Margaurethe leaned forward, her expression serious but otherwise unreadable. “And what did you find, Father?”
Castillo must have sensed the razor’s edge upon which he walked. Margaurethe was always sensitive to issues that could put Whiskey into life-threatening situations, and no one in the room felt his next words would suggest anything but that. He didn’t look at Margaurethe, but spoke calmly as he studied his notes. “In Nijmege’s government, no one can challenge the Ninsumgal. It is forbidden to even consider such an action.”
Flashes of ancient battles cascaded across Whiskey’s mind, each one either individual or paired combat with others. “But Elisibet had challenges. I remember them.”
“It is a delicate distinction, My Gasan,” Dorst said. “Ninsumgal Elisibet was never challenged by another.”
“No.” Valmont shook his head. “No one could challenge her, but she could challenge anyone in her realm.”
“Ah.” Whiskey sank back, thinking. “That still doesn’t explain why Bertrada won’t challenge me. The Agrun Nam refuses to accept who I am, who I was.”
“But that doesn’t mean her cultural blinders aren’t hindering her.” Castillo looked up from his pad. “She may not publicly believe your claim, but she does on a more personal level.”
“All of them do,” Chano said. He thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Why are they here after you demanded their presence if they didn’t believe you are their long-lost ninsumgal reborn?”
Margaurethe took Whiskey’s hand. “So Bertrada’s goal is to get Whiskey to challenge her?”
“I believe so.” Castillo lifted a submissive chin in response to the hard stare from Margaurethe. “She’s working on internalized habits and instincts. While she publicly disclaims Whiskey, she knows Whiskey is who we deem her to be. To circumvent potential complications with Euro law, she’s going to attempt to push Whiskey into challenging her.”
“It’s a reasonable viewpoint,” Dikeledi said. “Should she survive a challenge, she will be safe from litigation as she hides beneath the mantle of her country’s law.”
Dorst shifted in a creak of leather. “Our esteemed compatriot is correct. Dear Bertrada does lead both the High and Low Courts of her people. The last thing she desires is to be accused in her own country’s court.”
“And you agree with Rosenberg’s conjecture about the European Sanguire, Reynhard?”
He bowed low, showing off the three mohawks striping his bald scalp. “I do, Ninsumgal.”
Whiskey studied the people in the room with her. Castillo cast an apologetic look in Margaurethe’s direction, knowing his information hadn’t helped their developing trust. It amused Whiskey at times to realize that Castillo was of a generation that Margaurethe couldn’t fathom, though he was four hundred years old. She wondered if he would eventually be just as out of touch with her and her pack. Dorst remained ever eager and ever calm as he awaited her words. Jake hovered at the far door, not part of the conversation yet as cognizant of the repercussions as any of the participants. Dikeledi mirrored Jake’s aloofness, her emotional distance beginning to become a welcome anchor for Whiskey’s volatile emotions. Chano was the eldest in age but the least experienced in dealing with the corporate world or other governments.
She mentally reached for Margaurethe, holding her lover’s essence close. Margaurethe was her heart’s lifeblood and always would be, no matter what happened. Unfortunately, Whiskey couldn’t allow their mutual devotion to get in the way of what she needed to do, not if she were to follow the path laid out before her.
After a deep inhale, she blew out the breath. “Then I guess I need to brush up on my dueling skills. Padre, what can you tell me about challenges?”
“Unlike Human challenge, Sanguire do not usually duel one-on-one,” Castillo began.
“What?” Whiskey frowned. “What’s the point of challenging her if she can call in reinforcements?”
Dorst smiled. “Human duels are based primarily on weapons skill, My Gasan. Sanguire, however, have their mental abilities to account for.”
“Abilities that vary with age, not skill or training,” Valmont added.
Confused, Whiskey scanned her advisors. “But I’ve already been involved with two challenges. I’ve never had help.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Valmont groused.
Dorst’s smile became feral. “If you recall, you were not a full adult when you conquered Fiona Bodwrda. Technically that was not an official challenge.”
