The Shadow Deception: The Shadow Enforcer Series Book Two Read online

  The Shadow Deception

  The Shadow Enforcer Series Book Two

  N. M. Thorn

  The Shadow Deception

  By N.M. Thorn

  Copyright © 2021 by N.M. Thorn. All rights reserved.

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Cover art design by www.originalbookcoverdesigns.com

  Edited by Spirit Editorial

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Teaser: The Burns Fire

  Dear Reader

  Before you go…

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Semlevo Village, Russia.

  The Fall of 1812

  Winter arrived early that year. It whistled with frosty winds, rustled with dry foliage and colored the ground white with frost every morning. The trees stood naked, stretching their crooked branches in a silent plea toward the gray sky covered by dark, heavy clouds.

  A flock of black birds followed a long string of carts traveling west along the Old Smolensk road, their loud screeches heard for miles around. Day and night, the leftovers of the once powerful la Grande Armée of Napoleon Bonaparte moved with their carts, quietly cursing the barbaric wasteland and Russian winter that started at the end of October. Chased by the relentless Russian army and harassed by partisans and Cossacks, they couldn’t stop. They couldn’t slow down and rest. People, hungry, exhausted and frozen to the bone, barely moved their feet, wrapping dirty rags and torn blankets around their bodies to shield themselves from the chilling breath of early winter.

  While the hazy, warmth-deprived sun inched its way toward the horizon, the temperature dropped even lower, and large white flakes of the first snow started to fall from the dark sky. As the army kept moving forward, the dark silhouette of a small village rose before them, but by the time they reached it, the sun was gone, and night wrapped the land in its bone-chilling embrace.

  They marched through the village, looking for a place to stop for the night. With locals meeting the starving and weary French soldiers with hostile, rancorous looks, Napoleon chose a small church located in the center of Semlevo village as his shelter for the night.

  He wasn’t sure how long he sat on one of the benches with his arms folded over his chest, staring at the crucifix mounted above the altar. He didn’t pray, but his mind was working on overdrive, going over everything that had happened after his victory in the bloody battle of Borodino. Out of over six hundred thousand men he had when he crossed the border into this unforgiving country, barely thirty thousand were still following him. How did it happen? He kept asking himself this question over and over, but there was no answer.

  The front door opened with a loud squeak, bringing the howls of the wind and a blast of the frosty air inside, ripping Napoleon out of his depressing thoughts. Inhaling the scent of the fresh night air, he lifted his head and turned around to find his general, Comte de Ségur, standing in the doorway in the company of a man who looked like one of those Russian peasants he had seen while traveling through the country. Wrapped in a coat and with a fur hat on his head, the man looked like a massive bear next to the refined French Count. The peasant pulled his hat off, displaying a mop of thick, untidy black hair, and bowed low, touching the floor with his hat. However, Napoleon had no doubt—the savage didn’t bow to him. He bowed to the altar.

  Comte de Ségur crossed himself and made his way toward the bench, lowering himself heavily on it.

  “My Emperor,” he said, inclining his head, “we need to talk.” He threw a quick look at the peasant who remained by the doorway, brushing snowflakes off his wide shoulders.

  “I know,” replied Napoleon with a long sigh, sending a veiled gaze at his general. “Tell me what brought you here, Comte.”

  Comte de Ségur leaned forward, lowering his face into his hands, weariness and discomfort lingering over him.

  “We’re moving too slow,” he said after a while, lifting his head to throw a sideways glance at his commander. “All these carts are slowing us down significantly. If we don’t speed up...” His hoarse voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “Take your pick, Emperor. Either the Russian army or the Russian winter will eventually destroy us. People are freezing to death, falling off their feet because of disease and starvation.”

  “I know,” repeated Napoleon, pressing his hand over his eyes. “You know what’s in those carts, right?”

  Comte nodded faintly, his eyes remaining as cold as the weather outside. Napoleon sighed, slamming his fist on the bench. He got up, tucked his hand behind the lapel of his coat and started pacing in front of the altar, muttering something under his breath. Comte didn’t stop him, knowing that at times like this, he was better off remaining silent. After a while, Napoleon came to a sharp halt and turned to face the general.

  “These carts are filled with all the treasures taken from Moscow,” he said quietly, iron notes of resolve in his voice. “The most priceless and rarest pieces—gold, silver, precious stones, ancient armor and weapons, religious artifacts—we need to hide them. Everything less valuable—burn it all. If we can’t have it, no one will.”

