Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Wait a minute.” All of Misty’s coyness was gone, a hardened expression on her pretty face. “I’m not into this shit, okay? If you guys get off on this, you need to find another girl.”

  Valmont smirked. “I don’t think so. You’re just the sort of girl I’m looking for.”

  Misty struggled ineffectually with her bonds. “I’ll scream,” she warned as Valmont paced before her.

  If anything, his grin widened. “Have you noticed the walls?

  Do you think you’d be heard? Surely if a room like this exists here, the establishment would have it soundproofed.” He stepped closer and pinched her breast. “Besides, why do you think there’s a guard in the hall?”

  The woman swallowed, her annoyance fading to fear, her eyes blinking rapidly as she looked around the room.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pay what you asked, and throw in a bonus.”

  Whiskey abruptly realized that their victim was a prostitute.

  Misty’s eyes were green; not quite the shade of Margaurethe’s, but close. Her smell altered as Valmont poked and prodded her.

  The scent was almost familiar, and against her will Whiskey felt her teeth extend in anticipation. Though her wrists were pinned behind her, Misty moved freely about the room. Valmont used his gifts well, following as she backed away, using inhuman speed to poke and prod her as he spoke of all the gory things he wanted to do. He described flaying her skin from her body until the blood ran sweet and her voice carried her screams to the heavens. He told her of others he had taken over the years, detailing the methodical breaking of bones or techniques of evisceration. Producing a blade from somewhere, he drew a line of blood along the woman’s exposed breast.

  Misty began to cry, her sobs punctuated by pleading. She had all but forgotten Whiskey’s presence until inadvertently bumping into her as she tried to avoid Valmont. Terrified, the woman gasped and jerked away, then decided to appeal to another female. “Please! Don’t do this. Don’t let him do this.”

  Whiskey staggered from a wave of hunger. The fear from Valmont’s prey was strong, rolling away from her like ripples in a disturbed pool of water. She had never felt anything like this.

  The desire to sink her teeth into their prey’s flesh hit her with such strength that she bared her fangs.

  The woman recoiled, eyes wide. She attempted to put as much space between them as possible. Backing into Valmont, she shrieked as he wrapped his arm around her. Using his free hand, he pulled their struggling prey’s head to one side. “Would you like first taste?”

  Whiskey felt the aching desire to appease her hunger battle with absolute revulsion. Unable to speak from the ongoing war within, she shook her head.

  “Suit yourself.” Valmont promptly bit the woman holding her tight in his arms as she fought against him, ignoring the screams piercing the room as he suckled the blood from her neck.

  Misty passed out, the abrupt silence deafening. Whiskey’s ears still rang with the sound, and she swallowed thickly against her need. Stumbling forward, her body had its own will. The smell of fear and blood swept over her. Valmont finished, a grin on his lips as he licked them. He held the woman’s slack body in his arms and readjusted her, revealing the other side of her throat. “Go ahead. It’s still good.”

  Unable to hold back, Whiskey sank her teeth into the offering. The blood was hot, and it tasted of smoke and seared flesh and tears. It soothed an ache deep within her she hadn’t known existed, one that had always dwelled in the darkness of her soul. Or was it in Elisibet’s soul? When she had drunk her fill, she disengaged. Valmont had pulled away at some point, removing the manacles, and Whiskey held the unconscious Misty in her arms. The woman seemed on the verge of wakefulness, murmuring weakly, brow flickering with confusion. Whiskey glanced around the room and carried her to a table, gently laying her down.

  “Well, that was nice.” Valmont went to the door and unlocked it. “Come on.”

  “What about her?” Whiskey frowned. “We can’t just leave her here. Besides, she can identify us if she wants to press charges.”

  Valmont grimaced. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t want to press charges.” He laughed, pulling money from his wallet, and tucking it into Misty’s bra. “Who’d believe her anyway?”

