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by Robert M Kerns


  A random thought popped to the forefront of my mind. If I was stuck with this ‘Consul’ nonsense, how many presidents would it take before I considered meeting one to be routine… or even worse, blasé?

  The vehicle slowed to a stop, and the agent in the passenger seat exited. An agent approached my door from the chase car and opened it. I stepped outside and held my hand for each of my fellow passengers in turn. When I turned toward the building, it took all my willpower not to freeze like a deer in headlights. Standing in the vestibule—just past the security checkpoint--was Olivia Williams, President of the United States.

  14

  Olivia Williams was a first-term president out of Oregon, and she was not only the first woman to be elected to the office but also the first Hispanic woman. As much as the conservative rank and file would have loved to stand up in wholesale opposition to her policies and platform, the overwhelming landslide victory she enjoyed made doing so a very risky political proposition, which led to something of a cautious detente between the White House and Capitol Hill uncommon in recent years.

  * * *

  The fact that I had zero idea what to do had to be writ large across my entire posture, expression, and demeanor. I have no idea how it felt for foreign dignitaries with decades of experience to approach the White House, let alone the President… but for me—someone who wasn’t even twenty-five—it was thoroughly intimidating.

  Before the moment could become too awkward, the growly voice came to my rescue.

  Remember that I am an heir to power and majesty older than humans’ written language. Yes, I personally may be few years beyond a kitten, but my ancestors and younger cousins once ruled this world.

  With that in mind, I crossed the distance between us and used my enthusiasm for the meeting—buried though it was beneath my anxiety—to adopt a genuine, honest smile as I said, “Hello, Madam President. I’m Wyatt Magnusson.”

  She returned my smile with one of her own and lifted her hand as she replied, “I’m Olivia Williams, Mister Magnusson.”

  “Please, ‘Mister Magnusson’ is my grandfather. I would appreciate it if you would call me Wyatt. May I introduce my associates?”

  Williams answered with a gracious nod. “Please do.”

  “This is my sister, Vicki; she’s representing the Magi Assembly. These ladies are Karleen Vesper, Gabrielle Hassan, and Lyssa Westridge.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Williams said as she turned toward the entrance. “Protocol said that someone else should have met you, but I chose to pull rank. I’ve never met a Magi or shifter before, that I know of, and couldn’t resist being one of the first to greet you. The others are waiting for us inside.”

  She led us into the White House as she talked. Her entire demeanor suggested an almost-child-like fascination with us, and she didn’t seem to prefer Magi over shifters or vice versa. A short distance inside, she stopped, then led us into an empty office before turning to us. The agents serving as the President’s close protection closed the door behind us.

  “Please forgive me, but I just have to ask. What’s it like?”

  We all glanced at each other. I asked, “What’s what like, ma’am?”

  “Being a Magi or being a shifter. Either. Both.”

  “For me,” Vicki said, “being a Magi is almost equal parts duty, responsibility, and awe. Yes, being able to alter reality according to my will is incredible, but my position within the Magi is almost akin to the heir of the reigning monarch in the UK. Not quite a direct comparison, because fifteen families make up the core of the Magi Assembly, but certainly close.”

  Vicki turned to us, and Lyssa stepped forward. “As for being a shifter, I’m not sure I can convey what it’s like to you. Suppose someone asked you what it’s like to be a woman. Not the first woman to be President. Or a woman in government, but just what it’s like to be female in general. Except for Wyatt, we’re born shifters; it’s all we’ve known.”

  Williams nodded her understanding, then settled her attention on me. “So, if I may be so bold, how would you describe it?”

  “Dropped in an ice bath while you’re fast asleep,” I answered without hesitation. “It was that much of a shock. A part of me is now a massive predator that hasn’t walked the land in thousands of years. I’m so much stronger than I was as a human. More durable. A little faster, but Smilodons aren’t really built for speed. I have yet to exhaust my endurance, and all shifters heal at an unbelievable rate. I took a blast from a twelve-gauge shotgun straight in my side and pretty much shrugged it off.”

  “What was the load?” one of the agents asked.

  I turned to look at the agent and shrugged. “I’m not sure, to be honest. There wasn’t really a size gauge handy to measure bloody pellets with, but I’d say it was either double- or triple-aught buckshot.”

  Talk about making a couple agents more tense…

  “But that’s not uncommon for shifters. Gabrielle, here, took a blast from a shotgun, too.”

  “It was more a glancing shot,” Gabrielle was quick to clarify.

  Williams shook her head, amazement plain in her expression. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to shrug off a shotgun blast. That’s… incredible. But I’ve kept the others waiting long enough. We should be on our way.”

  * * *

  A short walk delivered us to a conference room where the directors, Secretary of State, and the Attorney General waited. Everyone stood when the President entered, though the Secretary of State bore hints of a frown.

  “Yes, Lucy, I know,” the President said, acknowledging the ‘affronted schoolmarm’ expression that lurked near the surface before turning back to us. “I would normally save my friend for last, but that would disrespect the office she holds, so allow me to introduce Lucy Perez, Secretary of State.”

