Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Beside him, Nijmege shifted, her mouth set in a permanent snarl. McCall almost smiled at her frustration, knowing she felt the same angered dismay at the way fate had played them. This was her sole opportunity to avenge her dead lover’s murder. Even if an oracle came forth to spout more drivel about Davis’s return from the dead, chances were good that Nijmege would die of old age long before she could gain the retribution she desired. He felt a moment of sympathy for her, understanding more than she would ever know how much alike their goals had been.

  The music came to a crescendo and stilled. He returned his attention to the stage as the maestro turned and bowed. The overhead lights brightened, and he checked his watch as the audience applauded. “Intermission,” he said, glancing at Nijmege and Rosenberg. “Shall we stretch our legs and get something to drink?”

  Rosenberg nodded, standing. “I’ll call Lionel.” Without another word, he eased out of their aisle and made his way toward the foyer.

  McCall rose, surreptitiously stretching his back. He looked at Nijmege who had remained seated. “Bertrada?”

  She stared blankly at him, the snarl still curling her lip.

  With a sigh he sat again, turning toward her. Taking her hands, he held them tight. “Don’t worry. She’s Sanguire. She’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t know that. I saw as well as you did, Samuel.” She seemed to fight with herself, her hands twitching in his before she finally decided to pull them from his grip.

  “She’s Elisibet reborn, she has to survive at least long enough to unite the Sanguire.”

  “Martyrs do the work just as well despite being dead.”

  McCall shook his head, the edge of exasperation easing into his face and voice. “That argument again…did it occur to you that martyrs die for their cause? Being hit by a car running a red light isn’t exactly material for noble songs and legends.” The perpetual frown on her face almost hid the worry lighting her brown eyes. She wanted to be convinced. He grabbed her hands again, squeezing them hard. “Think about it. She’ll survive this because she’s Sanguire. She’ll be weaker, both physically and mentally. Start digging immediately and you’ll likely get her to challenge you with ease.”

  He watched the idea take hold, the scowl fading as hope struggled to take its place. “Do you think so?”

  Scoffing, he shook their hands between them. “Two people were in the backseat with her. You saw Margaurethe.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No buts. The other was that woman you were talking to in the lobby. That Native American woman.”

  “Zica? Her aunt?”

  The surprise and sorrow flickering across Nijmege’s expression were unexpected. Rather than highlight them, McCall nodded. “Yes. There’s no way she could have survived the crash. Davis will be emotionally vulnerable. As soon as she’s up and moving, you can begin poking the wound. She’ll challenge you, I guarantee it.”

  Nijmege inhaled deeply, straightening in her seat as she became more the Agrun Nam council member she was. “Of course.” She shook her head, giving McCall a slight smile. “Thank you for clarifying my thoughts, Samuel. I’m fortunate to have you at my side for this.” She released one of his hands to pat the other.

  “Of course, Bertrada,” McCall said, an insincere smile answering hers. “That’s what friends are for.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Margaurethe shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair, stifling a yawn. The digital clock on the wall indicated it was well into the wee hours of the morning.

  Whiskey had survived her surgery and currently slept in a hospital bed in the clinic, Margaurethe remaining in vigil beside her. Daniel had assured Margaurethe that he didn’t expect Whiskey to regain consciousness until midmorning. Various instruments blinked and beeped in counterpoint to each other, indicating she lived and breathed regardless of her deathly stillness and pallor. A nurse remained on duty in the reception area, monitoring the machines and occasionally coming in to check the IV tubes and change the bags providing life-giving blood and fluids.

  Rubbing her eyes, Margaurethe moved again in her seat, trying to alleviate the ache in her rear from sitting for so long. Daniel and Castillo had already attempted to send her to her own bed, but she’d refused. She had to be present should Whiskey awake in the night. Besides, memories of Elisibet’s death continued to replay themselves every time she dozed, making sleep difficult. She knew she’d get no rest until Whiskey roused and passed Daniel’s medical muster. Until that time, she’d remain at her lover’s side.

