Visions of Magic

Chapter 17



“Madam 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.