Catspaw

By Olivia Orndorff

As a sniper, Harry completes missions alone.
As a lover, Harry stands as the protector to the men he risked it
​all for in Outpost 10. This time, though, he won't be able to hide
in the shadows.

Raven Grace Cooper woke up with her team dead and is on
her last chance with the High Council. She won't let anyone
ruin this.

Scholar Ward Lela has never been out of the city and is going to
see stars for the first time. But the task at hand isn't going
to give her back what she's lost. No matter how she stacks the
​ deck.

No one can forget the slaughter of Outpost 10, or forgive it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Orndorff
• Release date: Nov 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370812363

Olivia Orndorff

After traveling over the US, Europe and Asia, Olivia currently lives in Chicago.One of these winters she'll pack it up, but until then you can find her at rummagingthrough a bookstore, at a bar, or out for a run.

Book preview

Catspaw

Olivia Orndorff

catspaw

Copyright 2016 Olivia Orndorff

Cover Image by Derek Lily. Used with permission.

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

RAVANA SERIES

moonshine

catspaw

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Excerpt

About Olivia Orndorff

Other books by Olivia Orndorff

Lady Laptman’s Final Thesis in Captivity

Before Her Death by Flame

Translation by Jude Moor

But what will happen when the whole world goes dark? When all light flickers then dims, when the sun turns her face away and the moon cries out in fear, what happens then?

Surely, life must become less about slowing down and gentle sleep, about discovering a lover’s body with hands and tongue, life must become the descent into depths, without guide, without map, without purpose—simple darkness will mute the very things so very important in the light.

What would happen if just the mind has a smaller darkness? What happens if just your world goes dark? When your world suddenly becomes consumed with the metaphysics of a being defined as an absence, absence of light—when your world turns to blanket unseen?

Surely such a being as you, you would soon learn to keep your eyes shut; if your eyes are closed there is a real reason for the blindness you begin to realize was always there.

In your small world of darkness, will you begin to realize Absence—not darkness where it hides, but the Empty Being—is a warm, throbbing, hungry beast ready to devour the whole world?

The dark is the line humanity has chosen to balance on. After all, it’s the question one learns to shove away as a child. The question of what happens in the dark?

Chapter One

Lela couldn’t be entirely sure what would happen when the sun died, or what the shy comets meant as they skidded by earth with a joyful laugh of sparks only caught by her fellow scholars in odd glass tubes. She had never seen the steadfast stars, never seen her city in complete darkness.

All she knew was her personal sun had exploded; her personal rotation amongst the earth was frozen now, titled and knocked askew—desperately out of step.

Moor was alive.

Her first ally in the rapidly changing world, the first thing she thought was all hers, the first person to really listen to her, argue with her as though her ideas had merit, had survived the High Council. He had once been her sentient guide, the one able to read the torn map, and the broken compass of a jagged life to guide her to true north. He had been the one to stand between her and the doubters and she knew he loved her simply because she provided him Phalax with no questions asked, and he, in turn, always forgave her.

Her personal sun she measured her time by, dreamed with, and loved, in the way one loved the pretty, abstract, orb, never knowing the destructive turbulence, never knowing who else was caught in the fiery gaze, had returned to her alive

But Moor had returned a different man from the front. Seeing him injured was the first spark hissing out and the beacon becoming dead; little by little her body turned cold as she watched him limp slowly from place to place with either the city muck solider or the mountain interloper sniper by his side. He holed up in the allotted little room rarely giving lectures, yet still churning out large quantities of work for his fellow professors, and the university left him alone.

Alone, like he no longer had worth, as though he was shameful, no one said it out loud but the dean had shown one person, and so on down the ranks they whispered that Moor, her Moor, to the government, was no longer fit for duty—damaged.

It made Lela want to burn things, blow them up; blow up the silly men in their robes, and the women with their smirks, blow up the books, the ink, the ivy and old stones in a huge inferno and then tear her cloths and scream at the heavens. Damaged. But she held her tongue, held her place, even while Moor systematically refused to talk to her alone, or even be alone with her in that small room at the university.

It was like Moor had sucked all the light into that flagstone room. She didn’t know what to do anymore, and then this morning the High Council had summoned her with a crisp, typewritten page.

She was going to make another journey and she wanted her guide.

The university buildings at the Institute of Gorgon, on the boundaries between City Block 1 and 2, were all inter-connected through covered walkways, held upright by moss-covered pillars. Walking from place to place, one rarely saw anyone else, and it was almost abandoned, full of singular footsteps, which echoed off the pavestones. Lela appreciated the quiet.

