Scenes from a Preternatural Presidency -- 5. The Proper Use of Thunderbolts (D)
Then it was movie time, and Shrek worked every bit as well as I’d hoped. It turned out Thor had what I can only call a bass giggle, as well as a booming belly laugh, both heard often. With frequent troll laughter as well, squeaks of amusement from Tigger and Young Manitou River West, and lessening human nerves a good time was had by all, and there was actual cheering when Dragon finally ate Farquaad, after which we all ate burgers, the oversize ones in special buns drawing approval from those eating them and raised eyebrows from humans, while the hospitality spell spread mellowness all round. The weather wasn’t being unkind but as temperature fell Adam got a good fire going, tended by our earth fae, proud to be co-hosts, with pack to tote larger logs, and the rest of the evening was pleasingly relaxed, ale appreciated while interesting conversation flowed.
A few days earlier, overcoming a reluctance I didn’t entirely understand but chalked up to simple uncertainty, I had warned Underhill, taken Adam and my Special Squad out to our hunting land, and in a small clearing well up the valley, where an old pine had fallen during a spring gale, tried out the power of thunderbolts. The available line of sight was only about forty yards, which seemed fine for a first try, and with Adam and three agents filming I had steeled myself, reached into the eager magic, and to my own surprise despite everything produced and thrown a thunderbolt that turned out to be about two feet in diameter, weighed most of a ton, and had moved so fast that all the film was blurred, besides cleaving the fallen trunk, burying itself a good eight feet into the earth beyond, and leaving me with a hunger that an energy bar assuaged, though I still ate two miracle pies as soon as I could get them. The hunger didn’t surprise, though its degree was troubling, but the real lesson was that I had been trying for minimal and still produced a force far greater than needed. Thunderbolts, it seemed, did not do minimal, only overkill, which had worrying implications for any public use. Shown what film there was, with stills of the excavated thunderbolt, the Director had shrugged, saying any collateral damage would be unfortunate but far better than any damage to me, an attitude his agents and Adam shared, though they could also see why it bothered me. Now I managed a very soft-voiced conversation with Thor, ap Lugh and Edythe listening, who agreed with my observation but also shrugged.
“It is in their nature, Mercedes Troll-Friend.” Thor drained his goblet and accepted a refill. “Wyverns were tough and fast, so underkill was of no use.”
“Yet magic still follows intent, Mercedes, within its own imperatives.” Edythe’s silver yo-yo shimmered as it spun. “Earth and fire care little for mortal limits, but they will heed yours as they can, I deem.”
“Truth.” Ap Lugh half-smiled. “And if your first attempt hit a pine-trunk at forty yards, your control is as good as we expected.”
I looked a query, and he half-smiled some more.
“It is your capacity to integrate magics, which you seem always to have had and the cloak boosts, with Manannán’s Bane.”
“Un huh. And a moving target ?”
“Anything mortal will be slower than a wyvern, and I never missed, even when the magic was new.” Thor drank again. “The thunderbolt would be ashamed to miss, so it will not, but they can keep going for a while, as you discover. That too is in their nature, from fire if not from earth.”
“Momentum I get, Thor, but presidents aren’t supposed to cause collateral damage.”
“Are they not ? I thought it was in their nature also.” He grinned. “As it is in mine, and perhaps in all gods’. One does as one must, and deals with the consequences afterwards.”
And with that I had to be content, though between the movie-night and the White House reception the following week I did carve out time for quiet conversations with Zee and Bran, who were more sympathetic but unable to suggest anything much except honing my intent as sharply as I could, though Bran offered comfort by pointing out that my legendary vengeance had shown some pretty precise targeting before now. Adam understood my concern, but was happier than I was to know I had such a power, however prone to overkill, and willing to distract me from worrying about it too much, which helped.
Besides being necessary the White House reception gave State a chance to compensate for my continuing diplomatic deficiencies, and we had not only a full house of Scandinavian and German ambassadors and chief execs but a mob of other diplomats from all over. Jenna and Sally had sensibly added a Georgetown U. contingent with many side-benefits for an appreciative Jesse, while Irpa and Vanna had asked for various Canadians with bridge-responsibilities to be included, which was fine by me. Thor brought Beyla as a date, which raised troll eyebrows, but meant I had some interesting cooking talk, and Herne also attended, suggesting the Wild Hunt would quite like a run, should proper occasion arise, and I made a mental note to have an urgent talk with my Attorney General about any legalities that might be involved. Baba Yaga came as Fae Ambassador, telling me ap Lugh was busy with something concerning water fae, though after a while I suspected she and Beyla were baby-sitting Thor as he did his best to make nice to wide-eyed Scandinavians. They were disappointed he wasn’t interested in visiting cities but delighted he and many trolls might come to see how they’d bridged and tunnelled the Øresund Strait, and lapped up details about burning-boat funerals, of which Thor strongly approved, while news that rather fuller versions of the Eddas than Snorri Snurlsson had managed were available in the Fae Embassy library pleased them enormously and had the Norse-translating professors genuinely hopping excitement, which pleased me.
