by RJ Blain
Aware of everyone watching, I untied the twine around the package, located the tape sealing it closed, and unwrapped it, revealing a wooden box with a sliding lid. I gave a shove, and the top clattered to the table. A pure white feather, its quill decorated with a hair clip and turquoise and silver beads, rested on top of a leather-wrapped bundle. I lifted the feather, and my fingers tingled, a faint warmth running up my arm. When the heat reached my head and tongue, words tumbled off my tongue in a murmur, my lips moving of their own accord.
Steel rubbed on steel, the chiming whisper of a drawn sword. My hand, which held the feather in a gentle grip, lifted, and tendrils of black spun around the quill, played through the feather’s strands, and rose to coalesce into the smoky image of a dark bird with pale luminescence crowning its head.
“Be at peace. The Tribe greets you,” someone said, and with a start, I recognized the voice as mine, as it had been before my cold had ravaged my throat. The ache I’d grown accustomed to remained, promising my illness persisted. I’d think about it later, when the soothing warmth from the feather in my hand no longer ran through my veins.
The spirit bird dropped to the table, its great curved talons tapped on the wood. Its eyes gleamed with a golden light, which streaked along the crown of its white head and formed into a curved beak.
“What is that, Henry?” Anatoly demanded, his tone sharp. I recognized ill-concealed anger tinged with something else in his scent. I breathed in through my mouth to taste the air, but my weak human tongue refused to reveal the scent’s secrets.
“It’s probably one of the Cheyenne totem animals. I’m going to hazard a guess that it’s a bald eagle. The black body and white head has something to do with that guess.”
The eagle clacked its beak. “Do you speak for them?” it asked using my voice.
“No. He’s an adviser, an elder of sorts,” the President stated. “The final word belongs to me. I am the one who speaks. They share their knowledge with me.”
With a flap of its massive wings, the eagle hopped in the air, twisted around, and landed, its talons leaving grooves in the wood. “The spirits whisper of discord and unbalance. We of Cheyenne offer council.”
The President straightened. “And does your council include a promise of secrecy for anything we might discuss?”
“All those who hear this will not disturb the silence of the matters discussed,” the eagle replied through me.
“The Hope Diamond was stolen.”
“The spirits on the winds spoke the truth, then. You require our council. Perhaps more than our council.” Clacking its beak, the eagle hopped several steps closer to the President, its feathers rustling and flaring out before settling. “Speak of what you need, so we might learn if we can provide you with the council you require.”
The President exchanged a long look with her husband, who gave a nod. Sighing, she relaxed in her seat. “The necklace was stolen from the National Archive. No one saw anyone enter the room. No one saw anyone leave the room. It was after hours, and the guards posted outside the door saw and heard nothing. Every twenty minutes, the stone’s presence was confirmed. Whoever took the stone placed a charm to mimic its glow. No one has seen it since. That was yesterday—last night. It took at least a week for this package to arrive. How did you know to send it?”
“The spirits were disturbed by something in the east. We listened. We do not know what the future holds, but something stirred the winds from the east, where Runs Against Wind walks. Someone shed our sister’s blood. We do not take such things lightly. To attack one of the tribe is to attack all of the tribe. We did not know we would need this, but we guessed.”
The President gestured to Anatoly and Henry. “These two men were the ones who found her and brought her back to Charlotte.”
“We of Cheyenne owe you our thanks.”
“The tribes have always been more attuned to the Starfall stones and magic than most. Do you know why someone might want the Hope Diamond?”
The eagle loosed a wild cry, a scream that tore my throat. I tasted blood, but the magic swept over my tongue and lips and maintained control over me. “The obvious answer is likely the correct one. They desire its magic when it bursts, but they need a catalyst. All Starfall stones need a catalyst, someone to bring out the spark of magic from its depths, to renew the world and its many peoples. We of Cheyenne are not attuned. We simply haven’t forgotten the old ways when stones like the Hope Diamond were but wishful thoughts to the young Earth. There were fewer catalysts, then, and fewer still who could bring out the spark in the sky stones. There are now many with the potential to make the stones sing. They will need one such person for the Hope Diamond, which is harmless unless united with a catalyst. This you know. You parade people before it, seeking new catalysts. Sometimes you find them, and the stone sleeps until its spark is needed to renew—or destroy—again.”
Nodding, the President ran her hand through her hair, her gaze distant while she thought. Then, in a low and troubled voice, she said, “The stone has been pulsing for a long time—years, even. Thousands have touched it, but still it pulses.”
“We have counted the days, for the spirits whisper of its yearning for its catalyst on the winds. The stone knows, and it waits with the eagerness of a child soon to be named. It will bathe our Earth in its magic, and not even the spirits know what will happen.”
“Just what I wanted to hear,” the President muttered.
The eagle’s laughter emerged as a shrill cry. “We of Cheyenne offer a gift and the one who might use it to your benefit, if you use it in the ways of your people and not of ours.”
“The package?” Snagging a corner of the box, the President dragged it across the table.
“Open it. It will bring you no harm, but be aware, it is quite sharp, and it has a sense of humor not like ours.”
