“So you say now.” Zica leaned forward, lowering her voice. “But I believe you have unfinished business with who she may have been in another life.”
Nijmege swallowed, her only outward indication of discomfort with the conversation. “And what would you know of that?”
“I know that she’s not who she used to be.” Nijmege was unable to keep a slight sneer from lifting her lip, and Zica’s smile widened upon seeing it. “I also know you will fail.”
“Are you threatening me?” Nijmege demanded, voice dangerously soft as she felt her fangs partially unsheathe.
Zica appeared startled, a long-fingered hand gracefully rising to pat her sternum. Rather than react to Nijmege’s sudden aggressiveness, she gave a light laugh. “Of course not, Bertrada. I’m merely stating a fact. Whiskey cannot die until it is her time, no matter how much you may wish it. Her fate must be completed before that can happen. Any attempt to change the course of her destiny will not succeed.”
Another one of those then, just like Valmont. Nijmege had wondered if Davis’s friends and family would change their tune after Valmont reported about their meeting the afternoon before. Apparently, they hadn’t. Why did they all assume Davis had to live to fulfill her great “destiny”? Misguided idiots, the lot of them.
Inhaling deeply to calm herself, Nijmege forced her fangs to recede. “Thank you for your concern. If you’ll excuse me…”
Zica reached out, snagging Nijmege’s upper arm for a brief moment. “Your skills and experience can be used for so much good, Bertrada. Don’t waste them like this.”
Annoyed with the woman’s presumption, Nijmege jerked her arm out of her grasp. “Good day.” She ignored Zica’s fallen expression and the slight trickle of guilt that her actions had caused it. As she moved to join her colleagues, she consoled herself with the knowledge that she was on the right track. Why else would Davis have sent her family to intercede on her behalf?
“What was that about?” McCall asked when she reached him.
Nijmege followed his gaze. Zica had returned to her people, speaking quietly with the older woman who had observed their meeting. Nijmege hadn’t seen the elderly man that was a member of Davis’s board seated there. Chano leaned on his cane and listened in while a youngling glared over their heads in Nijmege’s direction. “Nothing.” She shook off her vexation, focusing on McCall. “Nothing of import.”
He seemed unconvinced. Before he could question her further there came a sudden influx of security into the lobby. One of the elevators opened and Davis and her party came out, eliciting a rise in excited conversation. Building security approached the Agrun Nam. “If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll escort you to your assigned vehicles.”
Nijmege allowed herself to be herded with the others out into the cold night air, ignoring the American Indians huddled nearby. It didn’t matter that Elisibet had returned to a family that cared for her. The past wasn’t the past to Nijmege; it was an ongoing horror, one that she intended on inflicting upon the Sweet Butcher regardless of who she supposedly was now. Resolve bolstered, she climbed into a car with her peers, refusing to consider that she may be making a mistake.
Chapter Fourteen
Whiskey leaned forward to peer out the passenger window at the multitude escorted out in small clumps to waiting cars. Jake had insisted she sit in the middle of the backseat as a security precaution, despite Whiskey’s preference for shotgun. Jake had taken that position, turning in her seat to look back at her, Margaurethe and Zica. “We’ll be ready to roll in a few more moments, Ninsumgal.”
Giving her bodyguard an absent nod, Whiskey turned to her aunt seated on her right. Zica was a bit older than Castillo but still held a childlike nature. That affinity was more than apparent now as she bounced in her seat, flashing a grin at her sister’s child. “Excited?”
“Oh, yes.” Zica laughed, an infectious burble of sound that made Whiskey smile. “I’ve never had the opportunity to attend a symphony before. It will be educational.”
Margaurethe leaned forward to speak across Whiskey. “You might want to talk to your niece about such things.” She took Whiskey’s hand in her own. “She’s less than thrilled with the prospect.”
Zica’s enthusiasm dampened as she looked askance at Whiskey. “You’re not curious? Have you attended one before?”
Whiskey rolled her eyes, gripping Margaurethe’s hand in vague warning at her chuckle. “Not really, no. Symphonies are…boring.”
“But if you’ve never been, how do you know?”
