by RJ Blain
The mystic light illuminated white ceiling tiles. Lying flat on my stomach, I leaned through the hole. Unlike other ceiling tiles, plastic rings were mounted to the corners to allow workers—or thieves—to lift the tile without damaging it.
With a single peek, I’d be able to confirm if an enterprising thief could make use of the ducts. I wiggled forward and stretched an arm down, swiping at the rings. It took me several tries to snag one with a fingertip. Lowering my shoulders through the hole, I pulled up and peeked between the tile and the metal frame below.
The first floor of the National Archive served as a museum, and the room beneath me held Native American artifacts. I recognized tribal headdresses like those the tribe elders wore, the feathers worn and dulled from age. Arrowheads filled the case beneath me. If I wanted to reach the floor without crashing through the glass display, I’d have to clear several feet to the left or right, a feat I could probably do with a little bit of effort. I twisted around and glanced over my shoulder. With enough rope, I’d be able to secure a line to one of the shafts leading to the next floor.
Someone who knew the layout of the National Archive could use the ducts to steal something. I narrowed my eyes, reached behind me, and grabbed my katana. As long as it remained sheathed, the blade wouldn’t damage anything. After a few minutes of deliberation, I settled on a supple leather torque beaded with turquoise, silver and gold, one of the items least likely to be damaged from rough handling. Instead of keeping it inside the case where it’d be protected, the museum had it displayed on a metal rack between two elaborate headdresses. With the help of the katana, a little luck, and a few risks, I could reach it.
If I stole it, I’d have proof someone could steal from the National Archive undetected. I would return the torque to the President and let her deal with the consequences of my theft. If I pulled the stunt off, I’d also prove anyone with a copy of the floor plans, a few tools, and patience could have stolen the Hope Diamond.
Sliding the ceiling tile over its neighbor, I eyed the distance to the beaded torque. To reach it, I would need at least four feet, requiring me to lean out of the duct far enough to test my abdominal muscles and then wiggle my way back without falling onto the glass display below. A face full of glass shards would ruin my day and possibly end my life.
‘Don’t fall’ rose to the top spot on my list of things to avoid for the next few minutes.
Wrapping my sword belt around my wrist, I grabbed my katana by the hilt and eased my way out of my hiding place, lowering the tip towards the display case. My head, shoulders, and upper chest slid from the access hole, and I focused all my attention on the torque’s leather ties, which secured it around the wearer’s throat.
Years of stabbing my sword exactly where I wanted it to go gave my hand the stability needed to slip the sheathed end between the beads and the rack. To collect my prize, I’d have to lift the tip, slide the torque along the sheath, and grab it before retreating into the ducts.
I had exactly one chance to pull it off. Sweat chilled my brow, and I adjusted my grip on the hilt and inched the torque up and over its display. The beads clicked against each other as its weight shifted onto my weapon. My stomach muscles trembled from the effort of keeping me in the duct where I belonged. My arm burned, but I took my time rotating my wrist and lifting the katana’s tip.
When gravity took hold, the torque bounced, clattered, and hit the guard, slid over it, and settled over my wrist. I hooked the leather with a finger, lowered my katana, and wiggled my way back into the duct. The instant my shoulders cleared the hole, I pulled my weapon up, freed my wrist from the belt, and set the blade aside so I could return the ceiling tile to its proper place. I eased it onto the metal brackets, grinning my satisfaction.
All I had to do was sneak the torque out of the Nation Archive without anyone noticing. Pausing to catch my breath, I shuffled backwards and returned the duct’s plate to its spot. At a loss of where to stash the torque without someone finding it, I shoved it down my shirt.
Who said breasts couldn’t be useful? If anyone tried to paw at my cleavage to find what was hiding in my bra, I’d rip them a new asshole with my katana and enjoy every moment of it. Fortunately for me, the supple leather and beads had enough give to pull the trick off.
It felt like an eternity had passed before I located the room the Hope Diamond had been held in. While I couldn’t sense the pressure of a nosy mystic listening in on my thoughts, I cleared my head, thinking my way through sword stances while I inspected the room below. I committed the room’s layout to memory before returning the tile and the metal plate to their original positions.
Someone with a fishing line and a hook could make the grab. Dropping a fake replacement wouldn’t take much work, either; I could do it with a few pieces of string and a bag. Satisfied with my investigation, I slinked away, careful to keep my movements quiet. I focused my attention on something harmless.
Tigers popped into mind, and from there, my attention wandered to the only male I knew was the same species as me. It was a very short trip to depression as reality sank in.
When everything was said and done, he’d number among those I’d lose as a result of a few foolish words and a lapse of good judgement.
I made my way to the third floor to read the reference books about the Hope Diamond and other Starfall stones, taking over two tables with so many books I feared they’d buckle from the weight. I leafed through volumes older than me, reading about the Hope Diamond’s history.
Nothing I learned helped, although the stone’s history confirmed it was entirely possible the blue-gray shard in the Cheyenne stiletto was also part of the original Tavernier Blue, believed to have been mined in India. Throughout its cursed history, it had changed hands, bringing a great deal of woe to many of its owners.