“For some reason, that doesn’t comfort me at all.” With a soft laugh, the President grabbed a corner of the leather and lifted. Something spun, thumping against the box. Once she freed the thin, supple leather, she set it aside and peeked inside. “Holy shit.”
“Not quite,” the eagle replied, a hint of its amusement in my voice.
I wanted to look, but my body refused to move.
The President hesitated but reached into the box and pulled out a thin-bladed dagger. A stiletto, an assassin’s tool. A dark blue stone glinted in its pommel. A serpent coiled around the hilt and wrapped around the beginning of the blade, braiding to form a guard. “What is this?”
“Long ago, when white men first came west, they brought with them their diseases, their greed, and their ambition. They trod over us, and they soaked the land with our blood, but we survived. Later, when we made wary peace, a white man came back to us. He brought with him a gift of steel and stone, begging us to undo the curse the spirits of the land inflicted on his people for tainting the Earth with our blood. You hold the white man’s gift.”
“This is an assassin’s blade,” the President replied through clenched teeth.
“The steel came yet to be forged, and the stone was a discard from one of their greatest treasures. They asked what we of Cheyenne would have them make from their steel and their broken stone. We told them they came with a serpent’s tongue and fang. We asked for them to manifest a symbol of their treachery, so we might remember. They forged this.”
“A stiletto.” Sucking in a breath, the President turned the weapon for a better look at the fractured pommel stone. “Impossible.”
The eagle’s shrill laughter tore my throat. “You hold the answers you might need in your hand, She Who Leads the White Man.”
“I will see it returned to you as soon as possible. You have our gratitude for your aid, elders of Cheyenne.”
“If you would permit it, we would speak to the men who have earned our thanks.”
“This is Anatoly, a Siberian tiger, the leader of the feline clans, and a member of the Clan Council. Henry is a mystic in his employ. I permit you to
speak.”
“We of Cheyenne greet you, Anatoly. We of Cheyenne greet you, Henry.”
Henry gaped at the eagle.
Anatoly cleared his throat, and I heard a hint of a growl in his voice. “I greet you.”
“What would you ask of us?”
“Did you send her here after hearing your spirits on the winds?”
I really wished the eagle would stop laughing. It hurt, and there was nothing I could do to stop its mirth from bursting out of my throat. “Do you think we could send her anywhere she did not wish to go? Never have we named a child more aptly. She sent herself. She is the wind we can only listen to, for we cannot catch it. She challenges everything. This is her nature. You might have more luck shifting the course of the seas or moving the mountains. We remember our debts, should you not yet know what gift you desire from us.”
“How does one catch the wind, if you cannot?”
“You have our blessing should you try, tiger, but we cannot offer you help. Do not ask us the impossible.”
Anatoly’s laugh rumbled as though he barely contained an urge to roar. “You are an interesting people.”
“Should you catch the wind, find us in the west, white man. And you, Henry?”
“I don’t know if you have anything I want,” the mystic confessed.
“Then allow our tribe to offer you a boon. Should the tiger catch the wind, join him when he ventures west. We believe there is much for you here. Should he not, listen to the whispers of a westerly wind. If your spirit is still and quiet, you may learn something of interest.”
The eagle launched itself into the air and dissolved into smoke and light, and for a brief minute, I tasted the heat of the desert on my tongue and felt its warmth on my skin.
I gasped, shuddered, and coughed blood.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Along with temporarily stealing my body, the tribe’s magic stripped my throat raw. Coughs tore through me, and my blood stained the polished table. Someone had rescued the pristine eagle feather, setting it aside while I choked and wheezed.
“Henry?” Anatoly snapped.
I braced my arms against the table, head bowed while I fought for breath. “I’m okay.”
“Like hell you’re okay.” He sucked in a breath, leaned across the table, and roared.
“All clear,” one of the Secret Service agents said when Anatoly’s thunder subsided.
I covered my mouth with my hand to keep from splattering more blood everywhere.
Instead of circling the table, Henry hopped on his chair and jumped, hitting the table and sliding to my side, landing between me and Todd. “Get Cleo.”
One of the guards relayed the order.
“It’s because the eagle laughed,” I rasped. Clearing my throat hurt and triggered another coughing fit.
“Cough it out.” Henry’s hand chilled my throat. “Cough it out, catch your breath, and cough again. Don’t be surprised if you vomit. You need to get it out of your throat.”
The First Gentleman shoved a piece of cloth into my hand. “Handkerchief.”
Great. Not only had an eagle torn up my throat, I got to make a mess of the First Gentleman’s handkerchief. A shudder ran through me, and I managed to suck in a few breaths before another coughing fit took hold.
Anatoly growled. “What’s wrong with her? What does she need to get out of her throat?”
“You heard how her voice sounded, right? I think that’s what she’s supposed to sound like—or close to it. From what I can tell, the feather’s magic purged her body to make way for the eagle spirit. Cleo’s better at illnesses than I am. He might have a better explanation. I don’t know what type of magic they used, but it was damned strong.”
The President rose and slid between me and her husband. “The tribes are not to be trifled with. Do you need anything from me, Henry?”