  The President then went on to introduce the Attorney General, Lowell Nathanson’s boss, and Nathanson himself. Yes, it violated uncounted rules of protocol for the President to handle the introductions and conduct us to the conference room, but she still hadn’t lost the child-like enthusiasm for meeting Magi and shifters.

  I introduced everyone in my group, but before we moved toward seats, the Secretary of State sandbagged me yet again.

  “And do you have any titles we should know?” Lucy asked.

  If it hadn’t been for the perpetual scowl gracing the Attorney General’s visage, I probably would’ve forgotten we were in a conference room of the White House. The President and the Secretary of State were that personable and welcoming.

  I tried not to sigh as I answered, “I am Alpha of Precious and Godwin County…” someone tapped my heel “…and Consul of the Shifter Nation of North America. Vicki, do you have anything to confess?”

  Amusement colored the expressions of both the President and the Secretary of State at my phrasing as Vicki stepped to my side. “In formal situations, I am announced as Heiress of Clan Magnusson, Heiress to the House of Merlin, and Bearer of Requiem, the Black Staff of Ruin.”

  Yep. Nice to see I wasn’t the only one who could make a protection detail tense…

  The President moved to a seat and gestured for all of us to follow. I had the amazing luck to find myself sitting across the table from the federal sourpuss, Mister Attorney General himself.

  “Now, what brings you to contact the government?” the President asked.

  I cleared my throat, mildly unsure of how to proceed. Ah, well… like the man said, ‘begin at the beginning.’

  “Madam President, you are probably not aware of a farm that suffered a double homicide and arson in Nebraska. An elderly couple by the name of Higgins owned the place, and while the authorities now pursue their then-farmhand—one Sloane Martinez—the perpetrators were in fact members of a government black ops group out of a base in the northern edge of the Grand Tetons.”

  “And just how do you know all of this?” the Attorney General interjected, his tone harsh and argumentative.

  Oh,
boy… here goes. “For one thing, we have Miss Martinez who explained what happened, and secondly, we… interviewed… the black ops team that began accosting people in Precious when they came looking for her. The statements we recorded from the black ops team matched Miss Martinez’s account.”

  The Attorney General glared at me. “You expect us to believe that you captured American black ops personnel who then volunteered all sorts of information about their mission and base location? That just proves you’re lying.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Shifter senses are sufficiently acute to pick out when a person’s heartbeat changes in the course of lying. Beyond that, well… Vicki?”

  Vicki recited a series of words in a language long since dead, and the Attorney General’s hostile expression faded into vapid adoration. Vicki said, “Name one file you’ve read in the past two weeks that is classified as Top Secret - SCI. Just the name of the file, if you please.”

  “Operation Autumn Thunder, Mistress.” The man’s expression of vapid adoration never wavered. “Are you sure that’s all I can do for you? Anything you want, I’ll do.”

  Every other government functionary—from the President down to the sole protection agent in the room—gaped at the Attorney General.

  An impish grin curled Vicki’s lips as she asked, “Anything? Is there no limit to what you’d do for me?”

  “Oh, no, Mistress. No limit at all. If you asked it of me, I’d steal that man’s firearm and shoot the President. It’s been a few years since I was active duty, but I still exercise and practice. I’m confident I could take him.”

  Vicki traced a gesture with her hand as she spoke another series of words. The Attorney General’s expression of vapid adoration faded and tried to re-settle into his former ‘hostile bulldog.’ But a full and complete memory of what he’d just said settled in his mind. He went white as a snowbank at a ski resort.

  “And that is why you should always honor the treaty with the Magi,” I remarked. I fished a couple memory cards out of my pocket and passed them to the President. “Those contain unedited recordings of our discussion with the black ops team. The Shifter Council empowered me to speak on behalf of all shifters and ask that this matter be dealt with and soon. Sloane is a shifter and, as such, covered by our treaty with the United States. Even if she were guilty of the murders or arson—which she isn’t—she would be our responsibility. We would appreciate it if you would police your people likewise.”

  By now, the Attorney General shook off whatever shock rendered him speechless, and he shot to his feet, knocking his chair over to strike the floor with a heavy BAM!

  “Madam President, that… that witch spelled me. She made me say those things. I want her arrested!”

  “My sister is Magi, not a witch,” I countered, calm as could be. Though I did fight a smile. “That was a simple charm spell, and as I understand it, it could not make you do anything you find truly reprehensible.”

  The President sent an arched eyebrow down the table to Vicki. “Is that true?”

  “More or less,” Vicki replied. “Brother dear has never studied the Magi arts, so his understanding is a little imprecise. But he is essentially correct. Would you permit another demonstration?”

  The President took a deep breath and slowly released it as a heavy sigh. “I probably should say no, but if we don’t settle this, it will linger as a deep-seated doubt and fester. Proceed.”

  Vicki repeated her gesture and words, and the Secretary of State developed an expression of vapid adoration. She gazed longingly at Vicki as she said, “Please, Mistress; tell me how I can make you happy.”

  “Kill the President at the head of the table,” Vicki replied without missing a beat, and in the corner of my eye, I saw the protection agent tense.

  The Secretary of State looked from Vicki to the President and back several times. During which, her breathing became labored, her expression shifted to extreme torment, and tears flowed from her eyes like Niagara Falls.

