Woman King

  WOMAN KING

  EVETTE DAVIS

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  Woman King is a work of fiction. The characters, as well as all incidents and dialogue, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  Woman King. Copyright © 2012 by Evette Davis. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Evette Davis at 150 Post Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.

  Smashwords Edition, May 2013

  Designed by Leah Hefner.

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  To Alec and Stella, for your patience and understanding, especially on the days when I asked to be excused from a family activity so I could stay home to write. I love you both very much.

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  Careful now.

  We’re dealing with a point on a map of

  fog; Lemuria is a city unknown.

  Like us, it doesn’t quite exist.

  - Ambrose Bierce

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ****

  PROLOGUE

  Most of you are probably familiar with the fact that San Francisco is a foggy city. What few people know is the real reason for the fog. San Francisco’s weather, despite what the nightly news might say, is controlled by a powerful spell. This spell conjures up the cool, wet fog to keep people from seeing what is really going on around them. The fog tumbles across the hills and mountains like a great grey-white wave, pressing inward until it erases San Francisco from view. On those days and nights, when most people can barely see more than the hand in front of their face, the city’s Others—fairies, witches, vampires and werewolves—can meet and attend to their business. In the darkness of night, the light muted, the air damp, it can be difficult to know if what you are seeing is real.

  For the Others, there can be no trace of them or their activities left behind. The fog is their eraser, a privacy screen cast up to shield humans from an unsettling truth: They are not alone in this world, and they are not in control.

  Besides its reputation for fog, San Francisco is also known for its colorful population. It’s no accident that so many outlandish people live there. The city is home to an enormous population of Others, alive and undead. That the Beat poets, the free-speech movement, the Summer of Love, the sexual revolution, and the gay rights movement originated in San Francisco is no coincidence. Amidst the tattooed, pierced and corseted, the Others are free to live their lives. In San Francisco, it is easy to hide in plain sight

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  CHAPTER 1

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  He paused to give me time to prepare.

  “The board has decided we need someone more, well…powerful. I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. We want to win this contract without having to compete for it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said, my voice rising in indignation. “As I’ve mentioned to you before, this agency requires the contract be put out to bid. You’re firing me because you don’t like the way the rules work?”

  For a moment, I thought I’d saved my job by presenting the truth of the situation.

  “It’s finished, Olivia. The board has made its decision,” he said. “We certainly appreciate your efforts, but we need someone more dynamic, because this contract is very important to us.”

  In the days that passed, I worked hard to put that unfortunate call behind me. Olivia Shepherd Consulting had a full roster of clients. As a private consultant to individuals and companies with specific political problems, I had a number of other projects already on my plate.

  In fact, before I could dwell too much on what had happened, I received a call asking me to interview for an opportunity to represent a large foundation based in San Francisco. The organization had an endowment in the billions and supported most of the arts and cultural institutions in the region. Anyone turning on a public broadcasting station has seen the foundation’s name roll past with heartfelt thanks for their generosity. The committee planned to interview several candidates, and assigned me a thirty-minute slot to present my credentials.

  Truthfully, I felt somewhat annoyed at not being asked outright to represent the group. I’d done work for a number of the beneficiaries of their grants, and felt that the foundation should have known immediately that I was the right person for the job. Still, I spent the requisite time reviewing the organization, its structure, priorities and board of directors.

  When the day of my interview arrived, I was prepared, a binder of information and a list of questions to ask tucked into my briefcase. Nevertheless, the weather that day seemed to conspire against me. Rain fell ceaselessly, and by the time I left for the appointment in the afternoon, the streets were flooded. A fierce wind was blowing, rendering my umbrella useless. It was not long before my leather pumps were drenched down to the soles of my feet. The pant legs of my navy suit, which I had picked up from the cleaners the day before, were soaked, weighing down my steps.

  As I trudged toward the foundation’s door, the appointment was beginning to feel more like an obligation than an opportunity. Yet, despite my misgivings, I managed to get through the first round of interviews, feeling good about my rapport with the committee.

  On the day of my second interview, I walked out of the house with no binder, no power point presentation, and no plan at all for how to secure the job. I had convinced myself that the second interview was a formality and that I would easily convince the foundation’s executive committee to hire me to represent them.