“We’re going to need something to clean up the blood and some disinfectant. I have no idea if it’s contagious. If it is, we’re contaminated. Cleo should be able to tell if the infection’s spread. If it has, we need to deal with it without spreading it even further.”
A snap of her fingers was all it took to turn Henry’s comments into an order.
It didn’t take long for Todd’s mystic to make his appearance. “What happened?” he demanded.
“A tribal totem spirit possessed her, and now she’s coughing blood.”
“Move.”
Henry circled behind me, making room for Cleo, who grabbed my jaw in his hand, turned my head, and shoved away the bloodied handkerchief. “Open your mouth.”
I obeyed, shuddering in my effort to avoid coughing in his face. With a displeased huff, he shoved two of his fingers in my mouth, pressing my tongue down. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths and fought the urge to bite.
“No way of knowing what it was now; it’s been burned out.”
“Not contagious?”
“It’s dead. All she’s doing is coughing it out. Go throw up,” Cleo ordered, pulling his hand away from my face. “Preferably in a bathroom rather than in here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” the President replied, taking hold of my elbow. “Come along, dear.”
Horror and panic surged through me at the thought of the President of the United States acting like a nursemaid. A cough killed my protest before I could say a word.
“The feather,” Henry said, pointing at it. “It should be worn in her hair.”
“After it did that?” Anatoly bellowed.
“Tigers.” Henry swiped the white feather from the table, hissed, and grabbed hold of my braid with his other hand. “I don’t know where it’s supposed to go, sorry.” He picked a spot, and I heard the metal on metal clink of him clipping it into place. “Your braid’s a bit of a mess.”
“Fashionista,” I muttered, holding the handkerchief to my face. With no other choice, I allowed the President to drag me out of the room. Fortunately—or unfortunately, as the case was—it wasn’t far to the nearest bathroom.
When I found out who was behind giving me the eagle feather, I’d lock them in a stall with Devil Spawn and let her teach them a few lessons. Maybe I’d toss Dipshit in, too, out of spite. If I added Anatoly, would there be anything left of them?
Throwing up was bad enough, but doing so while supervised by the President turned it into misery of the highest order. Worse still, I needed her help. My body trembled, so weak I could barely lift my head. When the irritation in my throat died down to a dull ache, the President hauled me to my feet and shoved me in the direction of the sinks.
It took one look in the mirror to spur me into grabbing a towel from the basket and cleaning up. Enough blood stained my face and shirt to remind me of the aftermath of battle. “I look like I work at a slaughterhouse,” I croaked.
“Toss me a towel,” the President ordered. “Feeling any better?”
I washed my hands first before lobbing a clean towel into the stall. “Comparatively, much.”
Someone knocked on the door. “I’ve brought clothes, Madam President.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Wait,” the President hissed, and a moment later, she emerged from the bathroom stall, holding out the stiletto. “Just in case.”
The wariness in the woman’s stance and the grim set of her jaw bothered me. I curled my fingers around the stiletto’s hilt, tightening my grip on the weapon so I could put it to use if necessary. I adjusted my stance, turning to hide the weapon’s presence. With a grim smile of approval, she went to the door, leaving me to flank her, ready to interfere.
The man on the other side of the door wore the same black suit as the rest of the Secret Service, and he held a pile of folded clothes tucked in one arm. “We brought a change for you as well, Madam President.”
“Excellent. Thank you. We will be a few minutes. Once the dining hall has been cleaned, order the kitchen to bring dinner. Don’t wait for us. Consult with the mystics about a suitable meal for Runs Against Wind
.”
Once the President had the clothing in her possession, the agent nodded and turned to leave, his hand rising to touch the comm unit around his ear. She shut the door and engaged the lock.
When she turned to me, a slight frown creased her lips. “You have blood in your hair, and the braid’s a mess. Wash it in the sink.”
While I’d managed to get most of the blood off my face, it clumped in my hair, partially due to my coughing but also from the earlier battle. My skin crawled at the thought of staying so filthy. If I hurried, I could have everything back in order within an hour—maybe less. I grimaced and went to work stripping out the beads and feathers, setting them on the ledge in their proper order, and triggering the golden eagle feathers’ magic to purify the beads.
From one of her pockets, the President produced a small comb. “This might help.”
“That’s convenient.” With so much hair, I couldn’t wash it all at once in the sink. I started with the top of my head and worked my way down, washing, rinsing, and repeating until I got the worst of the mess out, depleting the bathroom’s soap supply in the process and ruining all the towels.
With the worst of the mess gone, the golden eagle feathers could take care of the rest, and I hurried through the combing process, aware the President watched me.
“Change first, then finish your hair,” she ordered.
I took a look at the clothes, narrowing my eyes at the replacement skirt, blouse, and lingerie. Instead of the vivid violet, the color was a little paler with more blue, and the lingerie matched. “If I kill that stallion, would you look the other way?”
At least grizzlies found morbid, violent humor entertaining. The President chuckled, lifting up the lace bra. “Jacobson does have certain ideas about female attire, doesn’t he? I’m not sure what impresses me more: his ability to judge the size a woman wears by looking at her, or his ability to toss together a good-looking outfit given five minutes and access to his closet.”