Cloak Games: Truth Chain Page 2

I lay there hog-tied and helpless. That really wasn’t comfortable. I couldn’t move anything, and between the bag over my head and the gag, I was having trouble breathing. The fear and panic were worse by far. I had been caught. Despite all my precautions, I had been caught by the Inquisition. Either they were going to kill me, or Morvilind would realize what had happened and use that vial of blood to kill me.

  Frantic, I tried to pull together magic, but pain erupted from the collar around my neck, and all my muscles jerked and twitched. I heard a thump, and then something cold and hard rested against my temple.

  The barrel of a gun.

  “Let’s behave, little girl,” said the rough voice. Captain Alan, that was what the Inquisitor had called him. “Drive.”

  The van’s engine started with a rumble. I wondered if anyone had seen me snatched from the parking lot. Not that anyone would have cared. Had the Inquisition taken Russell and the Marneys as well? Would they go after Riordan? No, they wouldn’t go after Riordan, since even the Inquisition would not want to attack the Family without the High Queen’s explicit approval.

  But the Marneys didn’t have powerful protectors. Neither did Russell and me.

  I had to think of something, but I was starting to panic.

  We drove for about twenty-five minutes. To judge from the noise, for a while we were on the freeway, though after that the van slowed down and came to a stop every so often, likely for red lights. I heard men talking in low voices around me, interspersed with bursts of static from a radio, but because of the thick hood and the engine noise, I couldn’t make out the words. The strain in my shoulders and knees wasn’t helping my concentration, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  At last, the van stopped, and a voice came over the radio. There was a metallic rasping noise, like a garage door opening, and the van rolled forward a bit. I heard the garage door close behind us, and then the engine shut off.

  We had arrived, wherever we were.

  I heard the back doors open, and someone grabbed me, undoing the restraints on my ankles and the handcuffs on my wrists. Hands grabbed my arms and dragged me to my feet, and pain shot through my arms and legs as the blood flow was restored. Someone yanked off my hood, light stabbing into my eyes, and pulled the gag from my mouth.

  I caught my balance and looked around, blinking in the bright light from overhead.

  The first thing I noticed was the soldiers. A dozen of them stood in a semi-circle around me, M-99 carbines pointed at my chest. They all wore body armor, their faces concealed beneath breath masks, goggles, and helmets that made them look like humanoid insects. The floor beneath my shoes was polished concrete, and the ceiling overhead was steel girders. The place looked like a warehouse or an industrial site. Nearby was a table with computer equipment and an expensive-looking camera, facing a wall that had been painted with height markings. It looked like the sort of room Homeland Security used for suspect lineups.

  I raised a shaking hand to my throat and touched the collar. It was lighter and more delicate than I expected, little more than a slender choker chain, and it felt icy cold to the touch. It was snug against my throat, and I couldn’t find a way to take it off.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward. Unlike the others, he only had a pistol, which he pointed at my head. He also had a captain’s bars on his shoulder. I supposed this was Captain Alan.

  I swallowed and looked at him.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “Why?” I said. My mouth kicks into overdrive when I’m afraid, and I was terrified. “You know, you could have asked nicely, and…”

  He punched me.

  It was hard, and it landed right on my jaw. I spun around, whacked my head on the side of the van, and hit the floor. The room was spinning around me, and two of the soldiers grabbed my arms and heaved me to my feet. Alan punched me in the stomach four or five times, hard, and I spent a bad couple of minutes wheezing and gagging. It was just as well I hadn’t eaten any breakfast because I would have thrown up had there been anything in my stomach.

  A hand gripped my hair and yanked my head back, and I found myself looking into Captain Alan’s armored face.

  “We’re going to do this the easy way, or the hard way,” said Alan. The mask made his voice a cold metallic rasp. “Comply with all instructions, or you will be made to comply. Do you understand?”

  I managed to nod, blood streaming from my split lip. God, but my head hurt.

  He hit me again. My head bounced off the back window of the van, and stars exploded inside my eyes.