Whiskey frowned at the memory of her first duel. Fiona had been the first Sanguire to find her on the streets of Seattle, the first to explain Whiskey’s Sanguire nature. She’d also been intent on using Whiskey as a puppet to rule the European Sanguire. The remains of Fiona’s pack had become the base of Whiskey’s, inherited because her strength of will.
“And I was beside you with Andri,” Valmont reminded her. “You blocked my assistance until the last minute.”
Whiskey’s shoulders slumped. “I thought a second was there to keep everything aboveboard. You know, a witness to the event.”
“In Human duels, this is so.” Castillo leaned his elbows onto his knees. “But because age drives our mental strength, our rules regarding challenges have adapted.”
“So…whoever I name as my second will literally be in the arena with me?”
Margaurethe kept her hand on Whiskey’s forearm, squeezing to gain her attention. “Yes. The goal is to even the playing field, so to speak. Normally the one challenged is older than his or her second, but not all the time. You’ll need to decide who will be your second in this matter.”
Whiskey rubbed her face, wishing the weariness away. Valmont fairly vibrated with agitation. She wondered if she’d have to deny his petition for the title of Defender again. He kept grasping for a position she wasn’t sure she wanted to resurrect. If age were a factor, then Chano or Dorst would be Whiskey’s best choice. Chano was an old man, however. He might have been a force to reckon with when his body was healthy, but no longer. “Is physical prowess a part of it, then? It’s not just mental strength?”
“The ability to physically prove one’s self is necessary,” Dikeledi answered. “In your two previous encounters, did you not attack with your hands or a weapon?”
Whiskey remembered the taste of Fiona’s blood and the sensation of a bullet passing through her. “I did.”
Dikeledi gave a regal nod. “As it should be.”
Valmont paced as he spoke. “Bertrada has always played with swords, something she and Nahib used to do. I’d wager she’s kept up her practice sessions. No doubt you’ll be drawn into a battle of weapons.”
Relieved he didn’t push for the chance to champion her, Whiskey considered her current level of skill. “Pacal says I’m fairly good with a machete…” She trailed off, beginning to see the dubiousness of the situation. Andri the assassin had been far older than Nijmege and she’d had a struggle besting him. Adding a sword fight into the mix might distract her too much to succeed.
Mulled wine and woodsmoke stole over Whiskey and she looked at Margaurethe. “And with your mental powers, you can stop her cold regardless of her greater physical skill.”
Chano grunted agreement, his craggy expression thoughtful. “The question then is who will Nijmege pick as her second?”
A chortle drew Whiskey’s attention to Dorst. “Why, our dear Samuel, of course! Who else has stood beside her all these long months?”
“Perfect!” Valmont laughed aloud.
His exuberance startled a smile from Whiskey. “Checkmate?”
“Yes!” Valmont flopped onto the couch, partially upsetting Castillo who juggled his coffee cup. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
Whiskey considered her crash course. “But why choose him? He’s only about the padre’s age, and she’s a century older than you and Margaurethe. Wouldn’t she want someone older? Say…Lionel?”
“Lionel wouldn’t do it anyway.” Valmont waved dismissal at Whiskey.
“And the only other person in Bertrada’s camp that’s old enough might be Gasan O’Toole.”
Shooting a glance at Margaurethe, Whiskey asked, “Do you think she’ll—?”
“No, she won’t. She despises challenges and duels.” Margaurethe used her free hand to adjust her skirt. “Besides, she has as much experience with swords as I—namely, none.”
A sense of relief washed over Whiskey. The last thing she wanted was to be mired in the death of Margaurethe’s mother, regardless how much Orlaith hated her.
“Whiskey, no one really understands how strong you are,” Castillo said, setting his cup down. “Nijmege will have heard you’re stronger than normal, but she’d never comprehend the level of your power without firsthand experience.” Like some of us remained unspoken.
Valmont nodded, radiating good humor. “Absolutely! She’ll consider herself strong enough to take you down. Hell, she’ll probably pull McCall in simply to legitimize the proceedings, without really thinking it over.”
