Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Hazel eyes regarded her with a hint of surprise. Jake didn’t argue the point, quickly unplugging the wireless earplug and handing the item over.

  With the earplug missing, Whiskey heard the chatter of her aga’gída as they patrolled the ballroom and foyer. At a lull in their conversation, she pushed the transmit button. “Um, this is Whiskey Davis.”

  Though probably surprised, the shift supervisor didn’t waste time in responding. “Yes, Ninsumgal. How may I serve you?”

  Whiskey looked at the television, noting all the guards almost standing at attention. Good God, this was almost as bad as showing up unannounced in their quarters or something. “I was wondering if someone could please escort Gasan Orlaith O’Toole to…my location?” Surprise rolled off Margaurethe as the supervisor agreed. “Thank you.” She handed the radio back to Jake.

  “Whiskey.”

  She took a bracing breath. On the screen one of the guards moved away from her post and approached Margaurethe’s mother.

  “Are you sure about this?” Margaurethe asked.

  “Hell no,” she answered honestly. “But I’m more nervous of her than the others. If I don’t get this out of the way, I might puke or something.”

  Orlaith appeared surprised at the request, Nijmege disgruntled. She made her apologies, sharp eyes looking about for the cameras as she allowed the aga’us to escort her.

  Margaurethe gently rubbed her back. “You’ll do fine. Don’t be kind to her on my account. We’ve had our differences of opinion as far as Elisibet is concerned.”

  “I remember.”

  Jake, radio reconnected to the plug in her ear, brought her microphone up to her mouth. She murmured approval and unlocked the door behind her. Margaurethe stepped away as the door opened.

  A slender woman stood beside the stern young security guard beside her.

  “My Ninsumgal, may I present Gasan Orlaith O’Toole,” Jake intoned.

  “Thank you.” Whiskey glanced at the escort, searching for a name. “And thank you, Jalila.”

  Surprised at the recognition, a hint of pleasure caressed the guard’s face. She stepped aside with a bow, gesturing Orlaith into the room.

  Once Orlaith had entered, Jake closed and locked the door, her attention securely fixed on Whiskey’s guest. Past warred with present as a flash of Elisibet’s memory superimposed itself over the woman standing before her. A younger Orlaith, livid with fury, demanded the release of her daughter from court; a tall ruddy man with woad tattoos on his face standing behind his diminutive wife. Margaurethe hadn’t been present, too young to easily stand up against her parents’ wishes. Elisibet had taken control of the situation, sending the O’Tooles away with threats of dire consequences should they ever return.

  The past faded. Orlaith’s gaze was level, her face showing no indication of the hatred she must feel. Whiskey cast around for something to say. Should she apologize for Elisibet, insist she was nothing like the Sweet Butcher, beg for forgiveness she didn’t deserve or need? Maybe she should promise to do better than the previous ninsumgal, to treat Margaurethe with the love, nurturing and respect she deserved. The tableau was all encompassing, not even Margaurethe attempting to break it as they stared at one another. Whiskey’s eyes narrowed as several moments passed with neither speaking. To do any of those things would show vulnerability. Whether she liked it or not, the Sanguire were hunters; weakness in prey resulted in death. The mistake Elisibet had made was going over the top to prove her strength.

  She stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Gasan O’Toole, I’m glad to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”

  A slim eyebrow rose, Orlaith’s only hint of surprise. Another moment passed as she considered a response. She slowly took the offered hand. “Thank you, Miss Davis.”

  Margaurethe finally found her voice and growled a warning. “Mother.”

  “No, she’s right.” Whiskey raised her hand to forestall Margaurethe’s argument. “She’s not a member of the corporation and the European Sanguire aren’t yet members either. Unless a contract is negotiated she has no reason to call me by that title.” She stepped back, gesturing at the chairs. “Won’t you sit down? Can I get you something to drink?”

  Orlaith’s mouth twitched in a slow smile. “The future High Ninsumgal offering to serve me? How novel.” She swept the room with a prideful gaze. “Wine, if you have it.”

