Secret Agent Lampshade

By Cassandra Hamm

No one notices a lamp. Like, you wouldn’t look at the lamp in your living room and think, “Wow, I really need to watch what I say.”

Of course not. You’d say whatever the heck you wanted.

That’s why I’m currently on Senator Harold Altenstein’s coffee table, listening to him explain every detail of the soon-to-be-attempted presidential assassination. It’s the only useful thing about being able to shapeshift into a lamp—you can hear people’s secrets.

“President Costigan is always in his private hot tub at 8:30,” Altenstein says to the woman beside him.

Female henchmen are rare. It’s kind of nice seeing something out of the ordinary. Maybe she’s Altenstein’s wife, though I doubt it, what with her leather jacket and pale dreadlocks.

But who am I to stereotype? I mean, who would look at my thrift store clothes and think, “Wow, that is one epic guy. I bet he’s an FBI agent”? Which is sort of the point. My work is top secret.

“The guard will be your job,” Altenstein says.

The woman cracks her tattooed knuckles with a predatory grin. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

Seriously, what is their problem? I’m not crazy about all the laws President Costigan has passed recently, but I don’t want to kill him. Though, if I hadn’t made a plea deal with the FBI, I’d be chilling in a jail cell right now with Rachael.

The woman’s night-dark eyes flicker my direction. Her lips purse in a frown. “Hey, Harry, is that your lamp?”

Why is she noticing me? That’s not supposed to happen.

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that, Tamara.” The senator’s voice is tight. “I don’t remember that particular lamp. Some intern probably put it in.”

“It’s unplugged.”

Yeah, well, I can’t move, so I can’t exactly plug my cord in. Inanimate object problems.

Tamara runs her hand along the inside of my shade, then my wooden base. Rude. Hasn’t she heard of personal space?

“No bugs. Huh.” She jabs my plug into the outlet.

Electricity floods through the cord, zapping my brain. Holy crap. I forgot how much that hurts.

“Whatever.” Tamara turns toward the door. “Meet you there.”

Wait. Does that mean the assassination is today?

That thought vanishes as Tamara’s body shrinks and golden feathers replace her leather clothing.

What the heck? She’s a shifter, too?

“Remember, follow the plan.” Altenstein pries open a window, and Tamara the hawk flies through with a screech.

No wonder she hates the president. He wants her in jail.

Okay, yeah, President Costigan is pretty dang harsh toward us shifters. He’s got my sister in jail, my sweet little sister whose turtle powers mean she isn’t threatening anyone. But I don’t really blame him after that crazy wolf lady killed his daughter. I’d go ballistic if anyone hurt Rachael. Still, Tamara is like me—with a way cooler shifter form and being hunted by the FBI. No shifter deserves to rot behind bars, whether they have tattoos or pigtails.

Altenstein exits through the front door, leaving me alone in his house.

Okay, human time. My wood changes to flesh and blood, and electricity jolts through my body. I scream like a baby and yank my hand from the outlet.

Seriously, did Tamara really have to plug me in?

Groaning, I force my stunned muscles to obey me and crawl toward the door. That’s it. Ignore the pain. You’ve got this, Craig. Do it for Rachael.

Of course, getting to the White House is going to be tough. Why the heck do we only get one shifting form, and why did I get stuck with a lamp? Like, a bird would be super nice right now.

The doorknob turns. I frantically change back into the lamest of forms.

Altenstein walks in, grumbling. Seriously? Why can’t villains take everything with them the first time they walk out the door?

He frowns down at me. “The lamp.”

Okay, just get back to your super-important mission, please. Stop staring at me.

He drops to his knees. His nose grows and darkens, changing into something moist, ringed with dark fur. Another shifter? Great.

His huge nostrils flare as he breathes in the telltale scent of magic.

“Spy!” His massive bear paws slam against me, knocking my lampshade off. Hey! That’s mine!

His claws crush my bulb. Fiery pain blazes through my consciousness. I would scream if I had a mouth.

Altenstein eyes the broken glass and sniffs me one more time. Then the fur sinks into his skin, his form reverting to the loyal senator. He walks out the door without a glance back.

I shift into human form. My head feels like it’s being stabbed again and again. I think I have a concussion, not that I can really think right now. But I can taste blood. First electrocution, now this?

I can’t do this. I’m just not cut out for it. Costigan gave me a shot to change his mind, to show him that not all shifters are bad, and I’m blowing it.

If Costigan dies, it’ll just make things worse for us—the media will never let go of the fact that shifters killed the president. Rachael will never leave her cell—she might even die.

If I don’t find a way to stop Altenstein, I’ll never forgive myself. When Rachael was taken away, I just stood there, useless as a lamp. I won’t make that mistake again.

I push myself onto my shaking legs and grab the wall for support, then pull out my phone—fried from the electrocution. Of course. When did I start crying?

Hand over hand, I drag myself along the wall and peer into the kitchen. Thank goodness old-fashioned senators still have home phones.

With singed, trembling fingers, I yank the phone from its hook and dial. It rings twice.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“President Costigan.” My voice is a whisper. “It’s Lampshade. You’re in danger.”

The lamp is no longer useless.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm is a writer who has always been fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind. She received her B.S. in psychology and continues to apply her knowledge to her characters. Her love of writing prompts has spurred her to start blogging, submit stories to amazing websites like this one, and host flash fiction contests on Instagram. She may or may not be obsessed with cats, jigsaw puzzles, movie soundtracks, and musicals.

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