Conscious of the need to reciprocate excellence I’d made some kitchen interventions, and the menu featured those long-marinated legs of lamb, for which I’d helped with the marinade while happily delegating everything else. Thor, Beyla, and Baba Yaga all approved with gusto, and I was happy to talk marinades with Beyla, while all were interested that my hand in this one was enough for the hospitality spell to have some potency despite many other hands cooking and serving. Once we’d eaten, though, Skuffles and I had to join State in making wider rounds, being nice to ambassadors and families, and in so far as we could answering questions about the mini-manitous. There was a lot we didn’t know, and said so, but as everyone had seen them created some commentary on what the magic had felt like up close was possible, and Skuffles, who had talked to all six far more than me, added that they were greatly enjoying exploring new territory while finding displacement outside their progenitors’ lands lastingly odd.
It seems to be something like human experiences of being Underhill. Skuffles’s ruff swirled. One knows one is there, but also that here is elsewhere, which is confusing. But the mini-manitous also know they were made to be elsewhere, so that is alright.
I wasn’t sure the ambassadors felt particularly enlightened, though it made sense to me, but their real concern was whether more manitous would come out, and that no-one could answer. EU people were worried about possible effects if only one did, subdividing their rather fragile unity, but I pointed out that the great manitou of the Danube would have contact with those of the Weichsel, Oder, Elbe, Rhine, and Po, while the Rhine would know the Ems, Weser, Elbe, Danube, Po, Rhone, Seine, and Maas, so any one coming out should lead to more, if properly handled, adding that things should be easier now Brussels had finally pulled its finger out and recognised Fae independence. Jenna and Sally couldn’t quite claim that as their doing, but their consultancy work with the Catalans and others had certainly helped, and I was amused to see State quietly steering one or two ambassadors from places that still hadn’t done any proper preternatural 101 their way. So was Jesse, rightly proud of her friends as well as relieved that disparity of wealth was no longer any kind of issue, and if the Italian ambassador brought a sober note with updates on their post-earthquake reconstruction she remained warmly grateful for US assistance, so that was alright.
Media coverage next day was longer on photos than analysis, though boat-burning and enlarged Eddas got a look-in, and for the public diplomacy and everything else were entirely sidelined later in the week by Thor’s visit to Marvel. Only mildly to my regret, if rather more to Skuffles’s, that was not presidential business, and Congresstrolls rode daughterly herd, but Georgetown U. was interested, comic versions of the preternatural (including me) having soared, so Jesse was there with their blessing, and that evening had us in stitches with a tale of Thor’s rigid insistence on accuracy in depicting muscles, with some alarming demonstrations of what ex-godly biceps really look like when they need to. For me the humour was doubly welcome after a long consultation with the Directors of the Secret Service and FBI, who had been looking hard for whatever the threat might be but had no good news to offer.
“Our own fringe lunatics still seem most likely, Ms President”, the FBI told me, “but those who are talking are little more than hot air, Bright Future has fallen apart completely, and what’s left of the JLS is keeping very quiet. None of Heuter’s surviving people are doing anything we can see, and none who are free had much rank or wealth. But” - hands waggled - “there are way too many individuals who have dropped off radar, and if most are probably out for the count still, and hiding in fear not strategy, some seem to have standing among the gun fanatics and survivalists, who are very closed-off, if not literally underground, so there is little to go on, I’m afraid. Is there anything preternatural we should be looking for ?”
That was an uncomfortable question, but the only real possibility was angry vamps and both Stefan and Thomas Hao, asked very quietly, had said that while there remained plenty of resentment about forcible outing there was also genuine fear of me with conflicted gratitude for Bonarata’s dismissal, and no desire at all to incur either my wrath or concerted preternatural rage. I relayed that, shrugging a little.
“Nothing direct seems likely, even from vamps, but very quiet and deniable finance of someone else remains a possibility. Think of the Bennet case. And there are always Eurovamps - we cleaned out all of Bonarata’s accounts, so far as we know, but plenty of seethes there will have deeply buried resources no-one found. And personal stashes of gold or whatever.”
“Mmm. The CIA are watching for any unexpected liquidations, Ms President, but black money flows everywhere.”
Adam didn’t like it any more than I did, and wondered about any cloaking by witchcraft, but if so there was no helping it, and normal security was already as beefed up as it could be. I seriously did not want any inferences drawn, but we had upgraded site physical in Kennewick, adding sets of heavy rising bollards to the checkpoints on Miels and South Piert, with another just inside our gates, while various exclusion zones in DC had been tightened as much as they could be, with lots of what the FBI called Hostile Vehicle Mitigation, citing possible terrorist threats. The media did notice that in public I always wore the cloak and bore Excalibur, Carnwennan, and Manannan’s Bane, but I managed to deflect press-conference enquiries by telling them all four artefacts enjoyed being presidentially out and about, and I had neither desire nor reason to deny them, especially when they all looked so good.