The lucky ones lost their fortunes to theft. The unlucky ones lost their lives.
Post-Starfall, luck took on a whole different meaning, and the numbers of those influenced and cursed by the stone numbered in the millions. In the shine of its dark, pulsing light, cities fell, lost to the sea. When it first burst, those touched by its radiance learned the truth of magic, losing their humanity in exchange for power or shapeshifting abilities.
In the days following Starfall, the Hope Diamond had pulsed incessantly, unleashing its magic on those nearby. On its most active day, it had burst fifteen times, and hundreds more had awoken its power in the days following the meteor’s obliteration of the upper reaches of Canada.
No one in their right mind headed north; while some Canadians had survived, they’d fled their burning country for the safety of the United States, and the American government had welcomed them with open arms.
I’d met a Canadian once, a mystic who’d watched his homeland burn until the magic had swallowed the flames. Of all the men I’d gotten to know a little better than I should have, he’d been the only one I thought justified for his foul temper and worst personality.
At least he had understood what the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ meant, although I still wasn’t sure what the deal was with his fondness of ‘eh.’ If he was still out there, I hoped he’d found some measure of happiness—or enough liquor to drown his memories.
So engrossed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Randal until he slapped his hands to the table, leaned forward, and growled at me. The sounds startled me into dropping the book and reaching for my sword. “What? What?”
“Where have you been?” the older man snarled through clenched teeth.
I blinked. “I found these books, and I started reading them.”
No one except the President needed to know about the little detour I’d taken to get to the third floor. I widened my eyes to help feign my innocence, peeling my fingers from the hilt of my sword.
“The point of having a detail, Miss Runs Against Wind, is to keep your detail with you at all times. I can’t protect you if I have no idea where you are. Now, would you care to explain how you vanis
hed into thin air? It took me less than a minute to put the books on the table. You were gone. Nowhere to be found. No one saw you leave the floor, no one saw you anywhere, and there’s no evidence from the surveillance cameras you entered any of the stairwells.” Randal inhaled, straightened, and exhaled in a hot gust of air, which washed over my face and smelled of his fury.
Blinking and playing dumb seemed like a wise idea, so I did it. “I wandered up here.”
“Through which stairwell, exactly?”
If he wanted a straight answer from me, he’d have to try a lot harder. “Maybe I went out a window and climbed to the next floor.”
Randal’s eyes widened, and he twisted around to stare in the direction of the nearest window. “You wouldn’t.”
Instead of answering him, I laughed merrily and grabbed an armful of books to return to the shelves. “I’m a very bad girl. I’m sorry.”
The Secret Service agent stared at me, and I was pretty certain he despaired over his lot in life.
Chapter Forty-Three
I walked out of the National Archive with a priceless artifact hidden in my bra, and no one gave me a second look. The metal and stone beads jabbing into my breasts, and I swore to dig the damned thing out the instant I reached somewhere private.
Shooting me venomous glares, Randal dragged me back to the mayoral palace and directly to the President, who waited in the Oval Office, her feet propped up on the massive wooden desk. “Agent Randal,” my aunt greeted, ignoring my presence. “What is this I hear about your principal giving you the slip?”
Randal grimaced.
I raised my hand and chirped, “It’s entirely my fault, Madam President. I’m a very bad girl and can’t seem to stop myself from testing authority. It gets me into trouble often.”
“Of course. You have a close association with a Native tribe, and they named you Runs Against Wind. This implies a great deal about your nature. However, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Agent Randal.”
I had one technique in my arsenal I could use to rescue my hapless victim; if I pissed the President off enough, she might forget about his failure. “He doesn’t talk. He glares. He also makes these noises that might be English, if English was spoken out of one nostril and only one nostril. There’s also this little issue I have with authority. For some reason, whenever someone tells me I can’t do something, I have to see if I can. It’s not my fault no one checked the windows.”
Randal deserved a lot of credit. The man didn’t move an inch, remaining at attention, his back straight and his hands clasped in front of him.
Turning to him, I inspected his hair, reached up, and tugged on a few of his gray strands. “I think he sprouted a few new gray hairs. I’ve been very bad. I’m sorry.”
The President opened her mouth, stared at me, and shut it with a clack of her teeth. Her gaze darted to one of the two Secret Service agents posted at the door, both younger men who stood at attention, too, about as mobile as statues. When the President turned her attention back to me, I flashed her my best smile.
“Agent Randal, when did you have your last physical?” the President asked, her tone utterly neutral.
“Two months ago, Madam President.”
“Go have a physical. Your blood pressure must be through the roof. Send for Agent Simmons, but have him have his blood pressure measured as well. Take two hours and come back on duty. I’ll expect you both to check in with the mystics after every shift. It wouldn’t do for two of my agents to suffer heart attacks due to their principal.”
“Madam President,” my assigned detail replied, dipping his head into a nod before retreating—backwards—out of the room.