  Still worried, Whiskey allowed Valmont to lead her from the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  The drive back to The Davis Group was quiet. Whiskey’s mind reeled as she faced a part of herself of which she hadn’t known. Or is this a part of Elisibet? She had hoped this expedition would put to rest her fears regarding her previous incarnation.

  Idealistically, she had wanted to see that her fears were irrational, that Elisibet didn’t live within her soul, that the Sweet Butcher was dead and gone, merely a memory bank to be plundered upon occasion as Whiskey learned to rule. She now knew the siren call of inducing terror, the taste of it still on her tongue, the scent of it still in her nostrils. The thrill of it still thumped hard in her chest as she reconciled this modern vision of herself with a monster that enjoyed torturing innocents, a monster wearing Elisibet’s face, her face. Stinging self-recriminations battled with the fact that her body remained flushed with exhilaration after her meal.

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced at Valmont. “Fine.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “I take it you weren’t impressed with a taste of fear?”

  She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let the subject drop.

  “Actually, I was too impressed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Irritated, Whiskey grimaced as she stared out the window. “I liked it. Too much. I’m also disgusted by liking it.”

  “Why be disgusted? It’s the way we were made, the way we evolved. It’s the natural progression for our species.”

  “It’s horrible, putting a person through that sort of scare.

  It’s...revolting. That woman did nothing but go to a club tonight, expecting a fun time. We ruined that for her.” Whiskey considered for a moment. “Not only that, we scarred her for life. She’s been completely destroyed, her world turned upside down. We might as well have raped her. Hell, we did rape her!”

  “That Human was a prostitute who was paid for her time and effort. She’s no more traumatized than from any other rough trade she’s picked up in her life. Probably less so.” Valmont sighed, clicking his tongue. “You’ve spent far too much time among Humans, my friend.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No. Really. You identify with them far too much. You cannot deny they are the key to our survival. Without Humans, we die. There aren’t enough kizarusi to feed us all.”

  “There aren’t?” She looked at him.

  Valmont shook his head. “No. You, of course, wouldn’t see the truth. Margaurethe keeps you hidden away and ensures your needs are met as quickly and painlessly as possible.” His eyes flickered to hers and held her a moment. “But you’ll note, the same kizarusi are rotated past you at every feeding. When’s the last time you had someone new?”

  Whiskey tried to recall the last new face she had seen. “It’s been a few months.”

  “Months. That’s because all the kizarusi in the area are already in use by others who don’t hunt, as you don’t. They can only give so much of themselves, they need to rest in between feedings to replenish their blood.”

  She mulled over his words, connecting them to the wisps of observations and stray thoughts she had entertained before. If such was the case, then the idea of Sanguire and Human working together toward a common goal would be almost insurmountable.

  Supply and demand alone made it unlikely. Her people didn’t hunt to appease some ancient genetic code that required such activity; they hunted because it was the only means available for survival. “So what happens to Misty?”

  “Who?” Valmont took a moment before recognizing the name. “Oh! Misty.” He shrugged. “She’ll wake up and go home, I’d imagine. Or see about another trick if the money she re
ceived wasn’t enough for her pimp.”

  “Don’t you care what happens to her?”

  He frowned in confusion. “Why should I? She’s still alive, a little smarter about the real world and its horrors. She’ll probably never put herself into the same situation, will she?”

  Valmont’s callous attitude infuriated her, but she could find no argument to sway him. His world and hers were too different.

  He had as much difficulty seeing her point of view as she did his.

  He must have read her mind, because he said, “Come now, Whiskey. Do you really care that much about the cows in the field that are slaughtered for the hamburger you eat at McDonald’s? What about the chickens placed in cages for their entire lives, fattened up to the proper weights before being killed and plucked, sitting in the meat department at the grocery?”

  “Humans are not cattle or chickens.”

  “Maybe not to Humans. But even Humans survive off the death of others, be it plant or animal. Some have distanced themselves from the process, but there are always those who get their tags every autumn and try to land that big buck. It’s in their nature to hunt, just as it is in ours.”