  The door eased open again. She ignored it, dropping her hand from her face to the page of the book laying open in her lap. Assuming it was the nurse coming round for another checkup, the quiet voice startled her when she heard it.

  “How are you holding up?” Valmont crossed the room and neared the bed, his eyes staring at Whiskey. Jake had entered the room with him, standing at the open doorway.

  The emotional upheaval of the situation already overpowering her, Margaurethe couldn’t help the cascade of pleasure and relief his presence inspired. Rationally, she reminded herself that she hated him and didn’t trust him, but her heart held other opinions. “I’m fine,” she answered. She waved Jake away, knowing Valmont wasn’t a threat. Jake nodded, a scowl on her face as she left and closed the door softly behind her.

  He raised an eyebrow, smirking at her wheelchair. “Doesn’t look it.”

  Unable to help herself, a fleeting grin crossed her face as she glanced down at her chair. Her thigh had suffered a greenstick fracture, the bone not quite breaking cleanly. Daniel had likened it to a green twig that, when broken, tended to peel down the length of it rather than snap in half. Her right leg was currently bound tight with a brace and lay fully extended in the chair, a pointed extremity that put her in mind of a makeshift battering ram. Had she been Human the leg would have been in a cast for weeks, but such wasn’t the case for a Sanguire. She’d be confined to the chair or bed for two days and keep the brace on the rest of the week while her superior healing powers took care of the injury. “Could be worse.”

  “Yes, it could. The car could have been coming from the other direction.”

  Margaurethe looked away, not liking either the reminder of the accident or the concern in his expression. Her eyes stung with tears, and she took a deep breath to counter the emotional paroxysm. Becoming businesslike, she returned her gaze to him. “What’s the word?”

  Valmont had stepped closer, coming around the other side of Whiskey’s bed to study her unmoving form. “The driver was Sanguire, but no one else was with her in the vehicle.” He gave a humorless scoff of laughter. “She works for us, no less. Had just gotten off work and was heading home.”

  This was indeed news to Margaurethe. She’d been far more concerned with Whiskey than the investigation into the accident. “Who? Who was it?”

  “Jewel Pauley. She’s been implementing the new shipping protocols in the Columbia Street facility.”

  The name didn’t bring up a face, but these days that was hardly surprising. Portland, Oregon had become a mecca for Sanguire now that Whiskey’s existence had become public knowledge among them. Any Sanguire with the right skill set could apply for work, and many did just for the bragging rights of working for the reincarnated Ninsumgal, the last known empire-builder. The influx had made the kizarusi infrastructure somewhat unstable, which is why a blood bank had recently been added to the clinic to help nourish the growing population.

  Still, a Sanguire driving the car that almost killed their last best hope…“Are we sure she was alone in the automobile?”

  Valmont nodded, his attention on Whiskey’s face. “Yes. Reynhard and I both had a look at the vehicle damage at the scene. She wasn’t compelled. No one could have kept her controlled long enough from that distance, nor would they have survived that crash in her passenger seat. It’s a wonder Jake did, considering.”

  Reminded of the bodyguard, Margaurethe glanced toward the door. “Where has she be
en?”

  “Posted outside.” Valmont reached out, running his knuckle along Whiskey’s cheek. “Like she’d take any time off right now. She did clean up and change clothes, though.” His cinnamon-hazel eyes pinned Margaurethe, a sardonic smirk gracing his lips. “You chose well. Maybe she should be named Whiskey’s Defender.”

  She felt the sharp stab of his pain and swallowed against letting it overtake her already turbulent emotions. Valmont had been caught up in retaining his previous title with Whiskey for months, perhaps thinking that such an appointment would somehow negate his past dishonor. Margaurethe had been the most adamant against the idea, unable to let go of her distrust of him. Even Whiskey was against his desire, at least for the present. Rather than snap an irritable rejoinder at him, she sighed and changed the subject. “How are Wahca and the others?”

