Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Whiskey followed her gaze, watching as the valet staff hustled back and forth to deliver cars to the delegates. Only the Wi Wacipi Wakan had taken up the offer of rooms. “I hadn’t expected to see Saggina Bescoe,” she said, referring to the leader of the local European Sanguire embassy.

  “He called at the last minute, asking if he could attend. I think his desire to not offend you outweighed his duty to the Agrun Nam.”

  Grimacing, Whiskey returned her attention to the woman in her arms. “In other words, he wasn’t here in an official capacity.”

  “Politics isn’t all wine and roses.”

  Whiskey smiled at the musical lilt of Margaurethe’s accent.

  “Remind me to order all the wine and roses in the city for you.”

  “I shall.”

  She laughed at the matter-of-fact tone.

  With a sigh, Margaurethe leaned against her. They stood, heads together, as they stared out at the river. “Rather a nasty day for you today, hasn’t it been?”

  Whiskey almost nodded but stopped, not wanting to upset their stance. Moments of quiet between them were few and far between, and she wanted to enjoy this for as long as possible.

  “It wasn’t too bad, even that change of challenge,” she allowed.

  “I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to all the—” She stopped, unable to come up with the right word. “Pageantry.”

  “Yeah, that.” She closed her eyes, recalling the momentary terror that had engulfed her when the doors had opened, and again when Dorst had brought her forward. “I’m just glad I didn’t make a mess of things.”

  Margaurethe tightened their embrace. “You were marvelous, love. I don’t think anyone knew how nervous you truly were.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Whiskey. “Sithathor did. She had a huge dinner waiting for me.”

  “Ah, I’d hoped so.”

  A fond smile for her chambermaid remained on Whiskey’s lips. As time passed, Sithathor’s maternal instincts had wormed their way into her heart, forging a connection between them that Margaurethe seemed to find distressing upon occasion. Small wonder considering the constant threat of danger. It was anyone’s guess where the next attack would come from, and paranoia had become Margaurethe’s watchword.

  “Where would you be right now if everything had remained the same?”

  Used to the sudden change of subject when Sithathor was discussed, Whiskey considered her response. “It’s Tuesday, right?”

  After an answering nod, she continued. “Well, I would have spent all night at Tallulah’s, and grabbed breakfast at Mickey D’s. I’d probably hang out at the library to keep busy. If I didn’t have much money, I’d spange downtown.”

  “Spange?”

  Whiskey smiled. “Spare change. Beg for cash.”

  “A sad life.”

  Pulling away, Whiskey looked at Margaurethe. “Not unless you make it one. There are lots of kids out there who become family for one another. Street moms and street dads help the younger ones learn the ropes of survival.”

  “Did you have a street mom?”

  A grin tugged at her lips. “For the first year, yeah. Her name was Shadow. She was a couple of years older than Gin and I, found us about a week after we met each other. We were both scared to death and nearly starving. Never would have survived without Shad.”

  “I’m glad someone was there for you. Where is she now?”

  “Don’t know. We left Portland for Seattle about five years ago. Haven’t heard from her since.” Whiskey felt her smile fading as she lost herself to the memories. “I guess it is a sad life, isn’t it?”

  “Not unless you make it one.”

  Chuckling, Whiskey pulled Margaurethe close once again.

  “Have I told you that you looked ravishing tonight?”

  Margaurethe feigned preening, using one hand to brush at her hair. “Not today.”

  “You. Look. Ravishing. Tonight.” Whiskey cupped her cheek, caressing with a thumb.

  “As do you.”

  Whiskey’s thumb slid along Margaurethe’s cheekbone, her fingers brushing the golden earring dangling from an earlobe.

  She leaned closer, glad that though Margaurethe was taller the difference between them wasn’t awkward. Her lips brushed Margaurethe’s, her mind caressing the mulled wine and wood smoke of Margaurethe’s Sanguire essence. Whiskey felt a deep, abiding love, a wordless welcome, and a sense of joy she’d never known she’d missed until this woman had arrived at her side. As they languished within each other’s souls, Whiskey could only liken this feeling to a homecoming.

