Cloak of Ashes

By Jonathan Moeller

My name is Nadia, and I’m a shadow agent of the High Queen of the Elves.

I don’t have many friends, but I look after the ones I do have...and I pay my debts.

So when Hakon Valborg’s teenaged granddaughter Lydia is arrested for the murder of her computer science teacher, I agree to help.

But there’s more going on here than just murder.

Because an ancient enemy of both humans and Elves just might have taken up residence in Lydia’s high school...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Mar 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463086391

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Book preview

CLOAK OF ASHES

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

My name is Nadia, and I’m a shadow agent of the High Queen of the Elves.

I don’t have many friends, but I look after the ones I do have…and I pay my debts.

So when Hakon Valborg’s teenaged granddaughter Lydia is arrested for the murder of her computer science teacher, I agree to help.

But there’s more going on here than just murder.

Because an ancient enemy of both humans and Elves just might have taken up residence in Lydia’s high school…

***

Cloak of Ashes

Copyright 2020 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Some cover images copyright Photo 113523201 © Passigatti | Dreamstime.com & Illustration 82931994 © Bezimeni Bezimenkovic | Dreamstime.comEbook edition published April 2020.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

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***

Chapter 1: The Prestige Hotel Welcomes You

When the High Queen of the Elves recruited me to be her shadow agent, I expected difficult and dangerous assignments. Like, spying on her rivals, hunting down dangerous creatures, that kind of thing.

And there was quite a lot of that. Like the time I had to find out who murdered a dragon. Or that messy business with the wraithwolves and Owen Quell.

But when I became Tarlia’s shadow agent, I didn’t anticipate how often she wanted me to rob hotels.

Like, she wanted me to rob hotels a lot.

Though to be fair, it was the same hotel over and over.

Yeah, I should probably back up and explain.

In the ten months since the Mage Fall and the destruction of the Archons, I had realized some things about the High Queen. Specifically, that she didn’t have nearly as firm a grip on power as most people (both humans and Elves) thought. Thanks to all the propaganda from the Department of Education and similar government organizations in other nations, most people thought the High Queen ruled benevolently but firmly, supported by loyal nobles in her defense of Earth and Kalvarion.

The truth was messier and far more complicated.

Tarlia had formal command of the Elven nobles, but law and tradition granted them a great deal of autonomy, especially when dealing with their own vassals. In wartime, she exercised greater authority over the nobles, but thanks to Morvilind, the war with the Archons was over, and Kalvarion had returned to the High Queen’s control. Many of the Elven nobles wanted to go back to Kalvarion. Some of them wanted to abandon Earth entirely.

To balance out the nobles’ power, Tarlia had numerous sources of unofficial authority she had accumulated on Earth. Earth’s cities of Elven commoners were sworn solely to the High Queen, and not to the Elven nobles. Tarlia commanded the Inquisition, the police force she used to keep an eye on the nobles, the Elven commoners, and more powerful humans. She also had the sole authority over the Wizard’s Legion, an elite force of human magic users. Tarlia’s alliance with the dragons she had allowed to settle on Earth had generated tremendous wealth for her. She had a majority ownership stake in many of the richest and most powerful human corporations. And she recruited individuals with unique talents to act as her shadow agents.

Like me.

Which is how I wound up robbing the Prestige Hotel yet again in May of Conquest Year 317 (or 2330 AD according to the old calendar).

Although, is it technically robbery if the owner of the hotel orders you to do it? I doubt that would stand up in court. Though I had no intention of ever getting caught.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Back to the main point.

The Prestige Hotel is in downtown Milwaukee, not all that far from the lakefront. It’s a big twenty-story building of gleaming white stone, glass, and steel, illuminated from the ground with tasteful lighting at night. There’s an attached convention center with a kitchen and an expensive restaurant. Rich people stay in the Prestige when they come to Milwaukee – billionaires, state governors, the President, foreign heads of state, people like them.

And visiting Elven nobles. Usually, the Elven nobles rented the entire top floor of the Prestige, since Elven nobles traveled with entourages.

