Whiskey tucked her chin. “No.” She turned to Daniel who held the now prepared needle. “There are only two more appointments. Give me a few minutes to calm down. We’ll cut their time, but finish today’s schedule.” She turned back to Margaurethe, her expression softening. “Please. The next visitors just witnessed her being thrown out of here. I can’t let them or her think she has the power to hurt me.” She watched her words sink in, observed the slight slump of Margaurethe’s shoulders, knowing that her statement made sense. In the beginning, it had been a constant uphill struggle to be in control with Margaurethe, partially due to their cultural and age differences, but also because of Margaurethe’s frenzied desire to keep Whiskey safe and secure. The last three months had redefined their working relationship, but Whiskey still occasionally came up against the obstinate wall of Margaurethe’s fears.
With a sigh, Margaurethe raised her chin. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Smiling with relief that she didn’t have to fight another battle so soon after the effort to remain calm during Orlaith’s attack, Whiskey caressed Margaurethe’s mind. She turned back to Daniel. “Doctor?”
He debated a moment. “Two appointments. Five minutes each, maximum.”
“Agreed.”
Daniel recapped the needle and tucked it and the medicine away again.
The door opened. Jake proceeded to her post with a faint air of satisfaction. Valmont seemed less so, his lips turned into an unpleasant sneer. “She’s gone. I took the liberty of removing her from the list of acceptable visitors. And I’m going to have a word or two with Basco.”
“Don’t.” Whiskey shook her head. “Schedule him for his own appointment tomorrow and don’t say anything. I’ll take care of it.”
Valmont gave a disgruntled nod.
A wave of fatigue washed over Whiskey. Only two more to go. She straightened, ignoring the twinge in her abdomen as something complained inside. “Let’s get this over with. Bring in the next visitor.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The phone on Margaurethe’s desk trilled. “Yes?”
“Sublugal Sañar Valmont is here, Ki’an Gasan,” her receptionist said.
“Send him in.” She tugged ineffectively at her jacket hem and then scowled at her desire to fidget. Having spent the better part of two days in a wheelchair, she’d found it impossible to produce the professional image she wanted. Whiskey had fallen into exhausted sleep an hour ago, the political parade having finally ground to a halt for the day. With Sithathor and Jake to watch over her, Margaurethe had decided to come downstairs to the executive offices for this meeting, not wanting to disturb Whiskey with any mental outbursts that may occur. She gave the wrinkled material up for a lost cause, pulling the lap blanket over it and calling out a welcome when she heard a light tap at the door.
Valmont entered with his trademark smirk. “You rang, O High One?”
If there was a way to deepen her frown when he was in her presence, Margaurethe hadn’t yet found it. Rather than fall sway to his inane chatter, she gestured to the seating area beneath the long window. “We need to talk.”
For once, he didn’t offer a flippant response. Somberness stilled his face for the briefest of moments before he grinned, throwing himself in the armchair with casual grace. She wheeled her chair closer. The office of The Davis Group’s CEO was a reverse image of its President’s next door with the exception that it was slightly smaller. Margaurethe had ordered tea from the kitchen. It sat within reach beside her, and she poured them each a cup. She expertly added a dollop of cream and two cubes of sugar to one, handing it to Valmont.
“I’m surprised you remembered.” He flashed her another smile, this one more genuine than his usual fare. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She refrained from commenting that she’d always paid close attention to her enemies. Much as she hated to admit it, Valmont was no longer her foe no matter their turbulent history. They’d never have the close friendship they’d enjoyed in their youth, but they were no longer so much at odds. He cared for Whiskey—had cared for Elisibet. He and Margaurethe needed to work together now to ensure her safety. She poured tea for herself, adding sweetener and sitting back with a furtive stretch.
Valmont caught it. “It has been a long day, hasn’t it?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck in commiseration.
“Indeed.” Margaurethe sipped her drink, eyeing him over the rim of her cup. “What do you think of my mother?”