  Eventually the kiss ended, though the mental connection between them remained strong. Margaurethe cocked an eyebrow at her, a smile on her lips. “I’ll have to wear this dress more often.”

  Chuckling, Whiskey brushed her knuckles across Margaurethe’s temple. “No complaints here.”

  Margaurethe caught Whiskey’s hand, stepping back to put some space between them. She retreated within their bond, as well. Her expression remained one of love, though Whiskey saw and felt a sense of closure between them. Margaurethe kissed the back of Whiskey’s hand and released her. “It’s been a long night.”

  Whiskey accepted the reticence for the uncertainty it was, pulling mentally away from Margaurethe as she nodded. They both had hurdles to cross. Margaurethe needed to reconcile the woman she loved centuries ago with the woman who stood before her now. Whiskey’s baggage came in the form of memories and assumptions gleaned from Elisibet Vasilla’s memories, and the fear that Margaurethe saw more of Elisibet than Whiskey when they were together. She and Margaurethe had been dancing back and forth for months, ever on the edge of consummating a relationship only for one or the other to retreat at the last moment.

  They strolled back into her suite, not touching. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Margaurethe turned and smiled. “Of course, m’cara. Another busy day in the international world of business.” She reached out and recaptured Whiskey’s hand, tugging her close for a final kiss.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Margaurethe.” Whiskey watched until the door closed quietly. Spinning around, she brought both her hands to her head, running fingers through the golden strands. “Argh!”

  Chapter Five

  Whiskey frowned at the textbook, working her way through the finer points of American Literature, her laptop open beside her. She and her pack had permanently taken over one of the open sitting areas on the third floor of The Davis Group. The move had been her idea, making her visible to the people who worked for the company, and thus more approachable to Human and Sanguire alike. She was constantly underfoot, always available to chat, and more than willing to help maintenance take out the trash or lend a hand in the copy room on one of the floors. The ploy had worked well with the more conservative members of her workforce, staid older Humans who frowned on the tattoos, piercings and wild hair of the younglings among them. They were less inclined toward scandalous gossip this way.

  Cora and her new boyfriend, an off-duty security officer, whispered and giggled with each other on the couch, not quite slipping into impropriety. Zebediah cast withering glances in Cora’s direction, his spiked red mohawk moving like a weather vane in heavy wind as her behavior interrupted his video game.

  Three of Whiskey’s Aga’usi idled about the room, keeping tabs on their charge. Alphonse had gone to an electronics store with Dorst to look for parts for one of their mutual projects. Daniel, his dark blond mohawk laying across his scalp, sat at the table with Whiskey, playing blackjack with Nupa and Chaniya. Nupa, an American Indian, had the only full head of hair of the men, the dark brown locks brushing his shoulders.

  The newcomer, Chaniya, was another reason for the move to a more public venue. As various governments sent representatives, invariably someone’s son or daughter ended up hanging with Whiskey’s pack for a while. No longer using Whiskey’s apartment as a hangout eased the stress on her personal guard. She didn’t have t
o have security with her in her own quarters this way.

  Margaurethe hoped to create a diverse atmosphere within The Davis Group as treaties were signed. Chaniya’s mother was the ambassador of their people, here to hammer out an agreement with the Board of Directors. Once a treaty was signed, an African Sanguire would join the board—no doubt Chaniya herself would remain here, a member of Whiskey’s pack of younglings. She got along well enough with the others, and Whiskey held out hopes that the adults would follow their children’s examples.

  “Whiskey.”

  Looking up from her book, she smiled as she spotted Margaurethe. Whiskey closed the book and stood, walking forward and taking Margaurethe into her arms. She could never be in the same room with her without touching her in some manner. “Hi.”

  She kissed warm lips. Margaurethe squeezed her, but broke off the kiss before it became inappropriate. Only then did Whiskey realize Margaurethe hadn’t come alone.

  Father Castillo and two strangers stood just inside the room.

  Castillo appeared no more than twenty-five years of age. His curly dark hair hung to his shoulders. He wore the cassock of his order, though he wasn’t a practicing priest these days, having taken a leave of absence to become Whiskey’s advisor.

