Page 29 of Magick and Lead
I felt like a fraud. Because as I looked around at all the finery of the presidential mansion, a place full of antiques and luxury, steeped in the history of our glorious republic, I knew I would burn the place down in a second just for five more minutes with Essa.
One of the president’s secretaries, a willowy fellow who’d introduced himself as Bernstein, whisked out of a doorway with a clipboard in his hand. Two others were to be awarded the medal, too—a poor fellow who’d had his legs burned off in the trenches by mage fire and the tearful family of a female colonel who’d led her troops on a daring assault—then gotten eaten by a dragon for her trouble. Bernstein addressed all of us.
“Folks, thank you again for being here. The president has been somewhat delayed, but don’t worry. He should be here soon, and we’ll get the ceremony underway. Meanwhile, help yourself to some fruit and refreshments on that table and chat amongst yourselves. A reporter will be here shortly to get statements from all of you for the Ironberg Times. Front page, I hear—ah, here she is.”
From a door on the far side of the room, Kitty entered.Of course.I felt a sudden, overwhelming need for a drink, but it was ten in the morning and the only refreshments available were carafes of water and a bowl of punch that I was pretty sure wasn’t spiked.
The president’s aide bustled out, and Kitty swished in, making pointed eye contact with me before flitting over to get statements from the dead colonel’s family.
I glanced at the guy in the wheelchair beside me. “Military life. Even in the presidential mansion, it’s the same thing. Hurry up and wait, eh?”
He grunted without looking at me.
With a whisk of skirt and a clatter of high heels, Kitty was there, notebook in hand. She dropped onto the couch next to me and crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to settle rather high on her thigh—no accident, I was sure.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” she said, her crimson lips curving into a smile. “We keep running into each other.”
“Despite my best efforts,” I muttered.
She leaned close enough that I could smell her perfume.
“It’s a big honor,” she said.
“Sitting next to the best ace in Admar?”
She slapped my arm. “No, dummy. Getting the Platinum Star. Usually, a person has to be dead—or half dead—even to be considered.” She gave the wheelchair fellow a glittering smile. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he mumbled, lighting a cigarette.
“Anyway,” Kitty went on, “after this, I thought maybe we could go grab a drink to celebrate. I took a cab here. Maybe you could give me a ride back to the city?”
She batted her eyelashes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting a statement from me?”
“Why are you being so cold, Charlie? We wereengaged,”she whispered.“To bemarried.”
“As opposed to engaged in combat?” I asked.
“Could you stop trying to be clever for one second and answer my question?”
I sighed. “You lied to me, Kitty. And I—when I was in Maethalia?—”
Before I could finish, a sound of breaking glass from the next room startled me. Someone was screaming, chattering unintelligible words.
I leapt to my feet, ready to fight or flee.
A burly fellow in a black suit jogged through the room we were in, threw open a door, and hustled into the room beyond, moving toward the sound. Through the doorway, I could see into the president’s office. Broken glass glittered on the floor, and a woman with shoulder-length dark hair was shouting, pointing a finger at President Ramos.
“That’s not my husband!” she shouted, her voice shrill and hysterical. “That’s NOT my husband!”
Red glistened on the president’s hand; he seemed to have a cut. Several large security guards in suits stood protectively around him. Another guard and the aide, Bernstein, tried to restrain the first lady as she thrashed to get free of them.
“Let go of me. Let me GO!”
Another figure came toward her. He was familiar, but seeing him here in the presidential mansion, in Ironberg, was so incongruous that it felt for a second like an episode out of adream. It couldn’t be him. He couldn’t be here. And yet, the black robes, long dark hair, long fingernails, and a pale, oddly youthful face combined to form an unmistakable figure.
“Prelate Kortoi?” I whispered.