“The key is to pick your second with care,” Dikeledi stated. “Someone younger than Nijmege, perhaps, someone with some weapons experience. That will lull her into a sense of complacency.”
That also let Dorst out of the running this time. And Margaurethe with her admitted lack of training. Valmont beamed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Margaurethe closed the door on the last visitor, pausing a brief moment to gather her emotions. Jake had left with the others to herd the pack off to their apartments. It was time to prepare for the memorial service later this afternoon. The directors were doing the same. It wasn’t often she and Whiskey were entirely alone, and she paused to let the knowledge of their solitude set into her heart.
When she turned, her eyes met Whiskey’s across the room. A ghost of a frown remained on Whiskey’s face, fading as she set aside her opinions of the meeting and focused her full attention on Margaurethe. For the briefest of moments, Margaurethe mentally stumbled, seeing the Elisibet of her memories in this modern setting. A mixture of joy and sorrow, anger and loss, threatened to overwhelm her. Then her synapses made the proper connections, reminding her that this was Whiskey, not Elisibet, not a hallucination. Instances like this had occurred often in the beginning, growing less frequent as her love deepened, as Whiskey’s differences from Elisibet became increasingly pronounced. Living so long in the shadow of Elisibet’s death had etched a hideous scar into Margaurethe’s soul, one that would take time to fully heal.
Providing Whiskey didn’t add to that sense of loss.
Roses surrounded Margaurethe, a hint of water and blood subtly winding beneath the flowery scent. She set aside her trepidation as she limped to Whiskey’s side. They were both still fettered by healing injuries. Whiskey had enough to worry about without adding Margaurethe’s apprehension to the mix. “How are you feeling, m’cara? Would you like something to eat or drink?”
Whiskey smiled, holding out her hand. “I want you.”
Margaurethe fortified their mental connection, struggling to cage her anxiety lest it affect Whiskey’s. She returned to her lover’s side. “You have me, love. Never doubt it.” They shared their essences for several minutes, fingers entwined almost as closely as their minds. Margaurethe felt the depth of Whiskey’s love mixed with a healthy dose of uncertainty and dread. The doubt faded, replaced by determination though ethereal apprehension flowed within it. Their connection was strong, so strong she knew the moment Whiskey inhaled in preparation of speaking, knew what she would say.
“This is something I have to do.” Whiskey’s tone was lightly defensive, a stubborn set to her jaw and mind as she prepared for Margaurethe’s contention.
“I know.” Margaurethe kissed Whiskey’s knuckles. “But I reserve the right to detest its necessity.” She felt Whiskey’s anxiety ease. “You expected an argument?”
Whiskey shrugged, suddenly looking very much the insecure young woman people forgot she was. “Yeah. We’ve had fights about less.”
Margaurethe smiled, her heart full. “Maybe in the past, but not anymore. I don’t have to like your decisions, but I can see when they’re essential to our goals.” She squeezed their hands together. “Don’t think I’ll not rant and rail when there are safer alternatives.”
“I won’t.” Whiskey grinned, pulling their hands toward her to brush Margaurethe’s knuckles with her lips this time. “Do you think it’ll work?”
“Two birds with one stone, isn’t that so?” Margaurethe reflected Whiskey’s nod of affirmation. “So be it. When you are successful, you’ll not only remove two of your most dangerous enemies but have the Agrun Nam at your feet.” A tickle of amusement whispered between them at Whiskey’s dour grimace.
“I don’t want them at my feet, Margaurethe.”
“No, you want them to rule their people—rule my people—well beneath the banner of The Davis Group. Not that they haven’t done so already, but at least they’ll have better resources upon which to draw in the coming centuries.”
“Which reminds me, we should probably ask for some other concessions in their treaty, like changing the power structure of their council. If they don’t want a ninsumgal, they at least need to correct their laws and regulations to account for it.” Whiskey stopped speaking. “What are you smiling at?”