  As it turned out, I was profoundly mistaken. When I walked into the conference room for my appointment, an assistant asked for a copy of my presentation so it could be loaded onto her laptop. I replied somewhat cavalierly that I had no presentation and would be improvising my remarks. From the worried look on her face, I should have known that I was not taking things in a promising direction.

  While I made it through the second interview, it was not a pleasant forty minutes. I’d come to see the committee carrying nothing but my sense of entitlement. The committee clearly had expected something more subst
antial.

  Afterwards, I tried to convince myself that the fact that no one had called me for two weeks didn’t mean anything. These are busy times, I reasoned. And although I had other work to keep me busy, something was gnawing at me. In the weeks since that first horrible phone call, I had begun to feel off balance. I seemed to be missing my former connection to my clients. I became argumentative, when I should have been a peacemaker. I was passive, when I should have spoken up. Nothing seemed to satisfy me.

  Before me was a shelf full of trophies. I had won dozens of awards for the witty, pithy phrases and ideas I’d dreamt up for my clients. Work that had won me accolades from my colleagues. I was successful. I had the respect of my peers. I had savings stored away in a bank account. But something definitely was not right. I could still hear the words in my head: “We need someone more powerful.”

  It was time to visit my best friend Lily to get some perspective. Lily’s office is on the sixth floor of San Francisco’s Main Library. She has a view of City Hall from her window. My offices are nearby on Van Ness Street, also close to City Hall, where I conduct a lot of work for my clients.

  “What do you think he meant?” I asked, seating myself in her office as she typed away.

  “Why are you obsessing about this?” Lily asked, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “People will say anything to get off the phone. Maybe he was nervous. You don’t fire someone who for years has been your consultant over the telephone. He had to know that was tacky. He was probably at a loss for words.”

  Lily Prescott manages San Francisco’s library branches. San Francisco is comprised of a rich urban quilt of different neighborhoods that crisscross the hills and valleys of the city. Tucked into each of these distinct villages is a library branch. The branches, some built early in the 20th century thanks to the generosity of Andrew Carnegie, are teeming with people at all hours of the day and night.

  I met Lily a few years ago when we were neighbors in an apartment building near the waterfront on the Embarcadero. I had returned to San Francisco from Washington, where I’d worked as a press secretary to a member of Congress. Lily came from Portland, where she had worked as a children’s librarian. We were both living in small studio apartments until we could find more permanent homes. Eventually we both left the building; I moved into a small house in the Inner Sunset District my grandmother left me when she died, and Lily found a condominium in the Mission. Our time on the waterfront was limited, but our friendship stuck.

  “I agree that it’s tacky to fire someone over the telephone, but he meant the words he used…powerful, dynamic,” I said, grabbing a few almonds out of a bowl on her desk.

  “Olivia, what’s done is done. You need to focus on something else. Maybe you’d like a new book to read. Tell me what you would like. I’m sure we have a copy.”

  “Lily, why is it that the library always seems to have the exact book I want? I must like titles that interest no one else.”

  “We have a very well-stocked library,” she said. “And you seem determined today to find fault with yourself.”

  “What about the foundation?” I asked, trying to avoid a discussion about me. “That should have been my project. Instead, they hired Stoner Halbert.”

  Lily shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “What?”

  “I heard that he might also have been hired to… well, to pick up where you left off with your last client.”

  “You heard that?” I choked. “That’s not something you hear. What’s the real story?”

  Lily stopped typing and looked over at me.

  “I saw them together at City Hall. I suspect he had an appointment to see if he could persuade the department to forgo soliciting bids and just award them a sole-source contract.”

  “And how long were you going to wait before telling me this?”

  “Olivia. What does it matter? I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “Too late,” I said, and walked out of her office.

  ****

  CHAPTER 2

  Stoner Halbert. Suddenly he was the new star on the rise in San Francisco. Everybody wanted to work with him. People seemed to think he possessed some kind of magic. It was painful to admit, but I was jealous. And a tiny bit worried.

  I could count on one hand the number of women who did the work I did. Politics and public affairs are not a landscape women dominate. When we do, we often fall into three categories: ball-busters, bitches or sluts. I had long ago lost track of the number of times I’d been complimented on “taking the bit between my teeth,” or been a “real bull dog.”