A lot of Elven nobles had been traveling to Milwaukee lately because of the Great Gate. In Morvilind’s final moment of life, he had locked the Quantum Nihlus Stone, using it to open a permanent gate from Kalvarion to Earth that bypassed the dangers of the Shadowlands. Milwaukee was booming, new construction going up everywhere since the city had become the link between Earth and Kalvarion. And after the Mage Fall, hundreds of Elven nobles had traveled to Milwaukee from around the world. Some wanted to buy property in Milwaukee. Some wanted to visit Kalvarion and see firsthand the damage the Archons had done to the place over the last three hundred years. Quite a few of them stayed in the Prestige before continuing through the Great Gate.

And when they stayed in the Prestige, the High Queen sent me to spy on them.

Not all of them, of course. That would have been beyond even my abilities. But only those Tarlia didn’t trust. Which, as it happens, still turned out to be quite a lot of them. Between November and May of Conquest Year 316, she had me rob the penthouse level of the Prestige Hotel seventeen times. Of course, when I say rob, I didn’t take anything valuable. No, I just copied the contents of all the computers, took pictures of any documents, and then sent them all to the servers of the High Queen’s household staff on the Skythrone.

On the night of May 11th, Conquest Year 317, I was ready to rob the Prestige Hotel for the seventeenth time.

More specifically, I was ready to rob Duke Vashtyr of Venice.

I hadn’t known much about Duke Vashtyr before this job. He was one of the more prominent European Elven nobles and known for his extreme arrogance and distaste for popular culture. Some of the Elven nobles liked humans, some were indifferent, and others actively hated us. Vashtyr…he gave off the impression of weary disdain for humans, like they were a necessary evil he had to tolerate. Not that this stopped him from getting rich off human businesses, mind. Venice was a big tourist destination, and Vashtyr owned many of the hotels in the city.

I had been able to learn quite a lot about Vashtyr because of ELSE.

Acronym time! When I had become her shadow agent, Tarlia had given me access to UNICORN, the Unified National Intelligence & Crime Online Reporting Network. (I don’t know what it is with computer people and their damn acronyms.) Anyway, UNICORN was the official name for the massive database Homeland Security and other American government agencies used for monitoring crime and tracking citizens.

ELSE, by contrast, was the Elven Loyalty & Security Estimation (another damn acronym), which was the Inquisition’s database for monitoring Elven nobles and prominent Elven commoners. Humans weren’t even supposed to know that it existed. I hadn’t known it existed.

But now I did. The High Queen’s staff had given me access credentials when Tarlia started sending me after Elven nobles. By looking up records in ELSE, I had learned a lot about Vashtyr. I knew that he was one of the most influential Elven nobles in the European Union. I knew that he had frequently been critical of the High Queen over the last three hundred years, always in such a way that it couldn’t get him into trouble with Tarlia, and I knew that he disliked humans and wanted to take a harder line against us. And I also knew that he was a leader among the faction of Elven nobles who wanted to abandon Earth and return to Kalvarion.

Which, I suppose, is why the High Queen sent me to spy on him.

Thanks to ELSE, I also learned that the High Queen spied on her nobles, like, a lot. Way more than she actually spied on humans. There was a lot of information about the nobles in ELSE, up to the number of mistresses the various Elven nobles had. (Two currently, in the example of Duke Vashtyr.) Tarlia really didn’t trust her nobility. Though given that, for example, Baron Castomyr had nearly summoned a powerful Dark One and almost blown up North America before I had shot him in the head, maybe that distrust was justified.

But I’m digressing. I do that a lot. The High Queen spied on her nobles…but lately, I was the one who had done a lot of the actual work of spying.

At about 8 PM on May 11th, Conquest Year 317, I walked towards the Prestige Hotel.