It was odd, and in its own way as wearing as waiting on Bonarata had been. I was acutely aware that we were by now well into the time-range Edythe had suggested, and that her dreams were still as troubled as they were indistinct, but there was nothing to do except carry on - and presidential schedules have their own imperatives. I spent time on the Hill as assorted legislation made its way through House and Senate, including outcomes of the Koyaanisquat Accords limiting extraction from the Colorado and funding yet more desalination plants and pipelines ; travelled, to see this or commemorate that ; hosted a state visit by Italy I enjoyed and another by India that I didn’t, he being resentful that Hindu werewolves flatly refused to be mobilised into his brand of supremacism ; made an emergency visit to Hawaii when Kilauea erupted, necessitating several thousand evacuations and destroying half-a-neighbourhood ; and heard ongoing arguments about statehood for both Puerto Rico, to which I was sympathetic and the Federal Reserve really wasn’t, and DC, which remained a constitutional can of worms.
Thor made his road-safety film, using Mjölnir, Megingjörð, and Járngreipr to whack the engine-block of an old Chevvy straight through the driver’s and rear seats into the trunk, which sat everyone up, including the poor Chevvy ; and on the back of that Thomas Hao, much more amused than he let on, did dental hygiene, carefully flossing extended fangs, and had the American Dental Association vote him formal thanks for service against caries. Thor also did a bunch of gun-crushing, which Adam, Jesse, and I attended, and seeing vertical stacks of ten confiscated or surrendered automatic weapons in a specially made frame have their breeches reduced with one blow to a glowing block of fused metal, stocks and barrels fanning up on both sides, was both a blast and deeply satisfying. Thor thought so too, and his open contempt for guns in general and automatic weapons in particular provoked some spirited arguments to which Adam and Jesse contributed stinging one-liners. Post-Parkland did some rejoicing, and thanks to Jenna and Sally being way smart there was a huge PR bonus when all fifty ten-squashed-gun arrays Thor had made were auctioned to raise funds for victims of gun violence, and made a perfectly silly number of millions as covetous corporate buyers and private collectors got into cutthroat bidding wars.
A trip to Detroit in May to open the new international bridge had the Director and FBI wondering hard, because we’d be outside for hours, but I thought it unlikely, given the heavy Canadian and fae presence, with a very chuffed Irpa and Vanna amid many happy female trolls, and nothing happened except the formal ribbon-cutting, queues of semis immediately heading in both directions, and a very decent celebration with the Canadians. Even I thought the bridge looked good, and hearing both Congresstrolls give reporters far more detailed and enthusiastic engineering commentary than any of them wanted, but dared not ignore, was a welcome garnish of amusement.
May became June, and with things beginning to wind down for the summer recesses I took care of some personal business. Most of the pack and the Freed had made at least one DC trip to stay at the White House, and so had Zee, Tad, Clay and Donna, and other friends, but a few had fallen through gaps, or had to postpone for one or another reason, including Mary Oliver, with Sara and Josh, and Leslie and Jude, because Leslie couldn’t be away-from-post unless on scheduled leave. Both Jesse and Jenna had nudged me hard about that, so while I still had to be in DC myself I’d arranged a weekend visit for both families, bending regs a little to free up Leslie and get Sara and Josh into a Smithsonian exhibit they were keen on after hours on the Friday night. I took them all round the White House exhibition myself on the Saturday morning during one of the enforced cleaning-breaks, and their afternoon was taken up with seeing the rest of the mansion and West Wing, guided by Adam, while I dealt with a slew of incomings about a military wife in Germany who’d managed to kill an entire family when she lost control of her car in heavy rain and told the Autobahnpolizei she had diplomatic immunity. After reading her file with translated police reports, and placing calls to State, Defence, and the German Chancellor, I decided she really didn’t, especially as her blood alcohol had been elevated, if borderline legal, and her speed reckless at best, and gave short shrift to some Pentagon lawyers who wanted me to stonewall everything on purported principle. It left me cross at her selfish stupidity and the Pentagon’s kneejerk denial of anyone else’s jurisdiction, but a half-hour in the gym whacking the heavy bag restored some equilibrium, and the evening promised to be fun, eating at the family-run pizzeria in Georgetown that we privately called Benny’s East.
It was on 33rd, midway between O and P Streets NW, and as Adam and I ate there at least once a month the security routine was well-oiled. We went by armoured SUV, the Beasts not fitting Georgetown’s corners so well, even when Marsh-Sedge Green, and SOP included an advance squad with dogs checking the premises, and while we were there police cars blocking 33rd at both O and P. Given present circumstances my Special Squad were on me, though the travel was mundane. Jenna had come with Leslie and Jude, so with Skuffles we were a party of ten, plus extra agents, meaning six SUVs (with outriders) and the restaurant’s largest first-floor tables pushed together. Everything was normal as we swept through Dupont Circle, crossed Rock Creek on P, and dog-legged down Wisconsin Avenue onto O, but I could see the tourist crowds were heavy and the agent riding shotgun warned me a local TV crew covering something at Georgetown Lutheran had picked up the waiting police cars and (being previously vetted) set up across the street from the restaurant. It was mildly annoying but within procedure if they kept their distance, and as Jesse said with a half-grin would probably please Sara and Josh. We turned onto 33rd, giving a wave to the police car that closed the road behind us, and drew up at the curb.
