by Joshua Roots
Andrew smiled sympathetically. “Warlock Shifter—”
“Please, call me Marcus.”
“Marcus. No offense, but your PR branch is a bureaucratic entity that gets paid no matter what. My firm, however, lives and dies by providing outstanding service. The Delwinn Council hired me specifically because of what I can do for you all. That means maximizing every opportunity.”
More dog-and-pony shows? I didn’t like the sound of that.
Andrew scanned his tablet. “The first event for you is the Ambassador’s dinner party this evening. I’ve arranged for a car. I trust you have appropriate formal attire and a date?”
“Yes to the first, no to the second. I’ll get one, though.”
Andrew tapped like a maniac. “Excellent. It’s always preferable to arrive with someone to these sorts of things. Granted, there won’t be any media, but you never know who is watching.”
“No media?”
“The Ambassador wants tonight to be an intimate affair before the formal ball later this week. You understand.”
Not really, I thought, but nodded anyway. I didn’t want to appear completely clueless.
“Your next appearance is on the Late Nite Show with Eric Falls in three days. I tried to bump it up to tomorrow, but the producers wouldn’t budge. The travel details and lodging are all in your packet, but if you have any questions, please feel free to call me.”
“Three days? That’s cutting it close to the ball.”
“Trust me, there is no way you’ll miss that. We have already arranged for you to be back in plenty of time to be rested. It’s important for you and Ms. Klein to attend the Reformation Ball, especially since the Ambassador is giving you both an award. You’ll need to prepare a speech, of course.”
Breakfast gurgled anxiously in my belly. “Oh hell.”
“If you’re not comfortable writing one, I can have someone do it for you.”
I relaxed. “I’d definitely prefer that.”
He made a note on his tablet. “Done. Lastly, this is your temporary phone.” He handed me a cell. “It’s the same model as yours, but a different number. If you’ll loan me yours, please?”
I fished my phone out of my pocket. He worked some techno-voodoo that was lost on me, then gave me both phones.
“I’ve cloned all your contacts, mail accounts and applications. I also set the new phone to a privacy mode. It will only forward information from your original number to this new one if it’s from your contact lists. This should help minimize the flood of well-wishers and stalkers.”
That last word caught my attention. “Stalkers?”
“It’s rare, but it does happen. One of the burdens people face with being in the limelight is becoming a lightning rod for obsessive fans or violent agitators. If either happens or if you think it may happen, take it seriously and let me know immediately.”
“Trust me, I will.”
“Excellent. I believe that’s everything.” He double-checked his tablet. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Millions,” I said in an exasperated voice, “but none that I can put words to just yet.”
“That’s normal. My recommendation is to simply relax for the rest of the day. Enjoy the down time because your life is going to be hectic soon enough.”
“Will do.” I escorted him back down the stairs. “And thanks,” I added, offering him my hand.
“It’s my pleasure. Remember, if you have any questions or concerns, no matter how small, call me. My information is already loaded in your new phone.”
“Awesome. Will you be there this evening?”
“No. Without a media presence, I wouldn’t be much use. Besides, tonight is date night. I’ll be with you in New York, however.”
I would have felt better knowing he was in attendance. A wingman who knew the game was a powerful weapon.
“See you then,” I said, opening the door.
Andrew dipped his head. “Yes, you will.”
I closed the door, trudged upstairs, and woke my napping computer. With several hours to kill, I might as well spend my time expanding my list of suspects for Simeon’s case. Logging into the Council database once more, I began searching for background information on the Elders.
I was cross-eyed by the time I’d logged off, showered and slid into my tuxedo. I’d purchased it for a friend’s wedding a few years earlier at Dad’s insistence. He swore that a man never needed a tux until he bought one, so I spent the money. He was right. My outfit saw way more action than my formal Skilled robes which were normally buried at the back of the closet.
The sky was turning an impressive shade of dark pink when the doorbell rang. I checked my watch and smiled. I trotted down to the first floor, but paused when I gripped the door handle.
“Show time,” I whispered, then yanked the door open dramatically.
“You look like a million bucks,” I said. Across the street, cameras flashed like lightning and reporters clamored with questions. I ignored all of them.
Steve tugged at his black silk bowtie. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure your Dad’s tailor could get this done in time, but the man is a magician. This fits better than my old tux too. What the hell is going on with these yokels?” he asked, chucking a thumb at the crowd.
I waved at the cameras. “Fans. Apparently I’m all the rage.”
He scowled as one of the protesters screamed a scathing obscenity about his species. “Fans, huh?”
“Okay, those people suck. The rest are just my adoring public.”
“So that’s what your father was talking about.” He huffed loudly. The noise from both groups died for a few seconds before ramping back up to its previous, annoying level.
He kept his stern gaze on the cameras. “We just gonna stand out here?”
I checked my watch again, then saw the headlights pull around the corner.
“Not at all. I was just waiting for our ride. You ready?”
Steve grinned at the stretch limo. “Now we’re talking.”
Reporters hounded us as we stepped into the street.
“Are you a couple?”
“What is your stance on paranormal voting rights?”