  Whiskey nodded and went to the bar, passing Margaurethe. She saw seething anger just below the surface. With a gentle caress of her mind, she quelled Margaurethe’s not quite murderous desire. Finding a bottle of some sort of wine, she rummaged around for a corkscrew. Ideally, she’d be able to pull off the sophisticated routine to impress Orlaith. Chances were much better, however, that her lack of aristocratic training would shine through to illuminate the idiot she truly was.

  Margaurethe sensed her uncertainty. She joined Whiskey and uncorked the bottle with an economy of movement. With a tight grin and a wink, she poured the wine, handing the glass to her.

  Mouthing the words “thank you,” Whiskey took a slow breath and approached the seated Orlaith. Once the glass was accepted, Whiskey sat in a chair beside her guest. She watched Orlaith go through the long process of sampling the wine—smelling, swishing it in the glass, taking a small sip to test. Seemed a ridiculous way to drink the stuff. It must have met with her acceptance as an expression of grudging approval crossed her face. “Not bad. Do you have any clue what it is?”

  Whiskey felt blood rising to her face. “No, I don’t. I don’t have much experience with wine.”

  “Or anything else, no doubt.” The words were spoken smoothly yet were meant to lance through her.

  It worked on Margaurethe, who started forward, a scowl on her face. Whiskey shot her a glare. This was not about the two of them; it was about Whiskey and Orlaith. Margaurethe couldn’t protect her here. The warning glance wasn’t lost on Orlaith, who watched everything over the rim of her glass. “Neither did Elisibet when she came to power,” Whiskey reminded her visitor. “And neither did you when you were my age.”

  “I did not have the world as my plaything.”

  “And I do?” Whiskey smiled. “I’m not the monster you expect me to be. That person died several hundred years ago.” She didn’t follow up with “and good riddance,” but her tone implied it.

  Orlaith set her glass down, giving her full attention to Whiskey. “Did she? Yet, here you sit, pretending to be an innocent. How can that be when you have Elisibet’s memories?”

  “The Sweet Butcher’s crimes were her own. Valmont and the Agrun Nam saw that she was punished for them.” Whiskey lowered her voice. “What I remember are the multitude of her mistakes.”

  Changing the subject, Orlaith said, “What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

  Whiskey’s mind galloped to catch up. “Intentions?”

  “Yes, intentions. Do you plan on keeping her by your side? Treating her as a loving partner? Acknowledging her as your soul mate, or whatever the current claptrap calls it?”

  “I love her.” Whiskey frowned. “I would never hurt her.”

  “Oh?” Orlaith arched her eyebrows. “Like you didn’t hurt her before?”

  “Mother!”

  A spark of anger flared within Whiskey. “Margaurethe, this is between the two of us.” She leaned forward in her chair, staring intently at Orlaith. “I know Elisibet hurt her, shredded her to the core. She loved Margaurethe fiercely but couldn’t see through her own cruelty and bloodlust to treat Margaurethe as she deserved. I’m not going to make that mistake.”

  “Really?” The tone indicated how much Orlaith believed her. She set the half-full wineglass upon the table and rose. “You weren’t there in the aftermath when her father and I protected her from the Purge and herself.”

  The words reminded Whiskey of her bond with Margaurethe, reminded her of the crippling pain her lover had suffered when Elisibet had died. Margaurethe had explained that she’d been catatonic. To this
day Margaurethe still didn’t know how much time she’d spent in the state; the emotions ran too deep, were too incapacitating for her to remember. Did she attempt to take her life after Elisibet’s assassination? The sickening memory of Margaurethe’s emotions of that time softened Whiskey’s anger, and she remained seated. “No, I wasn’t. I don’t even know if my parents had been born by then. I certainly wasn’t.”

  Orlaith sniffed, a gesture reminiscent of Margaurethe when she was at her most peeved at Valmont. It was meant to convey disdain but failed as humor flowed through Whiskey. Standing, she allowed a smile. “My hope is that eventually you and I will come to terms. Margaurethe is free to come or go as she pleases; she’s not a prisoner here. I don’t plan on keeping her as a consort, either.” Both of them showed surprise at that statement, a hint of hurt coloring Margaurethe’s mental touch. Whiskey’s grin widened. “No, if anything, Margaurethe will be my partner, my equal in all things. I want to marry her.”