  It was a compelling line of reasoning. She snorted at a sudden vision of Sanguire lining up at a counter to purchase hunting licenses for Humans. Recrimination quickly followed as her Human-based conscience went into play. Their conversation ended as Valmont pulled into the driveway.

  The main door guard’s eyes widened. “Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe is waiting for you in your sitting room, Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey blinked, her current moral conflict fading in light of the coming confrontation.

  “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll sit this one out.”

  She chuckled at Valmont. “Coward.”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor, or so I’m told. I’ve had a few more years of Margaurethe’s anger to deal with than you.”

  He watched the guard open the passenger door. “She loves you. She’s just worried about you being in my evil presence.”

  “I know.” Whiskey sighed. She put one foot on the ground before turning back to Valmont. “Thank you for taking me. I’ve got a lot to think about now.”

  “Any time. Let me know if it’s not safe to return for tomorrow’s advisor meeting.”

  “I will.”

  Whiskey climbed out of the automobile and watched as Valmont drove away. Swallowing her trepidation, she strode into the brightly lit lobby.

  ***

  Whiskey braced herself before opening the door. She entered her apartment, her manner calm and matter-of-fact.

  Margaurethe sat in an armchair in the corner, barely visible in the darkness. Her dark dressing gown consumed what little light there was, her eyes glittering in the dark.

  “Where have you been?”

  The strength of her accent measured the depth of her anger. Whiskey knew by the tone and the level of Irish lilt that Margaurethe’s fury wasn’t something set aside quickly, nor would she be cajoled out of with any ease. Regardless of the danger, Whiskey felt an abrupt wave of love for this outraged woman staring at her. “I missed you, too.” She removed her jacket and hung it on a stand by the door. Normally, she’d toss it on a chair. No need to piss Sithathor off, too. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

  Not willing to be enticed with inane chatter, Margaurethe rose and continued to glare at her. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Whiskey sighed. “I went hunting with Valmont.”

  Margaurethe seemed unsurprised. “That’s what Anthony said when I asked where you were. He also said you had forbidden him and the others to report this fact to me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Because you knew it was wrong!”

  Whiskey stepped closer, and took Margaurethe’s stiff hands into hers. “No. It wasn’t wrong. I have to know everything about my people if I’m to rule them fairly. I just didn’t want to worry you.”Margaurethe scoffed and pulled away.

  Whiskey stared at her back, seeing the reddish hue in her hair. Her heart ached at Margaurethe’s pain, knowing she was the cause yet again. It occurred to her that she had been right to not love another person since her parents had died. It was too painful, a raw open wound shooting agony through her soul with even the gentlest of touches. Too late now. “Margaurethe.” Whiskey received no response, and she stepped closer. She caressed the stone of her lover’s upper arms, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Margaurethe. I can’t be kept safe from all dangers. You must know that.”

  Stern, brittle, Margaurethe said, “I most certainly do not know that. You are the culmination of a prophecy. Of multiple prophecies! You must be kept safe at all times, or they will never come to fruition.”

  “Mahar’s prophecy was spoken four hundred years ago, and here I am. Did she say the returning Ninsumgal would be a tyrant like Elisibet?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Whiskey continued rubbing the woman’s arms. “Did she say that the returning Ninsumgal would fail and die?”

  “You’ve read the prophecy. You know as much as I.”

  “If her prophecy was correct, then how can I die now? I have to fulfill my destiny before that can happen.” The argument was one she had heard often from her aunt to describe why so many cultures had similar prophecies and myths. It was arrogant to think they all culminated with her, but she would take any talking point she could get in winning this debate. She squeezed Margaurethe’s arms. “I’m a long way from that point.”

  “You’ve spent entirely too much time with your family.”

  Whiskey didn’t deny it as she dropped her forehead to Margaurethe’s shoulder. “I told Anthony not to tell you because I didn’t want you upset. I know how you feel about Valmont—”

  “With good reason!”

  “—and it was something I had to do.”