The sidewalk was wide enough that in summer there were outside tables, couples and families already eating and goggling, and the happily proud owners were waiting to greet us. Adam, Jesse, Skuffles and I were last to disembark - also SOP - and I was introducing our guests when a big V6 engine gunned south of O, tyres screeching, and a slew of things happened in rapid succession. Without conscious thought I found myself in slightly slow time, with Skuffles but no-one else, and heard pistol shots as people screamed and the police car at O was smashed aside, spinning hard onto the sidewalk as a long-wheelbase Lincoln Navigator with a ram welded onto its front burst through, riding low and from what it had done to the police car carrying real weight. Starring on its windshield indicated police accuracy and bulletproof glass, not a standard accessory, and as my backbrain told me that model ran to 120 cubic feet of cargo space with second- and third-rows folded down I guessed what weighed and made some lightning decisions. With an absolute rage at the threat to Adam, Jesse, and innocents filling me, and my eyes golden, I snapped a dominant order at agents aiming useless guns, stepping between them into the street as the cloak flipped itself aside while I reached deep into the magic of Thor’s gift.
Given that cargo capacity straightforward smiting was not going to work and for a long millisecond I pulled on slow time more heavily, aware of Skuffles bracing herself, and told the magic what was needed, with what specs I could remember. Then with a flowing overarm action more like the Brit’s cricket delivery than a baseball pitch I slammed a thunderbolt straight at the Lincoln, feeling energy drain bite like acid and, as the TV footage confirmed, making a very unpresidential sound halfway between a grunt of pain and a screech of fury. Noise that might have been thunder for all I could tell rolled and died, and for a second there was abrupt silence, the speeding Lincoln replaced by a stationary white stone globe at least twenty foot in diameter. Skuffles was braced beside me like a gun-dog, tail straight out and ruff standing up, skulls and roses quivering. Then my guess was proven correct as the explosives filling the Lincoln blew and our world speared through pain into agony as the thunderbolt expanded and expanded, trying to contain the blast, glowing into incandescence as it slammed parked cars aside, our straining magic drawing energy and mass from every cell. I could feel myself and Skuffles burning up, closing fast on a limit that would not be enough, and for a timeless instant I thought this was it, wondering bleakly if the sacrifice of myself and Skuffles with the cloak would be enough to save Adam and Jesse, Jude and Leslie, Sara and Josh, and all the innocent diners and tourists and TV crew. But Excalibur was holding our conduit to Underhill and the deep magics of the triad very wide open, and with blessed relief beyond imagining earth surged through me and Skuffles, leaping to the thunderbolt to reinforce it, stone thickening, expansion slowing to a halt but still glowing with heat and pressure that fire and air drew out and sent roaring back through earth and me to vanish into the depths I’d known only in dreams Underhill. On the TV images it lasted barely two seconds though it felt like an eternity, but then it was over, save for lingering heat in the thunderbolt, now a good eighty feet in diameter and all but touching the buildings on either side. Conduits closed, safely sealing the energies in Underhill’s depths, and I’d have collapsed in a heap if Adam hadn’t dodged with wolf speed round agents and closed his arms around me, our bond blazing with his fear and love.
“All done and dusted, love.”
My voice was a croak, and I felt as wizened as I later found I looked, which as it turned out I’d burned off more than thirteen pounds in about five seconds total was fair enough, and the pain was a stone bitch, my whole body jangling and stabbing. Skuffles didn’t look much better, ruff-roses browned and drooping, ruff-skulls mazed with cracks, and coat darkened to near-black. The cloak and Manannan’s Bane were also hurting and the hunger pangs hit like fury, every cell protesting.
“Food and water.”
This time I barely managed a hoarse whisper, and amid Adam’s string of snapped commands I found myself picked up, set down at the nearest free outside table, and bolting two high-cal energy bars given me by a white-faced agent, washing them down with a bottle of water from somewhere, while Jude set a shaking Skuffles down beside me, head resting gratefully on one now far too skinny thigh as the cloak draped itself tiredly over her. I could hear radios crackling and orders being given by Adam and others but seeing that Jesse and everyone else was OK, however shocked, I cared only about food, and managed a genuine smile when one of the outside diners, as white-faced as my agents, saw me look up after finishing the second bar and with shaking hands offered me his half-eaten pizza. I managed a breathy ‘Thank you, sir’ before wolfing that too - a Hawaiian, always a decent choice - followed by three-quarters of someone’s lasagne, two slices of a meat feast, three of a Neapolitan, and four fresh bruschettas diverted my way by their intended recipients. The hunger still hadn’t gone but I knew that would take days if not weeks, my stomach had all it could hold for now, and with pain receding to almost tolerable levels, eyes cooling, and Skuffles slowly regaining colour with a better-looking ruff I found my attention widening again.
