Chapter Eighteen
Margaurethe shifted in the wheelchair. Her rear was numb. Except where it hurts. She sighed, refusing to complain aloud. There were worse things, worse injuries to suffer. She had declined to climb into the second bed that had been brought into the room, stubbornly rejecting the offer though she knew she could use the rest. Her exhaustion was deep enough that she’d be out like a light when she succumbed and she didn’t yet want to leave Whiskey’s side.
On doctor’s orders, Whiskey remained abed. It seemed forever since she’d been rushed into the clinic for surgery, but in reality less than twenty-four hours had passed. Daniel refused to release her to her apartment until tomorrow, though he’d said she was mending quickly and well. She’d partaken of blood not long after regaining consciousness and had fallen promptly into a healing sleep for several hours. Her physical demeanor had improved regardless of the emotional impact of Zica’s death. At least she no longer sported that deathly pallor that had graced her skin. The bed had been adjusted to allow her into a slight reclining position, and she currently twirled a spoon in her bland dinner, ignoring a situational comedy that blathered on the television.
Seated across the bed from Margaurethe was Whiskey’s grandmother, Wahca. The older woman stared stonily at the screen, unseeing, her dinner unheeded as well. She’d come after Whiskey had awakened and asked for her, remaining at her side ever since. Both she and her granddaughter needed one another’s support to endure the tragedy of Zica’s demise.
Dropping her spoon with a clatter, Whiskey pushed the rolling tray away and slumped back against the pillows. “I’m done.”
Wahca pulled herself from her sorrow to stand. She caressed Whiskey’s hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Are you certain, takoja? You’ve hardly eaten.” She plumped a pillow.
With a light grimace, Whiskey readjusted herself with Wahca’s assistance and nodded. “I’m just not hungry, kunsi.” She glanced at the uneaten plate her grandmother had set aside. “I’ll eat more if you will.”
Margaurethe smothered a smile as Wahca frowned at the obvious manipulation. Whiskey hurt with the loss of her dwindling family members, but Wahca would now bury her last remaining child, a child she’d had at her side for centuries. She and Whiskey were the only relatives they each had left. This realization sobered Margaurethe as Wahca tucked her chin in burgeoning defiance.
“Kunsi,” Whiskey said, taking the older woman’s hands in her own. “We need to be strong for each other. Please eat.”
The soft entreaty reached through the grief. Wahca dropped her gaze to stare at their joined hands before raising it again. A sad smile creased her face, and she shook their hands. “I will. You must do the same.” She released Whiskey, pushing the tray table back toward her granddaughter.
Whiskey’s pleased expression faded at the realization that she’d been wrangled into a similar corner. With a good-natured sigh, she picked up her spoon, resolved to follow through with their agreement. As Whiskey returned her attention to the bland porridge she’d been given permission to eat, Wahca bestowed a look of such love and caring upon her that Margaurethe’s breath caught in her throat. Wahca’s face withered into a grief-stricken expression, an abbreviated punctuation of agony that swiftly vanished as Whiskey looked up at her, purposely taking a spoonful of porridge into her mouth to indicate she followed the terms of their agreement. Wahca smiled and nodded, returning to her chair to take up her dinner.
Margaurethe swallowed past the lump in her throat. Here was the difference between Whiskey and Elisibet—the ability to love, to feel, to care for another person more than herself. Elisibet had always loved Margaurethe, but her ability had been finite. She would have moved heaven and earth for Margaurethe or Valmont but never considered doing the same for anyone else. Nor would she have allowed Margaurethe access to her innermost thoughts and feelings. Even Whiskey’s recent decision to shield her thoughts from Margaurethe hadn’t hidden the depth of her compassion and empathy. Rather she was evolving into a monarch, a sovereign who needed to keep some things close in her heart and mind in order to rule justly and well. Margaurethe felt a lessening of the tightness in her chest, understanding that those moments where Whiskey warded her thoughts against Margaurethe weren’t an indication that they were falling away from each other. How often will I be terrified that she’ll take the easy way out, become Elisibet? And why does that scare me?
