“Your name, sir?”
“I am Motoori Sadao, servant of Tairo-no-Mitsuko, long may she reign.” He bowed low, eyes remaining on Whiskey who stood across from him.
Dorst bowed and turned back to the audience. “Motoori Sadao, you challenge the right of Ninsumgal Jenna Davis?”
“I do.”
Dorst nodded and stepped back, leaving the two combatants at center stage. “Prepare yourselves.”
Motoori bowed to Whiskey, who returned the respectful gesture. She straightened, chin lowered. Motoori assumed a martial arts stance, causing Margaurethe to tense. Did the Japanese realize this was not a physical challenge? Or was this just the way they squared off in their culture? Her mind feverishly tried to remember, but it had been centuries since their damnable empress had graced Elisibet’s court with her presence.
“Lay on,” Dorst called.
Every Sanguire in the room felt the first volley between them. Whiskey had practiced with Dorst over the weeks, and her strength had grown dramatically with the familiarity of useful strategy and tactics. She didn’t use her full power on Mootori, knowing this was just a test even if he didn’t. The intense mixture of their essences floated around them, plain for any Sanguire to feel. Whiskey had been instructed to draw the fight out for a few minutes, to ensure everyone in the room witnessed her potency. That alone would keep future conniving to a minimum, especially from the European expatriates who would report this to their friends and family back home.
Margaurethe relaxed her diligence as Motoori didn’t physically attack. She remained on alert, and a quick glance down the head table told her that Whiskey’s other advisors were doing the same. The Japanese empress had probably instructed her man to do this in order to gain information on Whiskey. The tactic both galled and impressed Margaurethe; she’d been prepared for an attempt by the Agrun Nam, but not this.
Motoori attempted a breach, and Whiskey blocked him. She didn’t attack, letting him pound against her defenses for several seconds. He found what appeared to be a weakness, zeroing in on one area. She drew him in, luring him with the potential for success before abruptly wrapping around him. Motoori broke into a sweat, completely concentrated on breaking free of her control.
When it was clear he would be unsuccessful, he straightened and took one step back, indicating he yielded. Whiskey immediately released him. He bowed low, then wavered. She reached out to stabilize him, and they smiled at one another. “I rescind my challenge, Sañur Gasum Dorst. Ninsumgal Jenna Davis is as you say she is, an adult in her own right.”
Dorst smiled and stepped forward. “Thank you, Motoori Sadao.”
Motoori bowed and shakily returned to his table. His immediate companion leaned over to whisper to him, offering a glass of water. Valmont smiled derisively at their table before noting Margaurethe’s attention. With a grin, he lifted his wineglass in toast. She scowled and focused once more on the ceremony.
“Again, I proclaim Ninsumgal Jenna Davis as an adult. Do any Humans challenge this?”
Margaurethe heard a growl from a number of the dinner guests. Those who had gone through this ceremony were the most inclined to be offended, while the other nations would simply think the idea of a Human challenging a Sanguire an oddity of the Europeans. Whiskey had demanded this change from tradition. Normally a Human was brought forward, and the new adult fed from him or her while the adult Sanguire sat witness. In the dark past, the Human was “wild,” one captured for the purpose of illustrating the youngling’s ability to suppress his or her prey. These days, a kizarus normally stood in, making it more of a custom than a qualification of hunting ability.
“I call challenge.” One of the spotlights swept to a side table, where a kizarus stood. The slender young man was one of the young Humans attached to Whiskey’s pack. Despite the formal dress of most the attendants, he wore jeans and a leather jacket, his dark curls unruly. He threaded his way through the tables, making his way to the stage, smelling as nervous as he looked.
Margaurethe had to respect his courage for volunteering to wade through a crowd of outraged Sanguire to reach his destination.
Dorst sneered at him. “You, a Human, challenge the right of Ninsumgal Jenna Davis?”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I do.”
Dorst backed away. “Then do so at your peril.”