A few days earlier, overcoming a reluctance I didn’t entirely understand but chalked up to simple uncertainty, I had warned Underhill, taken Adam and my Special Squad out to our hunting land, and in a small clearing well up the valley, where an old pine had fallen during a spring gale, tried out the power of thunderbolts. The available line of sight was only about forty yards, which seemed fine for a first try, and with Adam and three agents filming I had steeled myself, reached into the eager magic, and to my own surprise despite everything produced and thrown a thunderbolt that turned out to be about two feet in diameter, weighed most of a ton, and had moved so fast that all the film was blurred, besides cleaving the fallen trunk, burying itself a good eight feet into the earth beyond, and leaving me with a hunger that an energy bar assuaged, though I still ate two miracle pies as soon as I could get them. The hunger didn’t surprise, though its degree was troubling, but the real lesson was that I had been trying for minimal and still produced a force far greater than needed. Thunderbolts, it seemed, did not do minimal, only overkill, which had worrying implications for any public use. Shown what film there was, with stills of the excavated thunderbolt, the Director had shrugged, saying any collateral damage would be unfortunate but far better than any damage to me, an attitude his agents and Adam shared, though they could also see why it bothered me. Now I managed a very soft-voiced conversation with Thor, ap Lugh and Edythe listening, who agreed with my observation but also shrugged.
“It is in their nature, Mercedes Troll-Friend.” Thor drained his goblet and accepted a refill. “Wyverns were tough and fast, so underkill was of no use.”
“Yet magic still follows intent, Mercedes, within its own imperatives.” Edythe’s silver yo-yo shimmered as it spun. “Earth and fire care little for mortal limits, but they will heed yours as they can, I deem.”
“Truth.” Ap Lugh half-smiled. “And if your first attempt hit a pine-trunk at forty yards, your control is as good as we expected.”
I looked a query, and he half-smiled some more.
“It is your capacity to integrate magics, which you seem always to have had and the cloak boosts, with Manannán’s Bane.”
“Un huh. And a moving target ?”
“Anything mortal will be slower than a wyvern, and I never missed, even when the magic was new.” Thor drank again. “The thunderbolt would be ashamed to miss, so it will not, but they can keep going for a while, as you discover. That too is in their nature, from fire if not from earth.”
“Momentum I get, Thor, but presidents aren’t supposed to cause collateral damage.”
“Are they not ? I thought it was in their nature also.” He grinned. “As it is in mine, and perhaps in all gods’. One does as one must, and deals with the consequences afterwards.”
And with that I had to be content, though between the movie-night and the White House reception the following week I did carve out time for quiet conversations with Zee and Bran, who were more sympathetic but unable to suggest anything much except honing my intent as sharply as I could, though Bran offered comfort by pointing out that my legendary vengeance had shown some pretty precise targeting before now. Adam understood my concern, but was happier than I was to know I had such a power, however prone to overkill, and willing to distract me from worrying about it too much, which helped.
Besides being necessary the White House reception gave State a chance to compensate for my continuing diplomatic deficiencies, and we had not only a full house of Scandinavian and German ambassadors and chief execs but a mob of other diplomats from all over. Jenna and Sally had sensibly added a Georgetown U. contingent with many side-benefits for an appreciative Jesse, while Irpa and Vanna had asked for various Canadians with bridge-responsibilities to be included, which was fine by me. Thor brought Beyla as a date, which raised troll eyebrows, but meant I had some interesting cooking talk, and Herne also attended, suggesting the Wild Hunt would quite like a run, should proper occasion arise, and I made a mental note to have an urgent talk with my Attorney General about any legalities that might be involved. Baba Yaga came as Fae Ambassador, telling me ap Lugh was busy with something concerning water fae, though after a while I suspected she and Beyla were baby-sitting Thor as he did his best to make nice to wide-eyed Scandinavians. They were disappointed he wasn’t interested in visiting cities but delighted he and many trolls might come to see how they’d bridged and tunnelled the Øresund Strait, and lapped up details about burning-boat funerals, of which Thor strongly approved, while news that rather fuller versions of the Eddas than Snorri Snurlsson had managed were available in the Fae Embassy library pleased them enormously and had the Norse-translating professors genuinely hopping excitement, which pleased me.