  “Say it,” he said.

  “I understand,” I croaked, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

  The soldiers let go of me, and I just barely managed to keep from falling over.

  “I didn’t hear you,” said Alan.

  “I…I understand,” I managed before he could hit me again.

  “Good,” said Alan. “Process her.”

  Two of the soldiers yanked off my jacket, and another started to pull up my shirt. I realized what they were doing, and I tried to fight back, but I was still woozy and they were much stronger.

  With professional efficiency, seven of the soldiers forced me to the floor and stripped off all my clothes in about thirty seconds, and once I was naked four of them dragged me to my feet, two men holding my arms wrenched behind my back.

  One of the soldiers whistled and looked me up and down. “The Rebel women are usually fat old sows. Not this one.”

  “Yeah,” said another. “Turn her around. Let me get a better look at that tight…”

  “Get to work!” snapped Alan. “You can amuse yourselves on your own time.”

  Being naked in front of strangers is a horrible and humiliating feeling, especially strangers who have just beaten you up, and I was so terrified that if they hadn’t been holding my arms, I might have panicked and tried to run for it, guns or no guns. I had heard bad, bad rumors about what happened to women who fell into the hands of the Inquisition, and for an awful moment, I thought I was about to experience those bad things firsthand.

  The soldiers dragged me to the wall with the height measurements, my bare feet skidding against the polished concrete, and handcuffed my wrists behind my back. They made me stand against the wall, and two of the soldiers busied themselves at the computer table. They took pictures of me, several from the front, and then turned me left and right and got pictures of my face and body in profile. Once that was finished, they pushed me to the table and unlocked the handcuffs, and as one of the soldiers rested the barrel of his carbine against my temple, they took my fingerprints and drew a vial of blood. On the computer monitor, I saw my pictures attached to an identification form, my fingerprints appearing as they were scanned in. I desperately wished I could at least cover myself with my hands, but I didn’t dare move with the gun pressed to my temple.

  Beyond that, they didn’t touch me, though I felt them staring at me. A few of the soldiers exchanged quiet comments about various parts of my body until Alan told them to shut up and get to work. At least I couldn’t see their expressions behind the masks.

  The torture would probably come later.

  Then they jerked my arms behind my back again and handcuffed my wrists together. Two of the soldiers frog-marched me to a door, down a hallway, and through another door. Beyond was a stark concrete room empty except for a single steel chair bolted to the floor. Mirrors lined the walls, no doubt concealing cameras or observation galleries. The soldiers marched me to the chair, pushed me into it, secured my wrists to the chair’s back and cuffed my ankles to the chair’s front legs. The steel was hellishly cold against my back and legs.

  Then they left, closing the door behind them.

  It was freezing in there, and I started to shiver almost at once, my breath steaming from my lips. The mirrors reflected my image, and I saw blood dripping from my nose and split lip and onto my chest, along with ugly green bruises blooming on my cheek and jaw, and more bruises on my stomach a
nd my arms and legs from rough handling. Every breath hurt thanks to the pain in my stomach, and I hoped that Alan hadn’t ruptured anything. I wanted to wipe the blood from my face, but I couldn’t even move my hands. Several times I tried to reach for magical power, and every time the resultant agony made me stop.

  I knew what they were doing. They wanted to leave me alone, to let my thoughts chase each other in terrorized circles through my brain as I contemplated all the horrible things the Inquisition soldiers could (and probably would) do to me.

  You know what? It was working.

  Because I couldn’t see any way out of this. The Inquisition had me dead to rights, and I was finished. The best I could hope for was a quick death without the soldiers using me for fun and games first. Or maybe I would wind up on a Punishment Day video, where people could laugh and cheer at my agony before I was beheaded or hung or whatever.

  And Russell…

  Oh, God, Russell. What were they going to do to him? Even if the Inquisition left him and the Marneys alone, once I was dead Morvilind would not continue the cure spells. Russell would die in agony from his frostfever.