It had been a hot day, and it was going to be a hot, sticky night. The winter had been cold and snowy, and the spring had been hot and humid. I suspected it was going to be a hotter summer. Not that I minded. I preferred heat over cold since my magic had a tendency to leech away my body heat. I was dressed like a hotel employee – white blouse, black blazer, knee-length black skirt, heeled shoes – and I had a lanyard with an employee ID card around my neck. The picture on the ID card showed me smiling at the camera, though the smile showed a little too many teeth to be really friendly. The identification data coded on the card was actually a master key to every room in the Prestige Hotel.

Turns out when the owner of the hotel is the one ordering you to rob the guests, it’s quite a lot easier.

I walked up the front steps and through the gleaming doors of glass and steel and into the lobby. It was a big space, with a polished floor of white stone, lots of sleek black furniture that looked uncomfortable, and even a small fountain. Despite the hour, there was a good crowd in the lobby. A couple of reporters recorded clips about the Elven nobles visiting Milwaukee. I stayed well away from them. I didn’t want to wind up on video while I was doing this.

The portable hard drive in my jacket pocket felt cold and heavy.

Miss? Miss?

I stopped, turned, and put on a bright smile. A wiry old woman in jacket, slacks, and heels scowled at me with disapproval. One hand clutched an enormous purse that looked as if it could have doubled as an emergency shelter. Both clothes and purse would have cost more than I could have made in year stealing for Lord Morvilind in the bad old days, and the woman’s expression was a mixture of expectation and annoyance. I guess money really can’t buy happiness.

The downside of disguising myself as a hotel employee was that people sometimes came to the reasonable conclusion I actually worked for the hotel.

Can I help you? I said.

Where is the restaurant? she demanded, glowering at me. They were supposed to meet me here, but they’re late. So, I’m going to take the table first. That will show my ungrateful son and that useless wife of his, won’t it?

Right this way, I said, putting a hand in the small of her back and steering her through the lobby. I made sure to keep her between me and the reporters’ cameras. The old woman continued a rambling monologue about the failings of her sons, for whom my sympathy grew with every word.

We crossed the lobby and came to the Prestige Hotel’s restaurant, which was decorated in shades of stark white and deep black and equipped with subdued lighting. Waiters and waitresses alike wore dress shirts and ties of crisp white and black, and the food here cost a lot. It was the sort of place rich people liked to go and waste money. I supposed I was technically a rich woman now, but there was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to spend $89 on a meal that consisted of some pork medallions and spinach leaves arranged artistically on a plate.

I handed the old woman over to the restaurant’s concierge, the poor guy. I kept going, walking past the various diners at their tables. I saw a lot of suits, evening dresses, and jewelry, and smelled several expensive perfumes. I passed the bar and went through the doors in the kitchen. Inside it was ordered chaos, with white-coated chefs laboring over meals in various stages of completion. I passed a half-dozen young women wearing similar outfits to mine. The restaurant doubled as the hotel’s kitchen, and it delivered food to guests who would rather eat their meals in their rooms.

I walked briskly through the activity, and no one stopped me. For all my magic and all my illusion spells, the easiest way to get into a place was to walk around like you had every right to be there. I stopped before the locked door to one of the supply rooms, swiped my ID card through the reader, and the door clicked open. No one paid any attention to me.

Wire shelves stood on both walls, holding miscellaneous goods – paper towels, boxes of cloth napkins (because the Prestige Hotel was too fancy for paper napkins), spare tablecloths, and so forth. The far wall of the closet was blank drywall. I checked that the door was locked behind me, crossed to the blank wall, and closed my eyes.

I summoned magical force, shaped it with my mind, and cast a minor spell of telekinesis. This part was a little awkward, but I had a lot of practice at it by now. I sent a gentle push of telekinetic force behind the wall and felt it catch on the hidden lever. There was a click, followed by a faint hissing noise, and the outline of a door appeared. I pushed it open, stepping into the stairwell beyond, and shoved the heavy metal door shut behind me.

It was a clever trick. From the closet, the secret door could only be opened with telekinesis. Beyond was a narrow stairwell of poured cement, the walls unadorned cinder block. I don’t think anyone other than the various shadow agents the High Queen had sent into the hotel knew that the secret stairwell was here. The air smelled dry and stale, and dim light came from LED bulbs set into the walls every so often.

