by RJ Blain
The taunts reminded me of my childhood. Sometimes, they came from my opponent. As often as not, the jabs came from the sidelines, meant to infuriate. I’d learned my lesson well, too.
Anger often crippled as much as it motivated, and if I toed the line, I could use it as a weapon. If it got the better of me, I’d lose the fight before the first real blow landed. “Delicate flowers often hide thorns.”
With a smile, the First Gentleman spun, using the momentum of his body to give his strike speed and strength. I stepped out of his reach, extended my foot to catch his ankle, and sent him tumbling to the mat. He rolled and hopped back to his feet, chuckling. “Sneaky little kitty. Come play with me, little kitty.”
“When was the last time you went to a doctor? They have medications for people like you, and I’m pretty sure you can afford them.”
The President laughed. “I’m starting to regret assigning Stiletto as her nickname. Warrior Princess does seem rather fitting.”
The First Gentleman shifted his weight and lunged for me. I stepped forward to engage, and our wooden sticks clacked together with enough force my hand ached. After years of men relying on their gender’s strength to overwhelm me, I used the momentum of his blow to hop back and change how I held my body, giving his weapon a slap to the side so he would have to reset his stance or be caught off guard.
Although I won many fights by taking the initiative and attacking before my opponent could retaliate, I lured the First Gentleman along, allowing him to take the offensive while I pretended I favored the defensive, something many women did when faced with a taller, stronger opponent with a longer reach and equal skill.
Maybe he had the courage and wit to cope with having a grizzly as a mate, but rabbits were rabbits. They could move quick, they could pack a punch with deceptively powerful muscles, but they lacked endurance. Sedatives worked faster on them, no matter how fit they were. No one wanted to face off against a rabbit or a cheetah in a short-distance race.
In the long haul, I’d always win, and I smiled when the first sheen of sweat marked the man’s brow. “I like the weather in Charlotte. When it rains, it pours.”
Cheap tricks and dirty tactics won wars, and my words startled the First Gentleman, although I suspected the source of his distraction was what I’d said rather than having spoken. I feinted for his side, caught him in the recoil, and spun, kicking out his knee from behind. In a real fight with a proper sword, I would’ve had the perfect chance to slice him open between his ribs halfway to his spine. Instead, I turned my stick, cracked him with the flat, and put my weight into the follow through.
He crumpled.
Punching him in the kidney while he was falling wasn’t nice of me, but sometimes, sacrifices had to be made to secure my victory.
“Halt,” Cleo barked.
I stepped back, keeping an eye on the First Gentleman, who stayed on his knees while he clutched his side with one hand and braced himself with the other.
“But I wasn’t done yet,” I complained.
“Kitten hits hard,” the President’s husband gasped.
The so-called kitten killed people for a living, but I didn’t mention that. I glanced in Anatoly’s direction; the tiger sat against the wall, scowling with his arms over his chest. Henry caught me looking and chuckled.
“I can’t believe you let her catch you off guard. That was horrible.” The President hopped to her feet, approached her husband, and planted her foot on his chest, knocking him on his ass. “You let a little girl destroy you. You’re right. You do need to exercise before you get fat.”
“She might hit hard, but you’re mean.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s why you married me. Crazy rabbit. You’re not dying, so get up and shake her hand like a good sport.”
While he winced, the First Gentleman jumped to his feet, moving with more fluid grace than I expected. He held out his hand.
The tightening of his grip and the shift of his weight warned me of the throw, and I rolled with it, hitting the mat hard and ending up on my feet, although I dropped my stick, which he kicked out of the way. “Who said anything about me being a good sport?”
I learned two very important things in the next five seconds: rabbits were sore losers, and the First Gentleman was also a mystic.
Thunder boomed in my ears, and the jolt of electricity scorched a path from the top of my head to my toes. I stretched out on the mat in a limp heap, my body twitching while my heart pounded an erratic beat, as though it couldn’t quite remember what it was supposed to do.
A second roar shook the mat, and I recognized the sound as coming from Anatoly.
While I didn’t fully lose consciousness, I struggled to remain aware. Time warped until I couldn’t tell if Anatoly kept roaring over and over, or if his one cry lingered in my memory and smothered my ability to distinguish anything else.
When I recovered enough to shake my head, Henry was crouched beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “Take it slow.”
If he wanted anything other than slow from me, he needed his head examined. “Is it illegal to murder him for that?”
“Yes.”
“Unfair,” I complained. With a grunt and a wince, I rolled onto my stomach so I could get my hands and arms beneath me. I shuddered, paused to catch my breath, and shoved my way to my hands and knees. “What the hell did he do to me?”
“Electrocuted you.”
“He what?”
“He hit you with lightning. He doesn’t handle losing well. At least you had company; Anatoly took a swipe at him before the Secret Service could intervene. Turns out the First Gentleman doesn’t feel he needs any protection. He zapped Anatoly, grabbed him by the foot, and dragged him out of the room. There might be a new tiger rug in the palace by morning. I probably should care about that a little more than I do. The President followed her husband, laughing so hard I doubt she made it back to her rooms without help.”