The buildings themselves were squat, fat and cramped full of small rooms better suited for broom storage, or blank paper volumes, than for scholars whose work needed mountains of books (for checking of facts, cross-checking, and the occasional reuse of a key phrase) and discussions with live colleagues. Most scholars scurried from room to small room, where they would converse over stacks of papers, and then scurry on to the library.

The library—officially the Archive of All things Relevant Past and Present to Ravana and Her Possessions—was the main hub of the Institute upon which the rooms, the lecture halls and covered bridges existed outward like the spokes and rim of a wheel. Here, in this massive depository, was there room to spread out.

The library had over time become the gathering place to go for conversation and discussions. Scholars had complicated alliances on who got which resource next. The tables were huge with comfy chairs galore, the rooms kept chilly, no fires near the books, and so everyone bundled in four or five layers and used covered lanterns with great care. Through this structure, Lela strode; she hurried now that there was no chance of her losing her step on slimy green moss or dead leaves on slick cobblestones. On the opposite length of the Archive was the covered walkway to Moor’s room.

The door was shut, Lela banged on it anyway.

What? Moor said through the door

It’s Lela.

A brief pause. Course it is. Door’s unlocked.

Lela shoved opened the wood door a few inches and peered around the slit to make sure there was enough actual clearance to get the door all the way open, there wasn’t, so she carefully wiggled her body into the room.

There were three stacks of books, each taller than Lela; a desk with a typewriter; two chairs in front of the desk; a huge glass window to the immediate left of the door with its own curving window seat, well used by the state of the pillows. Lela closed the door and took a step forward onto the rug tossed down carelessly on the grey flagstone floor. The rug was hand-knotted, the colors denoting it from a small enclave in Tragen worth more than the books stacked on it.

She felt a bit warmer at the sight of the rug gathering dust as though maybe her friend, mentor, and colleague was not irrevocably lost, just harder to manipulate.

Sit if you like, Moor said. His brow was furrowed, from thought maybe, but more likely from pain as he stared at a piece of paper centered on his desk. Lela moved to the fire place instead, which lay to the right of the table. The room felt dampish and gloomy. She blew on the slumbering embers and debated throwing another log on the fire.

How’s your work on the labyrinths of the Olbia going? Have you been able to connect their designs to the intricate tattoos of the Tragen, as was first theorized? Moor asked.

There are similarities, but not necessarily a correlation. I’m still deciding if there are intentional overlaps, intentional mirroring, suggesting interaction not yet found or if both systems, which have a rich history of academics focused on the skies, were mimicking the fractal patterns of constellations on their Olbian mazes and Tragen body modification with no direct knowledge of each other.

Moor nodded. You thought the link might be the Raine astronomy system, since the Olbians continue to have strong aversion to body modification of any sort.

Yes.

Not my area of expertise, Moor said finally looking up from the paper to meet Lela’s eyes.

Your admirers would disagree, they tend to think you know everything,—before Moor would have laughed, now he winced and Lela pressed on—but I came by to ask a favor of you.

Favor? Moor kept eye contact now. His eyes, without the glaze of drugs, hit Lela with a jolt.

A small one.

Whose it from?

Who? Me, I’m asking the favor. The wonderful, terrifying creature standing in front of you.

I meant the letter. The one you’re crumpling in your hand. High quality by the sound of it. The weight is what gives it that subtle hiss.

Really? Lela asked getting distracted. I hadn’t noticed that. She mentally began to devise an experiment to test the correlation of the price of paper to the weights versus sound. Probably not in the budget for this quarter.

I could go for some tea. Moor stood and swung on the too-big green canvas jacket he’d been favoring lately. He grasped his wooden cane in his right hand, while he indicated with his left the direction of the door.

Lela sighed and stood, buttoning up her coat.

Once out of the room Moor locked his office door, another new annoying habit, and turned sharply left away from the university and its cafeteria all together.

I thought you wanted tea.

If I sat in there I’d have to make conversation. He shuddered. A sickening thought.

Upon leaving the grounds, Moor swung the cane loosely, not really needing it, though he walked with a slight hitch in his gait. Lela made sure to keep to his pace, but being away from the Institute worried her.

She hated leaving the grounds, as though her right to the academia would be snatched from her that she’d be labeled an interloper and thrust back to the squalor of her childhood city block.