  “Please, Mistress, not that. Please not that. She’s my oldest friend. I love her like family.”

  Vicki repeated the gesture and phrase to cancel the spell, then gestured toward the Secretary of State like a gameshow hostess revealing a prize. At that point, everyone in the room associated with the federal government swiveled to look at the Attorney General.

  The old warhorse snarled and seemed like he wanted to spit at the President. “You think just because you sashayed away with eighty-percent of the vote it gives you some kind of mandate? I didn’t take this stupid job because you asked; I took it to collect evidence of your failures… evidence that I would make sure the people see when the time is right. Aw, hell with it. Damn you anyway!”

  With another snarl, the man surged out of his chair and thrust his hand at the President. If the room had only contained humans, he might have succeeded in stabbing her with the little spring-assist pen knife in his hand.

  My hand closed around his wrist while the point of the blade was still a solid six inches from the President. He jerked, pushing and pulling, but could not break my hold. By now, the protection agent had his sidearm out and pointed at the Attorney General, as he hissed code words into a mic in his suit jacket’s sleeve; then, with an alert sent, he shifted into a proper, two-handed grip on the pistol.

  “Sir,” I said, “I have complete control of his arm. Would you like him divested of the knife?”

  Six more protection agents flooded into the room. Four pulled the President away from the table and out of the room while the others stood with their sidearms drawn and at the low ready position.

  The original protection agent in the room nodded, asking, “Can you do that without hurting yourself?”

  “Sure.” I clenched the hand that held the Attorney General’s wrist. At first, it sounded like gravel grinding together, and the AG grimaced. Then he gritted his teeth but still refused to drop the pocketknife. His expression revealed a steadily increasing level of pain, until a ghastly CRACK! echoed throughout the room. The AG went white as a sheet. His knife-hand went limp, and his knees buckled. The pocketknife clattered on the tabletop.

  The agents swarmed the soon-to-be-former Attorney General as the man collapsed to the floor. Once they had him secured, one of the agents sounded an ‘all clear’ while the original agent stared at me.

  “Did… did you crush his wrist?”

  I nodded.

  “Single-handedly?”

  I nodded again.

  The agent took a deep breath and released it slowly while he shook his head. “Thank heavens you’re one of the good guys.”

  Another agent held the pocketknife up in a gloved hand as she examined it closely. Then, said. “Look at this. It looks one-hundred-percent ceramic, but our scanners should’ve caught it.”

  An agent walked in who must’ve been a supervisor, because everyone tensed. She arrived just in time to hear the comment about the knife. “Make a note on the evidence bag that it goes to R&D once the case is over. If he got it through the scanners without being caught, we need to improve the scanners. If someone passed it because he was the AG, we need to know that, too.”

  She crossed the room and stopped in front of me. I stood to greet her as she said, “Gloria Miller. I’m in charge of the President’s protection detail. What I’ve heard so far says we have you to thank.”

  “No thanks necessary, ma’am. I just did what needed done.”

  Yet another agent entered the room and approached Vasquez. “Ma’am, the President is insisting to return to the meeting. We’ve tried explaining—”

  Gloria held up a hand and gave me an appraising look. “How near of a thing was it that he’s still alive?”

  “If I would’ve had a change of clothes and a way to keep the blood off the floor, he’d probably be dead.”

  Gloria nodded, then turned to the agent. “Let’s move the meeting somewhere else, because this is technically now a crime scene. Otherwise, I’m okay with the President return
ing to the meeting. I think the only way she’d be safer is if we wrapped the 82nd Airborne around her.”

  The agent nodded once and left.

  Gloria looked to the Secretary of State, seeming to notice her tear stains for the first time. “Ma’am, are you well? Do you need medical attention?”

  Lucy shook her head and took a breath. “No, Agent, but thank you. I volunteered for a demonstration, and it rattled me a bit. No harm.”

  Gloria turned her attention back to me. “Why would a change of clothes hold you back?”

  “Are you aware of shifters, ma’am?” I asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Gloria remarked. “May I ask what breed?”

  “Smilodon.”

  It took maybe five seconds for confusion to dominate Gloria’s expression. “I’m not familiar with…”

  “Sabertooth cat. According to Doc back in Precious, I’m about twenty to thirty percent larger than the largest, complete Smilodon populator fossil recovered to date.”

  I noticed Gloria’s jaw go a little slack. “How big?”

  “In my fur, I’m about a thousand pounds with three-inch claws—plus or minus—and my curved incisors are somewhere between four and six inches long. Honestly, ma’am, I think they’re still growing. When Doc measured me in my fur, my claws were only two inches long.”

  Several agents stopped what they were doing to stare at me by the time I stopped speaking.

  “I see what you meant about keeping blood off the carpet,” Gloria remarked.

  One of the conference room doors opened to admit an agent and a woman about my age. The woman walked straight to me and spoke to me while addressing all of the meeting’s participants.

  “Ladies and sirs, I am Sarah Givens, the President’s personal assistant. She invites you to resume the meeting in the Oval Office, and Agent Harald and I can escort you there.”

 

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