Visions of Magic (12 page)

She nodded and looked at her friend. “Terri? Is all of this okay with you?”

The blonde shot a wary look at Rune. She had little choice but to risk going with him. It was that or die, never seeing her child again. Torin wasn't surprised when she spoke.

“Sounds good. And thanks for getting my mom and Amanda out, too.” Her gaze shifted around the prison enclosure, briefly taking in the bodies of the fallen women. She shivered and swallowed hard, lifting her chin in a show of defiance. “Always wanted to live in the mountains. Besides, the farther from here, the better.”

“We go, then,” Rune said. First, he reached out one hand toward the chain around her neck. “This must come off.”

“If we don't get rid of the necklace, the white gold will drain Rune's powers slowly, making it harder for him to protect you and your family,” Torin said.

“Do it.” Terri tilted her head to one side and barely flinched when Rune's fingertip blazed into flames that touched her skin and didn't burn. The necklace dropped unheeded to the ground. She lifted one hand to rub her neck, then stared at Rune as if wondering if she was jumping from the frying pan into a living, breathing fire.

“Trust them,” Shea said and those two words filled Torin with pride.

Rune held out one hand to Terri. “If we are going, woman, we must go now.”

“Right.” Terri linked her fingers with his and as the flames rose up to swallow them, Shea actually heard Terri laugh.

“Now are you ready?” Torin asked, reaching out his hand to free her of the draining white gold links at her throat.

Gunfire erupted in the distance. Shea took a breath and nodded. “God, yes. Let's go.”

Flames raced from his body to the links against her neck. Seconds passed; then she sighed as the hated necklace dropped free of her body. “That feels much better.”

Guards shouted, women screamed and yet more gunfire blasted the air. Wrapping her arms around Torin's neck, Shea held on tight and whispered, “Get us out of here.”

With a whoosh of sound and a bright flash of flames, they vanished.

“M
adam President, the director of the Terminal Island detention center is on line two. He said you're expecting his call?”

Cora Sterling, first female president of the United States, looked up at her chief of staff. She gave him the warm, motherly smile that had gained her the trust of a nation and allowed her to be at the epicenter of a historic election. “Yes, thank you, Sam. I'll speak to him in a moment.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The tall, handsome man nodded and left the Oval Office.

Cora sat on one of the twin pale blue upholstered sofas placed opposite each other. A reading lamp burned softly on the nearby table and the latest sheaf of papers sent to her by the Senate was scattered across the cushions beside her.
I love this room,
she thought, as she stood up and crossed the navy blue rug with the presidential seal embroidered into it.

Being here, in the White House, was something she never took for granted. She'd worked hard to get here. To belong here. Though at times it all still felt surreal. A widow with a grown daughter, Cora had always been an ambitious woman—but this, she thought wryly, went well beyond her ambitions.

The sound of her heels was muffled as she walked with a confident stride to stand at her desk and stare at the phone. The HOLD button flashed as if insisting that she pick up. But she took a moment to ground herself.

She was the president, after all.

She smiled to herself. Six months in office and she still wasn't used to it. Cora Sterling, middle-class girl from Sugar Land, Texas, first female president. Her election had made history. Her term in office, she told herself, would do the same. She had run on a campaign of reform and domestic safety.

With witchcraft alive in the world, the people were frightened. Frightened enough to vote for her when she had promised to protect them—and she would keep that promise. She had vowed to resolve the witch situation and to bring a halt to the fear that seemed to be the underlying thread of society these days.

If witchcraft existed, she insisted on the campaign trail, then it was time that the world accept the new reality and find a way to work with it. She solemnly swore that she would not allow this country or any other to revert to the hysteria of the Salem witch trials.

And that was just what she intended to do, Cora told herself firmly. Reaching out one hand, she lifted the phone. “Mr. Salinger?”

“Yes, Madam President.” He paused and audibly swallowed. “I'm afraid I have bad news.”

Her grip tightened on the receiver. Taking a slow, deep breath, she shifted her gaze to the south lawn of the White House. Outside were gardens, soft in the moonlight, being guarded by a full company of armed Marines. Beyond the lawn, the fence had been fortified, sprayed with white gold, and tourists were no longer allowed up close to the “people's house.” No more photo ops in front of the nation's capital. Not when you had to worry about a witch getting too close to the president.

The witchcraft scare had driven every decision made in D.C. for the last several years. And fear was a harsh taskmaster. The security was such that Cora even had a Secret Service escort with her at all times
inside
the White House. About the only place she could count on being alone was in the privacy of her own bedroom.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Salinger,” she said in the soothing, calm tone people had so come to count on. “What's happened?”

“It's Shea Jameson.”

“Yes, I assumed as much.” Cora sighed. Only yesterday she'd spoken to this man to tell him in no uncertain terms just how important Ms. Jameson was to Cora's future plans. The young woman had become the face of a movement.

Her aunt the first witch to be executed, Shea herself hunted for years and now, finally, thanks to her power erupting, caught and jailed. She was young, pretty, a schoolteacher, for heaven's sake. And her records all indicated Shea was a thoughtful, ordinary woman—at least until her innate witchcraft had erupted. Hers was the face Cora needed to project as she tried to make the very changes she'd promised the voters.

“What's happened?”

“She's escaped. Well—” Salinger corrected himself quickly. “She was broken out. There were some deaths. My men—”

“How many of your prisoners died in this escape?”

He paused and Cora heard the rustle of papers as he did some quick checking. “Five women dead, four injured, one of those not expected to make it.”

Rubbing her forehead against the burgeoning ache, Cora turned away from the French doors leading to the south lawn and stared instead at her desk. The Resolute, it had served Reagan, Clinton, the Bushes and Obama and now it was hers. Along with the responsibility that anyone sitting behind it must accept.

