Free Cloak Games: Thief Trap by Jonathan Moeller Page B

Inquisitors. 
    Had I used a Mask, every wizard and every Elf in the courtyard would have sensed it at once. Just as well I had employed a more mundane disguise. 
    Besides, when you’re pretending to be a waiter, it’s like you’re invisible. 
    So long as you don’t spill anything, of course. 
    I circulated through my assigned segment of the courtyard, the silver tray with the shrimp puffs balanced upon my left hand. The damned thing was heavier than it looked, and I was grateful for all the hours I had spent doing push-ups, pull-ups, and deadlifts. Granted, I hadn’t thought I would put my strength training to use carrying a tray of shrimp, but I wasn’t going to complain. I made sure to start with the Elves (I definitely did need an accusation of elfophobia just now), bowing as I offered them the tray. Only one of the Elven nobles deigned to take a shrimp puff, and then I moved through the human dignitaries. The shrimp proved more popular there, and soon my tray was empty. One man in particular, a stout Homeland Security major whose blue uniform made his paunch look distressingly like a blueberry, took five puffs. He then continued his inebriated flirtation with an annoyed-looking blond woman at least fifteen years his junior.
    I made sure to remember him for later. 
    Once the last shrimp puff had been claimed, I circled the edge of the courtyard and vanished into the kitchens. Orderly chaos reigned in the kitchens, with thirty different men and women hurrying about their tasks, some of them cooking more food, other refilling trays, others pouring champagne into glasses. I slipped past them, tucked my tray under my arm, and headed down the stairs to the utility garage. Only one security guard remained on watch, a bored expression on his face as he played a game on his phone, and he glanced up at me. 
    “Someone spilled bleach on the tray,” I said. “Have to get a new one.”
    The guard grunted and looked back at his phone. 
    I passed him, returned to the van, and put the tray in its place. I glanced around, made sure I was out of the cameras’ fields of view, and yanked my duffle bag from beneath the car. I opened it up, checked its contents one more time.
    Then I stripped down to my underwear, tossing my clothes into the van’s laundry bin. My next outfit came out of the duffel bag – a sleeveless black dress with a short, tight skirt, and a pair of black shoes with four-inch heels. I quickly slapped earrings in place and dropped a silver necklace over my head, and then undid my ponytail, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders. Makeup would have been ideal, but there wasn’t time to apply it, and the light was dim in the courtyard anyway. I did apply some perfume to hide the smells of the kitchen. I flipped the duffel bag inside out, revealing its shiny interior and transforming it into a hideously ugly purse, and reloaded the remaining contents. I stepped to the driver’s side mirror and gave myself a quick look. I looked like someone’s spoiled daughter, which was perfect. 
    I cast the Masking spell, making myself appear as a male catering worker in white shirt and black pants, and hastened across the parking garage. I had to take care to Mask the loud clicks of my heels with every stride. Fortunately, it was a wasted effort. The guard did not look up from his phone, and security cameras could not penetrate a Mask. Anyone watching through the cameras in the garage or reviewing the footage later would see nothing amiss. 
    I left the garage, dropped my Mask, and crossed the mansion’s lush lawn, acres of brilliant green grass trimmed with machine-like precision, and made for the glassed-in courtyard. A crowd of later arrivals filed through the doors to the courtyard, and four of McCade’s security men stood there. I joined the crowd, adjusting the straps of my fake purse, and walked towards the door.
    “Miss?” One of the guards, a middle-aged man with the look of a veteran still familiar