Unable to come up with an immediate answer, Whiskey paused. Margaurethe tugged on her hand, laughing. “Yes, Whiskey. How do you know?”
Whiskey resorted to the only logical and mature argument available to her. She stuck her tongue out at Margaurethe.
Jake interrupted their laughter. “Ninsumgal, we’re ready to roll.”
“Then let’s hit it.” Whiskey gave Zica a fond grin. “My aunt is begging for a new experience.” The corners of Jake’s mouth curved into a smile as she put out the order over the radio. Looking back at the building, Whiskey saw a bevy of Japanese delegates hustling by on their way to the last car, leaving the lobby empty of all but security personnel. “Tell me Alphonse and Zebediah didn’t disappear on us.”
After a brief radio discussion, Jake glanced back. “Two cars behind us. They’re riding with Sañur Gasum Dorst.” The driver eased out into the traffic on Naito Parkway, following two others.
Margaurethe snorted in amusement. “No doubt they attempted to sneak away. Reynhard would never have allowed that.”
“Nope. Too entertaining to watch them squirm.” Surveying the streets outside Zica’s window, Whiskey saw construction had barricaded Clay Street. The car cruised up two blocks before turning right onto Harrison. As the vehicle picked up speed, she watched the passing cross streets to glimpse the work. “I wonder how long before they get that water line finished.”
Zica turned slightly in her seat, grasping Whiskey’s other hand. “I don’t know, but it was certainly annoying when they chose to drill in the middle of the night.”
“I’ve delivered our complaints both to the city and to Saginna Basco,” Margaurethe said, drawing Whiskey’s attention toward her. “They’ve both assured me the disturbances won’t happen again. I’ve been told they’re nearly finished at this point, anyway.”
Whiskey nodded, scanning scenery out the window beyond Margaurethe, then forward out the windshield. The traffic light ahead turned green upon their approach, and Phineas sped up to keep near the lead automobiles.
“That will be—” Zica’s words cut off with a gasp.
Before Whiskey could turn toward her aunt, Jake shouted, “Watch out!” She lunged back toward Whiskey, arms outspread.
A horrendous crescendo of metal and glass blasted Whiskey’s ears. The car jolted hard to the left, shaking her like a rag doll. Sharp shooting pain raced through her, blinding white-hot as someone screamed.
Blackness descended over her.
* * *
“Out of the way! Out of the way!”
Margaurethe limped to one side of the ambulance door as The Davis Group’s emergency medical crew raced into the garage. They transferred Whiskey from the ambulance gurney to their own with careful precision, mindful of the backboard and neck restraint immobilizing her unconscious form. Still stunned, Margaurethe stared as they wheeled her back the way they had come.
It had taken some argument to get the paramedics to allow this change of routine. Some distant professional part of Margaurethe’s mind whispered they should add a private ambulance company to their holdings in the future to forestall such confrontations when lives were in danger. Fortunately, Saggina Basco, the local European Sanguire magistrate, had been one of the invited guests, riding in a car behind Whiskey’s. He had overridden the medical response team’s desire to take the ninsumgal to a hospital, using his extensive political clout and taking full responsibility for her health as he insisted she be
transported to The Davis Group’s emergency clinic rather than the nearest hospital.
“I need someone to sign these waivers,” one of paramedics stated, holding up a clipboard.
Whiskey and her entourage disappeared into the building, a bloodstained Jake following, her arm hanging at an odd angle. Margaurethe whirled and snatched the documents from the hapless Human. “Give them to me. I have her power of attorney.”
After several excruciatingly long moments of paperwork and arrangements for the company’s retrieval of their spinal support equipment, the emergency responder gave her copies and returned to his vehicle with his partner. The aga’gída directed him back up the ramp and out of the garage.
“Ki’an Gasan.” Castillo appeared at her side, putting one arm about her waist to support her as he helped her inside. “You should have let them look at you.”
“I’m fine, Father. Just some bruising, a lump or two. It is more important that Whiskey get medical attention.” For the most part, her assessment was true. She neglected to mention that the lump was on the left side of her head where it had impacted with and shattered the passenger window. A concussion was the least of her worries right now, her soul remaining with the still body of her lover.