I started up the stairs. The click of my heels against the concrete steps sounded shockingly loud, but I knew the stairwell was soundproofed well enough that no one could hear it. I passed the first landing, which offered a door leading to that floor’s secret passageway. Up and up I climbed, and I soon had a faint ache in my legs, but my breathing remained level – one of the benefits of keeping in good shape.

Finally, after twenty floors, I came to the penthouse level of the Prestige Hotel. The stairs ended in a narrow concrete landing with a steel railing. A single LED bulb in a metal cage cast a dim glow over everything, and the air smelled of construction dust. The Prestige Hotel was ten or eleven years old by now, but the secret passageway was so well-sealed and used so infrequently that it still smelled new. A single metal door stood in the wall with a card scanner. I swiped my card, and the lock released.

I eased the door open and into the gloomy, narrow corridor beyond. I slipped out of my shoes and went ahead on bare feet since it was very difficult to walk on concrete in silence in high-heeled shoes. Theoretically, this passage should have been soundproofed. In practice, I could see and hear the people in the penthouse rooms, and if I could hear them, they might be able to hear me. Best not to take any chances.

I glided in careful silence down the corridor. When the construction company had built the hotel for the High Queen (via many shell companies) they had helpfully included room labels on the walls. I stopped beneath the sign for the master bedroom in the premier penthouse suite and peered through the tiny viewfinder in the wall. Some clever mechanism that had apparently been invented by the Soviet secret police back in the pre-Conquest era allowed me to see and hear into the bedroom.

Immediately I saw something that I really wished I hadn’t.

That’s the trouble with being a shadow agent. You see things you wish you hadn’t.

Specifically, I saw Duke Vashtyr of Venice making vigorous love to his current favorite mistress.

The master bedroom of the penthouse suite was larger than the entirety of my old apartment. The rooms were decorated in stark black and white and brushed steel, and all of it looked expensive. The far wall was entirely glass, and during the day, it offered a fine view of Lake Michigan, though now it was entirely dark. The bed was enormous and currently occupied by Duke Vashtyr and his mistress, who according to ELSE was named Lady Tirana, the wife of one of Vashtyr’s sworn knights.

I grimaced. I needed to get to the Duke’s computer. But I could see his laptop sitting open on a desk in the corner of the living room, which was past the bedroom. And that meant I had to wait until Vashtyr and Tirana were finished.

While the Duke was preoccupied with helping Tirana break her marital vows, I cast a spell. Elves are more sensitive to the presence of magic than humans, but I suspected Vashtyr and Tirana were too preoccupied to notice. I worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. I didn’t feel any magical objects, but I didn’t dare use a Masking or a Cloaking spell. They might sense the power of the spell as I cast it, especially the Mask spell, and that would be bad.

And that meant I had to get at Vashtyr’s laptop the old-fashioned way, without using any magic.

I repressed the urge to sigh (the sound might have traveled), and I waited. Of all the various unpleasant things I’ve done during my career as a shadow agent to Morvilind and Tarlia, this didn’t even break the top fifty, but it was still really awkward.

At last, Vashtyr finished, rolled over, and sat up. He had a thick mane of golden hair that looked leonine and brilliant golden eyes. His face had all the alien beauty of the Elves, though it had a cruel edge to it. Next to him, Lady Tirana stretched with a languid sigh. She had black hair that would have hung to her hips when standing, now pooled on the pillow, and eyes that were an eerie shade of purple.

Do you have a cigarette? said Tirana, speaking in the Elven language.

I was that satisfying? said Vashtyr. His voice was deep and musical. He leaned over and reached for the nightstand.

Tirana snorted. You at least know what to do with a woman. My husband has skim milk for blood. Once he had an heir from me, he was more interested in his precious account books and his investments. She let out a derisive laugh. Perhaps if I really wanted his attention, I ought to dress up as a spreadsheet.