Conscious of the need to reciprocate excellence I’d made some kitchen interventions, and the menu featured those long-marinated legs of lamb, for which I’d helped with the marinade while happily delegating everything else. Thor, Beyla, and Baba Yaga all approved with gusto, and I was happy to talk marinades with Beyla, while all were interested that my hand in this one was enough for the hospitality spell to have some potency despite many other hands cooking and serving. Once we’d eaten, though, Skuffles and I had to join State in making wider rounds, being nice to ambassadors and families, and in so far as we could answering questions about the mini-manitous. There was a lot we didn’t know, and said so, but as everyone had seen them created some commentary on what the magic had felt like up close was possible, and Skuffles, who had talked to all six far more than me, added that they were greatly enjoying exploring new territory while finding displacement outside their progenitors’ lands lastingly odd.
It seems to be something like human experiences of being Underhill. Skuffles’s ruff swirled. One knows one is there, but also that here is elsewhere, which is confusing. But the mini-manitous also know they were made to be elsewhere, so that is alright.
I wasn’t sure the ambassadors felt particularly enlightened, though it made sense to me, but their real concern was whether more manitous would come out, and that no-one could answer. EU people were worried about possible effects if only one did, subdividing their rather fragile unity, but I pointed out that the great manitou of the Danube would have contact with those of the Weichsel, Oder, Elbe, Rhine, and Po, while the Rhine would know the Ems, Weser, Elbe, Danube, Po, Rhone, Seine, and Maas, so any one coming out should lead to more, if properly handled, adding that things should be easier now Brussels had finally pulled its finger out and recognised Fae independence. Jenna and Sally couldn’t quite claim that as their doing, but their consultancy work with the Catalans and others had certainly helped, and I was amused to see State quietly steering one or two ambassadors from places that still hadn’t done any proper preternatural 101 their way. So was Jesse, rightly proud of her friends as well as relieved that disparity of wealth was no longer any kind of issue, and if the Italian ambassador brought a sober note with updates on their post-earthquake reconstruction she remained warmly grateful for US assistance, so that was alright.
Media coverage next day was longer on photos than analysis, though boat-burning and enlarged Eddas got a look-in, and for the public diplomacy and everything else were entirely sidelined later in the week by Thor’s visit to Marvel. Only mildly to my regret, if rather more to Skuffles’s, that was not presidential business, and Congresstrolls rode daughterly herd, but Georgetown U. was interested, comic versions of the preternatural (including me) having soared, so Jesse was there with their blessing, and that evening had us in stitches with a tale of Thor’s rigid insistence on accuracy in depicting muscles, with some alarming demonstrations of what ex-godly biceps really look like when they need to. For me the humour was doubly welcome after a long consultation with the Directors of the Secret Service and FBI, who had been looking hard for whatever the threat might be but had no good news to offer.
“Our own fringe lunatics still seem most likely, Ms President”, the FBI told me, “but those who are talking are little more than hot air, Bright Future has fallen apart completely, and what’s left of the JLS is keeping very quiet. None of Heuter’s surviving people are doing anything we can see, and none who are free had much rank or wealth. But” - hands waggled - “there are way too many individuals who have dropped off radar, and if most are probably out for the count still, and hiding in fear not strategy, some seem to have standing among the gun fanatics and survivalists, who are very closed-off, if not literally underground, so there is little to go on, I’m afraid. Is there anything preternatural we should be looking for ?”
That was an uncomfortable question, but the only real possibility was angry vamps and both Stefan and Thomas Hao, asked very quietly, had said that while there remained plenty of resentment about forcible outing there was also genuine fear of me with conflicted gratitude for Bonarata’s dismissal, and no desire at all to incur either my wrath or concerted preternatural rage. I relayed that, shrugging a little.
“Nothing direct seems likely, even from vamps, but very quiet and deniable finance of someone else remains a possibility. Think of the Bennet case. And there are always Eurovamps - we cleaned out all of Bonarata’s accounts, so far as we know, but plenty of seethes there will have deeply buried resources no-one found. And personal stashes of gold or whatever.”
“Mmm. The CIA are watching for any unexpected liquidations, Ms President, but black money flows everywhere.”
Adam didn’t like it any more than I did, and wondered about any cloaking by witchcraft, but if so there was no helping it, and normal security was already as beefed up as it could be. I seriously did not want any inferences drawn, but we had upgraded site physical in Kennewick, adding sets of heavy rising bollards to the checkpoints on Miels and South Piert, with another just inside our gates, while various exclusion zones in DC had been tightened as much as they could be, with lots of what the FBI called Hostile Vehicle Mitigation, citing possible terrorist threats. The media did notice that in public I always wore the cloak and bore Excalibur, Carnwennan, and Manannan’s Bane, but I managed to deflect press-conference enquiries by telling them all four artefacts enjoyed being presidentially out and about, and I had neither desire nor reason to deny them, especially when they all looked so good.