“Does the Delwinn Council really have the budget for this kind of extravagance?”
We ignored the questions. By the time the driver popped the door and I slid inside, my mouth was sore from hamming it up for the cameras. I rubbed my jaw while Steve folded himself nearly in half to get through the car door. Once inside, he stretched out with a sigh.
“Nice,” he said, digging through the selection of alcohol as the limo struggled to reverse out of the neighborhood. “You do this?”
“My PR agent. Guess he thought we deserved to ride in style.”
He pulled the top off of a bottle of whiskey and took a long pull. “We do, indeed. And for the record, I’ll gladly be your wingman, especially when the hooch is free.”
The drive into McLean was long thanks to rush-hour traffic. Steve and I entertained ourselves with the large selection of libations and electronic amenities. By the time we pulled into the circular drive of the Ambassador’s home, we’d polished off a bottle of wine and watched a full episode of trashy reality TV.
A tall, thick man dressed in a sharp, tailored tux approached as we exited the vehicle. I noticed the bulge near his armpit and the curly wire that went from his earpiece into his collar. He didn’t radiate with Skill, but I could sense the barely contained fury in his gigantic, tight muscles.
“Warlock Shifter?” he asked in a voice that sounded like bottled thunder.
“In the sexy, sexy flesh,” I replied with a smile.
The human land mass didn’t react. Just stared cold, calculating eyes at me, then moved to Steve. The man’s face remained passive, but a muscle clenched in his jaw. Probably wasn’t used to looking up at anyone.
“This your guest?”
“Yup. Allow me to introduce my paranormal life-partner, Steve the Minotaur.”
&
nbsp; He folded his arms. “I prefer ‘Big Daddy.’”
The man gave the beast the once-over, then waved for us to follow. “This way please.”
“This guy’s a pro,” Steve whispered as we trailed behind. He scanned the surrounding area. “There are at least three more like him watching from a distance. One in the tree behind us has a rifle.”
“How do you know?”
Steve touched his nose and winked.
We passed a row of expensive, foreign cars that cost more than my townhouse, then walked up the wide steps to the main entrance.
The foyer was huge with white tile floors and an enormous chandelier hanging overhead. Fancy, modern art hung on the walls while sculptures that were probably worth more than a small nation’s GDP were tucked into alcoves.
“Swanky,” Steve muttered.
“Wait here,” the meathead ordered, vanishing before Steve or I could respond.
“Quite the charmer, that one,” I said. Steve huffed, but stayed quiet.
I stared at the opulence around me with a critical eye. The house reminded me of the “formal” wing of the Homestead, my affectionate name for my folks’ place. Like that wing, the entrance was built for show. The layout centered on entertaining large groups of people with money or power rather than comfort. The furniture was stiff and pristine, so everyone opted to stand. The crowd milled about, sipping wine and chatting politely.
I also realized that we’d encountered little to no barrier. Yeah, this portion of the mansion was designed for entertaining, not for daily living.
Mr. Charisma returned with the Ambassador.
She was tall and trim with bobbed, red hair that was streaked with gray. Her dark suit accentuated both her height and her trim waist while respecting her age and political position. Bright, blue eyes sparkled behind thin-framed, modern glasses.
She offered me her hand. “Warlock Shifter. So glad you could make it.”
Her grip was firm and authoritative.
“I appreciate the invite, Madame Ambassador.”
She grinned. “‘Ambassador’ is a title for people I work with. You saved my life, so you may call me ‘Carla’ if you like.”
“In that case, Carla, you may call me Marcus since ‘Warlock’ is a title for people I work with.”
“Touché.” She turned to my date. “And you are?” she asked, offering him her hand as well.
“Steve.” He swallowed her slim fingers in his massive paw.
“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said, placing her other hand on his. “I haven’t had the opportunity to interact with many paranormals and you’re definitely the first Minotaur I’ve met. If you represent your species, then please color me impressed.”
I blinked in surprise as Steve actually beamed.
Mr. Charisma held a finger to his earpiece, then whispered into Carla’s ear.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you both my undivided attention,” she said, when he’d finished. “I do want to talk to you about the attack as well as learn more about your species,” she added to Steve. “Perhaps we can set something up soon?”
The Minotaur and I both nodded.
“Wonderful. Monica will contact you. As for this evening, there’s an open bar and heavy hors d’oeuvres, so I trust you’ll be able to entertain yourselves. I’ll have Duke come get you when it’s time for the presentation ceremony. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Steve and I shook her hand once more, then Mr. Charisma escorted her to a nearby couple. The tall man in an expensive tux preened while his plastic trophy wife posed like a movie star on the red carpet. Carla had both of them laughing as she waved them indoors.
Steve watched the Ambassador work the entrance. “She’s in her natural element.”
“There’s a reason why some people are successful in her line of work,” I replied.
He grunted. “The paranormal clans are a lot simpler. You and your family are on top until someone bigger or stronger wipes you out.”
“That’s how human politics work too.”
