Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Whiskey flushed, unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t think for wanting you. I keep seeing you dancing at court or the first time I—she bedded you.” She sighed, and attempted to pull away. “I was drawn to you before I met you. But those are her memories, not mine.”

  With a sigh, Margaurethe tightened her grip, forcing Whiskey to remain in her arms. Whiskey felt the touch of mulled wine and wood smoke, falling into the comforting essence. Speaking without words, Margaurethe soothed the erratic jumbling of Whiskey’s soul. This connection had become so familiar over the months. Her words were a whisper, barely audible. “I think you were intrigued by me because of Elisibet. But I don’t feel her here. I only feel you.”

  Reassured, Whiskey relaxed into the embrace, opening her mind for a stronger connection. Though the bond between them only shared that part of their Sanguire nature that any could see, Whiskey believed she felt a deep well of love in Margaurethe as she cradled Whiskey’s mind. Hardly conscious of moving, Whiskey caressed Margaurethe’s cheek, using her thumb to brush the tear stains away. “I want her.” Elisibet’s voice echoed in her mind. “I love you.”

  Along the joining, Margaurethe seemed to soften. “I love you, as well.”

  “I have plans for you tonight.”

  “Do you now?” Margaurethe’s face pinked. “And what if I’ve already made plans?”

  Whiskey smiled. “Maybe I can persuade you to change them.” She leaned closer, still caressing Margaurethe’s cheek. “I don’t want to go slow anymore. I want to taste you.”

  Margaurethe raised startled eyes. Whiskey heard her heart begin thumping rapidly. She swallowed, and licked her lips.

  “Really? What changed your mind?”

  Closing her eyes, Whiskey drew in a slow breath. “All the best memories I have of you are Elisibet’s. I think it’s time I made my own.” She didn’t mention her belief that perhaps by consummating their relationship, her fears of becoming Elisibet might lessen.

  “Making new memories sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  Their lips met and mingled, the physical connection bursting along their mental joining with sparks of fire.

  Chapter Nine

  Valmont sipped his brandy.

  He sat in the dark of his apartment. Streetlights cast shadows across the walls, and the occasional rumble of the local transit system interrupted his thoughts. The rain had stopped some time ago, leaving streaks on the plate glass window overlooking the city. He hated the amount of rain here, and the chill breezes that cut through his clothes during winter. He wished he were back at his winery in Brazil. At the very least, it would be warmer.

  He had his suspicions, however, that it would be quite some time before he could return home.

  A cell phone lay smashed in one corner of the room, the result of his last conversation with Bertrada Nijmege. Valmont had been able to hold off his anger and frustration until after he had disconnected the line. If she knew the direction of his thoughts lately, she would probably make the trip over here herself to see the job done properly. He thought he had handled their conversation quite well. He had calmly spoken of what happened since the last time he had reported, minus Whiskey’s request to take her hunting. If Nijmege knew of the planned excursion, she would be straining at the end of her chain to get Whiskey brought to her, a rabid junkyard dog intent on shredding a trespasser.

  Valmont had argued with her about timing and transportation, insisted kidnapping Whiskey now was dangerous, that things remained in a state of flux at The Davis Group. A bunch of lies, really, but what choice did he have? The other option was to agree to Nijmege’s demands, and see that Whiskey made her rendezvous with a destiny she didn’t deserve.

  So he brooded, half drunk from brandy, the darkness in his soul mirrored by the shadows surrounding him.

  Valmont remembered the bright days of his youth. Not that he spent a lot of time dwelling in the past, but Whiskey’s presence tended to facilitate such things. Nahib had fostered Valmont after his Turning; both he and Nijmege had taught him the ways of Elisibet’s court—the formal manners, which of the sanari and gasani to avoid for their iniquity or ineptitude, which were honorable and decent. He had forgotten all his lessons when he was presented to Elisibet; all he could see were those icy blue eyes.