  “In mourning, though hopeful.” He sobered. “The padre finally got the old man to get some rest, but the rest of the American Indians are still waiting upstairs. Surprisingly enough, the Mayan delegation showed up for a few moments to tender their condolences. I was afraid there’d be bloodshed, but everyone remained calm.”

  Considering every negotiation with the Mayans had been fraught with snide remarks and outright shouts between their representatives and Chano, Margaurethe found that bit of news amazing. It was a wonder they’d hammered out as much of a treaty as they’d had with such acrimony between their two races. “I’m sure rumors are about?”

  “Oh, yes. Can’t have a potential world leader in emergency surgery without that.” Valmont chuckled. “There’s plenty of gossip about who’s responsible, whether she’s alive or not, as well as a number of other conspiracy theories. Reynhard would have more information on that count, though.”

  “I’ll ask him when I see him.”

  A gentle tap on the door paused their conversation. Jake opened it, peering inside. “Ki’an Gasan, you have a visitor. Gasan Orlaith O’Toole.”

  Margaurethe felt her heart freeze in midbeat. Why would her mother come here? She turned to see Valmont’s equally startled expression. “Of course, Jake.”

  As the bodyguard stood aside to allow the composed older woman into the room, Valmont swiftly made his way to her. He bowed, taking Orlaith’s hand to kiss the back of it. “My apologies, Gasan. I must depart. Duty calls.”

  Orlaith didn’t appear particularly upset at his excuse. Her chin had dropped at his approach, and she retrieved her hand from his grasp. “Of course, Sublugal Sañar. I’ll attempt to refrain from expressing my abject sorrow.”

  Valmont grinned at the riposte but didn’t respond. Instead, he threw a commiserating glance at Margaurethe before exiting the room. Jake closed the door behind him, taking up a post just inside the room.

  Orlaith moved closer, studying Whiskey’s silent form and the machines attached to her. For a brief moment, Margaurethe wondered if her mother understood the readouts, not entirely liking such knowledge in her hands. Abrupt fear raced through her as she considered her own incapacity—her mother could easily overpower her and kill Whiskey. Such a murder would normally mean death in a European court of law, but Nijmege oversaw the High Court. Would such a charge even be brought against Orlaith?

  Margaurethe wasn’t the only one feeling concern. Jake countered Orlaith’s proximity by gliding across the room and taking up position at the head of Whiskey’s bed, opposite Margaurethe. Though still wearing a sling, Jake tucked her chin in threat, the essence of soft fleece and the aroma of carnations obvious to everyone in the room.

  Smiling, Orlaith held up a hand, yielding to the flagrant threat. “No worries, youngling. I mean your mistress no harm.” She turned, looking for a chair, and found a diagnostic stool, which she retrieved. Sitting beside Margaurethe, she ignored Jake’s bristling presence. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

  “I’m fine, Mother.”

  Orlaith cast a knowing eye at Margaurethe’s leg. “It doesn’t look it, m’cara.”

  Margaurethe felt the blush, internally cursing at her overactive excitableness. Once Whiskey was in the clear, and she’d had a chance to get some rest she’d be less inclined toward emotional outbursts. “Daniel says I’ll be up and about in a week. Nothing to concern yourself over.” A warm hand settled on her forearm, causing her to start.

  “You’re my only child, Margaurethe. Of course I concern myself when you’re almost killed in an accident.” Orlaith squeezed Margaurethe’s forearm and released it, shifting her weight back. Vague distaste crossed her features as her gaze flickered to and away from the hospital bed. “And her?”

  Considering Orlaith was heavy into Nijmege’s pockets, Margaurethe stiffened in response. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, she’ll be fine, as well.” She ignored her mother’s look of askance. “As soon as she awakens and Daniel has had an opportunity to examine her, we’ll make another announcement.”

  “I’m your mother, not a petitioner. Don’t give me the party line.”