  Two pairs of eyes stared at her, and she felt a tickle of pleasure at stupefying both of them.

  Chapter Five

  Nijmege frowned as security whisked Orlaith away. The pair disappeared past a black curtain draped across a hallway. No doubt, Davis had a sitting room somewhere nearby. Lips pursed in distaste, Nijmege sipped at her wine, scanning the room for conversation.

  Bentoncourt and his frill of a wife had cornered an unfamiliar aide—probably one of Davis’s people. Francesca had her arm through the poor sap’s, beguiling him with her charms as her husband pumped the man for information. Nijmege wondered how long it would be before Francesca’s true nature was exposed. That wide-eyed innocence was the biggest sham since the alleged death of Christ. It would take time for word of it to spread. Bentoncourt would have an inside track on everything until then.

  Rosenberg stood near the orchestra, solemnly, looking more like a Greek statue than a living man. His heavy-lidded eyes remained at half-mast, giving the uninitiated the impression that his attention remained on the small orchestra in the corner. In reality, he cataloged everything within sight, noting conversations, subtle nuances of body language, and watching who spoke with whom. It would be interesting to hear his version of the evening’s events. She toyed with the idea of drawing him into an exchange but decided to wait. She’d much rather hear his opinions of Davis after she made an appearance.

  Continuing her study, she noted Cassadie with some chippy on his arm. How did the womanizer find them so quickly? Nijmege often wondered if her fellow councilor had access to an underground Sanguire escort service. It seemed he never attended a public function without a woman accompanying him. Aside from a handful of favorites, they were rarely the same women either. She stifled a groan as Cassadie caught her eye. He grinned, said something to this evening’s companion and patted her hand. Then he blithely transferred her to one of his aides and headed for Nijmege. Marvelous.

  “Bertrada! You look radiant this evening.” He took her hand and brushed the back of her knuckles with his lips, ignoring her grimace.

  Reclaiming the appendage she glared at him, finding his infectious grin as irritating as ever. “Hello, Aiden. Tell me, where do you find all the nubile females for these things? I haven’t seen that one before.”

  He dimpled, white teeth flashing as he turned to regard his latest conquest. “You might see her more often. She’s extremely enjoyable company.”

  “I’m sure,” Nijmege said, voice dry.

  As usual, he refused to be baited. “So, tell me. What do you think of all this?”

  “It’s a farce. We’ve gone to all the trouble to arrive here, and for no good reason. We’re facing a monstrous political backlash when our people realize we’re actually following through with this charade. She’s not who she says she is.”

  “I doubt we have that much to worry about, diplomatically.” His expression edged into slyness and he winked. “You can’t say she’s not the spitting image. Especially with that portrait in the main entry.”

  Nijmege snorted, looking away. “We’ve only seen a painting, a handful of photos and a fifteen-minute digital transmission.” She glanced at him. “Tell me, how many Humans have you seen over the centuries who have looked similar to others? How many times have you come across someone you thought you knew, only to realize that person had been dead eighty years, and this was his doppelganger?”

  Cassadie bowed his head in humorous concession. “Very true. However, the doppelganger usually cannot stand up to intense scrutiny. Davis has.”

  “Hardly.” She tossed her thick hair over her shoulder. “The only intense scrutiny she’s supposedly stood up to is a pathetic traitor who’d do anything to redeem himself and a heart-broken woman who wants her lover returned.”

  “Such a callous view. It must be difficult to wake up in the morning if that’s how you see the world.”

  “Don’t you dare turn this around on me, Aiden.” Nijmege dropped her chin. It forced her to peer up at him past her eyebrows as he stood a half-foot taller. “The reality is that we’ve been duped. Davis is Sanguire but she’s not the Ninsumgal reborn. She’s a pawn in O’Toole’s plan for revenge against us.”

  His expression was one of forced cheer and disbelief. “And what of her memories? We’ve all been in contact with her through post. I don’t know about you, but there have been several things she’s written me that she couldn’t possibly know unless her claim is true.”

  “Fed to her by Valmont and O’Toole, no doubt.”