  The first stranger smiled at Whiskey. He stood tall, with broad shoulders, casually confident in his body, indicating he knew how to defend himself. His bronze skin tone and jet black hair marked him as Mayan, as did the colorful shirt he wore.

  Beside him, an older man stared at the ground, vigorously wringing a tweed cap in his hands. His hair was iron gray, and a bit ragged. His downturned face made it difficult for Whiskey to identify him, but a vague tickle of memory feathered along the back of her mind. He wore a brown suit, frayed about the hem of his jacket, and a barely visible bow tie.

  “I’d like you to meet some people.” Margaurethe drew Whiskey toward the new arrivals. “This is Pacal, your new manat-arms.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ninsumgal Davis.” Pacal bowed in the proper European manner, tilting his head to one side. “I hope to serve you well in the years to come.”

  Man-at-arms? What’s that? “Thank you, Pacal.” Whiskey’s puzzled gaze flickered to Margaurethe. She didn’t ask, not wanting to display her ignorance.

  Castillo answered the unspoken question. “Pacal is one of the foremost warriors of the Mayan people. It’s time your education included hand-to-hand combat as well as strategy and tactics.”

  He patted Pacal on the shoulder. “He will be your beginning instructor, and eventually we’ll expand your repertoire of weapons to include melee weapons and conventional armament.”

  Whiskey’s eyebrows rose. She felt the collective interest of her pack behind her, knowing that Nupa and Zebediah paid special attention. “Of course.” Returning her attention to the man-at-arms, she reached out and shook his hand. “I hope you don’t mind a few extra students.” She nodded over one shoulder to their avid audience.

  Pacal smiled graciously, looking beyond Whiskey to the others. “Of course. It’s much easier to practice with a number of students rather than one.”

  Margaurethe cleared her throat, indicating the nervous man waiting to be introduced. “This is Andri Sigmarsson. Do you remember him?”

  This man reeked of nervousness as he stumbled to his knees.

  “My Ninsumgal.”

  He spoke almost inaudibly, but a prickle of memory teased Whiskey’s thoughts. She tilted her head to stare at him. “Look at me, Mr. Sigmarsson.”

  Neck stiff, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, he forced his head up to reveal his features—a too-large nose, black eyes, and bushy sideburns going as gray as the hair on his head—and she recognized him.

  Flash.

  “I want him.” Her voice held a higher pitch, the tone petulant and childish. She stared greedily at a litter of puppies suckling at a bitch.

  The squirming mass of canine life held a single all-black pup on which she was focused.

  “Of course, Aga Gasan ,” a man said. “But he is newly born. He will die if you take him now. You must wait a few weeks before he will survive without his mother.”

  “I do not care!” She stamped her foot. “I want him now.” Glaring at the man in servant’s livery, she lowered her chin as she had seen her father do upon occasion. “Do not vex me, Andri. I will have him now or you will answer to the Usumgal .”

  Andri cast a resigned glance at the dog’s owner, and nodded stiffly to the young princess. “Yes, Aga Gasan . The black one you said?”

  Flash.

  A young Margaurethe floated across the dance floor, splendid in her emerald green gown.

  “I want her.”

  “Yes, Ninsumgal ,” Andri said. “I’ll see to it.”

  Flash.

  “Andri?” Whiskey stared. “You’re Andri, her valet.”

  The man’s eyes tried to shift away at her recognition. He was clearly discomfited. “Ja, Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey knew what this man had gone through during his tenure as Elisibet’s valet. He had been with the Sweet Butcher from her childhood and through the most vicious stages of her rule. It was no wonder he appeared nervous, not knowing what he was getting into or whether or not Whiskey would be as cruel and cold as her previous incarnation. She had intimate knowledge of what entertainment Elisibet enjoyed. Taking his trembling hands into hers, the cap he held and all, she lowered her voice to a soothing register. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sigmarsson.”

  His brow furrowed, and his shivering hitched in surprise.

  “Uh, danke, Ninsumgal. I’m pleased to make yours.”