  No one was coming to help me. Morvilind had the power to help me, but he would kill me to cover his tracks. Riordan might have tried to rescue me, but he didn’t know what had happened to me, and even he could not challenge the Inquisition. Russell and the Marneys would have tried to help me, but ordinary people could not fight the Inquisition.

  God, how had I gotten caught? Had I screwed up? Had someone betrayed me? Or had the Inquisition known about me all along, following me until it was convenient to capture me?

  All I had left was to hope Morvilind realized what had happened and killed me before the pain began.

  I had never thought to hope for that.

  I had lasted about two hours before I broke down, crying and shivering uncontrollably. The cold in the room didn’t help, either. I saw my reflection in the mirrors, and that made me feel worse. I looked helpless and beaten, and I hated myself for crying, for showing weakness.

  I had always wanted to become strong enough, powerful enough, that no one could ever control me, but I had failed. I had failed Russell. I had failed myself.

  I suppose there was nothing left to do but to die.

  Eventually, I cried myself out, and I sat shackled to that cold chair, shivering and waiting for the end.

  After about four hours, the door rasped open, and I blinked my gummy eyes.

  The Elven archmage stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. In his right hand, he carried a cheap plastic folding chair. The archmage unfolded the chair, set it about three feet from me, and sat down with a tired sigh.

  He stared at me for a moment.

  Having a man stare at me while I was naked and handcuffed to a chair was unsettling enough, but this was worse. The green eyes seemed to cut through me, measuring and judging…and silver fire glimmered in their depths, silver fire that pulsed in the veins of his neck and face.

  I tried to glare at him. I saw my reflection, so I know it only looked pathetic.

  “We are ready to begin our work,” said the archmage at last.

  Chapter 2: The Lord Inquisitor

  “Go to hell,” I said.

  The archmage only grunted. He looked tired. The silver light in his veins flickered.

  “What, you’re just going to sit there in that stupid black coat and…and glow at me?” I snapped. I probably should have shut up, but my mouth runs away with me when I am scared, and I had never been so frightened in my life. Even in Venomhold, I had been able to fight back. Here, I could do nothing but wait for him to do whatever he wanted to me. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to ask me stupid questions?”

  “Why should I do that?” said the archmage.

  “Because you’re a Knight of the Inquisition,” I said, “and that’s what you assholes do. All right. You’ve got me. My name is Julie Van Cheeseburger, and I’ve been leading the Rebels for the last two hundred years from my secret mobile command center in an ice cream truck…”

  As I spoke the nonsense, the silver fire in his eyes and veins brightened and seemed to thrum.

  “Lies,” said the archmage calmly. “Also, you are incorrect. I am not a Knight of the Inquisition.”

  “Oh, super,” I said. “Then did you steal the uniform? Or do you work in the kitchens? If you do, I’d like a sandwich and a cup of soup…”

  “I am not a Knight of the Inquisition,” said the archmage. “I am the Lord Inquisitor Arvalaeon.”

  Arvalaeon? The name was vaguely familiar. Come to think of it, so was his face. I was sure I had seen it somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it.

  “Ooh, impressive,” I said. The quaver in my voice made it rather less scornful than I would have liked. “The Lord Inquisitor, is that it? That means you’re the boss?”

  “When necessary,” said Arvalaeon. “I prefer to work alone, save for the human soldiers under my command. But my title is not one of rank. A Lord Inquisitor cannot speak a lie, but neither can a lie be spoken to him without his knowledge.”

  “So you’re a secret police thug who can’t tell a lie?” I said. “That must suck.”

  “On occasion,” said Arvalaeon. “Yet the ability to discern lies is most useful.”

  “I bet,” I said. “That’s it? You’re going to ask me questions and know if I lie? I could have left my pants on for that.”

