Author's Note: Hello again! Summer is here, and so is a new – multi-chapter! – story. This is something new for me; I'm writing in third person, and it's different subject matter that what I've done before. Since this is new territory for me, any reviews telling me how I'm doing would be much-much-much appreciated. Thank you in advance to Leiahlaloa for all her awesome beta work; she's a great ear. So, without much further ado, I give you "Red and Black."
I do not own Twilight, nor do I own any of its respective characters.
"There's a freight train coming to force your head in check…"
– "Shotgun Serenade" by The Juliana Theory
Prologue:
Presidential Problems
President Moleweller rested his forehead on his palm, his elbow digging into the bumpy writing pad on his desk, and stared at his fading blue "I heart Dad" mug filled with novelty pens. How had it gotten this bad?
When you run for President, you think, "Sure, this is something I could do…" Keep to the tenets of your party (unless they all go crazy), keep your answers vague, and pray that the country doesn't go into economic recession, wherein everyone would blame you. Lower taxes (and then raise them again when you realize it was a bad idea in the first place), give feel-good speeches, smile a lot, and kiss ugly babies. You would be what the rest of the world saw when they saw the good ol' U.S. of A., so you'd better look snazzy doing it.
Ha! He should have known; nothing in life is ever that simple. Who knew the citizenry of the U.S. wasn't exclusive to regular old homosapiens? You thought you had just the same amount of power as every other Joe Schmoe out there, "All men are created equal" and all that. No, never mind, it turns out that the world is really run by something deeper, the type of creatures that laugh at humanity's futile attempts to hold all the power, the type of creatures that know that, for all the mess humanity makes of the world - global warming and nuclear warfare and poverty and antibiotic-resistant epidemics - it could get worse. Who knew of man-eating vampires and vampire-destroying werewolves and those pesky witches that never agreed with anybody, not even each other…?
Because, it turned out, there were subterranean powers; the Volturi and the Werewolves Council and the Eastern Warlocks. And, in reality, humanity didn't rule the world; they did.
Free world, western civilization, democracy, republic… Crap. These powers were older than measured time. These minds were smarter than Plato or Freud or Darwin, deadlier than Alexander the Great and Charlemagne, trickier than Henry the Eighth and Saddam Hussein. The vampires could kill you with a flick of their wrists, and they'd enjoy eating you. The werewolves had tempers, and were prone to territorial disputes. The witches and warlocks could get what they want through magic – of course, if you're going to believe in vampires and werewolves you're going to believe in magic. And in one swift movement, two hours after President Moleweller took his oath, the thick squishy White House carpet was swept out from under his feet. Ex-President Joneswimmer, retired from the worries of supernatural powers and petty human problems, had called from a relaxing spot in Colorado that very night. As Moleweller had tried to find a comfortable way to sit in the cumbersome leather desk chair, Joneswimmer handed over some very disturbing knowledge.
We have no power, not really; we have no power at all.
President Moleweller used his free hand to slap his forehead, and proceeded to cover his eyes with his hands. How could he have been so blind? Just pay no heed to it, ex-President Joneswimmer had said, call those Italian vampires if there's a bit of a mess, and they'll clean it right up, quick and simple. Nothing for you to worry about – these creatures take care of themselves. And the killing thing? Circle of life, my friend. Just do your job, running this country, and they'll do theirs – whatever that was.
Well, now he needed those Italian guys. He'd called them before – the St. Louis incident was nothing he would forget about quickly – it was as if the problem had never existed, just as ex-President Joneswimmer had said.
Except one hour ago, when President Moleweller had dialed that foreboding number, no one had answered the call. This was a problem. It meant something – though President Moleweller had no idea what. All he knew was that this was the emergency line – somebody would always answer.
So Moleweller had done the sensible thing and called up Prime Minister Strong, who'd been having problems of his own (a little werewolve-vampire fighting here, some issues with loyalists to the now-defunct Ministry of Magic there). Everyone – well, everyone that knew – knew that the Volturi were the peacekeepers of the three supernatural strongholds.
Only to find that something was wrong with those Italian vampires. Something had happened.
Moleweller looked at his desk, at the thick file that sat open, pages spilling in every direction – 400 years of records. A top-secret file marked by the CIA "In Case of Supernatural Emergency." He remembered laughing it off as a joke when he saw it in the bottom desk drawer, but some odd sense of a storm brewing hadn't let him move it.
He remembered his last conversation with the old Italian man. Aro had told him, "Thanks for calling. We're right on it."
Moleweller had thanked him, and was just about to hang up when Aro's hushed voice had come through the crackly line.
"If there's ever any trouble, if you can't reach us for any reason, there's a file in the bottom drawer of your desk with everything you need."
Aro had hung up then, and Moleweller hadn't thought much of the comment; Joneswimmer said that the Volturi always answered the political-emergency line.
Moleweller wished he'd listened to Aro now, wished he'd paid more attention to the urgency in the ancient vampire's voice. Even then, the Volturi had known that things might get bad, might come to this.
He turned to his phone. He could do this. This was no scarier than calling to Italy for something that, embarrasingly enough, your own expensively equipped military forces couldn't stop.
He looked to the file again. Hundreds of years worth of information; of forgeries and tracking down transactions and at least ten different offshore bank accounts filled to the brim with more money than Moleweller would know what to do with. Properties and land and shares in some of the most profitable companies in the world. Four hundred years worth of information on this man – creature- vampire - thing.
And a phone number scrawled on a yellow post-it note stuck to the top page. It seemed he moved around a lot.
Was this the type of guy you could just call?
He could do this. He could.
He had to.
"1" for out of area calls. Good so far. Then the three-digit area code. His fingers were unsteady. Seven more numbers; simple really. His hand trembled with the effort of keeping the phone raised to his ear.
One ring.
Two rings.
"Hello?" The voice was smooth, even, calm – nothing like the gravelly ancient murmur he'd expected. Moleweller's own voice was anything but smooth, even, and calm.
"Hi – umm… This is the President of the United States."
"Hello sir," if the answerer was wary, Moleweller couldn't hear it, "how may I help you?"
"I'm looking for a – for, umm… Carlisle Cullen."