They walked in silence along the sidewalk by a graveyard that managed to serve three city blocks. Headstones jumbled up more in groups than orderly lines, as though in death they had finally cheated the Ravana government’s demand for order and structure, even as the living marched in orderly lines.

Upon reaching the corner of the graveyard in one direction, Moor strode diagonally away to walk across the bridge over the brisk stream separating City Block 2 from 3, though those particular two city blocks had little distinction between them. He swung right down a curving street with tall, old buildings that leaned, their top halves too wide for their foundations. Down the road, Moor sat down on a pub’s rickety wooden chairs outside—even though the fall air was brisk. Gingerly, Lela sank onto her own seat. It held.

Immediately a serving boy was there with an inch of whiskey straight, the amber liquid looking like the remnants of age-worn parchments Lela had devoted a good part of her eyesight to. He placed the squat tumbler next to Moor’s elbow. The glass was thin and scratched. The government had been rationing glass—and the energies to make it—for decades now.

Just a beer, she told the hovering boy. The lad nodded disappearing into the pub closing the door behind him. She caught just a glimpse of the raging fire inside. You’re not cold? she asked her puzzle of a companion.

Moor rolled the amber liquid slowly around the glass. I prefer being out of doors. I’m sure, you’ll indulge me.

Lela fidgeted, but said nothing. She had indulged many of his quirks in the past with no comment.

You want something from me, Moor finally said. He took a generous sip from the glass. And you no longer know how to trade with me to get me to say yes.

The boy came back out with the beer, in the same sort of thin glass container. She worried she would break it. She was used to the university mugs of pewter.

The server turned to Moor. Would you care for supper tonight, sir?

How’s the roast tonight?

The pig’s been cooking all day. My sister and I dug a pit in the ground for the beast last night. Delicious.

Never a doubt in my mind, Mark, I’ll take some of the pig and some sourdough, enough for three, wrapped up, if you don’t mind.

The boy, Mark, nodded and turned his curly head toward Lela.

Lela shook her head. Nothing for me.

She’ll take one of your pastries, Moor said, and tell your uncle to go heavy on the icing.

Mark nodded and went back into the pub.

I’m running low on my allowance, Lela said quietly. Food was free at the cafeteria. So was heat. She shivered and grabbed for the beer.

On me. Moor said with a shrug. Hand over the letter. Let’s see this favor.

Lela slid the folded piece of paper over to him. He stilled after picking it up. The broken wax seal must have meant more to him than her. You brought me something from the High Council. You’ve moved up in the world while I was gone, Lela.

She already knew the letter by heart. She watched Moor instead, trying to pinpoint at what line his eyes rested on, what made his mouth clench, his fist tighten. He closed his eyes for a long minute. Sighing, he opened his eyes and picked up his drink.

You want my advice? Moor swallowed the rest of his drink.

No, I’m going to do it.

Moor snorted. It’s not like you have a choice.

Lela shrugged. I’m used to working without a net.

Moor eased back in his seat. You wanted a favor.

I’m allowed to assemble my own team.

Moor stilled, his eyes hardened and Lela forgot how to breathe. What is a team, but a net? And when things go to shit—which they will because they picked you to head the mission up—you can cut the net loose to take the fall. I’m already damaged goods. It won’t take much to finish me off. Working without a net, he laughed and placed the glass down. That’s a good one, lass.

No one had called her lass in years. It left a raw taste—like garlic—in the back of her mouth.

Mark came out with neatly string-tied newssheets, placed them in front of Moor, and one paper bag in front of Lela. Moor handed over some coins to Mark. They engaged in a spirited debate for a few minutes over the merits of pig cooked with apple versus pig cooked with onion, before someone inside the pub called out for another round. Mark scampered off. Moor stood up and tucked the food under his arm and leaned more heavily on his cane.

I need someone I trust behind me on this one.

No. Moor turned and walked away. Lela looked at her mostly full beer. Lifting the glass container in a toast, she chugged the beer not stopping for air. She stood up, tucked the letter carefully into her jacket pocket, picked up the pastry and walked back to the university.

Harry had been following Moor and the girl since they left the university and once Moor was out of the girl's field of vision, he strode into plain sight to help hold the food.

Moor didn't startle at Harry's sudden presence just handed over the parcels into empty air a pace before Harry caught up with him. Moor’s cat ears.

Smells good.

Yeah, Moor agreed, how long you been in the city?

Three days.