It was odd, and in its own way as wearing as waiting on Bonarata had been. I was acutely aware that we were by now well into the time-range Edythe had suggested, and that her dreams were still as troubled as they were indistinct, but there was nothing to do except carry on - and presidential schedules have their own imperatives. I spent time on the Hill as assorted legislation made its way through House and Senate, including outcomes of the Koyaanisquat Accords limiting extraction from the Colorado and funding yet more desalination plants and pipelines ; travelled, to see this or commemorate that ; hosted a state visit by Italy I enjoyed and another by India that I didn’t, he being resentful that Hindu werewolves flatly refused to be mobilised into his brand of supremacism ; made an emergency visit to Hawaii when Kilauea erupted, necessitating several thousand evacuations and destroying half-a-neighbourhood ; and heard ongoing arguments about statehood for both Puerto Rico, to which I was sympathetic and the Federal Reserve really wasn’t, and DC, which remained a constitutional can of worms.
Thor made his road-safety film, using Mjölnir, Megingjörð, and Járngreipr to whack the engine-block of an old Chevvy straight through the driver’s and rear seats into the trunk, which sat everyone up, including the poor Chevvy ; and on the back of that Thomas Hao, much more amused than he let on, did dental hygiene, carefully flossing extended fangs, and had the American Dental Association vote him formal thanks for service against caries. Thor also did a bunch of gun-crushing, which Adam, Jesse, and I attended, and seeing vertical stacks of ten confiscated or surrendered automatic weapons in a specially made frame have their breeches reduced with one blow to a glowing block of fused metal, stocks and barrels fanning up on both sides, was both a blast and deeply satisfying. Thor thought so too, and his open contempt for guns in general and automatic weapons in particular provoked some spirited arguments to which Adam and Jesse contributed stinging one-liners. Post-Parkland did some rejoicing, and thanks to Jenna and Sally being way smart there was a huge PR bonus when all fifty ten-squashed-gun arrays Thor had made were auctioned to raise funds for victims of gun violence, and made a perfectly silly number of millions as covetous corporate buyers and private collectors got into cutthroat bidding wars.
A trip to Detroit in May to open the new international bridge had the Director and FBI wondering hard, because we’d be outside for hours, but I thought it unlikely, given the heavy Canadian and fae presence, with a very chuffed Irpa and Vanna amid many happy female trolls, and nothing happened except the formal ribbon-cutting, queues of semis immediately heading in both directions, and a very decent celebration with the Canadians. Even I thought the bridge looked good, and hearing both Congresstrolls give reporters far more detailed and enthusiastic engineering commentary than any of them wanted, but dared not ignore, was a welcome garnish of amusement.
May became June, and with things beginning to wind down for the summer recesses I took care of some personal business. Most of the pack and the Freed had made at least one DC trip to stay at the White House, and so had Zee, Tad, Clay and Donna, and other friends, but a few had fallen through gaps, or had to postpone for one or another reason, including Mary Oliver, with Sara and Josh, and Leslie and Jude, because Leslie couldn’t be away-from-post unless on scheduled leave. Both Jesse and Jenna had nudged me hard about that, so while I still had to be in DC myself I’d arranged a weekend visit for both families, bending regs a little to free up Leslie and get Sara and Josh into a Smithsonian exhibit they were keen on after hours on the Friday night. I took them all round the White House exhibition myself on the Saturday morning during one of the enforced cleaning-breaks, and their afternoon was taken up with seeing the rest of the mansion and West Wing, guided by Adam, while I dealt with a slew of incomings about a military wife in Germany who’d managed to kill an entire family when she lost control of her car in heavy rain and told the Autobahnpolizei she had diplomatic immunity. After reading her file with translated police reports, and placing calls to State, Defence, and the German Chancellor, I decided she really didn’t, especially as her blood alcohol had been elevated, if borderline legal, and her speed reckless at best, and gave short shrift to some Pentagon lawyers who wanted me to stonewall everything on purported principle. It left me cross at her selfish stupidity and the Pentagon’s kneejerk denial of anyone else’s jurisdiction, but a half-hour in the gym whacking the heavy bag restored some equilibrium, and the evening promised to be fun, eating at the family-run pizzeria in Georgetown that we privately called Benny’s East.
It was on 33rd, midway between O and P Streets NW, and as Adam and I ate there at least once a month the security routine was well-oiled. We went by armoured SUV, the Beasts not fitting Georgetown’s corners so well, even when Marsh-Sedge Green, and SOP included an advance squad with dogs checking the premises, and while we were there police cars blocking 33rd at both O and P. Given present circumstances my Special Squad were on me, though the travel was mundane. Jenna had come with Leslie and Jude, so with Skuffles we were a party of ten, plus extra agents, meaning six SUVs (with outriders) and the restaurant’s largest first-floor tables pushed together. Everything was normal as we swept through Dupont Circle, crossed Rock Creek on P, and dog-legged down Wisconsin Avenue onto O, but I could see the tourist crowds were heavy and the agent riding shotgun warned me a local TV crew covering something at Georgetown Lutheran had picked up the waiting police cars and (being previously vetted) set up across the street from the restaurant. It was mildly annoying but within procedure if they kept their distance, and as Jesse said with a half-grin would probably please Sara and Josh. We turned onto 33rd, giving a wave to the police car that closed the road behind us, and drew up at the curb.