  The more Valmont thought about it, the more he knew he fell in love with her at that moment. He wondered what would have happened had he been delayed in his presentation. What if it had been a few more decades before they had met? Would he have felt the same, knowing how Elisibet murdered her own people as viciously as she did Humans? Certainly by then he would have known Nahib’s political complaints regarding Elisibet’s rule, and perhaps would have been swayed by his mentor’s politics.

  Of course, Valmont knew Elisibet preferred feminine company when he met her. Her predilections were hardly secret with Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe constantly at her side, on the dais or in her bed. He knew his love for this stern Ninsumgal would never result in a dalliance. Valmont satisfied himself with being in her presence, enjoying her companionship, and becoming her friend.

  He satisfied his lusts elsewhere, never settling on one woman, for only one woman ever held his attention.

  Valmont realized his glass was empty. His fingers found the bottle on the floor beside his chair and he picked it up, pouring another drink.

  He had long ago claimed his fair share of guilt. He had no doubt that much of what had happened with Elisibet had been magnified by his presence. The pair of them seemed to urge each other on to greater depravities as time had passed, daring each other to invent more gruesome punishments and executions.

  Valmont wondered if Elisibet would have reached those heights—or depths—without him there to escalate matters. Poor Margaurethe had little recourse but to leave the room when the pair of them got started; she had learned earlier on that arguing ethics and morals only annoyed her lover.

  Valmont frowned. Had Margaurethe been as jealous of him as he had been of her? There was a thought. Why had it never occurred to him before? It would certainly clarify her behavior.

  After these last months, she couldn’t still be worried he would murder Whiskey. Perhaps she saw the dangerous potential more clearly than he, saw how easy it would be to slip onto the same path they had all been cursed to follow before.

  The execution of Nahib had changed everything. Valmont had never felt such rage. The woman he had considered a close friend, a sister, a potential lover, murdering the man who was like a father to him had been too much for Valmont to bear.

  He hardly believed it when Elisibet turned on him, threatening to call her guards, refusing to listen to his argument. And then Nijmege whispered her vile poisons to the Agrun Nam, insisted something be done before they were all murdered by the Sweet Butcher. It was she who had brought Valmont in on the planning of Elisibet’s assassination, vouching for him to Bentoncourt. It was she who had twisted his fury to match hers.

  But it had been Valmont who made the final decision to betray his oath, his friend, his family.

  Another Max train rumbled past on the street below. His brown eyes flickered to the digital readout of a clock. It was late; that was the last one. But he couldn’t drag himself away from his thoughts. Some days his thoughts were a slow-motion car wreck holding him in its fascinating and horrible sway. When Nijmege had contacted him several months ago, her plan seemed a good idea. Certainly, the return of the Sweet Butcher was something no one wanted. Valmont had already killed her once. His honor had long been shredded by the winds of politics. What was one more murder? Besides, Nijmege had always resented that the Agrun Nam would not let her personally avenge Nahib’s death.

  She had only included Valmont in the plan to live vicariously through his actions. Here was her chance. But Jenna Davis was not Ninsumgal Elisibet the Sweet Butcher.

  Or is she?

  He shook his head, the only movement in the dim room.

  Some days he saw an ac
hingly familiar Elisibet so clearly, half expecting her to demand he cheer up with a quick hunting trip to some province or other where the Humans would stampede like cattle, and the blood would drip with their fear. At other times a very different young woman stood before him—uncertain, confused, ignorant of her people and their ways. The problem he saw was that the anger and fury and guilt he had carried for hundreds of years had not burned out his true feelings for Elisibet. Valmont found himself still loving her. Even killing her hadn’t taken away the emotion or diluted its intensity.

  And now he was falling in love with Whiskey.

  The guilt had haunted him for centuries. He felt responsible for Nahib’s death and Nijmege’s twisted soul. He had killed his best friend, someone as dear to him as his very flesh and bone.

  He had destroyed his honor, his integrity and his heart, leaving him a dried out husk that should have blown away before now.

  How could he betray her again?