Vashtyr lifted a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Tirana took one, and he lit it for her before taking one himself. They smoked in silence for a while, Tirana on her back, Vashtyr sitting against the headboard. I really wished they would go away. Or at least put some damned clothes on. Didn’t they know that smoking in bed was a fire hazard?

Well, said Vashtyr, if your husband is so blind that he cannot appreciate what is in front of him, I am not such a fool.

Tirana smirked. And you appreciate the women in front of you quite often. No. Let us not be sentimental. I am here to spite my husband. You are here because you…

He smirked back. Am a womanizing lecher?

Always in heat, let us say, said Tirana.

Vashtyr grunted. Or perhaps I live as Elven nobles ought to live. We were once a kingdom of warriors, of conquerors. Living on Earth among humans as made us…base, materialistic… He snapped the fingers of his free hand in irritation. What is the word the French humans have to describe complacent shopkeepers?

Bourgeoisie? said Tirana.

Yes, that is it, said Vashtyr. We have become…bourgeoisie. He said it with heavy contempt. Elven nobles were once warriors, rulers, heroes. Now we have become men like your husband. Shopkeepers and showmen putting on little pageants of civic ceremony for humans. It has blinded us. Much as it has blinded the High Queen.

Tirana levered herself onto one elbow, gazing at him with a contemplative expression.

Dangerous talk, she said.

Is it? said Vashtyr. The war with the Archons is over. We ought to leave the humans to their barbarism and return to Kalvarion, to take up rule over our serfs once more.

From what I understand, said Tirana in a dry voice, the High Queen has declared that serfdom is abolished on Kalvarion. She wants to organize Kalvarion as one giant royal free city, sworn only to her.

Vashtyr made a scoffing sound, letting out a cloud of smoke as he did. Ridiculous. Once, the Elven nobles were a warrior elite, ruling over obedient serfs. And now? She wants to merge Earth and Kalvarion, to turn us all into a nation of…shopkeepers. He said the word like it was something filthy.

Perhaps she has a point, my Duke, said Tirana, gesturing with her cigarette. We were a warrior elite, but we were still driven from Kalvarion. Even three centuries ago, during the Conquest, the humans had built technologies we could never have imagined. If not for our magic, the humans would have destroyed us.

Vashtyr looked sidelong at her. One wonders where your loyalties lie, my lady.

Tirana gave a hard smile. With my son, of course. With his future. For the first time, something like softness came over her expression.

Indeed, said Vashtyr. Your son shall receive his inheritance. Wide lands on Kalvarion, and loyal knights and dutiful serfs to follow his command. He shall be a warrior, a wizard, a lord of Elves. Not some…grubbing merchant.

As you say, said Tirana.

Vashtyr laughed. You don’t care, do you?

Abstractions bore me, said Tirana. She sat all the way up and ran her free hand over him. Realities concern me. Flesh and blood interest me. By God and the Lord Protector, shall we sit here talking all night? Or shall we get some food?

Vashtyr raised an eyebrow. Have I indeed fatigued you?

It was Tirana’s turn to laugh. You truly have a high opinion of yourself, my Duke. And yes, you have. Also, I haven’t eaten all day. This gaudy hotel is supposed to have a decent restaurant.

I suppose we ought to put in an appearance, said Vashtyr. Let the humans gawk in awe at their superiors.

Don’t let them gawk too much, said Tirana. She finished her cigarette and ground it out in an ashtray on the nightstand. Or else Duke Tamirlas will get jealous.

Tamirlas! said Vashtyr with disdain. The lord of Tarlia’s pet shopkeepers. Do you know I once saw Tamirlas eating sauerkraut and bratwurst?

Tirana blinked. Sour…grout? Like, bathroom tile grout?

No, said Vashtyr. Fermented cabbage leaves and pig sausage, served on a bun. A popular food of the human rabble of Wisconsin. Tamirlas ate it in public, where anyone could see his shame. He shook his head. The lows to which our race has fallen.

