Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Smiling, Dorst rose. “It is! A most delightful place. I’m surprised they kept it up all these centuries.”

  “I’m surprised it’s still standing,” Valmont muttered.

  Whiskey gave him a commiserating nod of agreement. After Elisibet had been assassinated, the European Sanguire had gone into revolt. The Purge had swept through her city, the violence and destruction killing many of her supporters. Margaurethe had survived only because Dorst had spirited her away hours before the angry mob had reached the palace.

  “Well, there was extensive damage.” Dorst’s long-fingered hands gestured elegant indifference before clasping together. “But the Agrun Nam was able to rebuild afterward.”

  “Why would they do that?” Dikeledi turned to eye Whiskey. “If they hated your predecessor so badly, why would they keep such a reminder of her existence?”

  Whiskey shrugged. “I have no idea.” She didn’t add that she would have preferred it razed to the ground despite her desire to play tourist there.

  “You know how it is with Europeans.” Dorst’s expression was both amused and surreptitious. “They cling to things and places of their past, regardless of how horrid. Very sentimental, they are. No doubt, someone thought they could reseat their government there.”

  Chano grunted agreement, and Whiskey pursed her lips. She lowered her chin, staring at Dorst.

  He gave a subtle lift of his chin in apology. “In any case, not long after your discovery, My Ninsumgal, the Agrun Nam got it into their heads that you would be returning to rule them. They had the palace renovated and stocked, and a staff brought in to see to your every need. It even has a full complement of royal guards!”

  Again the thought of walking through the palace assailed Whiskey. She could almost remember the layout. If she concentrated, she could hear the servants and sycophants, see the livery and royal finery. She remembered her bedchambers, her sitting room, her informal reception room where she’d been murdered. Her eyes flickered to Valmont, briefly catching his glance, then to Margaurethe. Stark emptiness met her gaze. As much as she wanted to explore Elisibet’s feelings of nostalgia, Margaurethe’s traumatic memories of that time put a halt to the possibility. Besides, Whiskey had other things to consider. “Who hired the guards?”

  Dorst grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Why, Aga Maskim Sañar Bertrada Nijmege, of course.”

  Valmont rolled his eyes, his expression grim. “Of course.”

  Whiskey caressed Margaurethe’s essence with her own. “Guess sightseeing will have to wait, huh?” She was pleased to see the warmth return to Margaurethe’s emerald eyes and smell the familiar woodsmoke and mulled wine.

  Castillo slumped slightly beside Whiskey. “Perhaps in the future.”

  She snickered, patting Castillo’s knee. “You’re more than welcome to a vacation, Padre.” Looking at the others, she said, “Anybody have anything else they want to add?”

  “Just a reminder that we have our first meeting with the Agrun Nam tomorrow morning at nine o’clock,” Margaurethe said, once more the professional. “This is an initial gathering to begin sounding each other out, so I don’t expect it to last more than an hour or two.”

  Whiskey stood, indicating their get-together was over. “And I’ll want to meet everybody in the afternoon to get your overall perceptions.” The board members gathered themselves and made their polite exits. Once they’d all left, Whiskey turned to Margaurethe who bustled around the seating area, tidying up the tea service. She intercepted her lover, pointedly taking a dirty cup and placing it back on the table. “Leave it for Helen. She’s paid pretty well to take care of these offices.”

  The corners of Margaurethe’s lips curved upward. She didn’t argue, instead putting her now free hands around Whiskey’s waist. “Shall we retire for the evening?”

  Whiskey made a show of checking the time. It was only ten o’clock. “I think I need to head to my apartment. Will you join me? The night is young, minn’ast.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Have a good night, Jake.” Whiskey felt a loosening of her shoulders, pleased to have reached her apartment for the evening.

  “Thank you, Ninsumgal.” Jake bowed her head. “Good night, Ki’an Gasan.”

  “Good night, Jake.” Margaurethe watched the bodyguard disappear into her room off Whiskey’s private living area. Jake had taken over the room that the impostor, Andri, had used before he’d kidnapped Margaurethe and been killed by Whiskey. Sithathor, Whiskey’s handmaid, also resided in these apartments but was nowhere to be seen. She tended to keep far earlier hours than her mistress; chances were that she was asleep.