  “I have no need to ask you questions,” said Arvalaeon. “I already know everything I need to know about you, save for one thing.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “Your name,” said Arvalaeon, “is Nadia Moran, and you were born on June 17th, Conquest Year 294. Your father was Philip Moran, a member of the High Queen’s Wizard’s Legion, while your mother was Tatiana Rybkin, a refugee from the destruction of Vladivostok who resettled in Seattle. During the war against the frost giants in Conquest Year 299, your father contracted frostfever, which he unwittingly passed to his entire family. Both your mother and father died, but you had the good fortune of natural immunity. Before the disease could claim your brother Russell, the archmage Lord Kaethran Morvilind of Milwaukee approached you with a deal. In exchange for healing Russell, you became Morvilind’s shadow agent, to whom he taught several forbidden spells, and you have been stealing rare items for him ever since.”

  I started at him, my dread increasing. If he knew that much about me, he knew everything.

  “At present, you are twenty-one years old, stand five foot three inches, and weigh one hundred and twenty-four pounds,” said Arvalaeon. “You…”

  “Yeah, that’s real impressive,” I said, forcing myself to speak. “Your thugs figured that out when they took off my clothes.”

  “Additionally,” said Arvalaeon, “you have had one sexual partner to date, a man named Nicholas Connor, whom I would very much like to find and kill. Recently, you have started a relationship with a Shadow Hunter named Riordan MacCormac, though to my knowledge you have not yet engaged in intercourse with…”

  “I get it,” I said. “You know everything about me, fine.”

  “Everything except one thing,” said Arvalaeon.

  “Then what is it?” I said. “Ask already, then shoot me in the head and get it over with.”

  “At this juncture,” said Arvalaeon, “it would be more productive if you were to ask me questions.”

  I frowned, puzzlement overriding my terror.

  If this was an interrogation technique, it didn’t make much sense.

  “You want me to ask you questions,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Arvalaeon.

  I opened my mouth to say something flippant…and then I remembered where I had seen him before.

  “Wait,” I said. “I have seen you somewhere.”

  “Where?” said Arvalaeon.

  “That video,” I said. “That video they make us all watch as a kid, the one about the first Conquest Day. The High Queen is standing in the House of Repr
esentatives in in Washington, and she’s using magic to make the President and all the Congressmen kill themselves. There are a bunch of nobles standing behind her. You were one of them.”

  “That is partially correct,” said Arvalaeon. “I was present for those events, but I am a commoner, not a noble.”

  “You’re not?” I said, curious despite my discomfort and fear.

  “No,” said Arvalaeon.

  “But you’re the grand high Lord Inquisitor,” I said. “I’d bow or curtsy or something, but your goons shackled me to this chair.”

  “The title of Lord Inquisitor,” said Arvalaeon, “is not one of nobility. Nor is it one of rank.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll bite,” I said. “You want me to ask you questions, so here’s a question. What the hell is a Lord Inquisitor?”

  “A long time ago,” said Arvalaeon, “I killed my brother.”

  I blinked. “Okay.”

  “It was an accident,” said Arvalaeon, his voice distant. “We were quarrelling, and I shoved him. He lost his balance and hit his head upon the ground, and he died. It was an accident, but it was nonetheless murder. The magistrate of the High King…”

  “High King?” I said.

  “The High Queen’s father,” said Arvalaeon. “The magistrate decreed that for my punishment I would drink from the Well of Truth upon Kalvarion, our homeworld. Nearly all who drink from the Well die in agony. Those who survive have this happen to them.” He gestured at his face, where dim veins of silver fire were visible beneath the skin. “I cannot speak a lie, but nor can a lie be spoken to me. With such abilities, I was at once drafted into the Inquisition, and there I have remained for the centuries since.”

  “Bullshit,” I said.

  “Test me, if you will,” said Arvalaeon. “Give me a truth or a lie, and I will sort them for you.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “You’ll just tell me whatever I want. Fine. I think your coat looks stupid.”

  “Truth,” said Arvalaeon. “But that is hardly a challenge.”

  “All right,” I said, thinking hard. He knew everything about me, but those were only the things he could learn by spying on me. “Fine. The first time I ever stole anything was when I was fifteen years old.”