He didn’t argue the point, though she saw the desire to do so in his eyes. Before she could demand information, he spoke on his own. “Daniel’s already here; he left the accident as soon as the paramedics took over and returned to prep our clinic. The majority of our guests have continued on to the symphony. Dikeledi is representing our interests there. Valmont and Reynhard are still at the crash site with the captain of Whiskey’s guard and the local police. It appears to be a simple car accident. The other person ran the red light at the intersection.”
“Hardly simple.” Margaurethe grimaced at the ache in her right thigh and her pronounced Irish accent as she entered into the lowest level foyer. She wasn’t quite seeing double. The area was rife with aga’usi guarding every possible entrance and exit point. “I want all information available. Everything!”
“Of course.” Castillo directed her toward the clinic, a small set of rooms that had been renovated to include an emergency surgery suite and a blood bank. Until now, it had only been used as a doctor’s office where Daniel and a handful of nursing staff saw to the needs of the resident Sanguire. This was the first time it would be used for a true crisis.
The waiting room wasn’t any less crowded than the foyer. As Margaurethe was helped inside, one of the nurses rushed forward to help Castillo. “How is she?” Margaurethe demanded, voice harsh.
The nurse raised her chin in supplication. “We’re still not sure, Ki’an Gasan. Dr. Gleircher is doing a preliminary exam and prepping for surgery now.”
Margaurethe pushed her away, grinding her teeth at the stab of sickening pain the exertion caused. “Then find out!”
Castillo nodded to the nurse. “Go. I’ll get the Ki’an Gasan into the examination room.” With a gratified gush of thanks, the nurse abandoned them. He tightened his grip on Margaurethe and moved toward the exam room the nurse had indicated. “Shall we?”
As she was assisted past the windowed door to the operating theater, Margaurethe looked inside to see Daniel, scrubbed and gloved, overseeing Whiskey’s surgery. She felt a slight measure of relief, at least it was someone she and Whiskey trusted. Her eyes scanned past the door to see Jake in position, left arm still dangling awkwardly as she pinned it to her side with her right hand. “Jake. Come with me.”
Jake’s complexion had always been paler than Whiskey’s and now appeared even more ashen than normal. “I’ll be fine, Ki’an Gasan.”
Margaurethe knew that for a lie. She lowered her chin and glared. “That’s an order. We have plenty of security officers in place right now. Get in here and let the nurse take care of you so you’re able to get back to work.”
Blinking hazel eyes, Jake swallowed, glancing at her left shoulder. “Yes, Ki’an Gasan.”
It was with relief that Margaurethe eased onto one of two examination tables in the room. She nodded pointedly at the other one and Jake meekly followed her example. Another nurse began fussing over Margaurethe. “No. Take care of Jake first. I’m well enough, but she needs to return to duty.” She accepted a nod of gratitude from the bodyguard, turning toward Castillo as he inched away. “Oh, no. You’re staying here, Father. You’re my eyes and ears until I’m released.”
Knowing better than to argue modesty, he acceded.
“Where are Chano and Wahca?” Margaurethe asked.
Castillo watched the nurse examine Jake’s arm, poking and prodding at her misshapen shoulder. “Both are back here, though they’re waiting upstairs with the rest of their people. We opened one of the function rooms and brought staff down to make coffee and sandwiches.” He winced as the nurse expertly twisted Jake’s arm. A grating pop filled the room as her shoulder was wrenched back into its socket. Turning away, his swarthy skin slightly green, he continued, “A number of others have returned, as well. The pack, of course, several select members of each delegation. I had the aga’usi take the pack up to her sitting room to keep them out of everyone’s hair.”
Blood in the water, her mind whispered. Despite Whiskey’s goal of uniting the Sanguire, it was to be expected that a number of delegates would be in attendance here. If something truly happened to Whiskey—Margaurethe’s thoughts shied away from the possibility—the various government representatives would scatter to the four corners of the earth in record time. “The Agrun Nam?”
“Lionel and Aiden are both here.”
Margaurethe nodded absently as a sling immobilized Jake’s arm. She forced herself to focus on the political situation to forestall the panic fidgeting on the edge of her nerves. “Do we have any information on the other driver?”