Carla’s guests were a hodgepodge of D.C.’s elite. I spotted a Senator Tentman from Virginia, a handful of state Representatives, and a bunch of senior Councilmembers in their finest robes. Dad was absent, which didn’t surprise me. The man was still trying to clean up the mess Quaos had made at the Homestead. Not to mention, Mom would have preferred cooking to coming to a function like Carla’s.
Having been on the receiving end of a few of Mom’s “casseroles,” that was saying quite a lot.
Still, I wished they were there.
We’d all been busy since the attack, lost in the daily routines of our own lives, but their absence was especially noticeable that evening. Like with Quinn, it left a small void in my chest.
“You okay?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, it’s just—I don’t get a lot of commendations.” When he frowned at me, I forced a smile. “Never mind. Let’s grab a drink.”
“Hell yeah.”
I ordered a vodka tonic while Steve simply requested an entire bottle of Malbec. Give the bartender his due, he didn’t even blink when handing the wine over to the Minotaur. Steve thanked the man and dropped a gold coin into his tip jar. The guy gave the beast an appreciative nod before snatching the coin from the glass container.
“That was generous,” I said as we strolled through the crowd.
Steve shrugged. “Sue me for having a soft spot for bartenders.”
My heart twinged with guilt. Granted, burning down Steve’s bar hadn’t been entirely my fault, but he’d lost his home and all worldly possessions. And all because my Fire Spell had gone haywire. Some of that was due to the heat—pardon the pun—of battle. But even I knew that was a lame excuse.
Warlocks, especially those who specialized in Combat instead of the security branch of Guardian, were supposed be masters over their powers, especially during a fight. We trained to be cool under pressure, capable of operating in austere environments without distraction. It was the hallmark of our specialization.
In the last year, however, I’d struggled with the resurgence of my Skill. Considering my recent spate of collateral damage, I wasn’t exactly a bastion of control. My sloppiness had cost Steve his home, put me in the hospital, and almost made me beat a creature to death. My inability to manage both my emotions and my Skill, especially during a fight, was becoming a problem. One that terrified me because it would only get worse the more I recuperated from the magical atrophy.
Maybe it was time to stop trying to prove I could walk this path of recovery all on my own.
Steve grabbed my arm, jerking me to a halt. My drink splashed onto my pants and shoes.
“What the hell?” I asked. He simply pointed to the koi pond in front of us. One more step and I would have been swimming with the fishes. Literally.
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Seriously, what’s going on with you lately?” he growled in a voice filled with equal parts concern and annoyance.
“Just a lot on my mind. Like suddenly being semi-famous.”
That part was absolutely true.
“Well get your head in the game, man,” he said. “If what you say is true about the Council wanting you to be their poster-boy, then you need to stop being flaky. More important, I can’t afford to have my dinner date embarrassing me in front of all these uptight humans.”
“You got it.”
I meant it, too.
The Reformation Treaty may have roped paranormals into the union between the Normal and Skilled societies, but most non-human species had remained isolated. The closest they came to integrating, even with each other, was the Underground and only then because my people usually avoided it. But Steve was one of the few paranormals that had willingly stepped across the barrier, choosing to live in my world where he was an outcast. The least I could do was be on my best behavior
And look presentable.
I handed him my drink. “I need to dry myself off. I’ll be back in a few mi
nutes.”
The two bathrooms on the main floor were occupied, but an attractive caterer pointed me toward one on the backside of the kitchen. I thanked her and trotted through the kitchen, nabbing a few bacon-wrapped scallops from a tray waiting to be taken to the guests. A handful of thick paper towels later, my lower body was as dry as it was going to get.
I was heading back toward the kitchen when I spotted Mr. Charisma arguing with the trophy wife halfway down the hall to my left. My curiosity piqued, I knelt, pretending to tie my shoe as the beefcake pointed to the restrooms. The woman laughed, then wobbled in my direction. She stumbled as she passed, banging open the door to the restroom, and shutting it harder than necessary. Mr. Charisma scowled, then cocked his head and held his finger to his earpiece.
He disappeared through a door to his right.
“A little jumpy, eh, pal?” I muttered. Common sense told me that he was just doing his job, but something about how vehemently he’d redirected the guest made me suspicious. Call it paranoia, but Dad always said a person’s gut was right nine times out of ten. Mine was telling me something was up. I paused—Steve might feel uncomfortable if I was gone too long. I checked my watch, allotting myself five minutes for the detour.
Walking as if I belonged, I strolled easily down the hall, glancing at the art occasionally in case anyone was watching. No one spotted me as I reached the end of the corridor, so I pressed my ear against the door Mr. Charisma had disappeared through. There was no sound on the other side, so I eased it open slowly, peeked to make sure the coast was clear, and slipped inside.
The library was large, but unlike the rest of the house, it felt cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves and reached from the floor to the ceiling far above. A ladder hung from a metal track that ringed the shelves. Near the ladder, a brick, wood-burning fireplace was cleaned and ready for the winter months. Opposite me was a spiral, iron stairwell that led to a large recess where I spotted the back of Mr. Charisma’s head.
Murmurs filtered down to the main floor. The security man turned around.
I tiptoed across the room, ducking behind one of the large statues in a small alcove by the fireplace.