  “I am starving.”

  Margaurethe followed Whiskey past the dining room and into the kitchen. She smiled at the Post-it note on the microwave. Despite her dubiety regarding Sithathor, she couldn’t deny that the Indian woman took excellent care of her charge. “You’re always starving.”

  Whiskey read the instructions and the microwave hummed into action. “I can’t help it. I’m a growing girl.” Whiskey turned to grin at her, her hands on the counter.

  “You keep eating baklava and you will be a growing girl.” Margaurethe slid into Whiskey’s personal space, feeling arms wrap about her.

  Whiskey nuzzled her ear. “Are you saying I’m getting fat?”

  Margaurethe made a point of feeling Whiskey’s hips and abdomen. “Not yet.” She jumped at the sudden sharp nip on her earlobe and laughed. “Don’t let your physical training sessions fall by the wayside, m’cara.”

  “Wench!” Whiskey growled.

  “Ah, but I’m your wench, love.” The aroma of roses and water surrounded Margaurethe. While the essence was similar to Elisibet’s, the subtle hint of blood teased Margaurethe’s nose, highlighting Whiskey’s differences.

  “That you are.” Whiskey pulled back to look into her eyes. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from Margaurethe’s temple. “I love you.”

  “Then we have something in common.” Margaurethe tilted her face, eyes closing at Whiskey’s tender touch.

  “You love you too?”

  She smiled playfully, opening her eyes again. “In point of fact…yes.” Her smile widened at Whiskey’s affected shock. She slid her hands up Whiskey’s sides, digging her fingers into the ribcage. As Whiskey jumped and wriggled, unable to escape the tickling, Margaurethe said, “I love you, m’cara, and don’t you forget it.” Whiskey finally succeeded in getting Margaurethe’s hands out from beneath her shirt. She held on tight, reminding Margaurethe of the many hours of physical training she’d endured over the past months. Switching tactics, Margaurethe suddenly retreated from her offensive, no longer struggling. Before Whiskey could reciprocate, she pressed forward, capturing Whiskey’s lips with her own. The fight instantly drained from Whiskey, her soft lips opening in invitation. Margaurethe accepted, slipping inside both mentally and physically, losing herself to roses and silken touches.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  They both jumped as the microwave finished its cycle. Breathless, Whiskey chuckled. She rested her head in the crook of Margaurethe’s neck. “I really am starving.”

  “Then you’d best eat, love.” Margaurethe leaned her head back to look at the woman in her arms. Whiskey raised her head and they gazed at each other. With a sultry whisper, Margaurethe said, “You’ll need your strength tonight.” She smiled at the flush that crawled up Whiskey’s lighter skin tone.

  Satisfied she’d kept the tables turned on her lover, she pulled away. She went to a cabinet, fetching glasses to pour juice while Whiskey retrieved her late snack. The next few weeks would be trying in the extreme. Their schedules, already overloaded with business meetings and negotiations, would only become more hectic. This might be the last night they had to truly enjoy each other’s company for a while. Feeling the rosewater and blood caress, she glanced over her shoulder, her gaze locking with Whiskey’s smoldering black eyes.

  She looked forward to making tonight last.r />
  Chapter Eight

  Margaurethe retrieved a cup of tea from the built-in bar of Whiskey’s sitting room, the entry area of her apartment that was open to select friends and family. Whiskey sat at the dining table, laughing with Zebediah who was discussing some arcane video game that had recently been released. The young Ninsumgal appeared calm and relaxed as she poked a fork through her breakfast. Margaurethe didn’t think the others noticed the tightness around Whiskey’s eyes, the vague irritation at the new restrictions placed upon her movements, or the fact that her food meandered about her plate without being eaten.

  With the Agrun Nam in house, Whiskey’s movements had become even more restricted than before. A trip to the Residential Lounge for a meal required a squad of aga’gída and locking down half the fifteenth floor. Rather than upset the day-to-day schedules of the individuals who lived at The Davis Group, Whiskey had chosen to remain in her apartment for meals. Fortunately, that didn’t mean total isolation. Today her American Indian family and the trusted members of her pack had been invited to keep her company until her first meeting with the Agrun Nam.