“Go with him,” the President ordered to the other two agents.
“Madam—”
“Do not make me remove you.”
Both men fled.
“Explain yourself.”
I turned to my aunt, stuck my hand down my shirt, and pulled out the Native American torque. “You may wish to inquire with the National Archive if anything grew feet and walked away.”
The President stared at the blue, silver, and gold torque, reached across her desk, and pressed a button. “Inquire with the National Archive on the status of the Native American exhibit. Is it open today? I have a question about some of the pieces.”
“Yes, Madam President,” a man’s voice replied. There was a moment of hesitation. “For you, it’s open every day.”
“Why is everyone talking back to me today? The exhibit, Charlie.”
A low chuckle answered the President before the intercom went silent.
“I’m going to need my blood pressure checked. Why did you stuff a piece of Native American jewelry down your blouse?”
“Didn’t have anywhere else to put it.”
“You could have used your pocket.”
“What if someone patted me down?”
She opened her mouth, inhaled, and clacked her teeth together before gesturing for me to continue.
“It is possible to reach the Hope Diamond’s chamber from any floor of the National Archive. I borrowed the torque to prove it could be done. The exit from the ductwork into the chamber is directly above the Hope Diamond’s display case. A couple pieces of string, a hook, and a bag, and it would be trivial to steal the necklace without stepping into the room.”
“So our culprit could be anyone in the building.”
“The access panels to the ducts are scattered throughout the National Archive. Only someone familiar with the building’s layout would be able to find them. I knew, roughly, where they were only because I had the blueprints. Once I was inside the ducts, which are mystic lit, it was very easy to get lost. It took me quite a while to find the Hope Diamond’s chamber. After I found it, I climbed to the third floor, where I read books about the stone until Randal found me.”
“Next time, notify someone you’re going to vanish.”
I frowned. “If anyone knew I was going to be doing what I did, it wouldn’t prove it could be done. I did it under conditions similar to the theft; I entered when the place was closed off and under security, infiltrated the room where the theft occurred, and no one caught me doing it. That means anyone who knew the surveillance system could do it.”
“Do you think he could be responsible?”
While my theft proved the concept, I shrugged. “All I did was prove a possibility. Knowledge of the system would make it easier to plan. It would let him smuggle the stone out without anyone checking him for it. That said, anyone of similar rank could do the same thing. Anyone on any of the floors could have stolen the stone if they knew where to access the ductwork.”
The intercom beeped. “Madam President, someone from the National Archive is here to see you.”
With a panicked glance at the door, I stuffed the torque down my cleavage and adjusted my shirt to hide its presence. With a soft laugh, the President reached for the button. “Send him in.”
A hunched man with wispy white hair and a cane limped in, accompanied by the pair of Secret Service agents who had fled at the President’s order. Sliding her feet off her desk, my aunt rose and smiled, gesturing to the room’s couch, which was placed to one side of the massive seal marking the carpet. “Sit, Will.”
Maybe her order sent them out originally, but both of her agents took their spots by the door and waited.
“Madam President,” the old man replied, shuffling to the couch and sinking down before staring at me.
“She’s cleared to hear whatever you wish to say.”
“There was another theft from the National Archive, Madam President.”
“I never thought I’d see the day when I wished you were bringing me an invoice for a terrifying amount of money so you could buy something. What was stolen?”
“A very old piece of jewelry, a Native American piece dating from before the foundation of the United States.”
The President pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.
I re
sisted the urge to look down my blouse—or think too hard about the bead imprints I’d have on my breasts when I fished the damned thing out of my cleavage again.
“No one saw anyone enter or leave the room; there were guards posted at both ends of the hallway. Nothing in the room was disturbed other than the necklace.”
“The same circumstances as the Hope Diamond’s theft?”
“Yes, Madam President.”
“All right. Keep me posted.” A single glance at her Secret Service agents was all it took for the old man to take the hint. He rose to his feet and limped his way to the door. A narrowing of her eyes dismissed her agents, who closed the door behind them.
I grimaced and dug the torque out of my bra. “What should I do with this?”
“Why are you asking me? You’re the one who decided it was a good idea to steal a priceless Native artifact.”
“Would you have believed me if I hadn’t?”
The President scowled at me, circled her desk, and stabbed the intercom with her finger. “Hunt Gentry down and bring him to my office, and I don’t care if you have to drag him behind a horse to do it.”
Approaching her desk, I grabbed a tissue out of the wooden box on the corner and wiped down the torque. The least I could do was dry it before returning it. I considered trying my feathers on them but decided against it.
They’d probably end up polishing the beads so the torque looked new, which wouldn’t do it any justice. It had earned its age, and it seemed a shame to ruin that.
Gentry stormed into the President’s office thirty minutes after being summoned, holding Simmons by the back of his neck. “Explain,” he bellowed in my face.
He startled me so much I dropped the torque. A roar burst out of me, and I bounced over the back of the couch and scrambled for the door. The President’s detail blocked my route of escape, so I flattened against the curved wall, my heart pounding in my chest.