She ran her fingertips across the intricately carved English oak surface and reminded herself that she'd earned this position. She'd served first as governor in Texas and from there moved to the Senate. Two terms had solidified her reputation as a straight-talking, nononsense candidate. When her husband died fifteen years ago, Cora had taken her only child, Deidre, out on the campaign trail with her and the two of them had been an unbeatable team.

And she'd walked into this office, ready to take on the problems of not only her country but the world. Now was not the time to get fainthearted.

“And Ms. Jameson?” she asked, cutting into Salinger's excuses and apologies.

“Gone,” he admitted. “I gave the orders you insisted on, Madam President. She wasn't bothered . . . much. The guards mostly kept their distance, and simply watched. If they'd been closer to her when the men appeared . . .”

She straightened, disregarding the man's insinuation that somehow all of this was
her
fault, and focused on the last word he'd said. “Appeared?”

“According to the surviving witnesses, yes,” the man said, nearly babbling now with nerves. “Two men ‘appeared out of nowhere,' killed the tower guards and showed up in the prison yard.” He cleared his throat and added, “Witnesses swear the two men were covered in flames.”

“Flames?”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, ma'am, that's one thing everyone agrees on. The two men looked like pillars of fire.”

“I see.” She inhaled sharply, but kept her voice cool, despite the shock of this news. She remembered the reports from the first attempt to apprehend Shea Jameson. Supposedly a man made of fire had swept her away. Who was he? Where did he come from? And how in heaven could a man of fire be tracked?

Was there more than witches to be concerned about?
she wondered. What other kinds of magic might there be, still waiting to be revealed?

“Very well,” she said abruptly. “Do everything you can, use whatever resource you need, but I want Shea Jameson found, do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“And make no mistake, I want her unharmed.” Cora wasn't interested in hearing more of his apologies or his whining. “I'll be notifying BOW. They'll be in contact with you. Give them everything they require, Mr. Salinger.”

“Of course, Madam President, but I don't think they'll be able to find her. Not as long as this . . .
man
is with her.”

“You'd be surprised what properly motivated people can do, Mr. Salinger. Keep me informed if anything changes.”

“Yes, ma'am, I will—”

She hung up and let her fingers trail across the surface of the telephone. She shifted a look around the Oval Office she'd worked so hard to reach. She wouldn't allow Shea Jameson to disappear into the underground. She needed her. If they were going to make the necessary changes to society and the world at large, the two of them had to work together.

Whether they wanted to or not.

T
raveling by fire was disconcerting, to say the least.

Torin could travel only so many miles in brilliant bursts of flaming energy. So at the end of every jump, Shea looked around quickly to see where they were. Beach, jump. Freeway, jump. Parking lot, jump. Middle of an intersection—shriek and jump.

By the time they “landed,” Shea was shaken and just a little bit nauseous. She let go of Torin, took a breath and bent at the waist, letting her head hang down as she fought to settle her stomach. Not easy since she thought sure she'd left her stomach behind two jumps ago.

“You all right?”

“I will be,” she said, more steadily than she felt at the moment. “The important thing is I'm out of that prison.”

“No,” Torin corrected. “The important thing is to
keep
you out. We're not safe yet. We have to keep going.”

Shea straightened up and whipped her hair back out of her eyes.

She really was inside a completely different world now, Shea thought. Traveling by fire. Sending a friend to a sanctuary. As she quickly considered her new reality, she also acknowledged that she had been relieved to hear about the sanctuaries. Witches were organizing to save themselves and others. They, like she, had decided not to lie down and die with a whimper—and knowing she wasn't alone in her fight made her feel stronger somehow.

Turning to look up at him, she said, “Just give me a second to get my stomach back where it belongs before you do that fire thing again, okay?”

He gave her a slow smile. “Didn't like it?”

“It was . . . amazing,” she admitted, though her insides were still a little shaky. “But not looking forward to doing it again real soon.”

He shook his head as he stood there like some fallen avenging angel, his gray eyes sweeping their surroundings, constantly vigilant. Finally, he looked at her. “No. From here, we'll drive.”

“Thank God.” At least a car she understood.

“We have to keep moving,” he said. “BOW and the MPs will be looking for you. We have to get lost. Quickly.”

Then he took her arm and dragged her behind him across a well-lit parking garage. He stopped in front of a sleek black sports car that looked so fast, so powerful, she half expected it to growl at her in greeting.

“Get in.”

“Are we stealing somebody's car?” she asked, even as she headed for the passenger side. “Don't we have enough people chasing us?”

He shook his head. “It's
my
car. I have several I keep in different locations—just to ensure that I have one when I
need
one. So get in.”

“Right.” She got in, strapped the seat belt into place and instantly slumped against the black leather seat. She hadn't even been aware of just how much tension was trapped inside her body. Until it all released at once, leaving her feeling as wobbly and insubstantial as a wet noodle.

He fired up the engine and Shea smiled. The car
did
growl. As he peeled out of the parking space, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“Safe house for tonight.” The muscle-bound car streaked through the parking garage like a hungry cat chasing down prey. Its tires squealed against the concrete floor and its engine seemed to echo with a rumble throughout the structure.

She leaned her head against the seat back and barely noticed as parking lights flashed past like lightning bolts in a dark sky. As Shea's mind drifted, Torin drove on, steering the car onto the freeway and into the night. And as he drove, visions filled her mind and in those visions, lightning
did
crack against the heavens.

Voices rose out of the past, whispering, chanting. As the words formed in her mind, Shea shifted uneasily and the power within her howled.