  While male consultants can be brilliant, relentless, even sexy or magnetic, those qualities don’t seem to exist for women. Women, it seems, can only be compared to racehorses and loyal pets.

  Stoner Halbert was a former chief of staff to a prominent member of the California Senate. His wife ran an investment firm. The two had long been the darlings of the political and wealthy elite. Their photos ran in the society pages weekly as they were snapped at various functions, wrapped up tightly in fashion’s latest creations.

  Then one day, the FBI charged Amber Halbert with insider trading and embezzlement. The ensuing news coverage detailing how she had stolen and defrauded some of the state’s biggest names in politics and business became too much for Stoner to bear. He resigned from his post to shield his boss from further embarrassment. Amber pled guilty to avoid a more stringent jail sentence, and the two quietly divorced.

  Not long after, Stoner set up his own consulting business. From the moment he opened his doors, the city’s elite were enthralled. He was collecting big names and big projects. And now, it seemed, he had added one of my clients to his growing list.

  After I left the library, I realized I needed a break and decided to get out of town for the day to see my mother. The magnificent, but overwhelming India Rose Shepherd, a landscape painter of some renown, lives in a house in Bolinas. Bolinas, a small hamlet north of San Francisco in Marin County, shares something in common with my mother: Both are difficult to find unless you know what you are looking for.

  Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in my Audi wagon, I headed north on Highway 101 and exited in Mill Valley. After a thirty-minute drive over the hills and through a winding valley, I passed Stinson Beach As I drove past the lagoon, their silver-blue waters glowing in the dusk, I caught a glimpse of a lone heron, standing in the shallow inlet.

  I turned off the highway onto a side road, although there are no signs or markings to indicate the nearby town. A half-mile further, I followed a long narrow road that led to my mother’s home.

  Rose, as she likes to be called, lives in a barn that had been converted into a home in the late 1960’s. Since then, it was renovated and modernized many times. There are also two separate cottages on the property, which look out at the rough-hued green grey of the Pacific Ocean. One is her studio and the other is a guest house where I often spend the night. Although I had packed an overnight bag for my trip, I wasn’t sure if I would stay. I can never be sure of anything when it comes to my mother.

  I’m the only child of a single mother. Unlike many children in the same situation, I didn’t suffer any economic hardship. My mother came from a wealthy family that did not disown her when, unmarried, she became pregnant with me. On the contrary, they embraced her and pulled us into the family even more closely. My grandfather was a successful dairy farmer who gave my mother the land she lives on today. My mother displayed a talent to paint very early on, and by the time she was in her early teens it was quite obvious she was a prodigy. She was sent to art school and returned a successful artist, whose landscape paintings continue to sell for princely sums.

  My mother does not, however, always manage her life successfully. In fact, she has struggled through most of it. Rose carries more than just her skill for painting. She’s also an empath. Put simply, she can feel and read another person’s emotions.

  There is no such thing as a poker face around an
empath; they possess X-ray vision into your soul. Rose can read people, feel their nervousness, sense their hesitation to do something, detect their anger or sadness. She refers to it as “picking up on the energy of the universe.” My mother, grandmother and her mother before her were all empathic. All of the women on our side of the family carry the skill, including me. They call it the Gift, but I have never seen it that way.

  From an early age, what I saw was my mother drinking herself to sleep at night to avoid feeling anything. She swallowed too many pills with her friends in order to maintain a barrier between the energy of the universe and herself. And then, when she did focus on her painting, she would remain sequestered in her studio for weeks, inevitably collapsing in her bed for several days afterwards.

  As I grew older, I worried that my mother would kill herself, either through her excesses or through exhaustion. Now, at 32, I understand my mother’s moods and simply try to avoid her when she is on the dark side of the universe.

  As I pulled to the end of the drive, my mother walked out of her house to greet me, her wavy brown hair trailing in the breeze behind her. This is another trait the women in my family are known for: long, lustrous brown hair streaked with red and gold. I could see from her bright, brown eyes that she was sober and happy, a rare thing in the year since my grandmother had died, leaving her with no other woman beside me to confide in. As I got out of the car and began to walk toward her, she smiled.

  “So you’ve come to bury your anger out here in the country, have you?”

  I knew she would read my emotions—she always did—but I had nowhere else to go.

  “I have,” I said. “But if you could wait a bit to finish reading my mood, I’d like to come in and rest.”