Whiskey, more relaxed after her spar with Motoori, glared at the contender. Though this part had been rehearsed earlier that afternoon, he swallowed audibly under her gaze. His heart raced within his chest, and the aroma of anxiety tipped the scales into fear. Whiskey closed the distance between them, reaching up to grab him by the back of the neck. He tried to duck away, but she was faster and stronger, holding him tight. They stared into one another’s eyes, and he capitulated, turning his head to reveal his throat. She accepted his invitation, and bit him, the smell of blood permeating the air. She didn’t take much, only enough to prove her claim. Still gripping the back of his neck, she stared at him again.
“I rescind my challenge.”
Dorst returned to their sides. “As well you should, Human.”
Whiskey released her hold, and the young man bowed before leaving the stage. He went to the side of the stage, and circled behind the high table where Whiskey’s Aga’gída waited to escort him to safety. No doubt a number of European Sanguire would want to get their hands on him to remind him of his place in the scheme of things.
“Ninsumgal Jenna Davis has been victorious over both a Sanguire and a Human challenge. You are all witnesses to what I proclaimed in the beginning— Ninsumgal Jenna Davis is an adult Sanguire, legally responsible for her decisions and actions, and bound by law.” He stepped to one side, relinquishing the center stage to Whiskey, and bowed. “I introduce you to Ninsumgal Jenna Davis.”
Margaurethe felt a swell of pride and love fill her heart as the applause began. Standing, she added hers to the thunderous sound, clapping in celebration.
Chapter Four
Tucked into a dark corner, the man watched the lazy dance of patrons wandering through the private club. The establishment radiated the ambiance of a small public house from the 19th century; no dance area marred its floor plan, wooden kegs and casks shared space with dusty bottles of liquor behind the bar, and musicians in the corner played a song popular in the late 1800s.
A prevailing odor of absinthe and opium resisted attempts to be smothered by cigarette smoke and beer. His eyes remained on the door. Had his potential employer gotten cold feet? It was past time for their appointment. He frowned and nursed his scotch.
The bouncer, a whip thin man whose bare arms bulged with ludicrous muscle, responded to a tap at the door. He eased off his stool and peered through the peephole. Satisfied with whatever credentials were presented, he slid the bolt and opened the thick oak door to allow a newcomer inside.
In the corner, the man scanned the new arrival with a practiced eye as the doorman closed and bolted the entry. He nodded to himself, watching the cloaked and hooded person pause to inspect the crowd. When the unseen gaze met his table, he raised a chin in supplication.
His invitation accepted, the stranger approached the table, stopping in a swirl of dark cloth. “Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant.”
Glad to hear the phrase and end this interminable waiting, the businessman nodded. “Let the dead Past bury its dead.” His guest satisfied, he waved at the chair across from him. “Won’t you sit down?” He watched the man sit—if man it was—amused to see every inch of skin hidden beneath black cloth. Dark gauze masked the stranger’s face, distorting the lamplight reflecting from Sanguire eyes. Even the stranger’s essence was tightly wrapped; his own mother sampling the pub’s patrons would be hard put to identify him.
“Would you like something to drink?”
The stranger shook his head. “I’d much rather get these proceedings over with.”
Feeling safe in the knowledge that the one across from him couldn’t retaliate for fear o
f revealing himself, he chuckled and raised his glass in salute. “It’s not easy rolling in the gutter with the rest of us, is it?” He swallowed his scotch, setting the empty glass on the table between them. “Who do you want dead?”
Shifting, the head turning to ensure their privacy, the stranger appeared nervous.
“No worries, guv. No one here gives a tinker’s fart about our business.”
Affronted, the stranger stiffly brought his attention back to the table. From the folds of his cloak, he produced two manila envelopes and set them on the scarred surface. “Half your payment, and information on the target and her location.”
He collected the envelopes, and peeked into each one.