  ***

  Whiskey watched her pack with an unfamiliar sense of pride. They had come so far since she had first met them, been through so much disruption, defied their leader, and—in some cases—suffered outright torture for her. Yet they still played with abandon as they frolicked in one of the pools. A series of four current pools had been installed here, each large enough to accommodate two or three swimmers and space outside the flow for people to lounge in the water. Chaniya and Alphonse had challenged each other to a “race.” They furiously swam against the current, Alphonse’s impressive blue mohawk falling limp in the water, while the others egged them on. Daniel, the recognized neutral and most mature of the lot, sat by the controls with his feet dipped in the water, presiding over the match. Zebediah and two off-duty security guards floated on the side, yelling encouragement to their favorites.

  Nupa was the only one not fully involved in the competition.

  He stood beside Zeb, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched impassively. Every so often his somber gaze would scan the area, brushing over the room’s other occupants. Whiskey looked over her shoulder at the hot tubs. A trio of Mayans lounged in the hot water, speaking in low voices that couldn’t be heard above the sounds of the water jets. One of them was Pacal, the man-at-arms Margaurethe had hired. He and his companions sneered and jeered with each other, not quite stepping over the line. His eyes seemed cold though he remained pleasant and professional when he spoke to Whiskey. She hoped that the age-old feud between the nations could be put to rest; until then, she doubted there would be a Mayan youngling hanging with her pack. Has anyone told Pacal that I’m half American Indian?

  She turned back to watch the race. The integration of the African Chaniya had been interesting. Though all present were Sanguire, there were such contrasts between the various national cultures that Whiskey hadn’t known what to expect. Nupa had arrived before Margaurethe had come to build The Davis Group, but his laid-back nature blended well with Whiskey’s pack. Younglings as a whole were much more vicious than their elders, their oversized competitive streaks displayed for all to see.

  Chaniya might be a woman, but she was as savage as the men that made up Whiskey’s entourage. Whiskey had presided over any number of contests and brawls as the group dynamics settled into place, and Chaniya sat about middle of the pack. Daniel and Alphonse had become her lieutenants. Despite his younger age, Alphonse had a level head and was physically stronger than most the others. In a battle of wills, he was woefully shortchanged because of his youth, but in physical battle he came out the winner most often, gaining him a level of respect from his peers that Whiskey had learned to make use of.

  She glanced around the poolroom, not seeing Cora. Reaching out with her mind, Whiskey ignored the Mayans, tasting the strong smell of ashes. Cora was near. Climbing out of the pool, Whiskey grabbed a towel and dried off before wrapping it about her waist. Nupa, ever aware of her presence, looked up from the contest, and she waved him back to the entertainment. Up a few steps, she traversed through the cardiovascular room and into the hallway. Two Aga’usi fell into step with her. Other than greeting them and the building security guard stationed at the patio door she ignored them, having almost become inured to their presence. She never would have thought it possible six months ago.

  There was a lot she hadn’t thought possible back then.

  Cora’s essence strengthened as Whiskey walked through the rooftop garden. It had been ingeniously designed, and only the sound of traffic on the street three floors below indicated it wasn’t located in the country. Stars winked above her head, and she scanned the side of the building. Most the lower floors housed offices and labs, and were dark except for the occasional light for the janitorial staff. The upper half of the building contained residences, and sparkled like a Christmas tree as it indicated how many were still up and about.

  She paused and waved her escort back. They glanced at one another before acceding to her request, not quite on the verge of denying her order. She was going to have to remind them again who was in charge. In the beginning Margaurethe had left standing orders, an excellent strategy since Whiskey had no idea how to properly utilize a personal guard. Not any more.

  She stepped forward and around a bend, finding Cora bathing in moonlight on a wooden bench. “Hey.”

  Cora turned and smiled. “Aga ninna.” She patted the bench beside her in invitation.