The sidewalk was wide enough that in summer there were outside tables, couples and families already eating and goggling, and the happily proud owners were waiting to greet us. Adam, Jesse, Skuffles and I were last to disembark - also SOP - and I was introducing our guests when a big V6 engine gunned south of O, tyres screeching, and a slew of things happened in rapid succession. Without conscious thought I found myself in slightly slow time, with Skuffles but no-one else, and heard pistol shots as people screamed and the police car at O was smashed aside, spinning hard onto the sidewalk as a long-wheelbase Lincoln Navigator with a ram welded onto its front burst through, riding low and from what it had done to the police car carrying real weight. Starring on its windshield indicated police accuracy and bulletproof glass, not a standard accessory, and as my backbrain told me that model ran to 120 cubic feet of cargo space with second- and third-rows folded down I guessed what weighed and made some lightning decisions. With an absolute rage at the threat to Adam, Jesse, and innocents filling me, and my eyes golden, I snapped a dominant order at agents aiming useless guns, stepping between them into the street as the cloak flipped itself aside while I reached deep into the magic of Thor’s gift.
Given that cargo capacity straightforward smiting was not going to work and for a long millisecond I pulled on slow time more heavily, aware of Skuffles bracing herself, and told the magic what was needed, with what specs I could remember. Then with a flowing overarm action more like the Brit’s cricket delivery than a baseball pitch I slammed a thunderbolt straight at the Lincoln, feeling energy drain bite like acid and, as the TV footage confirmed, making a very unpresidential sound halfway between a grunt of pain and a screech of fury. Noise that might have been thunder for all I could tell rolled and died, and for a second there was abrupt silence, the speeding Lincoln replaced by a stationary white stone globe at least twenty foot in diameter. Skuffles was braced beside me like a gun-dog, tail straight out and ruff standing up, skulls and roses quivering. Then my guess was proven correct as the explosives filling the Lincoln blew and our world speared through pain into agony as the thunderbolt expanded and expanded, trying to contain the blast, glowing into incandescence as it slammed parked cars aside, our straining magic drawing energy and mass from every cell. I could feel myself and Skuffles burning up, closing fast on a limit that would not be enough, and for a timeless instant I thought this was it, wondering bleakly if the sacrifice of myself and Skuffles with the cloak would be enough to save Adam and Jesse, Jude and Leslie, Sara and Josh, and all the innocent diners and tourists and TV crew. But Excalibur was holding our conduit to Underhill and the deep magics of the triad very wide open, and with blessed relief beyond imagining earth surged through me and Skuffles, leaping to the thunderbolt to reinforce it, stone thickening, expansion slowing to a halt but still glowing with heat and pressure that fire and air drew out and sent roaring back through earth and me to vanish into the depths I’d known only in dreams Underhill. On the TV images it lasted barely two seconds though it felt like an eternity, but then it was over, save for lingering heat in the thunderbolt, now a good eighty feet in diameter and all but touching the buildings on either side. Conduits closed, safely sealing the energies in Underhill’s depths, and I’d have collapsed in a heap if Adam hadn’t dodged with wolf speed round agents and closed his arms around me, our bond blazing with his fear and love.
“All done and dusted, love.”
My voice was a croak, and I felt as wizened as I later found I looked, which as it turned out I’d burned off more than thirteen pounds in about five seconds total was fair enough, and the pain was a stone bitch, my whole body jangling and stabbing. Skuffles didn’t look much better, ruff-roses browned and drooping, ruff-skulls mazed with cracks, and coat darkened to near-black. The cloak and Manannan’s Bane were also hurting and the hunger pangs hit like fury, every cell protesting.
“Food and water.”
This time I barely managed a hoarse whisper, and amid Adam’s string of snapped commands I found myself picked up, set down at the nearest free outside table, and bolting two high-cal energy bars given me by a white-faced agent, washing them down with a bottle of water from somewhere, while Jude set a shaking Skuffles down beside me, head resting gratefully on one now far too skinny thigh as the cloak draped itself tiredly over her. I could hear radios crackling and orders being given by Adam and others but seeing that Jesse and everyone else was OK, however shocked, I cared only about food, and managed a genuine smile when one of the outside diners, as white-faced as my agents, saw me look up after finishing the second bar and with shaking hands offered me his half-eaten pizza. I managed a breathy ‘Thank you, sir’ before wolfing that too - a Hawaiian, always a decent choice - followed by three-quarters of someone’s lasagne, two slices of a meat feast, three of a Neapolitan, and four fresh bruschettas diverted my way by their intended recipients. The hunger still hadn’t gone but I knew that would take days if not weeks, my stomach had all it could hold for now, and with pain receding to almost tolerable levels, eyes cooling, and Skuffles slowly regaining colour with a better-looking ruff I found my attention widening again.