A gentle knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Jake opened it, peering inside. “Ninsumgal, Sañur Gasum Dorst is here to see you. The nurse says he can stay for twenty minutes.”
“Send him in, Jake.” Whiskey shoved the tray away a second time, faint relief coloring her face as Dorst strolled into the sickroom.
“My Gasan,” he said with overt delight. “You are looking positively radiant this evening!”
Whiskey snorted then grunted at the ache it caused in her abdomen. “I doubt it, Reynhard, but thanks for trying.”
He strolled closer, thick boots clomping on the tiled floor as he neared. Behind him, Jake silently closed the door, remaining there to watch as he delivered his best Dorst-patented bow. “I was told you were awake and wishing to speak with me.” He straightened, closing the distance between them. “Unfortunately, the nurse on duty wouldn’t allow me to see you until you’d had sustenance.” He glanced at the half-eaten bowl of porridge, a faint sneer curling his lip. “Which I see you haven’t.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a cheeseburger in your pocket, would you?” Whiskey asked.
Dorst flashed a grin and winked. “Unfortunately, I was frisked by Nurse Attila before she allowed me entry. I may be able to smuggle some fries in a little later when she’s off shift.”
“Her name is Alice.” Margaurethe smiled despite her lightly disapproving tone.
“Forgive me. I’m getting old. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, Gasan Margaurethe. I could have sworn her name tag said something else.”
Margaurethe lowered her chin in pretend distaste, enjoying the humor curling Whiskey’s lips. As soon as Daniel released her, Margaurethe would see to inviting as many visitors as safely possible to see her. The visitors wouldn’t ease the pain of her loss but it might distract her.
“Tell me about the accident.” Whiskey glanced at her grandmother. “If you want to go…”
“I’ll stay.” Wahca set aside her untouched plate. “I wish to know.”
Dorst gave Wahca a nod of solemn acknowledgment. “We believe the accident was exactly that—an accident. The other vehicle was driven by Jewel Pauley, a Sanguire who worked for us at the 2nd Street facility. After careful consideration, we’ve concluded she was alone in the car and too far from any Sanguire to have been compelled. She would have had ample opportunity to brake had she regained control from a compelling. It may have been that she was inattentive—perhaps her dry cleaning slid to the passenger floor, or she received a phone call.”
Whiskey frowned in thought. “Were her family supporters of the Sweet Butcher?”
The nickname caused Margaurethe to shiver. “Perhaps indirectly. She went through a thorough background check, as do all people employed by us. Her personnel files don’t indicate any undue political affiliations, for or against Elisibet.”
“I’m not worried about that.” Whiskey scowled. “I just don’t want her family thinking there will be repercussions over this.”
Margaurethe didn’t argue the point. Elisibet had been known to retaliate with extreme force for the slightest insult. If she’d had an immediate family member that had been killed, accident or no, the person responsible would suffer the consequences as well as his or her entire clan. Many influential houses had disappeared from history under Elisibet’s reign. “I’ll be certain to stress that when we send our condolences.”
Whiskey looked at Margaurethe. Her dark gaze stormy, she reached out a hand, not speaking until Margaurethe took it. “Don’t shut me out of that. I need to be involved.”
Tear
s stung Margaurethe’s eyes. She squeezed Whiskey’s fingers as one spilled over her cheek. “Of course, m’cara. I understand.” As much as she wanted to shield Whiskey from these things, she knew she couldn’t. Whiskey’s fear of becoming Elisibet and her Human-raised sensitivities had caused some spectacular arguments between them in the past. Yet Margaurethe had come to trust that Whiskey had to make her own way, no matter the amount of pain and sacrifice.
They held each other’s hands until Whiskey was positive Margaurethe wouldn’t renege on the issue. She released her lover, turning her attention back to a silent Dorst. “And the Agrun Nam? How are they handling this?”
“They anxiously await news, as do all the other delegations. At this time, there have been no outright threats of bloodshed from anyone, no dire protestations or dramatic tantrums designed to highlight a withdrawal. Most are content to wait for at least a few more days before making determinations in that regard.” Dorst winked, a wide grin on his gaunt face. “I expect they’ll be chafing by the third or fourth day, however.”