  Margaurethe glared, eyes narrowed. “You’ll get the same ‘line’ everyone else gets, Mother. My obligation is to Whiskey, not to you.”

  Lips pursed, Orlaith returned the glare. “Where was she when you were in my household? When you were a child?” she asked, voice low. “Bedding every harlot that crossed her threshold. And where was she after you announced your undying love for her? Hmmm? Doing the exact same thing with any woman of any station.”

  “Mother—” Margaurethe warned.

  “And when she was dead, who was it who fed you, dressed you, cleaned your soiled nightclothes and bedding? Certainly not her!” Orlaith’s accusing finger shot out, pointing at Whiskey. “She only knew how to hate and kill and she nearly destroyed you!”

  “She isn’t Elisibet, Mother!” Margaurethe growled back, immediately snapping her mouth shut to prevent herself from shouting more invectives.

  The door opened and the night nurse entered with two members of Whiskey’s personal guard. “Please!” she said quietly as she bustled forward to check her patient. “If you can’t keep your voice down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Orlaith suddenly stood, causing Jake and Margaurethe to tense in anticipation of an attack. Two members of Whiskey’s aga’gída eased closer, flanking the older woman. She ignored their presence, all her attention on her daughter. “Can you survive a repeat of her death? Would you be alive now had others not saved you, cared for you, protected you?”

  The nurse, a Human and immune to the mental abilities of the Sanguire surrounding her, clicked her tongue in disgust. “It’s time for you to leave, Gasan O’Toole.”

  Before the guards could do more than step forward, Orlaith raised her hand in supplication. “I’m leaving.” She gracefully bent down, kissing Margaurethe’s temple, ignoring the edgy security people scrutinizing her every move. “Mark my words, Margaurethe, she will be the death of you,” she whispered before taking her leave.

  Margaurethe sighed, dropping her head to one hand so she could massage the bridge of her nose.

  The nurse finished her checks and headed for the door. Pausing there, she turned back. “No more excitement, Ki’an Gasan,” she said, her sympathetic tone both gratifying and unpleasant to Margaurethe. “You both need your rest.”

  “Of course, Melissa, thank you.” Margaurethe looked over at Jake who had remained at Whiskey’s bedside. “You may go as well. We’ll be fine.”

  Jake nodded, not one to argue an order and knowing that Whiskey was safe in Margaurethe’s presence.

  “Get something to eat, Jake.” Margaurethe smiled as the bodyguard paused at the door. “I know better than to order you from your post, but you need sustenance to heal. Take care of yourself. That’s an order.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Jake’s face. “Yes, Ki’an Gasan, I’ll take care of it.” She left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Margaurethe wheeled her chair closer to Whiskey’s bed, reaching out to take a limp hand in hers. “Don’t listen to her, m’c
ara. She doesn’t know you as I do. And if I die protecting you, I’ll count it as a blessing.” She leaned forward to lightly kiss the unmoving fingers. “I love you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hazy. That was the best way to describe the world around Whiskey. It took several seconds for her to realize that the colors and movement she saw around her were people. Her people. Two wore white lab coats as they puttered around her…bed? Puzzling over the scenery, she blinked, taking stock of the situation. Her exhaustion was such that it was an effort to lift her heavy eyelids again. She felt her brow furrow in confusion. What happened? She forced her eyes open wider, lazily scanning the room in which she found herself. This wasn’t her bedroom, though the place looked familiar.

  Before she could pin down the memory, a face loomed into view. Mahogany hair, green eyes and a worried expression regarded her. “M…Mar…” Her voice sounded rough and phlegmy. Whiskey tried to clear her throat, the numbness dissipating as she came fully awake.

  “Hush, m’cara. You’re in the clinic. You’ve been hurt.”

  Whiskey’s body ached in response to Margaurethe’s words. Something had happened, landing her in the tender hands of the medical personnel she employed. She swallowed, having difficulty with even that simple task. God, she was so dry!