  They stared at one another for a moment, the music washing over them. Cassadie’s face faded into unnatural seriousness, a look he rarely expressed outside of council chambers. “Bertrada, you protest too much. It’s common knowledge among us of your true intentions. You argue against Davis’s true existence, yet you plan to exact a revenge that cannot be hers.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She hadn’t been openly accused since that disastrous emergency meeting Bentoncourt had called just after the Sanguire assassin had kidnapped Margaurethe. She’d tried to downplay her desires since, but enough time hadn’t passed.

  Cassadie continued speaking. “If what you say is true, then you cannot avenge Nahib by killing her. If she is whom she says, you still cannot, for she isn’t Elisibet. She’s her own person, not even born of the same bloodline.” The gaze he gave her was thick with sympathy, and she mentally recoiled from him. “You’re basing everything on a false assumption. You either have no chance at revenge or you kill an innocent. Which will it be?”

  Nijmege ground her teeth together. “Leave me.”

  He stayed a moment longer, torn between wanting to reach past her anger and allowing her the privacy she desired. She wondered which he would do, and how she would respond. Right now, the thought of ripping his throat out preyed heavy on her mind. The last thing she wanted from any of the Agrun Nam was pity. Oh, poor Bertrada, forever doomed to be in charge of the judicial branch of their government, forever doomed to not achieve the justice she so richly desired.

  He drew himself upright, taking a bracing breath in the process. Slowly, the familiar pleasantness washed over his face, returning him to his normal appearance. “My apologies.” He bowed. “It’s not my place to interfere in your personal affairs.”

  Nijmege refused to respond, not wanting to scream her anger at him for his presumptions.

  “Until tomorrow then.” He drifted away to return to his latest conquest.

  She turned away from his receding back, taking a fierce swallow of her wine. If Cassadie was attempting to reason with her regarding her vengeance then Bentoncourt was involved. The two were tied at the hip on many issues. Did Rosenberg follow their lead? Her glass empty she handed it off to a waiter, using the movement to scan the room. Rosenberg remained stoic in his place. She could hope he hadn’t noticed the altercation but doubted such was the case. Her aquiline features narrowed further in response to her dark thoughts. She wished McCall would arrive.

  As if her thoughts had called him, the elevat
ors opened to reveal McCall. A young man dressed in black and maroon announced his arrival. Conversation stopped a fraction of a moment at the introduction before continuing. McCall spotted her and gave her a solemn nod of greeting as he moved closer. Behind him, a handful of his aides and security filtered in, dispersing to mingle with the others.

  Nijmege couldn’t help but be impressed at O’Toole’s attention to detail. There hadn’t been heralds or liveried servants for two centuries, yet here they were. The security officers—her mind whispered the phrase “aga’gída” and she grimaced—wore solid black, the only spot of color a shoulder patch with the scorpion design. The waitstaff’s attire was predominantly maroon with touches of black; and the multiple clerks, assistants and other pencil-pushers wore their own clothing, accented with black and maroon armbands. At least there was no doubt who served Davis in this growing mass of people.

  Nijmege accepted two glasses of wine from a waiter. “I wondered if you’d make it.” She handed one to McCall upon his arrival.

  “I wouldn’t pass this up for the world.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To distant enemies, may they come near enough to taste their blood.”

  “To distant enemies.” She raised the glass to her lips.

  He scanned the room, eyes calculating. “Quite the turnout. I don’t see your pet, Valmont, anywhere.”

  Nijmege sniffed in disdain. “He’s Davis’s pet, not mine. And you’ll notice you don’t see Dorst or the priest, either.”

  “Probably waiting for a show of solidarity.”

  “Or Dorst is already here.” The thought unsettled her. She began a serious study of the people she knew on sight, wondering if the spy would be able to pull off a subterfuge under close scrutiny. It was rude to mentally scan strangers and minor acquaintances, especially in political situations as this. She felt McCall’s mental touch, amused that he seemed as nervous about her veracity as she of his. Once they ascertained they were indeed who they were supposed to be, they relaxed, reserving their wariness for those outside their immediate circle. Instead she pondered Cassadie’s words, ignoring the dull throb of anger. “Aiden had an interesting thing to say.”