Whiskey exhaled, frowning into her lap. “They need to see me, proof that I’m still alive and kicking.”
“Yes, Ninsumgal. That’s exactly what they need.”
The spectacle of a public presentation loomed in Margaurethe’s mind, her heart seizing in her chest. Whiskey always went for the brash approach, testament to her youth and inexperience. Margaurethe reached out to caress her lover’s mind. “That’s not going to be possible, Whiskey. You cannot heal without proper rest, and I doubt Daniel will allow such a circus.”
“Margaurethe is right, takoja.” Rarely one to speak during political discussions, Wahca nevertheless dived into this conversation. “It has only been a day since you were hurt. It will be another before you can leave here. Do not overextend yourself.” She cupped Whiskey’s cheek. “I have lost both of my daughters. I do not wish to lose my granddaughter as well.”
Whiskey’s hand cradled Wahca’s, and they stared at one another for a timeless moment.
Dorst cleared his throat, garnering everyone’s attention. “Perhaps we can do something other than a diplomatic function to exhaust My Gasan, yes?” After everyone focused on him, he ran his fingers across the bare skin above his right ear, as if tucking nonexistent hair behind it. “First and foremost, have the members of the various delegations out in the foyer tomorrow when Ninsumgal Whiskey is released. They will see her as she is wheeled to the elevator and brought to her apartment.”
Margaurethe didn’t care for the sound of that. The security setup alone would be a nightmare, but she had to give Dorst credit. The most powerful of the visiting negotiators would see Whiskey had survived her near fatal injuries and report to their superiors that all was, if not well, at least improving.
“Secondly,” Dorst held up two fingers, “her sitting room on the sixteenth floor can be opened for a brief period of visitations, perhaps on a daily basis until she’s allowed up and about.” He stepped toward the foot of Whiskey’s bed, running elegant hands back and forth over the metal bar there. “It would be simple to remove the dining table and install a hospital bed there such as this one.”
The one thing Margaurethe had been adamant about was not allowing anyone—anyone—onto the sixteenth floor that didn’t have cause to be there. The layout of the apartments and offices on that floor was entirely different than the majority of other residential floors, making it all the more important to refuse access to strangers. Offering the delegates, especially the Agrun Nam, access could endanger Whiskey.
Apparently, Whiskey thought the same as her eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips, an expression of disapproval on her face. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea, Reynhard.”
Rather than defend his suggestion, Dorst shrugged.
“Jake?” Whiskey winced as she leaned slightly sideways to see her bodyguard. “What do you think? You’re the one whose head will be on the block if something happens.”
The woman by the door glided closer, stepping into easier view. “It can be done with a minimum of difficulty. The potential disadvantage of an enemy getting the lay of the land is minimal—none will see beyond your sitting room or much else beside the security desk stationed outside the elevators.” She nodded to her security superior. “Sañur Gasum Dorst is correct in regard to placement. Additional aga’gída can be placed in the corridor and in the room to offset any busybodies.”
“And such visitation won’t undermine our current security?” Margaurethe asked, still not liking the notion.
“To be honest, Ki’an Gasan, there won’t be much to see. Four walls and a security desk in the corridor, three doors in the sitting room with no idea what is behind them.” Dorst grinned. “It will put the representatives at ease as well as show that you’re well prepared for anything they can attempt.”
Margaurethe saw nothing she could use to deny the proposition. She glanced at Whiskey, seeing a reflection of her own grudging acceptance of the situation. Having the primary delegates see Whiskey healthy and healing would go a long way toward holding onto the current political atmosphere. This wasn’t a decision Margaurethe could make, however. She and Whiskey had bumped heads far too often upon her arrival in Portland. Whiskey was a legal adult in both Human and Sanguire society, and the Sanguire were the less forgiving of the two. Hunters always searched for weakness. If Whiskey were to go into seclusion, it would be assumed by the worst of her detractors that she was weak. Rather than argue for or against the situation, she bolstered Whiskey’s essence with her own, savoring the scent of roses and blood as her lover knitted their souls together.