Valmont chuckled, waggling a finger at her. “Oh, no. I’m not getting into that discussion. I’ve just gotten in the door, and we’re playing ever so nice at the moment. I’d hate to see our burgeoning armistice ruined so quickly.”
She grimaced, cradling the cup in her lap. “Trust me, I’ve had abundant experience with my mother. I doubt you’ll say anything about her with which I’ll disagree.”
He studied her in careful speculation, his sardonic humor fading into that unaccustomed seriousness he’d portrayed increasingly these days. “I think she’s acting like a concerned parent. She wants her progeny unharmed, she always has. I remember her squawks from the isles when I was at court, though I never had the fortune of meeting her until now.”
“Misfortune, you mean.” Her lips curled at his surprised snicker of amusement. Sobering, she sighed. “I find the timing of her appearance here suspect. Do you think she’s involved with the assassination attempts?”
Valmont pursed his lips. “No, not really. Doesn’t seem her style.” At Margaurethe’s look of askance, he shrugged. “If she was the type to hire assassins, wouldn’t she have done it centuries ago when Elisibet was a burr under her saddle? Why wait until here and now?”
A distant part of Margaurethe broke, her inner tension easing. She hadn’t wanted to believe her mother could be responsible for such a thing but couldn’t put the possibility past her. Orlaith had disliked Elisibet long before Margaurethe had met the Sweet Butcher. That dislike had evolved into absolute loathing once Margaurethe had fallen into Elisibet’s clutches. “I don’t think so either, but I wasn’t sure.”
His shoulders relaxed, and she realized he’d been waiting for her verbal rejoinder. Scanning their interactions these last few months, she couldn’t argue that he had the right to expect it. She’d spent the majority of their interchanges haranguing him for Elisibet’s murder, utilizing every opportunity to rub her pain in his face. Even Whiskey’s mental intervention hadn’t alleviated Margaurethe’s hatred, though Margaurethe now had a much better understanding of what had motivated Elisibet’s mind and heart. Difficult to take the high road when she had the benefit of a profound mental bond with Whiskey that revealed much of Elisibet’s insecurities and exhaustion. Not only had Valmont hurt Margaurethe by killing her lover, but Elisibet had dealt Margaurethe’s heart a mortal blow by allowing the situation to occur.
On impulse, Margaurethe set her cup down, reaching out with one hand. Startled, Valmont leaned forward, automatically offering his in return. She grasped his palm, the warmth of his skin against hers a shock as she realized that the last time they’d touched one another was when she’d physically attacked him months ago. “I realize I’ve been…quite harsh toward you.” His cheeks dimpled but he didn’t interrupt. Margaurethe fought down her habitual agitation, strengthening her grip in an effort to hold tight to her goal. “I can never forgive you for…what you did.” She watched the pleasure drain from his face. “Surely you know that’s not possible for me.”
Valmont set his tea on the coffee table and cupped their joined hands. “I don’t seek forgiveness, Margaurethe. I deserve every word and deed I’ve received from you and more.”
She stared into his cinnamon-brown eyes, so familiar yet so different. There’d been a time when they’d banded together as loving friends, intent on soothing Elisibet’s ferocious humors. Valmont had been guilty of spurring much of Elisibet’s viciousness, but had matured over the years. The last half-century of Elisibet’s life had seen Margaurethe
and Valmont working in conjunction to intercept her stabs of fury and violent reactionary tactics. Everything had changed once Valmont’s mentor, Nahib, had been executed in such an atrocious manner. Incensed, Valmont had left court, left Margaurethe alone to ineffectually contain Elisibet’s anger and feelings of betrayal.
Since meeting and falling in love with Whiskey, Margaurethe had begun to question some of her suppositions, her long held hatreds. Having Castillo as a constant conscience hadn’t helped her obstinate desire to clutch every injury and insult Valmont had flung at her, real or imagined, but the strange bond she enjoyed with Whiskey had altered something within her. She’d finally gained access to Elisibet’s inner shell of protection, the one she’d never been able to break through during Elisibet’s lifetime. She’d witnessed what Elisibet had seen and felt, knew down to her soul how much Elisibet had loved her, the passion she’d felt in Margaurethe’s presence.
