Dragon Pearl Read online

  DRAGON PEARL

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Dragon Pearl

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

  Nadia Moran is an illegal wizard, an expert thief, and an occasional killer, and she has risked everything to save her brother's life.

  But Russell Moran has secrets of his own, and if he's not careful, those secrets are going to get him killed...

  Dragon Pearl

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright © idal @ istockphoto.com.

  Ebook edition published February 2017.

  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.

  Dragon Pearl

  My name is Russell Moran. I’m fifteen years old, and I’m going to save my sister.

  It’s only fair. She already saved me.

  It happened when I was a baby and she was only five. Our father had contracted frostfever, a rare magical disease, and he passed it to my mother and me, but Nadia was naturally immune. Our parents died, and I would have died, but Lord Kaethran Morvilind found us first. He agreed to cast the cure spells needed to save my life, one a year until my twentieth birthday.

  In exchange, Nadia stole things for him.

  He taught her how to use magic, and his retainers taught her other skills, and she used those spells and that knowledge to steal things for him.

  She kept it secret, but I had known about it for a long time.

  It was the little things. I lived with Dr. James Marney and his wife Lucy, former retainers of Lord Morvilind who could not have children of their own, and Nadia visited us often. Sometimes I saw her cry when she returned from one of her jobs from Morvilind. She knew way more about guns and bombs and locks and security systems than most people did.

  Also, there was the time I walked into her room and saw her levitating small objects with magic. That was sort of a giveaway.

  Anyway, I know what she has done for me, and I know how much it cost her…and I’m going to find a way to save her.

  Because I think she needs to be saved.

  Look, don’t get me wrong. My sister is tough and competent and smart. When the Archons attacked the Ducal Mall, Nadia got me and my girlfriend out alive. Nadia’s used to that kind of danger, but sooner or later it’s going to catch up to her.

  She’s going to get killed.

  I’ve got to find a way to save her. That’s going to be hard for me to do. I don’t have magic, and because of the frostfever, I’m never going to be a man-at-arms in service to an Elven lord. That means I’ll never be a veteran, and the High Queen has decreed that veterans get all kinds of perks in the United States, which puts me at a disadvantage.

  But that’s all right. I have an advantage that most people do not.

  I know I’m going to die.

  Everyone knows that, but no one believes it, but because I have frostfever in my veins, I know I’m going to die. If Nadia gets killed before I can save her, the frostfever is going to kill me. So, I’m not afraid of dying, which means I can try things I wouldn’t do otherwise.

  And if you’re confident, there’s one other thing you can do well, which is convenient, because it’s what I’m best at.

  I am really good at talking to people.

  ###

  I figured out how to save Nadia during my first summer job.

  I worked at Sergeant Bob’s Shooting Range And Dining Club in Wauwatosa. I had started there part-time when I was fourteen, and after I had learned to drive, I worked there full-time, which was in the summer of Conquest Year 315. There were a lot of places like Sergeant Bob’s. After they had finished their tours of service, former men-at-arms were required to keep guns in their homes in the event of an Archon attack, and shooting is a skill that must be practiced. Veterans went to shooting clubs to maintain their skills, and since most veterans were married with children, successful shooting clubs added restaurants and playgrounds, and Sergeant Bob’s was the biggest one in Milwaukee.

  Robert Melbourne owned the place, but he insisted that everyone call him Sergeant Bob. He was a big guy with a lot of muscle under the fat, and he had an artificial right leg, walking with a limp and a cane as he thumped up and down his establishment. Sergeant Bob had a vast fund of war stories, which he shared liberally, and friends among half the veterans of the Midwest.

  He hired me because I was part of my high school’s rifle club and he thought I was a good shot. I think he also felt a bit sorry for me, since the frostfever had turned my hair white, so it was obvious I would never be a man-at-arms. I think my actual job title was “Shooting Range Associate,” but in practice that meant I did whatever Sergeant Bob and Mr. Vander told me to do.

  Not that they needed to tell me to do much. I intended to make the most of the job, and I made myself useful. I disassembled and cleaned guns, stocked cases of ammunition, swept up shell casings on the shooting range, and fetched drinks and snacks for people eating and drinking on the wide balcony overlooking the range. Since Sergeant Bob hated doing paperwork, I spent a great deal of time filling out legal forms related to firearms and ammunition, which was an education in and of itself.

  Mr. Vander appreciated that.

  I should mention Mr. Vander before I go any further.

  Nathan Vander was my shop teacher, but teaching shop didn’t pay a lot of money, so he also worked at Sergeant Bob’s during the summer as the supervisor of the shooting range. Sergeant Bob was big and red-faced, but Mr. Vander was pale and even gaunt, and quiet while Sergeant Bob was loud.

  Nevertheless, Mr. Vander was my favorite teacher, and he was a good supervisor. We got on well. I wasn’t sure why. He never talked about his past, but I think he was a veteran because he understood. I talked with him about the Archon attack, about shooting those orcs, though I didn’t mention Nadia, of course. It’s not like shooting those orcs bothered me because they would have killed me if I hadn’t been faster, but it was nice to talk about it with someone other than Nadia.