  “Thanks.” Whiskey settled down, and looked at the orb glowing above them. “Pretty night.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I missed you inside.” She watched Cora’s profile, a series of conflicting emotions stirring her heart. Cora had been a key part of the beginning of all this, the willing carrot to draw Whiskey into Fiona’s pack, the promise of intimacy and affection for a homeless teenager who had been living in deprivation for a dozen years. Half the time, Whiskey felt protective of Cora, knowing how Fiona had manipulated all the people in her pack. Cora had shown great devotion long before Whiskey knew who she was destined to become. She wanted to reward that dedication with lavish gifts, keep Cora safe, and never allow anyone to run roughshod over her again. Then Cora would do or say something so... Sanguire that Whiskey, with her Human-reared sensitivities, was hard put not to reveal disgust.

  “I’m right here.” Cora glanced at her, then back up. “I’m just not in the mood for all the excitement.”

  Whiskey took her hand with a laugh. “Don’t I know it. I had no idea Chaniya could be as ruthless as the boys.”

  “Isn’t she, though? She reminds me of Bronwyn in a way.”

  The image of a dark-haired girl came to Whiskey’s mind, one of the two that had remained at Fiona’s side, never wavering in their loyalty. The last time Whiskey had seen Bronwyn, Whiskey had slammed her headfirst into a concrete wall to escape a trap.

  “Really?”

  Cora grinned at her and clarified. “She has a similar brutal streak.”

  “Oh.” They sat in comfortable silence for a bit. “So, how’s Mateo?”

  “Mateo? He’s old news.” Cora sniffed.

  Whiskey frowned, trying to remember the list of people Cora had been enjoying liaisons with since she had broken off their own romance. “Old news? Wasn’t he sitting at our table last week at dinner?”

  Cora wrinkled her nose in response, her naturally feline features becoming more so in the process. “We were already finished by then. These days, I’ve been seeing Anthony.”

  “My Ugula Aga’us?” Whiskey smirked at the thought. “No wonder you’re sitting alone. His image would completely be blown if he started hanging out with the wild kids.”

  Cora returned the smile. “He’s a sweet man. I like him a lot better than the others.”

  Curious, Whiskey tilted her head. “You think he’ll last longer than they did?”

  “I think so. He’s...different than the others.” Cora turned toward Whiskey, pulling their joined hands into her lap. With her free hand, she flicked her fingers vaguely away from them.

  “The
others were just passing time. Not like you.”

  A faint sense of guilt whispered through Whiskey’s gut.

  Before Margaurethe’s arrival, she had been content to let things ride with Cora, though she knew Cora held deeper feelings for her. As soon as Whiskey caught sight of Margaurethe, however, everything about Cora paled. It didn’t matter whether it was her own interest or the infernal memories of Elisibet’s; Cora hadn’t stood a chance. The death throes of their relationship had been horrendous, causing serious strife amidst the pack during a very stressful time. Her grip on Cora’s hand tightened. “Then I wish you luck, lúkal. You deserve someone who will make you happy.”

  Cora’s smile was bittersweet. “Thank you, aga ninna. I hope he will.”

  Unable to think of anything else to say, Whiskey opted to keep silent. They sat in the semidarkness, watching the stars overhead.

  ***

  Valmont drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the sedan. He glanced around the parking lot, wondering what was taking so long. He had received a phone call from Whiskey an hour ago, telling him to come to this lot and wait. Obviously, she wanted her hunting lesson tonight. Valmont had never been allowed to take her off the property before, and it was a sure bet Margaurethe knew nothing of their plans. He wondered if Whiskey was experiencing difficulty breaking away with discretion.

  As he peered out the window in the direction of The Davis Group three blocks away, his heart thumped a little harder as he spotted her, a dark wraith flickering along the shadows. She wore only black, a slim figure against the white of the building, her blond hair shining like a beacon in the streetlights. The first time he’d met her, the ends had been dyed black. Since then, she’d trimmed off the coloring, leaving her hair its natural hue. He scanned beyond her for pursuers and found none. If Margaurethe discovered her absence, all hell would break loose.