Groaning, I hung my head. “What a mess.”
“Gentry and Todd went with Cleo to make sure no one was seriously injured. You’re stuck with me and Agent Simmons and Agent Randal. Aren’t you lucky?”
Two Secret Service agents flanked the door. Both were older men, and my nose informed me they were shifters. Most shifters aged slowly, and a chill ran through me. For them to look in their fifties, how old were they, really?
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now, on your feet. Against Anatoly’s wishes, the President has insisted you have a private room.”
Knowing what I knew, avoiding sharing a room with him would save me a great deal of discomfort later. “God bless her.”
He laughed. “I thought you’d appreciate that. He’s not going to be happy about it, but he’ll survive.”
“Did I miss anything else?”
“Ah, yes. Before she started her hysterical laughing fit, Madam President said she was going to be sending some things to your suite, including your stiletto. I don’t know what else she’s sending.” The mystic offered his hand and helped me to my feet. “I have one question for you.”
“What?”
“Were you holding back when you fought the First Gentleman?”
There was only one correct answer to his question. I smiled, pressed a finger to my lips, and replied, “That’s a secret.”
It didn’t matter if people over or underestimated me. I won either way.
When Henry left my new room, the two Secret Service agents remained. We stared at each other, and after a few minutes, both men grinned.
“You’re our principal until further notice,” the older of the two replied, his bright blue eyes twinkling. With a start, I realized the irises of his eyes were changing colors, flowing to the gray-green of a churned sea. “I’m Simmons, and my partner is Randal. I will be your evening detail, and Randal will return in the morning as your daytime detail.”
I frowned. “Why do I have a detail?”
“According to our briefing, you attract trouble
in alarming frequency, so it wouldn’t be wise to leave you unattended.”
To handle the problem of the President’s brother, I would need to ditch the pair of Secret Service agents. Simmons’s odd eyes promised mystical abilities on top of being a shifter. If Simmons had more powers than the standard shifter, I’d be a fool to believe any different for Randal.
In Charlotte, when it rained, it sure did pour.
“I can’t argue with that. So, what do I do with you two?”
“You won’t need to do anything. If something happens, you stick with us. We’ll take care of the rest.” The confidence in Simmons’s voice worried me, as did his relaxed bearing.
The man believed every word he said, which didn’t bode well for me giving either one of them the slip.
“You’re not going to follow me into the bathroom, are you?”
“We’ll be posted immediately outside of private areas. The only reason we’ll bother you in those areas is if your safety is at risk. Your privacy comes second to our duty to protect you.”
I’d given the same talk to people I needed to protect, so I understood they meant it. “All right. Henry said there was something for me? Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes. There’s a blue bag in your sitting room.”
I headed deeper into the suite to discover it had four rooms. The main room boasted two couches, an armchair, and a coffee table in addition to a fireplace. I stared at it. “What on Earth?”
“It’s a fireplace, ma’am.”
Without the security detail, I might have been able to make it do something. “I guessed it was a fireplace What, exactly, am I supposed to do with a fireplace? Is it a decoration?”
“Most people find observing a fire in the fireplace rather calming or enchanting.” Simmons cleared his throat. “Every room in the mayoral palace with a fireplace has an accompanying Starfall stone permitting the lighting of fires. Of course, the exact location of the Starfall stone in the fireplace is a secret, but should you decide you wish to have a fire, the option is available to you.”
My eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Would you like a fire?”
I spotted a blue bag sitting beside the armchair; its placement would let me watch the fire and deal with the bag’s contents at the same time. “Combustion really works in here?”
Simmons somehow kept his expression patient and neutral, although his eyes brightened, turning a vibrant sea green. “Yes, ma’am.”
Crossing the room, I crouched in front of the fireplace, spotting a flint and steel set beside a metal box filled with kindling. A cast-iron rack held stacks of dry wood. Childish excitement coursed through me, and I tossed several pieces of wood into the fireplace, a handful of the kindling, and snatched the flint and steel.
“Do you know—”
It took me two swipes of the flint and steel to send a shower of sparks dancing onto the kindling, and I leaned low, breathing life into the fire. Smoke rose up and vanished into chimney, and I gave a few more gentle blows to encourage the flame. When the first embers took, I fed the fledgeling fire more kindling, using a poker to nudge the glowing mass beneath the wood so it would catch.
“You’re a woman of many talents,” the Secret Service agent murmured.
“I’ve waited a long time to do that.” I told the truth, which made me happy. “There are some places in Wyoming where there’s erratic combustion. It’s a bit of a game to see if someone can actually start a fire.”
“Have you?”
I laughed. “Who does nowadays?”
“Who does, indeed.” Something about the way Simmons watched me made me think he suspected me.
If only he knew.
Chapter Forty-One
Randal left. Simmons stood guard beside the doorway leading to the entry. The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and instead of going through the shiny, rather large blue bag waiting for me, I watched the embers spark and fly from the wood. The logs cracked, popped, and spit chunks of burning bark, but when they fell beyond the hearth, they extinguished in a dark cloud of smoke.