  Sithathor had repurposed the bar surface as a breakfast buffet this morning. She and two members of the royal guard had raided the Residential Lounge for the food, the chambermaid augmenting the standard American offerings with steamed rice cakes and condiments from her native India. Whiskey had taken a liking to the spicy foods, endearing herself to Sithathor even more than she already had. Margaurethe peered at the chambermaid as she whisked into the room with a steaming Indian wrap of some sort, placing the plate beside Whiskey. She accepted Whiskey’s thanks with a smile, her hands folded before her as she stepped back from the table.

  She hailed from the same country as Nahib, the former Nam Lugal of the Agrun Nam. She claimed to have never met him, but Margaurethe couldn’t forget the association. Sithathor had passed all the background checks as well as the physical and mental inquiries before being offered this job. Despite that, her presence remained as a reminder that Margaurethe hadn’t made the racial connection between the man Elisibet had murdered and the woman who now served Elisibet’s second incarnation so intimately. It didn’t help that Sithathor was a Gidimam Kissane Lá, a fabled Ghost Walker, long thought lost to the ages and only revealed when it was discovered Whiskey had the same talent.

  Margaurethe looked away, forcing herself not to dwell on the matter. Sithathor had been devoted to Whiskey from the beginning, and her attention to every detail of Whiskey’s well-being had given Margaurethe cause for respect if not complete trust. She took a moment to dish up fried potatoes, an egg, and some sausage before sitting at the table. Whiskey bestowed her with a sultry look, completely wiping Sithathor’s allegiances from her mind.

  Across from her, Alphonse and Zebediah ate like they hadn’t seen food in weeks. The brothers were young, no more than twenty and twenty-one, making them both older than Whiskey. It was criminal that they’d been allowed to roam the countryside like wild dogs for years. Their parents had been killed when they were youngsters. Not long later, an immature and vicious Sanguire had adopted them into her pack. The brothers sported colorful mohawks and general facial features that indicated a kinship. Alphonse was the elder, tall and thin with blue hair; he was the more thoughtful of the two. The stockier Zebediah had bright red hair and was the most likely to start a brawl. Since coming to Whiskey, they’d settled down, having been recruited by Dorst for their knowledge of electronics and computer hacking.

  Beside them, Nupa and Wahca traded words in their native Lakota and Tillamook languages. Nupa’s hair was long and free, his normally stoic face animated as he laughed at something the older woman said. Margaurethe decided he had a nice smile when he felt secure enough to reveal it. Whiskey’s grandmother, however, always seemed happy and self-assured. She cast a fond grin toward Margaurethe who answered it with the same. Wahca’s daughter had been lost to her thirteen years ago; finding her granddaughter alive and well had much to do with her current cheerfulness. Margaurethe spared a moment to look at Whiskey’s profile, her heart warming at the sight. Wahca wasn’t the only one who had rediscovered someone dear.

  Chaniya and Daniel Gleirscher sat at the far end, dark and light, heads together. The sight was odd enough for Margaurethe to make note of it. Daniel was the oldest in the pack, having reached his fifty-second birthday the previous month. He could give Alphonse lessons in silent observation. His was the most level head of the pack regardless of the blond mohawk and multiple tattoos he bore. Chaniya was probably in her midthirties. She was new to the pack, quicksilver competitive and proud, more than willing to dive into a fight and experienced enough to come out on top. Sanguire physical nature being what it was, they both appeared to be in their late teens. Chaniya grinned wide, her teeth flashing against her dark skin. It was answered by a rare smile from Daniel, causing Margaurethe’s eyebrows to hike to her hairline. Had the aloof Daniel finally found a paramour?

  “That color looks good on you.”

  Margaurethe smiled at Whiskey’s aunt, Zica, who sat beside her. “Thank you.” She paused to brush at the cuff of the shirt she’d turned up over the fitted black jacket sleeve. The outfit had come with a pair of black slacks, but she’d chosen to wear a long loose skirt instead. “I’ve always looked good in green.”

  Zica smiled. “I imagine so.” With casual grace, she reached up and brushed the tips of her fingers along Margaurethe’s hair. “The red highlights and your green eyes make it a perfect match.”