Castillo sighed. “Not yet. The police are involved, so it will take more time to get the information. Saggina Basco insists that he will do everything in his power to assist our investigation, but you know how it is with Human government…”
“The Sanguire do not exist, therefore we have to use intel to get what we want, I know.” Margaurethe suddenly felt so damned tired. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with one hand, fighting the urge to cry and scream. She’d regained consciousness only moments after the traffic accident, but the sight of Whiskey’s unconscious and bloody body had appeared so lifeless that Margaurethe had become instantly nauseous, suddenly seeing Elisibet’s pale blue eyes fading in death. Only Dorst’s gaudy appearance when he wrenched her door open had reminded her of the current place and time.
“Ki’an Gasan, I’m going back to my post.”
Margaurethe looked up at Jake, pleased to see a little more color in her wan face. She’d had to remove the long black jacket and stood only in torn slacks and the bottle-green sleeveless shell. The crisp, clean sling highlighted the blood spattering across her clothing. “Do so.”
Jake didn’t need to be told twice. She gave her a curt nod and hustled out of the room before Margaurethe could change her mind.
Castillo followed Jake’s progress, turning back with a troubled expression. “Why didn’t Whiskey use her talent? It saved her from the car accident that killed her parents years ago. I would have thought she’d have…blipped out.”
Margaurethe had wondered the same. “I can only surmise that she didn’t see the oncoming vehicle. She wasn’t looking that direction when the accident occurred.”
He nodded and pulled away, reaching into his pocket to answer his ringing cell phone.
“Ki’an Gasan?” The nurse appeared at her side. “Lay back on the table. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
Margaurethe almost laughed. Where didn’t it hurt? Not only was her body bruised and bloodied, but her heart had suffered the most significant damage. It continued to bleed even now as she awaited word from Daniel about Whiskey’s condition. After all the security measures and precautions she’d put into place, a simple car accident now threatened to tear
her soul asunder.
* * *
McCall attempted to feign interest in the concert despite a number of difficulties. His mind whirled his thoughts into a quagmire of misgiving. He’d only caught the briefest glance of the accident before the cavalcade had passed, but the damage seemed quite dire. The nose of one vehicle had merged with the rear passenger side of the other, leaving savagely twisted metal and glass in its wake. He’d had the benefit of being in one of the forward cars; the procession to the theater hadn’t yet been diverted around the accident so he’d gotten ringside seats to the spectacle. Dorst had just ripped open the passenger door opposite the carnage as they’d passed, and McCall had seen the telltale blond hair of Jenna Davis beyond a semiconscious Margaurethe O’Toole. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or saddened at the rumor that Davis hadn’t survived.
At the theater, the concertgoers had been abuzz with speculation right up until they’d attained their seats and the lights had dimmed. The majority had either arrived on their own from various hotels and residences, or their automobiles had been detoured around the collision to allow emergency personnel into the area. No one seemed to have any concrete knowledge of this state of affairs, not even Director Dikeledi. McCall’s gaze slid to the nearly empty balcony seating where the African’s brilliant outfit glowed in the low lighting. She sat amid a handful of corporation staff, her daughter equally colorful beside her, the only member of The Davis Group’s board in attendance. She was there to put on a show of business-as-usual, a brave front in the wake of potential tragedy. Her presence hadn’t stopped the tongues from wagging.
After decades of orchestrating a coup on the Agrun Nam, McCall couldn’t help but be displeased at Davis’s potential loss. He’d so hoped to use her death as a way to implicate Bentoncourt—maybe even Cassadie, as well—and begin the process of becoming the next European Usumgal, their next king. Destroy the Agrun Nam and nothing stood between him and complete power. Incompetent hirelings had nixed his initial plans, neither completing their missions, both dying at the hands of Davis and her people. His decision to fully back Nijmege would have at least gotten another sanari off the council, though not Bentoncourt. Nijmege might or might not survive a challenge with Davis. In either case, she’d be dead or the target of several nations wishing vengeance, both situations McCall could use to his advantage. With Davis dead of simple bad luck, McCall’s scheming would be set back, he’d have to start anew. It was unfortunate that he’d put so much stock into that ridiculous prophecy. If I have to resort to picking them off, one by one, so be it.
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