  “Andri has come to offer his services, Whiskey.” Margaurethe glanced at Castillo.

  Whiskey kept her eyes on the man before her. “Are you certain, Mr. Sigmarsson?” She frowned. “I know how unpleasant your job was before. I don’t want you to be here if you wish to be somewhere else.”

  Again a flicker of puzzlement crossed his face. He opened his mouth to speak, and had to clear his throat before finding his voice. “I’m certain, my Gasan. My family has served yours for generations. I’ll not shirk my duties now.”

  A smile graced Whiskey’s features, and she held his hands tight before releasing them. “Thank you, Mr. Sigmarsson.”

  Margaurethe hooked her arm through Whiskey’s. “Father, if you’d be so kind to show them to their rooms? And, Pacal, check with Helen regarding Whiskey’s schedule. Let’s get her started as soon as possible.”

  Castillo and Pacal both nodded agreement before turning to leave, but Sigmarsson remained in place, the nervous wringing of his cap his only movement. It took a moment for Whiskey to make the connection. He waited for her to dismiss him. “Oh!

  Yes, please do as Margaurethe says, Mr. Sigmarsson. We’ll...um...meet later to discuss your duties.”

  Proper etiquette shown, he bowed. “My Gasan.” He backed toward the hall, and followed Castillo and Pacal.

  Whiskey turned to Margaurethe. “You could have given me some warning.”

  “I could have. It was much more fun to do it this way, though.”

  “Wench.”

  “Yes, I am.” Margaurethe drew herself up, haughty in her pride, before falling to the laughter that infected her.

  Whiskey loved to hear Margaurethe’s laugh. She took the woman in her arms, risking decency with her roaming hands, regardless of their audience. “Just for that, I’m going to kiss you senseless.”

  “Oh, such a threat.” Margaurethe rolled her eyes, failing in her attempt to appear disgusted. Behind them, her pack returned to their diversions. Even Cora no longer acted resentful of losing her place at Whiskey’s side. Instead, she instigated a tickle attack on her current beau that more than irritated Zebediah beside them.

  “A promise.” Whiskey gave Margaurethe a light kiss, not allowing herself to fall sway to temptation. Later when they were alone she could indulge herself, but not now. Even the most lib
eral Humans in her employ would frown at finding the company’s president and CEO heavy petting in the corridor outside the childcare facility. “When did Andri get here?”

  “A few days ago.” Margaurethe led them farther away from the pack.

  They strolled down the corridor. “I thought he had died in the Purge. Where has he been?”

  “Hiding in Switzerland.”

  Whiskey shook her head. “For four hundred years?”

  “A number of Elisibet’s former staff have been successful at hiding. Very few of us could afford to be seen in the public eye. Whole families went underground.” Margaurethe shrugged, hugging Whiskey’s arm. “Now that word is spreading of your existence, several are coming out of the woodwork.”

  The idea that Elisibet’s supporters were revealing themselves didn’t ease Whiskey’s anxiety. Anyone who supported the atrocities his or her leader had perpetrated wasn’t someone Whiskey wanted beside her. Elisibet had been as good as Hitler in developing a sense of terror in her people, and had cultivated the most cruel of them. Had Elisibet had as good a propagandist as the Nazi leader, she would have brought about a warped sense of nationalism. The idea of a fascist Sanguire state made Whiskey shiver. This world would be a very different place. She pushed away the thoughts. “What are we going to do with Andri? I don’t need a valet, and I’m not going to toss Sithathor out on her ear.”

  “Actually, you do need a valet. Sithathor can continue her duties as chambermaid, and Andri will take care of your clothing and appearance. His past history and security clearance will allow it. He can assist Sithathor, and help with Anthony’s apartment if there’s not enough work to go around for him.”

  Whiskey nodded. “And Pacal? Are we closer to a treaty than I thought?”

  “No.” They reached the corner, and Margaurethe veered to the left toward the doors leading to the patio. She nodded to the guard at the security desk, waiting for Whiskey to open the door before stepping outside. “But he was between employers at the moment, and offered his services. I thought it would behoove us to start integrating their people with ours as soon as possible.”