One held a single sheet of paper, a bank statement showing the transfer of a large amount of money to his offshore accounts. The other contained several sheets of paper—a name and address, a thorough biography and background check, and two small photographs. He recognized both women, and glanced sharply at his visitor. “The target is one of these?”
“Yes, the blonde. The other will be most likely to interfere.”
“She’s much younger than portraits I’ve seen.” The bio seemed extensive enough.
The stranger refused to be drawn into small talk. “All the information is there.”
Studying the photo, he considered his position. The difficulty would not lie in infiltration. Unquestionably, the problem would be his unveiling by someone who knew either the person he imitated or he himself. Still, he enjoyed a challenge, and the amount of money being offered signified this would be quite the lark. “So, is she who she appears to be?”
“A pretender. Do you agree to the terms?”
He smiled at the stranger’s impatience. He was someone influential then, someone whose control was threatened, for power was far more important to the Sanguire than anything.
Power lasted throughout the ages, an intriguing game for people who lived hundreds of years. Money only greased the wheels and made the long life comfortable. And knowledge, knowledge is the ultimate in strength, isn’t it? Discovering the secrets of this woman outweighed the contract for her death.
“I agree.”
***
Only when he was well away from the squalid club did he remove his coverings. He pulled the stolen car into a parking lot crowded with vehicles, quickly doffing the cloak and mask.
Wrapping them into a bundle, he scanned the lot for unwanted company before exiting the vehicle, and striding away. He walked briskly down a narrow sidewalk with the clothing tucked under one arm. A few hundred meters farther, he deposited the now-useless disguise into a trash bin. Half a kilometer beyond that, he arrived at his waiting limousine. The driver jumped to open the door.
As his chauffeur pulled into traffic, he pondered the day’s events. Last month’s vote with the Agrun Nam had gone poorly, and didn’t look to change any time soon. The abstention had stalemated the entire proceeding. Despite intelligence reports that Davis had approached several Sanguire governments to begin diplomatic proceedings, Bentoncourt remained on the fence. The Agrun Nam had been split in half with one balancing between both sides of the argument. Nijmege had been livid at being thwarted yet again from bringing Davis to Europe. None of the Sañar believed she wanted Davis returned to the defunct throne. Davis had to die before she could officially be “returned” to her people.
Planting evidence against Bentoncourt would be dead simple. The Nam Lugal’s adamant opinion that Davis remain in the Americas seemed good enough cause. Bentoncourt’s politicking indicated he believed Davis was Elisibet reborn. The naive bastard protected her by taking his current stance, but he also had the most to lose upon Davis’s ascension. Why wouldn’t he want to keep her far away until someone could remove her from the picture? Once the goal was met, all fingers would point to their intrepid leader. O’Toole and her people would stop at nothing to slake their bloodthirsty fury, and this Nam Lugal would meet the same fate as the last.
Chewing his lower lip, he stared out the tinted window at passing countryside. The Human idiot he had hired had gloriously failed. Now on her guard, Davis was constantly flanked by O’Toole and Valmont, surrounded by her revitalized personal guard, the Aga’gída. Hopefully this time of peace would pave the way for his new attack dog. That and growing rumor of Elisibet’s return would simplify matters. The European Sanguire whispered among themselves these days, their jaded attentions having turned to an incongruous piece of gossip from friends in the colonies, news of the Sweet Butcher’s return. Their talk had not grown so loud that the Agrun Nam needed to make an official statement, but that time was fast approaching. Through the tangled network of families and houses, certain individuals had been put on notice, searched for, and asked to take a trip to the New Country. Rumors came from other countries, filtering through the Europeans, of invitations to discuss a new corporate foundation, one begun independently of any nation.
Time was running short. If his plans were to succeed, the Sanguire assassin must finish the job Rufus Barrett had begun.
***
Whiskey drifted toward the balcony of her apartment.
She spent the majority of her free time there. It was the only place she could go outside to enjoy the day without a hundred Aga’usi, building security, and three hours of logistics planning.