“All right.” Whiskey nodded. “Tomorrow morning the padre can announce the time of my release as soon as Daniel confirms it. Reynhard, I need you to coordinate the security for my transfer to my apartment.” Dorst nodded, a sleek smile on his face. Whiskey looked at Jake. “I’ll need you to organize the aga’gída detail on the sixteenth floor.”
“Of course, Ninsumgal.”
Whiskey turned her attention to Margaurethe. “Will you be able to set up a visitation schedule? I could ask the padre if you’re not—”
Margaurethe smiled. “I’m fine, Whiskey. Just the broken leg, remember.” She tapped the brace on her thigh with one fingernail, reminding everyone of what dwelled beneath the lap blanket artfully draped across her lower extremities. “I can start now and make changes on the fly.”
A knock interrupted additional conversation. Jake moved so fast that she was a blur of motion, reaching the door before the visitor could open it. The Human nurse on the other side gasped, hand to her chest as she gaped at the bodyguard.
Dorst smirked. “I believe that Nurse Alice,” he said with a quick wink at Margaurethe, “has decided my time here is up.”
Margaurethe chuckled. “I believe so.”
He backed away from Whiskey’s bed before bowing. “Until the morrow, My Ninsumgal.” Not awaiting a response, he spun around and left the room, his physical presence forcing the nurse to step back and out of his way. Jake followed, silently closing the door behind them.
Whenever Dorst left a room, it felt as if a whirlwind had departed. Margaurethe stared after him for a brief moment, regaining her equilibrium.
Wahca took much less time. She pulled the tray table back within Whiskey’s reach, drawing everyone’s attention. “I believe you need to finish your dinner.”
Whiskey stared blankly at the porridge, then looked up at her grandmother. A sly expression crossed her face, and she raised her eyebrow. “As do you, kunsi.”
A smile grew on Wahca’s lips. She raised her chin in capitulation and returned to her chair, dutifully picking up her plate.
Chapter Nineteen
The foyer outside the clinic felt cramped. The room itself wasn’t large. It didn’t help that a third of the space was dedicated to the double flight of stairs leading down from the more expansive function level, the base of the steps bisecting the room. A low ceiling compounded the matter and t
he number of bodies pressed into the area to witness Davis’s medical release seemed excessive.
Still McCall had come here, as had the rest of the Agrun Nam and their immediate aides. At least they’d found fortuitous positions on the steps, garnering a better view than those on the floor. Beside him, Nijmege groused that they’d been moved away from the immediate sidelines as an insult, but he preferred this location. His genetics had cursed him with a small stature. As it was, Rosenberg and Cassadie stood a step below him but occasionally blocked his view. He’d never have been able to see through the throng below.
And throng it was. Though guests had been limited to their immediate delegation members and one aide, the room was packed. Its awkward shape coupled with the inordinate number of guards made the area positively claustrophobic. A two-meter wide path from the clinic to the elevators had been cleared, and an elevator car stood open in preparation of the “great event.” The clinic was to McCall’s right and a single door stood off in the far left corner leading into staff areas. It was as heavily warded as the elevator. Did they think an assassin would materialize from nowhere during this brief transfer? Anyone idiotic enough to make the attempt would be shredded on the spot. Perhaps if a Ghost Walker survived. That would never happen, though. The Gidimam Kissane Lá had disappeared centuries ago.
The door to the clinic opened, interrupting his thoughts. A herald called out, “Hear me! Hear me! Ninsumgal Whiskey Davis and Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe O’Toole!” He stood aside and dropped into a deep bow.
Two aga’gída led the procession, sharp eyes examining everyone. Behind them, an American Indian woman pushed a wheelchair carrying a wan Whiskey Davis. Several members of the audience bowed, those who had sworn fealty or wished to ingratiate themselves. McCall studied her as she passed, noting that she seemed well. If she was this healthy after two days, then the rumors of her fading demise had been exaggerated. Someone in the crowd began to slowly clap, inciting others to join. By the time Davis breasted the Agrun Nam’s position, halfway to the elevators, the applause was strong and loud. McCall found it interesting that Rosenberg didn’t join the ovation as Cassadie and Bentoncourt did. He cast a quick glance at Nijmege beside him, catching her sneer of hatred.
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