  Margaurethe spun around, causing Whiskey to sway at the loss of support. “And where did he take you?” she demanded. “I smell cigarettes, cloves, perfume. He took you to a bar, didn’t he?”Whiskey straightened, but she did not lift her chin. “Yes. He took me to Tribulations.”

  Margaurethe’s eyes widened, a fleeting disbelief, of true fear, followed by the returning heat of fury. “It’s a gods-be-damned warren!” Unable to stand still, Margaurethe paced the room. “What the hell was he thinking? No. He wasn’t thinking, obviously. He never does. It’s always the same thing, do what needs doing to ease the itch without care for the consequences.”

  She stopped and glared at Whiskey. “And you! Do you have any idea how close you came to being torn apart? Tribulations is crawling with Sanguire, none of them loyal to you.”

  “I know, Margaurethe. I saw.” Whiskey recalled that single moment of distrust, wondering if Valmont had set her up for just that purpose. “Valmont said it was the easiest hunting ground, that was all. At no time did he put me in danger.”

  “No. You did that all on your own, didn’t you, love?”

  The accusation burned with sarcasm. Whiskey grimaced at its sting, her temper slipping. “I’ll do what I have to do to rule.”

  “Elisibet said the same thing. Usually right after some hideous atrocity she and Valmont had committed in her dungeons.”

  The spoken words splashed coldly across them both, dousing their fury. Through the soggy ash of it, their eyes met; Margaurethe’s wet with unshed tears, Whiskey’s wide and surprised. Coming so soon on the heels of her self-discovery at Tribulations, the statement made Whiskey feel hollow.

  Margaurethe’s words hurt worse because Whiskey thought they might be true. They stood in silence for several moments. “You still see the potential for Elisibet within me, don’t you? You don’t see me at all.”

  “No. Whiskey, no.” Margaurethe came forward, her body relaxed and responsive, unlike the marble of before. She pulled Whiskey into her arms. “I see you, Whiskey. I do.”

  “Not completely. You see a youngling Sanguire who has
no experience, and must be protected like a child. You see how easy it would be for her to slip into the terrible behaviors of her predecessor.” Whiskey’s heart felt thick, cold, as if it had stopped beating at Margaurethe’s hurtful words.

  “I see how easy it would be for Valmont to lure you to your death,” Margaurethe corrected. “He cannot be trusted, m’cara. He has no honor. He lulls you into a false sense of security in his presence. I’m afraid he’ll succeed in whatever he plans to do.”

  “But a part of me trusts him.” Whiskey sighed, feeling very tired.

  Margaurethe hugged her. “I know.”

  Whiskey held on tightly. If Margaurethe echoed her innermost fears about Elisibet, there had to be a shred of truth in them. Who was she? Would she have to battle the Sweet Butcher every day of her life? Or should she succumb to the desires, the lusts of Elisibet? So many memories crowded her head, memories that weren’t hers. Yet they were as strong and as authentic as those she held of her current life as an orphan and wanderer. What was real? What was truth? Every vision from Elisibet brought a sense of power, followed by a wave of disgust and revulsion for enjoying the strength pulsing through them. Tonight’s episode had further alienated her from herself.

  Watching Valmont play with his prey made her nauseous with conflicting emotions. She wanted to do so much more to that poor woman, enjoyed hearing her sobs and shrieks, lusted after the scent of her fear.

  What kind of monster am I?

  Margaurethe whispered calming words, and led her into her bedroom. There she helped Whiskey undress. The tenderness, the comforting voice, the soothing caresses made Whiskey more ashamed of her horrible desires. She climbed into bed, tears stinging her eyes. Margaurethe doffed her robe and slipped beside her, holding Whiskey as she began to cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hour was late yet Margaurethe remained awake. Whiskey had finally succumbed to a weary sleep only an hour before, her lips turned down in her slumber. Margaurethe held her close, pillowing Whiskey’s head on her breast, petting the blond hair, and committing to memory the feeling of their entwined legs.