They said nothing more to each other. With Harry still sent on missions, and Fletcher thrown into training youngling recruits, it had fallen to Moor to arrange lodgings outside of government buildings. The rooms were located in City Block 5. Nice quiet streets, nice anonymous buildings, with their rent knocked down on the prestige of having a Layman and Scholar in its quarters. Their apartment consisted of two rooms.

Walking in through the door, one first noticed the large farm table, with three chairs around it, but most of the attraction of the front room was the large window on the far wall. It looked out onto the street but still let in the light. They had tacked up a thin muslin months ago for some privacy and to keep out the bugs. The curtain drifted now in the evening breeze. Beside the table and chairs, there were secondhand fruit and vegetable crates full of mismatched clothing, all worn interchangeably by the three men and a typewriter set up on the table near the window for Fletcher's forms.

Moor never brought work to the apartment and Harry never had any follow-up.

To the left of the door lay a fireplace. Beside the fireplace, lay the second small room and it was just big enough for a large down mattress with layers of quilts to make a comfortable dog pile for the three of them.

Once in the apartment, Moor sat in a chair with a sigh one hand absently going to the thigh before leaning back, head thunking against the wall, to close his eyes. Harry couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with the thigh; why one bullet wound bothered Moor so much more on some days than others. He understood the weakness of the left arm, but the leg worried him; the furrows of pain above Moor's eyes worried him. Moor couldn’t take phalax and it all had to eat at him, the reasons and the pain.

They'd made it out of Outpost 10 a little over a year ago; they'd been patched up and shuffled out of the way.

Moor, brilliant Valuable Resource, Adjunct Advisor and third in line to the leadership of his Clan, was deemed damaged and the High Council left him alone to his books.

Harry put the sandwiches on the table and walked out of the apartment to the right, down the hallway to the floor’s shared ice box. The opposite end of the hallway held the latrine and a separate bathing room with actual running water.

Five apartments shared this floor. All with similar configurations; all with civilians he had carefully watched and deemed not a threat.

He got the juice from their designated shelf and carried it back to the apartment. Moor was now staring out the window, the thin covering tied back to allow a good view of the sky, he hadn't moved from the chair.

Fletcher around? Harry asked as he pulled out chipped cups for the juice from one of the crates.

Should be. Moor shrugged.

Who was the girl?

Girl?

From earlier.

Oh. Lela, she'd kick you if you called her a girl. I don't think she was ever a girl.

Inner City then.

She likes to forget it, but yes.

Old friend? Moor squirmed, Harry wasn't sure he'd ever seen Moor squirm. Not an old friend? Harry pushed.

No, she was, I guess. A student of mine. She and I had an easy relationship. We didn't expect too much from each other.

An Inner City kid with something to prove, and Moor passing in and out of the High Council talks, missions and lectures, easy relationships were all either could probably afford. He doubted it was that simple. And she provided you with Phalax whenever you asked.

Moor nodded and pulled the bread out of the wrapping. He tore off a hunk. The food will taste better warm. He shoved the bread into his mouth. He tore off another hunk and tossed it to Harry.

The sniper caught it and took a bite. What'd she want? he asked around the mouth of sourdough.

Doesn't matter. Moor opened the second wrapped package of meat. He gestured with a hand, and Harry handed over a knife.

Shoving meat and the fruit it had been cooked with in between generous slices of bread, Moor passed over dinner. Harry’s mouth watered. He bit into the concoction trying to ignore the flavor. With his missions occurring in frequent intervals, he was more used to the blandness of granola bars and, every now and again, jerky to keep his muscles up. He drank his juice content, more or less, with the world.

He'd be called in soon, he always was, but tomorrow he could go with Moor to the university and just watch to assure himself the other man was all right.

The door clicked open, Fletcher strode in. Food, he said, his face brightened.

Yep, Moor replied, from my favorite pub, smoked pig with apples.

Fletcher closed the door behind him and took off his jacket to toss on the floor. He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry closed his eyes relaxing into the touch. Sensation always hit harder after a mission.

Sitting down, Fletcher stilled making sure the chair would hold his weight. He swallowed some juice Harry poured for him. How long you been back, Harry?

Just today, Harry said. Fletcher grimaced.

I can exist without you two, I do it quite well actually, Moor said. He passed Fletcher a portion of the food. He went back to eating his own, smaller, sandwich.

I've got two weeks here at the headquarters, Fletcher managed to say around a mouthful.

Harry? Moor asked.

"Some time, they'll want me in meetings, but nothing tomorrow,