Is he getting sloppy, maybe? Reckless? Overconfident?”

  “I’m afraid I simply don’t know,” said Nora. “His focus has also changed. He’s stolen items from three separate Elven nobles.”

  “Four, now,” I said.

  “He keeps that up,” said Riordan, “he’s going to draw the attention of the Inquisition.”

  “Probably,” said Nora. “Are you going to kill him? The Firstborn and the Elders frown on unauthorized killing.”

  “No,” said Riordan. “I’m not, anyway.”

  “I just want to find him and ask him a question,” I said.

  “Ah,” said Nora. “In other words, that old devil Morvilind sent you to steal something and Boccand got to it first?”

  I grimaced. “Something like that.”

  “I told you, Riordan,” said Nora. “The tigress is going to get you into trouble.”

  “I’ve had practice at trouble,” said Riordan.

  “There is one other thing you should know,” said Nora. “Armand Boccand apparently uses the alias ‘Norman Harper’ sometimes, and Mr. Harper recently purchased a condo in Corbisher Tower.”

  I frowned. Corbisher? Something about that name sounded familiar. I was sure I had heard it recently.

  “Wait,” said Riordan. “Corbisher Tower? You’re sure of that.”

  “Well…mostly,” said Nora. “It is a secondhand report, but I think the source is accurate.”

  “Thank you, Nora,” said Riordan. “That is extremely helpful. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Just stay out of trouble,” said Nora, and she hung up.

  “So,” I said. “Where is Corbisher Tower?”

  “Right there,” said Riordan, pointing at the driver’s side window.

  I blinked. He was pointing at the big condo building with the garish billboard…and come to think of it, the compass was pointing at it as well.

  “Corbisher,” I said. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Look at that billboard,” said Riordan.

  The billboard displayed one of the candidates for the gubernatorial election, the smiling blond man named Martin something-or-other. I recalled seeing him in a bunch of different ads, pledging to bring Minnesota to a new golden age under the benevolent rule of the High Queen…

  “Wait,” I said. “That’s Corbisher?”

  “Martin Corbisher,” said Riordan. “His father Luke Corbisher was the governor. He died a few months ago, and his son Martin is running to take his place. The Corbishers are rich. The High Queen executed most of the politicians and rich men of Minnesota during the Conquest, and the Corbishers made themselves useful to the Elven nobles. They’ve been the richest family in Minnesota ever since.”

  “Wow,” I said. “And Boccand’s staying there?”

  “Apparently,” said Riordan, “he bought an apartment.”

  “That’s stupid,” I said at once. “He’s a thief, for God’s sake. He ought to live quietly in a little town someplace, pretend to own a hardware store or something. Not buy a million dollar condo in downtown Minneapolis.”

  “I think that offends you on a professional level,” said Riordan, smiling a little.

 
; “Yes!” I said. “I go to all this work to stay hidden, and he buys a luxury condo. I suppose he must not be wearing an Elven lord’s leash around his neck.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Traffic didn’t move.

  “Listen,” I said at last. “About what Nora said…”

  “What about it?” said Riordan.

  “I don’t…want to get you into trouble,” I said. “I know she thinks I’m going to get you killed.”

  “I fear,” said Riordan, staring out the window, “that it might be the other way around.”

  “Really,” I said. “You think you’re going to get me killed?”

  He still didn’t look at me. “It has happened before.”

  Again we fell silent. I wanted to ask him about the women he had met before me. Morvilind had mentioned a wife and another Shadow Hunter. Riordan had to be at least a century old. Had there been other women than those two? I hadn’t asked him what had happened to them…but neither had he asked me about Nicholas Connor.

  “Why don’t we just promise not to kill each other?” I said. “If we’re dating, I feel that should be a minimum baseline of acceptable conduct.”

  Riordan snorted. “I think…Nadia.” He straightened up. “Look.”

  I thought he was about to make a point of some kind, and then I realized that the compass needle was moving.

  It was moving quickly.

  I turned my head just as Armand Boccand emerged from Corbisher Tower, the red-uniformed doorman holding the door open for him.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  Boccand strolled down the sidewalk as if he owned the city, wearing a similar coat and vest and cravat to the costume I had seen him wear in Castomyr’s mansion. His archaic outfit drew a few stares, but Boccand ignored them, striding forward with complete confidence.

  “That’s him?” said Riordan.

  “He didn’t even change his outfit,” I said, annoyed. “The idiot! With all those warrants out for him, you’d think he would at least make the effort to disguise himself. Is he that lazy? It’s just so…”

  “Incompetent?” said Riordan.

  “Exactly,” I said “Incompetent. It…”

  I fell silent. Morvilind hated incompetence and sloth, detested them with the fierceness of a dog barking at a passing cat. In that moment I realized I felt the same way…and that the reason I felt that way because I had picked up that attitude from Morvilind.

  For a second I was so horrified that I couldn’t speak.

  Then my disgust reasserted itself. For God’s sake! It didn’t matter what Morvilind thought about sloth and incompetence. They were still annoying for their own sake. It annoyed me that Boccand was strolling around so openly on the streets of Minneapolis.

  He disappeared into a coffee shop a few blocks away. The stoplight changed, and I managed to get the van forward far enough to see into the coffee shop. Through the windows I glimpsed the shop’s crowded interior, saw Boccand get in line.

  “Do you want to approach him?” said Riordan.

  I opened my mouth to answer. I wanted to go into the shop and beat the location of the tablet out of him. Nevertheless, I knew that was a bad idea. For one, there were a lot of witnesses. For another, Boccand could just shadowjump away at the first sign of danger. Likely that was why he was willing to walk about so openly. If anyone threatened him, he would shadowjump back to his anchor, pack up his things, and disappear.

  And with that, a flash of insight came to me.