  I mean, I loved Nadia, but there are some things you don’t want to talk about with your older sister.

  Working at Sergeant Bob’s was a good first job. Plus, I got an employee discount, so I took Lydia there on dates. That was another thing I could talk to Mr. Vander about. I mean, you really can’t talk about your girlfriend with your older sister.

  After a couple of weeks, I had a routine at Sergeant Bob’s.

  On the day I figured out how to save my sister, the routine fell apart.

  ###

  It started with a phone call from Mr. Vander at six in the morning.

  That surprised me. Sergeant Bob’s was usually its busiest after 4 or 5 PM on Fridays and Saturdays, with veterans and their families arriving for a night of dining and shooting. The only customers who arrived at 6 in the morning were be Homeland Security officers and active duty men-at-arms who needed to keep up their marksmanship certifications. They tended to be surly and cranky, though they did tip well if you brought them coffee towards the end of their sessions.

  I almost let the phone go to voicemail, but I cracked open one eye and saw that it was Mr. Vander, so I groaned once and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I said, working moisture into my thro
at.

  “Russell?” said Mr. Vander.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “It’s Nathan Vander,” said Mr. Vander. “If you’re available, I need you to come in this morning.”

  “Why? What’s up?” I said.

  “Max Hartwell had a stroke.”

  I sat up in surprise, so fast that the novel I had been reading before I fell asleep (a historical novel about the Crusades by Malcolm Lock) fell off my legs and bounced off the floor. I started to curse once I realized that I had lost my place, remembered that I was on the phone with Mr. Vander, and stopped myself.

  “A stroke?” I said. “But he’s eighteen.”

  “That’s what the doctors think,” said Mr. Vander. “His parents found him this morning unconscious on the floor. Nothing would wake him up. He’s at the hospital now, but I need someone to cover his shift. If you want, you can have his shift and then yours. Sergeant Bob said we can pay overtime for this.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t looking forward to working for sixteen hours straight, but Lydia was on a trip with her parents, and all my friends were at their jobs, so I didn’t have anything better to do. And I could use the money. “Let me just arrange transportation.” I could probably get James and Lucy to drop me off on their way to work. “Might not be able to make it until seven-thirty, though.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Mr. Vander. “Thanks, Russell.”

  He hung up, and I got showered and dressed in a hurry. I was pleased with my reflection in the mirror. I looked sharp-featured and lean, and some girls went for that sort of thing. Lydia did. Granted, I would have liked to have been bigger, but the frostfever meant I wasn’t going to put on as much muscle mass as I would have liked, though on the plus side I probably wasn’t going to get fat.

  And I was doing better than Max Hartwell.

  A stroke? That was hard to believe. Max had been in good health. Granted, when we had first met, he had detested me, figuring I would be easy to be bullied. We had a fight or two, then I did him some favors, and now we were friendly. At least we would be if he woke up from his stroke with his faculties intact. This had been his last summer at Sergeant Bob’s. Come September he would have been a man-at-arms in service to Duke Tamirlas of Milwaukee.

  I put it out of my head. I couldn’t do anything to help him, but maybe I could arrange something to help his parents and his girlfriend.

  I left my room and went downstairs to the kitchen, intending to eat some breakfast before I asked James and Lucy for a ride.

  Instead, I ran into Nadia.

  She was wearing a blue tank top and a pair of shorts. She must have just finished her morning run because she was drenched with sweat, her hair pulled into a greasy ponytail. When I went into the kitchen, she had finished one glass of water and started on another.

  The shorts and tank top were tight, but Nadia’s in really good shape. Running alone at five in the morning isn’t the safest thing for a woman to do, but anyone who tried to accost Nadia would probably get electrocuted for their trouble.

  “You’re up early,” she said. “Or haven’t you gone to bed yet?”

  “Early,” I said. “Mr. Vander wants me to cover a shift at Sergeant Bob’s.”

  She frowned. “Your shop teacher?”

  “He’s also the range supervisor at Sergeant Bob’s.”

  “Right, right,” said Nadia. “Forgot.” She finished off her water.

  “Could I have a ride?” I said with a bright smile.

  “Fine,” said Nadia. “Let me just shower off first.”

  I waited about ten minutes, and Nadia returned, freshly showered, wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and a different pair of running shoes, her hair hanging wet around her shoulders. Lydia had a horror of going out without putting on makeup and preferred to wear a dress whenever possible, and even Lucy took twenty minutes to get ready before going anywhere and refused to leave the house with wet hair.

  Nadia just didn’t care. Unless Riordan was around. Then suddenly she was more concerned with her appearance than either Lydia or Lucy.

  “What are you frowning at?” said Nadia.

  “I was contemplating context,” I said.

  “Mmm,” said Nadia. “Did you leave a note for James and Lucy?”