“You, m’cara. I’m smiling at you. The woman who plans to put herself into mortal peril to remove her enemies is already thinking beyond that danger.” She caressed Whiskey’s blushing cheek with one finger. No, Whiskey wasn’t Elisibet any more than Margaurethe was the Pope. Whiskey was…more. “I love you, Whiskey Davis. Never forget that.”
“I won’t, but only on the condition that you don’t forget that I love you, Margaurethe O’Toole.”
“Agreed.” She enjoyed the light chuckle between them, the burble of laughter along their bond. The pleasure was marred by the realization that Whiskey’s scheme could go terribly, terribly wrong. The knowledge cracked her inner calm, allowing her fears to ripple between them. “But if something…dire…happens, I will go to the ends of the Earth to seek vengeance.”
Whiskey sobered. She leaned closer, elbow on the arm of her chair as she stared into Margaurethe’s eyes, their mental connection deepening to a level that they only savored upon occasion, one that only Whiskey could initiate. “This will work, Margaurethe.”
“Whiskey—” An intimate caress, both on her skin and in her mind, caused Margaurethe’s eyes to close.
“But I know you need to hear this. If something happens to me, I fully expect you to send both Bertrada and McCall to Hell where they belong.”
A flash of bloody vision crossed Margaurethe’s mind, nothing substantial, just a collection of quick images that could only have come from the Sweet Butcher. The emotions accompanying the sight were a combination of Whiskey’s and Elisibet’s—powerful determination and a yearning for retribution. Margaurethe opened her eyes, seeing Whiskey’s face, feeling her extended fangs within her mouth. “If you don’t, I will.”
“As it should be.” Whiskey smiled, showing her own fangs.
The demand soothed Margaurethe, the sight of Whiskey’s ferocity close to the surface oddly comforting her. Strange how Margaurethe had spent so many centuries attempting to dissuade Elisibet from committing the same acts that she now contemplated doing herself if their plan failed. Perhaps if she’d been less purposefully naive, cultivated the same viciousness in which Elisibet and Valmont had reveled, she would have fared better when Elisibet had died. In the centuries following, Margaurethe had learned to fend for herself, something she’d never had to do in Elisibet’s court. In the distant past, she hadn’t had the courage to face her native Sanguire ferocity. Now she had no doubt that she would successfully seek vengeance before following Whiskey into death.
“As it should be,” she repeated.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Whiskey stepped out onto the third-floor patio, automatically looking up at the sky. Iron-gray clouds rolled slowly past
on a chill breeze. The air held cool dampness, smelling of wet concrete and loam from the flower and tree beds. The rain had let up an hour ago but would return, and she shivered despite the thick leather jacket she wore. She caught a memory of Cora’s funeral, dripping umbrellas and icy skin, and released it to the depths of her mind. Now wasn’t the time for morbid recollections.
Her mother’s family was Lakota, and they preferred a more natural setting for their ceremonies. Not that this was a funeral, by any means. This was a memorial service for those who wished to offer condolences to Zica’s family. The choice of venue had been constricted due to Whiskey’s need for security and a desire to keep the numbers to a minimum. Had they decided to use one of the ballrooms downstairs, every delegate along with half a dozen personal aides would have demanded access, turning this solemn bereavement for a dynamic woman into a political circus.
Jake walked before her, her graying blond hair stark against the black suit she wore. Margaurethe held Whiskey’s hand. She too had dressed in the colors of mourning, a long skirt hiding the brace and a fitted jacket beneath a long leather coat. Behind them were two of Whiskey’s aga’gída. At least six others were stationed around the patio as well as others located both in offices overlooking the garden and on the roof far above. Though their physical presence here was obvious, not many guests realized that high-powered sniper rifles followed their every move.
The patio was small but had been uniquely designed. Planter beds and pathways had been artfully created to portray a sense of solitude despite its location in the middle of downtown Portland. Jake led the way on the meandering path until a small seating area opened up before them. Rows of chairs had been set out, but no one had been seated yet. They’d all been waiting for her arrival.
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