Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

“Why?” he asked. “You think you could make me shoot someone?”

“If I wished to, yes. But that is not my wish. I don’t want anyone to feel threatened enough to draw a gun on us, because the moment they do, my mission here is over. All of us here will disappear, and I don’t want that. I want everyone to be aware of both our powers and their limitations, so no one can claim later that I tricked or bespelled anyone.”

Another policeman walked over, probably his senior officer, and held out his hand. The first policeman reluctantly handed over his piece and walked over to me, stopping a few feet back from where the female reporter had stood. All the cameras shifted around so they had a good shot of us both.

“Is this far enough away?” he asked.

“How far would you estimate the distance between us?” I asked.

“I’d say about five feet.”

“Are you ready?”

He nodded.

I brought forth my power. “Yodel for me.”

The cop snorted. “Ain’t working.”

“Please step one foot closer to about four feet away.”

He did so and I repeated my command. This time I felt my eyes capture him. He yodeled, loudly and clearly, almost professionally.

“Son of a bitch,” the other cop muttered, the one holding his gun.

I released my compulsion. Watched the blankness ease away from the other man’s expression. “See,” he said smugly. “It doesn’t work.” He turned to look back at his fellow officers. Their expressions made his shoulders tighten. “It didn’t work, right, guys?”

“You yodeled, man,” another policeman said.

“Come on back here, Jackson,” ordered the man holding his gun.

I waited for him to trot back to his other members before announcing to the reporters, “My range limitation for compulsion seems to be about four feet.”

“Can any of the others here do that?” called out a reporter near one of the other tables.

“As far as I know, just Dante and me,” I answered. “Anyone else here able to use compulsion?”

The others shook their heads.

“Which one of the men is Dante?” shouted another reporter.

“Dante is the man standing at the middle table. Quentin, do you mind switching places with your brother?”

“No problem,” Quentin grinned, going over to the other table to take Dante’s place. Dante took his brother’s vacated seat next to me.

“Dante, how far is your range?” someone asked.

“I do not know,” Dante said.

“Speak up louder,” another person shouted.

Dante repeated his words with more volume.

“Any volunteers to help him find the answer to that?” I asked the watching crowd.

A surprisingly large number of hands went up, including some from the restaurant staff. I chose a male waiter and beckoned him over to come stand in front of Dante.

“Why don’t we start at a distance of five feet,” I suggested.

“You think my range is greater than yours?” Dante said, smiling faintly.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” I said, smiling back, and suggested he have him sing “Happy Birthday.”

“Try to resist him,” I told the volunteer.

“Believe me, ma’am,” the waiter said, “I will. I don’t have any singing talent, at all.”

There were a lot of audible gasps as Dante’s pale eyes turned solid silver and began to glow. He gave his command.

The waiter started singing, loudly and robustly and as awfully as he had claimed.

He stopped when Dante told him to, and was released from the compulsion.

Following instructions, the waiter took one more step back. Standing six feet back, this time he was able to resist Dante’s efforts. “Jesus Christ,” he yelped when Dante’s eyes changed color. “Look at his eyes!”

“It seems like six feet for you, Dante, as your maximum range.” I thanked the waiter and quietly asked him to bring me the check for the three tables.

“Are we leaving?” Dante asked.

“No. They seemed to take that well, but I thought it best to pay before I forgot. Or in case we have to leave in a sudden hurry.”

I told the reporters we were done with the demonstration, but added that we would be happy to speak more with them on an individual basis, whereupon they flocked back around each table. We chatted with reporters for another thirty minutes, but unfortunately none of the watching crowd left. They stayed and more people joined them until a thick mass stood beyond the perimeter the police had established around us.

An FBI agent approached our table, stopping a carefully measured seven feet away. “Ma’am, you should probably end this now. We would be happy to let you continue if there weren’t so many people around, but the crowd is getting too large.”

“I was just noticing that myself,” I told him. Then asked, “Are you going to just let us leave?”

“Yes. We’ll even escort you out of here, if you allow us.” Cameras were rolling, recording our interaction, microphones held out to pick up our conversation.

“No orders to take us into custody?”

“Very specific orders not to unless you act aggressively and give us reason to.”

“We won’t. We’re here as peaceful envoys.”

“Then it might be best, for your own safety, if you can avoid any more of these, uh, open, public gatherings. Large crowds can all too easily get out of hand.”

“So what do you suggest?” I asked. “Private interviews with the media?”

The man nodded and said to my surprise, “Yes. Our department’s media liaison would be happy to make the arrangements for you.”

“Thank you but there’s no need,” I said, politely declining the offer. No way was I going to let the FBI arrange meetings for us in places where they could easily trap us. “I’ll try and do as you suggested, though. What is your name?”

“Jim Carmichael. I’m the FBI agent in charge.”

He was older than the other agents, fit and lean with dark, serious eyes. Responsibility seemed to rest easily on his shoulders. “I like you much better than Agent Stanton,” I told him.

“That’s good to hear, ma’am.”

His words caused a painful wince. “Please don’t ma’am me. I have to be at least ten years younger than you.”

“How old are you?” he asked in a direct and yet still polite manner.

“I’m twenty-one.” They had to have all my data by now.

“How would you like me to address you then?”

“Mona Lisa will do.”

“Mona Lisa, then. I’d appreciate it if you could wrap things up.”

“No problem.” Dante had taken care of the bill.

“Would you want us to escort you through the crowd?” Agent Carmichael asked.

“No, thanks,” I said, standing. “We’ll take the quick and easy way out of here.”

I called for everyone’s attention, thanked them for their time and interest, announced that we were leaving, and suggested that they do so as well. In a lower voice, I said, “Okay, everyone, grab your stuff. Jarvis, if you could get Kelly.”

The reporters fell back as we all stood and gathered our things. Two yards away from the loose perimeter, I gathered myself and leaped, sailing over everyone’s head, twenty feet, thirty feet . . . landing behind the watching crowd a short distance away in the parking lot. Amber thudded lightly down beside me, the others following closely behind.

With a last jaunty wave to the crowd, we sped away.

THAT NIGHT, WE Started returning the messages that various members of the media had left with McManus. Most weren’t available so late in the evening, but a surprising number were and took our phone calls. Quentin played secretary, using a newly purchased notebook to begin scheduling interviews.