  Boccand had gotten lazy. He trusted too much into his magical abilities. All I needed to do was to watch him, study him, and prepare a trap for him…and then I would have him.

  It was time to show Armand Boccand why sloth and incompetence carried a steep price.

  “Nadia?” said Riordan.

  “No, not yet,” I said, looking away from the coffee shop. “You’re right. I’m going to watch and wait. And then, once I’m ready, we’re going to have a nice little chat.”

  Chapter 5: Grunt Work

  After Riordan flew out, I spent the next week pretending to go to work.

  I moved to the cheapest hotel I could afford, a chain motel on the edge of Minneapolis, and every morning I got dressed and drove downtown, stashing my van in an overpriced parking garage not far from Corbisher Tower. A lot of the larger corporations that served the Midwest and the Plains had their headquarters in the Twin Cities, and most of the Elven nobles of the region maintained houses and apartments in the downtown area. So every morning a lot of people drove or took the monorail or the bus to their jobs in downtown Minneapolis or St. Paul.

  I disguised myself as one of them.

  I donned the clothes that were the unofficial uniform of unmarried female office workers – black pantsuit, white blouse, low pumps - and spent a lot of time walking around downtown Minneapolis, pretending to talk on a cell phone while I glanced at the compass in my other hand, watching the progress of the needle.

  The rest of the time I camped out in the coffee shop with a laptop and pretended to look busy. The coffee shop was called the Gilded Bean, which sounded pretentious, but reflected the customer base well enough. A lot of well-dressed business types frequented the place, middle-aged and paunchy with success, discussing deals over coffee. I planted myself in a corner, sat a stack of fake spreadsheets next to my laptop, and typed away.

  Actually, I was busy, but I was just doing various illegal things.

  That, and following Armand Boccand.

  He came to the Gilded Bean every day. The day we had seen him awake at eight in the morning had been an anomaly. Usually he didn’t get up until nine or ten. He usually strolled into the Gilded Bean, ordered a latte and a scone, and then left, eating his breakfast and drinking his coffee as he rambled around downtown.

  I followed him during some of those little excursions, and to my frustration, he never seemed to do anything interesting. In fact, he never seemed to do anything at all. He wandered about various stores selling luxury goods, sometimes buying things, sometimes not. Or he sat in the Gilded Bean and played mindless games on his phone.

  The man was a high-level thief, various government agencies wanted his head, and with his magical ability and money he could have disappeared. Yet he was living in an expensive apartment in downtown Minneapolis, making no effort to hide himself. I couldn’t imagine why. Sheer arrogant cockiness? Some kind of latent death wish?

  Assuming he wasn’t suicidal, my best guess was that he was waiting for someone. Likely he didn’t want the tablet for himself, but intended to sell it. Maybe I could wait until he made the sale, and then steal the tablet from his buyer? That could be doable, but it seemed risky. The only people who would want a tablet like that were Elven nobles, Dark One cults, and possibly the Rebels, and I didn’t want to tangle with any of them. Best to steal the tablet from Boccand and let him face the wrath of his buyer.

  Given that he had left me to face Castomyr’s anger, it only seemed fair.

  In all of Boccand’s wanderings, he never went more than three miles from Corbisher Tower, and always on foot. That reinforced my impression that he was waiting for someone, which meant that he likely had the tablet hidden inside his apartment.

  Which meant that I needed to get a look inside his apartment. That could be tricky. It cost a fortune to live in Corbisher Tower, and the entirety of my remaining savings would barely cover a month’s rent there. Furthermore, rich people liked their privacy, which meant that Corbisher Tower had excellent security. The doorman seemed like a nice old man, likely a retired veteran, but I saw the bulge of the concealed pistol beneath his formal coat. I managed to get a copy of the building’s blueprints from the city government archive, and noted that Corbisher Tower had both a spacious security office and lots of ducts for wiring in the ceiling. That meant cameras, lots of cameras, and probably guards watching them 24/7.

  I needed a way in that wouldn’t draw suspicion, so it was time to do a little more research.

  Corbisher
Tower, as you might expect, was owned by the Corbisher Group, the privately-held corporation that managed the Corbisher family’s businesses. It had a long history. According to the Group’s website, the Corbisher family had risen to prominence following their loyal service to the High Queen and her nobles soon after the Conquest.

  Which probably meant the Corbishers had seen which way the wind was blowing during the Conquest and joined the High Queen as soon as possible.

  The Corbisher Group, the website said, was an umbrella corporation that held many different companies with interests in real estate, defense, cars, food production, and a dozen other industries. The late chairman of the Group, Luke Corbisher, had been worth billions of dollars, and had served as governor of Minnesota for three terms. The entire Group mourned his loss, and wished well upon his son and heir Martin Corbisher.

  To my surprise, I found very little criticism of the Corbisher Group on the Internet. The First Amendment of the United States Constitution guaranteed free speech…about humans. Criticize an Elf and you would get a visit from Homeland Security, followed by getting whipped to unconsciousness on a Punishment Day video for the crime of elfophobia.

  You could criticize human politicians and businesspeople all you wanted…with the exception of those who had friends in Homeland Security and even the Inquisition who could silence criticism.

  I suspected Luke Corbisher had been a man with powerful friends like that, and likely Martin Corbisher had inherited them.

  So why on earth was a renegade magic-using thief living in Corbisher Tower?

  I found a bit of criticism of the Corbisher Group on a gossip site that had not been scrubbed from the Internet. It seemed that many of the chief executives of the Corbisher Group lived in the Tower. I suppose they all went to golf together. One of those executives was a middle-aged man named Timothy Roberts, and Mr. Roberts had a reputation as a womanizer. According to the rumors, he had a dozen different mistresses, and slipped them into his Corbisher Tower apartment on different nights to prevent awkward chance encounters.