  “Already on the kitchen table,” I said.

  “Then let’s go,” said Nadia.

  We left in Nadia’s car. Or her current car, anyway. Nadia tends to go through a lot of them, though she prefers old four-door sedans, probably because they are inconspicuous. Her favorite vehicle is her motorcycle, but getting both of us on it at the same time grew harder as I grew taller, partly because Nadia was so short.

  She doesn’t like being reminded of that.

  “New car?” I said, buckling my seat belt.

  “Not really,” said Nadia, backing into the street. “I think it’s older than either of us. The old one…well, I think it’s at the bottom of the Ohio River. Long story.”

  “That’s where you were last week,” I said.

  Nadia grunted. “Long story. Probably shouldn’t tell you about it.”

  “Right,” I said. “Riordan just took you on a date where you both dumped cars in the river. I understand. That’s not weird or anything.”

  She burst out laughing, and for the first time, she smiled. “That is not what happened.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “Riordan’s probably loaded. He ought to take you on nicer dates than dumping twenty-year-old cars into the river.”

  “Riordan does just fine with dates,” said Nadia. “And we…God, I’m not talking about this with you. I’m just not.”

  I grinned. Nadia is unflappable. Except where the topic of Riordan is concerned. Then I can get her flustered a bit. It’s a younger brother’s solemn duty to get his older sister flustered from time to time, and just because she had saved my life did not excuse me from that duty.

  “If you say so,” I said. “Is Riordan around this week?” He was a spooky supernaturally-enhanced assassin, but I liked him. He had saved our lives…and he had made my grim sister happier.

  “No,” said Nadia. “He’s on a job. He’s been busy lately, but he’s coming back to Milwaukee as soon as it’s wrapped up. I don’t have anything going on today, so I can pick you up when you’re finished. Just give me a text message when you’re ready.”

  “You should buy me dinner when I’m done,” I said.

  She snorted and raised an eyebrow. “I’m your chauffeur and your cook?”

  “Of course not. You can buy dinner, not make it.”

  “I’m the one driving you,” said Nadia. “Seems like you should be buying dinner.”

  “Fair enough. The burrito place? They have all that healthy junk you like.”

  “You,” said Nadia, taking one hand off the wheel to wave a finger in my direction, “are in no position to lecture me about junk food. But you’re buying dinner, so I’ll let it pass.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  By then we had bantered enough that we had arrived at Sergeant Bob’s. Nadia let me out by the loading dock, and I waved goodbye as she drove off. I dug my employee keycard out of my jeans, swiped it through the lock, and went through the storage room, the kitchen, and into the balcony overlooking the shooting range. Well, I say balcony, but it was more of a wide terrace, with lots of tables for people to eat and drink and watch the other customers shoot. The wives tended to socialize up here while the husbands shot targets, though many of the women were fair shots themselves.

  I took two steps into the terrace and froze.

  There were three men in blue Homeland Security uniforms, along with two men in the black jumpsuits of EMTs. For a wild moment, I thought they had come for Nadia. She knew magic, and humans outside of the Wizard’s Legion were not supposed to know any magic, save for occasional exceptions like the Family of the Shadow Hunters.

  Then I saw the stretcher between them.

  Another Homeland Security officer lay on the stret
cher, his eyes open, his mouth hanging limp. He was still alive, but he looked dazed, maybe even catatonic. The officers and the EMTs hustled the stretcher towards the front door. The ambulance must have been parked out there. Nadia had come in the back way, so we hadn’t seen it.

  I spotted Mr. Vander by the bar, and I walked towards him. He was wearing cargo pants and his blue Sergeant Bob’s polo shirt, though both fit him loosely. I suppose everything fit him loosely, and I could relate. He was scowling at the floor and looked up as I approached.

  “Russell,” he said. “Good, you made it.”

  “What happened, sir?” I said.

  “Don’t know, son,” said Mr. Vander, raking a hand through his graying hair. “Far as I can tell, that Homeland Security officer just had a stroke in our bathroom.”

  I blinked. “A stroke?”

  Just like Max Hartwell.

  “His squad was here for their marksmanship training,” said Mr. Vander. “That fellow went into the bathroom and stayed in for so long that the others got concerned. I went in and found him like that on the floor.”

  “First Max and then him,” I said.

  Mr. Vander paused so long that I knew the same thought had occurred to him.

  “Just a coincidence,” he said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a stroke,” I said. “Maybe they got poisoned or something. Max collapsed here, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Vander. He rubbed his jaw, the graying stubble rasping under his callused palm. “But neither one of them ate or drank anything while they were here. Something in the air?” He shook his head. “No. It has to be a coincidence. It has to be.”

  “Sir,” I said. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  He looked at me and then smiled a little. “You’re young, but in time you’ll understand this, Mr. Moran. Sometimes even your elders need to talk themselves out of irrational fears.” He sighed. “Anyway, we have work to do. Help me clean out the ranges and hang fresh targets. The night shift didn’t bother, again.”