  Slightly discomfited at the intimacy, Margaurethe said, “Thank you.” It had taken some time for her to become used to Zica’s physical familiarity and she still had her moments. Zica was a toucher, seemingly incapable of keeping her hands to herself. She also wasn’t shy about voicing her opinions. It was Zica who had suggested that extra security wasn’t needed—if Whiskey was who multiple prophecies said she was, she needed no added protection. She would live until she completed her destiny. Margaurethe thought the idea incredibly naive. She was pleased Whiskey hadn’t completely fallen for the foolhardy notion, though she occasionally argued that same point when new limitations were imposed upon her.

  She felt Whiskey’s touch on her thigh, slightly relieved as she turned away. Something about the enigmatic American Indians always unnerved her, even when dealing with Chano. Their culture was so different from her own that it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around their points of view. Instead, she looked into Whiskey’s dark eyes, pleased to see the banked fire glowing there, the one they’d ignited last night. Despite the craving, she also saw the fine line of worry between Whiskey’s eyebrows. With practiced ease she slipped into Whiskey’s mind, blending their essences together in a gesture of support. She stroked the back of Whiskey’s hand on her thigh in physical counterpoint. Only rudimentary emotions could be transferred through such contact, despite Whiskey’s mental abilities and the growing connection between them. Margaurethe projected love, trust and confidence, watching that slight worry line fade.

  “My Ninsumgal, your guards are ready.” With the moment shattered, Margaurethe schooled her features to professional courtesy, turning to see that Jake had left her position, stepping closer to the table. A flurry of apprehension flew through her connection with Whiskey, and she pulled back, allowing Whiskey her privacy.

  Chapter Nine

  Whiskey’s attempt to appease the raging butterflies in her stomach hadn’t worked. She’d awakened in a state of trepidation, regardless of Margaurethe’s soothing presence and the previous evening’s sensual enjoyment. Today was the day for which she’d both been waiting and dreading. Today she would officially face the Agrun Nam.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

  Apparently, her stomach had become inured to stress since Sithathor’s spicy egg and mushroom roll hadn’t fully nauseated her. She supposed having met several of the European sanari last night had eased her tension. Bentoncourt, Cassadie and Rosenberg all seemed level-headed a
nd willing to work with her. The memory of Nijmege’s glare sparked familiar anger and shame, a mishmash of emotion that had become as muddy as the woman’s hawk-like eyes. Her breakfast did a slow roll.

  “My Ninsumgal, your guards are ready,” Jake stated.

  “Guess I’d better go earn my paycheck.” Whiskey pushed to her feet, tossing her napkin onto the table as Margaurethe followed. She pointed a finger at Alphonse and Zebediah. “You two behave yourselves.”

  Zebediah looked affronted. His brother grinned, shouldering him. “You got it.”

  Whiskey scanned her guests. “I’ve got meetings all day, so I’ll see you at dinner, okay? Right here at—” She looked at Margaurethe.

  “We should be finished with the initial meeting by this afternoon. You have a debriefing scheduled with the board at one o’clock.” Margaurethe ran her hand up Whiskey’s back, rubbing her shoulder. The touch comforted her. “I doubt we’ll get much accomplished today, so you should be finished by five or six.”

  “Okay. Sithathor, can we have dinner at six thirty, please?”

  The chambermaid bowed. “Of course, Ninsumgal.”

  Jake stepped closer, her voice lowering. “Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey rolled her eyes, ignoring Margaurethe’s smothered grin. Whiskey reached out to snag Margaurethe’s hand, pulling her toward the door.

  “My Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey paused. Sithathor pressed a small glass into her free hand. She peered at the frothy mixture, feeling Margaurethe stiffen beside her in automatic suspicion. “What is it?”

  Sithathor smiled. “Drink. It will help.”

  Her chambermaid hadn’t poisoned her yet. Whiskey took a sip. After one swallow, the flavor of fresh pears bursting upon her tongue, her stomach growled in demand. Whatever it was worked miracles on her constitution. She drained the glass, the skateboarding butterflies mellowing to the point of nonexistence. “Thank you.”