Tirana managed to look solemn, but her lips twitched. I suspect she did not find Tamirlas’s consumption of sauerkraut and bratwurst quite as offensive as Vashtyr did. A shocking fall, my Duke. Fortunately, I suspect the restaurant here as better food.

Indeed, said Vashtyr, and he turned his head and raised his voice. Victoria!

A human woman stepped into the bedroom from the living room.

She was dressed in a formal black jacket and a knee-length black skirt, though both were quite snug, and in high-heeled ankle boots. The skirt showed off lean, toned calves. Her face was pretty but thin, perhaps even a bit bony, with razor-sharp cheekbones and dark blue eyes that seemed almost purple. Her black hair had been arranged in a sort of swooping style that covered the right side of her head, and multiple earrings glittered in her left ear. I couldn’t quite guess her age. It could have been anywhere from sixteen to thirty-five.

And I felt the aura of a magic user from her.

My lord Vashtyr, said the woman, performing a curtsy. She had a pronounced British accent. Hanging around with Nora Chandler had taught me that there were numerous regional British accents, and the woman’s accent was what Nora would have called posh. She sounded like an English newscaster. How might I serve? She showed no hint of embarrassment at Vashtyr’s nudity. Probably she was used to it.

Call the restaurant, said Vashtyr. Have them reserve the best table for us. We’ll be down in twenty minutes.

Best make it forty, said Tirana, who had wandered in front of the mirror. You left my hair a frightful mess.

I thought you were hungry, said Vashtyr with a snort.

I’m not hungry enough to be seen in public with my hair like this.

Will it be forty minutes then, my lord? said Victoria.

Vashtyr grunted but made a dismissive gesture with his right hand. Very well. Forty minutes. And have Lady Tirana’s ladies join us. Evidently, her hair is something of a crisis and requires immediate aid. Tirana shot the Duke a dirty look.

Victoria bowed, her expression never changing. My lord.

All right. Another forty minutes and the room would be empty. I settled in to wait. I was good at waiting. You don’t last long as a shadow agent unless you cultivate patience.

Victoria strode briskly from the room, and a moment later, two Elven women in the bright gowns of noblewomen entered and helped Lady Tirana don an ornate dress and fix her hair. Vashtyr dressed himself in the formal clothes of an Elven lord, a long blue coat with golden trim, crisp black trousers, and polished boots. He sat down in a chair, lit another cigarette, and amused himself by making occasional sarcastic comments about the fussiness of feminine grooming, which Tirana answered right back with insults of her own.

After thirty-five minutes, Victoria returned.

The restaurant is ready for you, my lord, she announced.

Good, said Vashtyr, grinding out his last cigarette in the ashtray. He had gone through four of them while Tirana had been primping. I wondered if Elves were vulnerable to lung cancer the same way that humans were and decided to ask Tythrilandria the next time I saw her. Shall we go down? You were the hungry one, as I recall.

Tirana rose with smooth grace. She had donned an ornate golden dress that hung to the floor, leaving her arms and shoulders bare, a silver belt around her waist. Her dark hair had been done up in an intricate crown, and jewels glinted on her throat and ears. She looked very beautiful in a distant, alien sort of way, like looking at a picture of a mountain on another world. But to judge from the hungry look that had come over Vashtyr’s face, she definitely didn’t look alien to him. I suspected Vashtyr and Tirana would come back up to the penthouse for round two once dinner was done.

I am famished, my duke, said Tirana. Do be kind enough to escort the wife of one of your poor knights to dinner.

I should be delighted, said Vashtyr, offering her his arm. The two Elven nobles walked from the bedroom, followed by Tirana’s ladies. Victoria trailed them at a discreet distance, her face a mask of professional cool and courtesy. I took a deep breath and started counting off the seconds, waiting to see if someone would come back, or if Tirana had forgotten her lipstick or her purse or something.

Three hundred seconds passed, and utter silence reigned in the penthouse.

My hand slipped into my jacket pocket, and I drew out a hair net and a pair of latex gloves. Hotel rooms were generally full of old hair and DNA traces – not even the