Chapter Twenty-Three

“You—you—” My mouth worked like a beached fish’s. I reeled from the revelation. “How—”

Imana laughed, not the pleasant, sympathetic titter of Erika Stadler but triumphant mockery. When she’d dropped the presidential aura, she’d shed the pretense.

The guard grinned evilly, like he was in on the joke. He looked human, but I’d bet my life he wasn’t.

I snuck a glance at the gadget on the desk. Maxx’s rundown on Cerulean tech rang in my head. They created holograms so realistic you can’t tell you’re looking at a mirage unless you touch it. The broach! The broach had projected an image of a human Erika Stadler.

That’s why she avoids physical contact! She could fool the eye, but behind the mirage was solid matter. Anyone who shook her hand would notice she only had four fingers, and the backs of her hands were furrier than a cat’s paws.

All this time, we’d had an alien as president, the Copan responsible for most of the galactic slave trade. This is why Garrison attempted to dissuade me from going to the president. He and Maxx had known her real identity but couldn’t prove it. Now, I understood why they needed to catch her dead to rights. She’d been hiding behind the mirage.

I’d leaped to all the wrong conclusions and shared with the enemy everything I knew. I’d given her two handhelds. I’d put Maxx and Garrison in jeopardy.

Imana perfected a gloating strut as she paraded around the desk. Get a good look at what you were too stupid to see, her posture said. Or maybe I took it too personally.

Free of the glamour, the navy pantsuit had vanished, replaced by a long shimmering sleeveless violet sheath slit from hip to ankle to allow for easier movement. Under it, she wore matching purple leggings. Her hairy arms were bare, except for intricate bracelets winding from wrist to elbow.

A tiara of jewels nestled between gleaming yellow-brown horns, her ego demanding the accoutrement of status even though no one would see it with the disguise in effect. Yes, I could believe she was hastening the demise of her mother, the queen.

Her eyes were ochre, her gaze smug.

Had Erika Stadler ever existed? Had we elected a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or had the cartel pulled a switcheroo? At what point? But wait…Stadler used to shake hands! At all those campaign rallies, she hadn’t hesitated to press the flesh with supporters. The mysophobia had developed after the inauguration of her second term. “What happened to the real Erika Stadler?”

“She died.”

I flinched. If she’d been sold, there may have been a chance of rescue. “You killed her, you mean.”

“Well, not me personally. It seemed the easiest way to handle things. She wouldn’t have been very compliant.”

I couldn’t miss the unspoken threat. If you don’t comply, you’ll suffer the same fate. Is that what had happened toErika Stadler’s formerly vocal critics? Had they been killed or sold into slavery to silence them so that nobody looked too closely at the widow in navy blue?

No politician could please everyone. Mudslingers still should have been yammering. But Imana couldn’t risk the scrutiny. The cloaked ships, the fudging of the census reports, the disguise, the false mysophobia—her whole strategy depended on flying under the radar, to use an antiquated analogy. Ironically, if we’d had radar, the invisible slave ships might have been detected.

Imana’s expression shifted to boredom, and she flicked her wrist. “Take her away.”

I recoiled, falling against the desk. There was no place to go, no place to run.

Hand on his holstered weapon, the guard stepped toward me.

“If she causes any trouble, you have authorization to kill her. Just don’t make it public,” Imana said.

* * * *

The guard stayed to my left and a step behind. Once he brushed against my arm, and I felt fur. As I’d suspected, he was Copan; his lapel pin projected a human glamour. The giveaway had been the blaster hilt. The hologram projector hadn’t been able to alter the appearance of the weapon.

Jericho was still deserted, but I could hear the clickety-click of a lone set of heels headed our way. The henchman’s hot, stinky breath wafted over me as he hissed in my ear, “If you scream or do anything to draw attention, I’ll kill you both.”

An aide rounded the corner. She stopped short at the sight of me. “You…your clothes…what happened?”

Get help! I tried to signal with my eyes, but she was too focused on my bedraggled appearance.

“Her hovercar broke down. I’m giving her a lift home,” the henchman said. “Excuse us.” He hustled me away.

She would remember me. So would Joe, the guard outside. My filthy state had made an indelible impression. When I vanished, they would recall seeing me today. But, with Imana in charge, there would be no investigation. Not that an after-the-fact inquiry would save me. It was too late for that.

He prodded me down the corridor leading to the hovercraft garage elevator.

“Call the elevator,” the henchman growled, and I realized he wished to avoid leaving an electronic trace.

“Do you see a badge on me?”

“Use your thumb.”

I rubbed my left thumb against a muddy spot on my PJ pants and then pressed it to the elevator pad.

ACCESS DENIED.

“What the zigqat?” he swore under his breath in Ara-Cope.

“Princess Imana must have deactivated me,” I said.

With another curse, he leaned around me to call the elevator himself, and the door slid open.

Garrison stood there. His surprised gaze shifted between me and my captor. Then his expression went neutral. “I thought you were taking the day off,” he said in a conversational tone while blocking the entry.

Run, Garrison, run! They’re coming for you! “My hovercar broke down.” I used the guard’s own words, but my heart leaped into my throat with fear. The excuse made no sense for me being in the building; Garrison would realize that. “The president’s protection officer was kind enough to provide me with a ride home.” With a nudge of my chin and jerk of my eyes, I tried to point to the henchman’s holstered weapon. Would Garrison notice the hilt the way I had? Please, please understand!

“Do you mind? We don’t have all day,” the guard snapped and prodded me forward. I faked a stumble and fell against Garrison, slipping Imana’s broach into his pocket.

I’d grabbed it on instinct with no time to consider the consequences—that it might turn me into Erika Stadler right in front of Imana and her henchman, which would have been very bad for me. Fortunately, that hadn’t happened—although, in retrospect, I didn’t understand why it didn’t work on me. But, hopefully, Garrison would make the connection I’d been to see the president who was not the president.

The henchman badged the reader, the doors closed in Garrison’s face, and the elevator ascended to the garage.