And the strength of her love for Valmont, her best friend.
“She loved you dearly, you know. Even when you came to her study and fought her.”
He blinked, confusion crossing his face. “What?”
“Elisibet loved you to her core, just as she loved me. When she died, she held sorrow for two things—that she left me, and that she’d put you into the position of being responsible for her death.”
Valmont pulled sharply away, disrupting their tableau as he stood and strode toward the desk. Whirling around, a bleak anger had taken possession of him. “What are you saying? How could you know that?”
Margaurethe turned her chair toward him. “Whiskey has searched your mind before, hasn’t she?” She waited until she received a curt nod of assent. “She has the ability to delve into others’ minds, retrieve their thoughts and memories. She can also share her own. By extension—”
“You’ve seen Elisibet’s memories,” Valmont finished in a voice of gravel.
“Some of them, yes.” Margaurethe slowly stood, not wanting to spook him. His dark skin was ashen with shock, his eyes glassy with potential tears. It startled her to see him so near to losing emotional control. In all the centuries she’d known him, she’d never seen him this close to the edge. “I cannot forgive you for her loss. The pain lies too deep within my soul. But you should know that Elisibet already has.”
Jaw twitching as he fought to regain mastery, Valmont half-stumbled to the window, staring hard at the trees and traffic and river beneath his unseeing gaze. Margaurethe turned back to the table, topping off her tea before settling back to drink it. Her throat ached with a need to cry, but she pushed it away. One of them needed a level head at the moment.
Nearly a quarter hour passed as Valmont found a path back from his grief. He’d need more time to process what Margaurethe had told him, but she had no doubt that he’d be back to his nefarious self presently. He muttered an apology and availed himself of the tissue box on her desk, cleaning up his face before returning to his chair.
“Your tea is cold. Shall I pour you another?”
“No.” He drew a deep breath, held it a moment and let it go. His eyes remained shiny and slightly red-rimmed, but otherwise he appeared calm. “Why have you told me this?”
“Because you needed to know. You’re under the impression that Whiskey hasn’t appointed you Defender because of your past actions, that she doesn’t trust you. That isn’t true.”
He scowled. “Then why won’t she? If Bertrada challenges her, I can champion her cause. I’ve more than enough experience in hand-to-hand combat and I think I’m mentally strong enough to take her on.”
Margaurethe nibbled her lower lip. “I’m not sure.”
Valmont cocked his head, recognizing something within her manner. His eyes narrowed. “But you think you have an idea.”
She met his gaze. “I believe she doesn’t want you to be killed defending her. I don’t think she’ll be able to handle it, especially not so soon after Zica’s death.” She glanced away, unseeing. “Cora’s murder affected her deeply. At the time she was able to release her sanguinary urges by challenging Andri.”
“And with Zica’s death an accident, there’s no one upon whom to vent.”
“Correct.”
Valmont sat back, tapping a finger against the arm of the chair. “Why did you bring me here? Why are you telling me this?”
Margaurethe called up a ghost of a smile. “Foes surround us, and accidents have the misfortune of being blind to what is right and wrong. We cannot go on bickering with each other. It draws our collective attention away from the real threats.”
“A truce then, a true one?”
“Yes. And a pact.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “We worked together once before to protect Elisibet. I suggest we do so again for Whiskey. We need to unite as a single front against her enemies.”
They looked at one another for long minutes. A slow grin spread across Valmont’s face. “One for all, and all for one?”
Recognizing the return of his flippancy, she smiled back. “You read that piffle?”
“You didn’t?”
She casually tossed her hair back, reaching once more for her teacup. “Of course not. I preferred Guy Fawkes.”
Valmont snorted. “Don’t tell me you went out for that serialized crap.” Seeing the smug turn of her lips, he laughed. “And I suppose you read all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work?”
“Hot off the presses.”
“Philistine.”
“Heathen.”