  He fell silent, tapping his foot on the floor, a deep frown settling on his features. Throwing a quick glance at the peasant, he leaned forward to be closer to Comte and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “There are other things among all the treasures in one of the carts,” he said, his eyes staring at his confidant without blinking. “The kinds of things that cannot be destroyed by fire or any other elements. Yet, we can’t leave them here for the Russians to find. These artifacts carry way too much mystical power to leave them in the hands of these barbarians. Not if I can help it. We need to find a safe location to store them and mark it somehow. God willing, we’ll return here one day.”

  “I know, my Emperor. I suspected as much,” replied Comte de Ségur. “So, I found the perfect place. Just two kilometers away from this village, there is a lake. Locals call it the Dead Lake or the Black Lake, and they prefer to stay away from it. There are no fish there, and even birds don’t nest in the woods around it. Hidden in the depth of a forest and surrounded by swamps, it’s not easy to discover. If we dump everything into the black waters of this lake, except for us, no one will ever be able to find it.” Comte pointed at the peasant and continued, “This man is willing to show us the way at a hefty price.”

>   Napoleon huffed, shrugging indifferently. “Obviously, we have more gold than we can carry. Pay him twice what he wants and make sure that once we’re done, he speaks to no one about it.”

  He smirked coldly and waved at the peasant to approach. The man covered the distance between them in a few strides and halted, towering a few inches over the Emperor. Napoleon looked up at him, and an expression of displeasure darkened his features.

  “He’s too tall, de Ségur,” he grumbled, folding his arms. “I don’t like him.”

  The man bowed, touching the floor with his hat, and as he straightened, a dark smirk hid under his thick facial hair.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said in perfect French, “but unfortunately, my height is not something I can change.”

  “But I can,” replied Napoleon, moving his finger across his throat. “You speak French?”

  “No,” the man replied calmly. “I speak magic.”

  “Magic? I do not believe in such nonsense,” Napoleon huffed, but his eyes widened for a heartbeat, the old superstitions of his motherland flashing through his quick mind. “Who are you, and what’s your name, peasant?”

  “Yakov,” replied the man without blinking an eye, his deep voice rumbling through the empty building. “Villagers call me ‘chernoknizhnik’ and ‘koldun’, which means sorcerer and warlock, but I’m neither. What I am is really not important. What is important is that I can help you hide your treasure, as well as give you a way to recover it later, should the need arise.”

  Napoleon stared at the man, a touch of respect springing to life in his soul. Then he inclined his head. “If you deliver on your promise, I will pay you as much as you wish,” he said, iron tones ringing in his voice. “Do not disappoint me, Yakov, or I will make you shorter. That I can guarantee.”

  Yakov met Napoleon’s burning gaze without blinking, the corners of his lips twitching under the thick mustache. “Get your men ready. We’re leaving immediately.” He bowed and walked out of the church without waiting for Napoleon’s permission to leave.

  Surrounded by a dense forest and a shallow swamp, Semlevsky Lake wasn’t easy to find, but Yakov led them forward with the confidence of a man who had walked this path many times. The ground wobbled under their feet, yet he didn’t seem to worry about it, from time-to-time reminding Napoleon and his soldiers to stay behind him and not to stray from the main path. A few times, he raised his hand to halt the procession and squatted, placing his hands on the shaky surface of the swamp, whispering something incoherent. The path was still unsteady, but even the carts with their heavy load made it all the way to the final destination.

  It was well past midnight when Napoleon and his men reached the lake. The temperature had dropped even lower, and a thin layer of ice covered the shallows near shore, glistening in the blueish shades of the moonlight. The silence was overwhelming, deadly even—no screeches of night birds, no howls of hungry wolves that roamed these woods in plenty, not even a rustle of wind through the forest.

  Yakov approached the lake and stretched out his arms, muttering something under his breath. His words sounded like gibberish, and no matter how much Napoleon strained his hearing, he couldn’t understand even one word this unusual man was saying. Yakov’s entire body emitted a weak, white glow, and his voice became louder and stronger. Soft whispers rose behind Napoleon as his soldiers started muttering prayers, crossing themselves. The Emperor glared at them over his shoulder, immediately silencing them all.

  Suddenly, the surface of the lake lit up with a soft blue light, and a sparkling mist rose above it in the air, rotating slowly in a clockwise motion. Yakov stopped his strange monologue and turned around, his face gray with exhaustion. For a few seconds, he just stood with his hand pressed over his heart, breathing laboriously, unable to say anything. Then he waved at the lake and finally spoke.

  “Your Majesty, order your men to unload all your treasures into the lake,” Yakov said, his voice hoarse and strained. “I swear, no one will ever find any of it. No one, but you.” He smirked darkly and reached under his heavy winter coat, producing a piece of paper.