Unable to resist the urge, I approached and touched the darkened ember. The wood left black smears on my hand and was cool to the touch.
Magic worked in mysterious ways, and I wondered if anyone would ever learn why it influenced fire so much. Rising, I headed to the bathroom to wash the soot off. I returned to my chair and picked up the bag. The thick plastic creaked when I lifted it, and it weighed a lot more than I expected. I set it on the coffee table with a soft thump. After a brief but fierce argument with the zipper, I got it open.
Thick folders, several heavy books, the Cheyenne stiletto, and my courier’s bag waited for me. I unloaded it, and at the very bottom, barely fitting, was my katana. Horror choked me, and my heart pounded in my chest.
How could I have been so stupid to forget my katana beneath my chair at dinner?
I sucked in a breath, yanked it out of the bag, and checked over the sheath. Someone had cleaned the beads and oiled the leather beneath. I drew the weapon, and the metal gleamed in the shifting firelight. Like the sheath, it had been cleaned. Over the course of my trip from Cheyenne to Charlotte, the blade had dulled, but someone had honed the edge. I grabbed a sheet of paper from one of the folders and tested the blade’s sharpness, pleased when it sliced through the page with no resistance.
Everything else about the sword seemed the same, and the decorations I’d used to disguise its guard and pommel stone remained as I remembered. With a satisfied sigh, I set my katana aside along with the stiletto.
Tossing the empty bag onto the floor, I cleared enough space to start sorting through the folders and books. When I stacked the documents, they were almost six inches thick. Four unlabeled clothbound books stood almost as tall, and my brows rose. “Agent Simmons, do you know what this is?”
“The folders are numbered in the order they should be dealt with. Beyond that, I know nothing of the bag’s contents.”
I located the numbers in small, neat script in the upper corner of each folder. Opening the first, I arched a brow at the label on the cover page, which featured my tribe name and the President’s seal beneath it. Unlike most of the documents I dealt with, which were handwritten, someone had either used a typewriter or a computer to print the sheets.
The bold red ‘TOP SECRET’ stamped on the next page was partnered with a long disclaimer informing me if I revealed any of the information in the folders, I’d be hung up from the tallest tree, filleted, and otherwise slaughtered in a gruesome fashion, sugar coated in legalese. In reality, while I probably wouldn’t be executed, I’d spend a long time rotting in prison.
In some ways, prison seemed like a nice place. The government fed, clothed, and offered education to inmates, and sentence lengths were determined by probability of rehabilitation and severity of the crime.
Of the changes Starfall had wrought, the appearance of mystics capable of judging the truth of someone’s guilt or innocence had strengthened the legal system, ensuring criminals faced appropriate punishment for their crimes. People still broke the law, but the sentencing fit the crimes, and often sentences ended early if mystics verified the prisoner wasn’t a threat to the public and a judge opted to convert jail time to community service.
Unlike most people, if I gave the government a reason to incarcerate me, I doubted I’d leave prison during a normal lifespan.
I thought about it. Before Starfall, parole had existed for long-term sentences. Starfall had changed everything. Life meant life, and some shifters were well over a hundred years old with few signs of age.
Then again, if security at the prisons was anything like the security at mayoral palace six years ago, I’d keep myself entertained breaking out of jail. The vicious circle of running like a coward would begin anew.
No amount of money on Earth would make it worthwhile to betray the secrets in the folder. I already regretted my decision to return to my work as an assassin. Agre
eing to read the documents in the file wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.
I’d just have to make sure I guarded my thoughts so telepathic mystics couldn’t pry my secrets out of my mind—or find a better way to block their influence.
There was a line for my signature and a handwritten note instructing me to fold the sheet and give it to Agent Simmons when I agreed to the terms of viewing the documents. I grabbed my courier bag, dug out a pen, and signed.
Since the sheet hadn’t included instructions on how to fold it, I made a paper airplane, double checked to make certain no text was legible from the outside, and launched it towards the entry. It slid across the marble floor. “Could you deliver that, please?”
Simmons bent over to pick up the plane. Leaning in my chair, I watched him tuck the sheet into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I will see to it, ma’am.”
A second sheet marked as TOP SECRET waited underneath the first, although it lacked the summary from the first page. It, however, included the Seal of the President in full color, a reminder of the folder’s importance.
How could anyone actually forget? I set the sheet aside and breathed a sigh of relief at the table of contents. I read through, my eyes widening. The documents included everything I needed to know about the National Archive and the new additions to the mayoral palace. The first and second folders contained information on the National Archive, the third folder contained information on the mayoral palace, and the fourth folder exclusively dealt with the policies and procedures of the Secret Service, as well as containing a dossier about my uncle and target, Abraham Adams, a brown bear, aged seventy.
Wonderful. Not only would I have to kill my uncle, he was either a first or second generation shifter. At least he wasn’t a grizzly. His species gave me a moment of pause. Unlike so many other shifter species, grizzlies tended to breed true.
Then again, maybe it ran in the family; I had ended up a Siberian tiger, after all, and from my understanding of the situation, my mother was a grizzly. My father could be anything—or nothing, at least not yet. I had no idea who he was or how old he was.