Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

“Any credit cards or checking accounts that you opened up yourself?”

“Nothing but what you established for me.”

“Then we should hopefully be able to keep Thaddeus sheltered from the public arena for now. But what about the Morells? Do you intend to use their real names?”

“If it pleases you, Queen Mother,” Nolan answered “that would be preferable. My sons, Dante and Quentin, have birth certificates, Social Security numbers, and school records in their name. Legal citizens of the United States. The rest of us are, in their eyes, apart from Mona Lisa, illegal aliens.”

Quentin grinned. “They may not consider me and Dante American citizens, not with us being Monère. Only you, Mona Lisa. You’re part human.”

“A quarter. Does that mean I only have a quarter of their rights? Never mind. That’ll be a matter for whatever lawyer we hire. But the Queen Mother has a good point. Are there any records leading back to Louisiana, to Thaddeus?”

“Our cell phone records,” Dante answered. “And my family’s been out in the community—the supermarket, the mall. Someone might remember seeing us.”

“Me as well,” said Dontaine. “There are many people who will recognize me from New Orleans.”

“Crap. I forgot your friends who did my makeover,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Okay, so once they start digging, they’ll likely be able to track us to New Orleans.”

“But not to Belle Vista. Not to Thaddeus,” Dontaine said, squeezing my arm in comfort.

“The threads are there,” I said. “It just depends on how deep they dig into our pasts—and I have a feeling they’re going to be willing to dig as far as China.” I blew out a breath. “Thaddeus knows the risk, that he might be pulled into this. But I’d like to keep him out of it for as long as I can.” I looked at the Queen Mother and Lord Thorane. “The location of High Court must remain secret as well. But in all other things, I wish to speak plainly about ourselves.”

That launched us all into heated discussion for the next three hours of our flight as we ironed out the parameters of our mission and what we would and would not be revealing to the rest of the world.

“You wish to expose our weakness?” Lord Thorane exclaimed, his brows beetling together. “How to capture us, kill us?”

“Our weaknesses as well as our strengths. The truth,” I insisted. “We cannot lie to them.”

“How much of the truth?” asked the Queen Mother.

“Everything about us. But we leave out mention of other realms. No demon dead, no Hell, no NetherHell. Oh, and no mention of reincarnation or curses, either. We’ll introduce those concepts to them later,” I said, and refrained from glancing at Dante. “For now, it will be enough for people to swallow down what a normal Monère is capable of. But everything else is fair game. We tell them all the good and bad about us, and how we are trying to change. I know—I’m pushing the boundaries. But if we fail, I want to fail big. Not from lack of trying. And definitely not from misinformation.”

The Queen Mother considered it for a long, quiet moment, then finally nodded. “Very well, tell them the truth about us. I agreed to try and let you carve out your own path. We shall see where it leads us. I only request that you keep our weaknesses secret for now. You can reveal them if and when you are questioned before their legislative courts or government—when you have a serious chance of gaining us rights. Not before. No need to make it easier for them to kill you before then.”

It was far more than I had expected. A part of me was euphoric. Another part was terrified now. We would either win . . . or mess up big-time.

“Your brother provided you with much of what you will need,” the Queen Mother said, smiling fondly in remembrance of my brother’s gifts. “This is our contribution.”

Lord Thorane retrieved another briefcase from the overhead bin. “The combination is three-six-seven,” he said, setting it on my lap. He opened the briefcase, revealing more money than I’d ever seen in my entire life. There were stacks of twenties, one bundle of fifties, and another of one hundreds. The bottom row were all in much higher currency denominations—five-hundred-, one-thousand-, and five-thousand-dollar bills. I fanned through the last stack and found several ten-thousand-dollar bills. “I didn’t even know they made these. Is this money real?” I asked.

The Queen Mother chuckled. “They are not counterfeit, if that is what you are asking.”

“My God, how much is this?”

“A million dollars,” was her answer. “I am sorry I could not give you more seed money to start with. It was all we had available—all that we can give you for now, and probably even after you gain our people rights.”

It was nice how she stated that as a foregone conclusion: that I would succeed in gaining us those rights.

“I understand,” I said. “You’ll have to limit your contact with us to keep the location of High Court secret. Don’t worry, this is more than enough—much more than I expected, actually.”

“It will help fund the legal fight you have ahead of you. But money, you will find, goes rather quickly. Use it well. It will not be enough to establish your first District Court.”

“It may go further than you expected, Queen Mother,” Quentin said, examining the higher currency bills. “Some of these are dated from the early 1900s. They may be worth more than double their printed value to currency dealers and collectors.”

“Part of the money was from a reserve we kept for emergency use,” Lord Thorane said. “Money that has been sitting in our vault for a long time.”

“Are you saying this is the Monère’s first real emergency?” I asked. The plane began to descend, setting off a flutter of nerves—both a physical response and in emotional anticipation of our imminent arrival.

“Not so much emergency as a chosen strike,” corrected the Queen Mother. “A deliberate move on a chessboard, grasping an ideal opportunity that has presented itself.”

“Well, let’s hope all our pieces don’t get knocked over,” I muttered, gripping the armrest.

“Especially the Queen,” rumbled Amber.

I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost eight in the morning. Quentin, can you turn on the screen and see what the news is saying?”

The morning news was saying plenty. Every one of those channels was featuring updates on Jarvis, who was listed in critical condition.

“It’s been ten hours,” Hannah, our healer, observed. “He should have healed his most severe burns by now.”

“That’s probably how they admitted him,” I said. “I bet the hospital isn’t talking to reporters yet, and they’re just going with his last known status.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t flown the coop by now,” Quentin murmured.

“And go where?” asked Dante. “He knows there’ll be Monère warriors waiting for him as soon as he steps out of the hospital, after all the public attention he’s drawn. He broke our number one rule: to keep our existence secret from humans. The poor bastard’s probably wondering why someone hasn’t already come to kill him.”

The busy reporters had finally managed to dig up some names. Kelly Rawlings for the girl. Eighteen years old. An orphan who was adopted but ran away from home at fifteen to live on the streets. For the winged wonder, they had the name Jarvis Condorizi.

“He was a quiet guy. Never said a word,” said a neighbor, glancing away from the reporter into the camera. “The two of them kept to themselves.”

“She’s a waitress at my restaurant,” said another nervous, bald man they interviewed. “Jarvis bused tables and washed dishes. They work part-time, during the day; wouldn’t stay once it got dark.”