Of everything about her new lifestyle, the lack of freedom and spontaneity were the hardest to endure. It was high summer here after a too-long spring. Past the summer solstice, the nights were longer. At nine o’clock in the evening, twilight lay a blanket of gray across the river below.
So many things had changed. Early last year she had lived wild on the streets, never knowing where her next meal would come from, always in danger of police intervention or attacks from homeless predators. Now, here she stood—clean, well fed, and rich beyond her comprehension. She had gained her high school equivalency diploma, and had started college business courses last month. After years of living anonymously on the streets, so many people now knew her true name. It was a rags-to-riches tale like one seen in a Disney movie.
She chuckled. She doubted Disney would approach her for movie rights even if they knew about the Sanguire. Translating blood-sucking parasites to a Human-loving G-rated flick would be extremely difficult. Though they’d done it with a lot of Grimm’s tales, hadn’t they?
Whiskey saw something dark flicker across her peripheral vision and looked up. Her superior sight found one of the Aga’gída on the roof, placed there for the duration of her Baruñal Ceremony and feast. Waving, she saw him return the greeting.
Building security was made up of an equal mix of both races, though all of Whiskey’s personal guard were Sanguire. The other staff kept their distance, whether from ignorance of her political position or knowledge of it, she didn’t know.
Among the Humans working in the building, she had become a local celebrity. Father Castillo insisted on treating her as royalty whenever they met, invariably in front of some employee or other.
Dorst had gleefully informed Whiskey that current rumor among the unwashed masses was that she was the by-blow of royalty, though no one had been able to pin down who had fathered her.
As time went on, more and more people referred to her by her royal title, Ninsumgal, rather than as president of the company.
Gareth Davis’s family had yet to be located, so even the Sanguire on the payroll had cause to wonder about Whiskey’s parentage.
At least she no longer had to explain her nickname; it had taken several weeks of constant explanation of the connection between her initials—J.D.—and the Jack Daniels brand of whiskey.
The only European Sanguire who didn’t treat her as if she wore an unwieldy crown were Margaurethe and Valmont.
Margaurethe, of course, had very good reasons—friend, confidante, and potential lover. Whiskey couldn’t stand the thought of her bowing and scraping in deference. Margaurethe only did so when it was required for form’s sake. Valmont’s reasons we
re unknown. He kept his secrets well and Whiskey didn’t pry. They both knew she could overpower his will in an instant; they flirted back and forth with words and gestures, he never quite giving cause for her to do so, and she searching for where she stood with him. At first Whiskey had felt relief at his lack of royal acknowledgement, though not at all comfortable with the emotion. Now, she held a grudging respect. The Valmont Elisibet remembered—teasing and profane—remained beneath a thick shell of sarcasm and self-deprecation. Despite having assassinated Elisibet, and regardless of Whiskey’s native mistrust and anger at that betrayal, Valmont’s presence among her advisors...completed things. Nothing felt right without both he and Margaurethe at her side.
She still didn’t trust him.
Behind her, she heard the soft snick of the door. Without turning, she smiled, knowing who approached.
“Father Castillo says you’ve done him justice.”
Whiskey turned toward Margaurethe, reaching for her hand.
“I have a good teacher.”
They balanced and complemented each other well. Where one was dark, the other was light. Margaurethe stood a little taller than Whiskey, her dark hair reflecting red highlights from the interior lamps as she stepped closer. Olive skin and high cheekbones suggested a Mediterranean descent though she insisted her blood sang for Eire and nowhere else. Emerald eyes, alight with pleasure, twinkled.
Raising the hand she held to her lips, Whiskey kissed the palm, lingering a bit longer than politeness dictated. “Is everyone still partying?”
“A good number of them.” Margaurethe moved closer, sliding an arm around Whiskey’s waist. She peered down the building at the busy front drive below. “The bulk of the major players have taken their leave.”
Inner Sanctuary Page 3