Their chuckles faded into silence as they regarded each other. Valmont broke the quiet. “You know, I think this is the first time in centuries we’ve actually had a conversation that didn’t end in a desire for bloodshed.”
Margaurethe nodded. “I believe you’re right.” She enjoyed the warmth that had developed between them. It didn’t have the depth that their original friendship had enjoyed, but it was preferable to the gut-wrenching pain she’d experienced over recent months. “If you hear of anything from Bertrada, you’ll inform me?”
“Of course.” He paused. “If she continues maligning you, I might just challenge her myself. That’ll take the wind out of her sails.”
“And Whiskey’s.” As much as Margaurethe liked the idea, she knew that Whiskey would be against it. “If anything happens to you as a result, however, Whiskey will be worse off than she is now.”
Fierceness briefly tightened the planes of his face. “I’d count it as a debt paid.”
“Perhaps, but don’t do anything brash. Besides, challenging Bertrada won’t change the fact that one of the others has attempted to assassinate Whiskey. Losing you might give that one the edge to succeed.”
Valmont’s shoulders relaxed as he gave Margaurethe a look of apology. “Of course.”
Margaurethe pursed her lips in thought. “No. We need to keep tabs on the lot of them, but I think either Ernst or McCall are the likely culprits.”
He leaned forward to take up his now cold cup of tea. Holding it up in toast, he said, “To friendship and Whiskey’s continued good health.”
Smiling, Margaurethe tapped her cup with his. “Agreed.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bentoncourt scowled out the window of his assigned apartment, hands clasped behind his back, not seeing the gray sky and the sluggish river below. Most of the Agrun Nam filled the sitting area behind him, quietly availing themselves of a continental breakfast. There came a knock on the door. His senior aide, Baltje, opened it to allow Cassadie inside. Everyone was present.
Still Bentoncourt waited, listening. The emotions from their argument yesterday morning remained fresh between them, and tension crackled in the air. For a change, Cassadie didn’t engage anyone in lighthearted frivolity, indicative of his still sour mood. McCall took up the slack, offering to refresh his companions’ drinks. Only Rosenberg and Nijmege accepted. Bentoncourt eavesdropped on the general murmur, the sound of silverware on china a light counterpoint to their inconsequential conversation.
Expectant
silence eventually settled over them. “Well, we’re here as you requested, Lionel,” Nijmege stated, her tone as sharp as her tongue. “Shall we get on with it or not? I’ve plenty of things to do today.”
Bentoncourt executed a perfect about-face and regarded his colleagues, his chin tucked to his chest. Cassadie had chosen to sit in an armchair farthest from the others, legs crossed, an air of haughty dismissal cloaking him. Nijmege and Rosenberg shared the couch with McCall beside them in another armchair. Bentoncourt couldn’t help but wonder if their seating arrangement signaled that they were as thick as thieves or simply a matter of current circumstance. It pained him to admit that Rosenberg’s support of Nijmege had badly startled him. Their neutral member had chosen abstention on every vote associated with Davis to date. Rosenberg looked back at him with the same heavy-lidded eyes, the same calm visage despite his endorsement of Nijmege’s plans. “The funeral for Ms. Davis’s aunt is tomorrow. I assume we’ll all attend?”
McCall nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He flashed Nijmege a tight smile.
“It would be proper to do so,” Rosenberg answered. “I assumed that was why you and Aiden changed your itinerary.”
Bentoncourt’s smile wasn’t pleasant. “About that. I think other changes are in order.”
Nijmege dropped her cup to its saucer with a loud clink. She raised a finger in warning. “Don’t even think it, Lionel.”
“As Nam Lugal, I decide what is best for the Agrun Nam.”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn.”
He ground his teeth. “I think that Samuel, Aiden and myself should remain. You and Ernst shall return home tomorrow.”
“Kutyafasza!” Nijmege jumped to her feet. “You cannot order me away. You don’t have that kind of authority.”
“She’s right.” McCall relaxed, giving Bentoncourt a faint smile. “We’re each autonomous and always have been. You might oversee us as a whole, but you can’t order us to come or go at a whim.”
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