  Napoleon glanced at the paper and frowned, his temper rising. “It’s empty. Are you—”

  “Not at all,” objected the man. “I’m just a little drained after using so much of my energy to grant your wish.” He sucked in a large gulp of the frosty night air and brushed his fingertips over the paper. A map of the lake and the surrounding areas materialized on it. He whispered something, and a strange symbol shone in the corner of the paper. “If you ever return here, Emperor, just throw this paper into the water, and you’ll find everything that’s yours.”

  “Hmm...” Napoleon carefully took the paper as if it could bite him and peered at it. Then he folded it and placed it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Well... you delivered on your promise, Yakov. I’m a man of honor, and I always keep my word.” He waved his hand at the carts. “Take anything you want and as much as you can carry. It’s yours.”

  “My gratitude, Emperor.” Yakov inclined his head and headed toward the carts.

  As Napoleon watched the man moving heavily toward his treasure, he expected him to walk straight to the cart that held the items he considered mystical. So, when Yakov passed it all without giving it as much as a second look, a spike of disappointment surged through him. Instead, the strange man halted in front of the cart with silver jewelry and religious artifacts—expensive and rare, but not what Napoleon would consider magical. He moved a few boxes out of the way, barely paying any attention to them, and pulled out a small, wooden box.

  With the box in his hands, he made his way back to Napoleon, and it seemed that every next step he took came with more effort than the previous. He halted before the Emperor of France, inclining his head in a bow, and showed him the piece he picked.

  “This is all I want,” he said softly, brushing his fingers over the plain surface of the wood.

  “Open it,” ordered Napoleon, curiosity taking the best of him.

  Yakov didn’t object and opened the box. On the bed of black silk, two silver bands shone, reflecting the orange, flickering light of the torch Comte de Ségur was holding. The bigger one had a chain of words in an unfamiliar language engraved along its perimeter. The second one was a plain silver ring that looked like a wedding band. While skillfully crafted, there was seemingly nothing special about them.

  “Hmm,” Napoleon hummed, shoving his hand beneath the lapel of his coat. “What is it? What’s so special about it?”

  “For you?” Yakov smirked with a half-shrug. “Nothing. It’s just beautiful silver jewelry. But for me, it’s a family heirloom.”

  Napoleon’s lips quirked up in an uneven smile. “I do not believe you, peasant. But I gave you my word, and I always keep my promises. As soon as you escort us back to the village, it’s yours.”

  He took the box and closed the lid, passing it to Comte de Ségur. Without giving a second look to Yakov, he turned on his heel and shouted the command for his men to start unloading the priceless treasure into the misty waters of the Dead Lake.

  Semlevsky Lake

  Three hours later.

  Yakov sat at the edge of the lake, staring at its dark, motionless water. The box lay on the ground next to him, his fingers tracing the shape of the lid absentmindedly. Still drained after the extensive use of his magic, he wasn’t sure he had enough energy in him to do what needed to be done, but he had no choice.

  With a deep sigh, he moved into a kneeling position and leaned forward, breaking the thin layer of ice with his fingers. Channeling his magic, he sent a small amount of it into the water, and shimmering circles spread over the surface, rushing away from his hand.

  “Mavka Kostroma,” he whispered, “I summon thee...”

  He pulled his hand out, wiping the icy water off his fingers with the side of his coat. For a few long seconds, the lake remained still, but then a soft gust of wind rushed through the area, and the surface rippled, lighting
up with a deep, ultramarine glow from within. The water parted, and a young woman stepped out of the lake, lowering herself on a large stone next to Yakov.

  Completely naked, the only cover she had was her long, blonde hair. It cascaded down her chest and back, shimmering with slightly green shades. Her large, blue eyes drilled into Yakov, her full, pale lips parting a little, and for a moment, he forgot why he was here, unable to take his eyes off her.

  She averted her gaze, breaking their eye contact, and Yakov sucked in a sharp breath, realizing that he just fell victim to a rusalka’s charm. Kostroma chuckled, humorous twinkles igniting in her eyes as deep as the lake itself.

  “Hello, Yakov,” she said, her voice as musical and tender as the song of a bubbling creek. “Long time, no see. What brought you into my domain the second time in a single night, old wizard?”

  “Let go of your rusalka’s magic. I need your help, Kostroma—"

  “Really?” she asked with a thin layer of sarcasm in her voice. “And what might that be?”

  Yakov took the box and opened it, showing its contents to the young woman. Her eyes widened, and a shadow of fear crossed her tender face. She reached toward it, but then changed her mind and jerked her hand away.