Margaurethe stood opposite Castillo on the other side of the table. She turned and planted her hands on her hips. “He killed Elisibet.” Her words became slow and pointed, as if she spoke to an idiot. “You don’t think he plans on doing anything different this time around, do you?”
Castillo mentally rubbed his temples. Margaurethe’s distrust of the fifth member of Whiskey’s advisory council was bone deep.
Valmont could neither do nor say anything to redeem himself in her eyes. It made for an extremely rocky working relationship when she insisted he had ulterior motives every time he did or said something to spark her anger. Castillo spoke carefully, taking time to phrase his statement as politely as possible. “I think Valmont has had ample opportunity to harm Whiskey over the last few months. He would hardly need to take her to a public location and reveal her to others if he wanted her killed.”
“He is not an innocent in this!”
“I didn’t say he was, Ki’an Gasan. I simply mean that he can do more damage alone.” Castillo held up a hand to forestall another outburst. “Think about it. Whiskey has Elisibet’s memories. If he wished her to be torn asunder, wouldn’t it be better to do the job himself, to show her that time changes nothing and he still has ultimate control over her life?” He didn’t believe a word of that, but suspected much of her anger was directed at Whiskey for brainstorming this little hunting party. Since getting to know Margaurethe, he had come to realize she held a latent fury toward Elisibet—for putting herself in the position that caused her death, and for abandoning Margaurethe to centuries of loneliness. It wasn’t that Valmont agreed to take Whiskey on this expedition; it was that Whiskey had originated the idea and brought it to fruition.
Chano seemed unimpressed with Margaurethe’s issues.
“What is done is done. Now that Whiskey has had a taste, I doubt she will stop. We are built to track down our prey, induce the desired emotional and chemical response, and take what we need to survive. Once truly blooded, a youngling’s very nature will succumb to millions of years of evolution. We should pay more attention to locating safe ways for her to follow her natural instincts instead of smacking Valmont on the butt for his actions in this.”
Margaurethe’s anger became focused on Chano. “Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not defending him.” Chano spoke softly, but no less resolutely. “You are angry, and you have every right to be. But we all know that anger blinds vision. You are only seeing what you wish to see, not the truth.”
***
As she made her way to the gymnasium on the third floor Whiskey had much to ponder. Elisibet had been a spoiled brat, pushed through the Ñíri Kurám far too early. Many Sanguire philosophers and scientists had used her callous reign as an example of how her early induction into adulthood had permanently warped her. With no other examples on record, the assumption stood. Alphonse and Zebediah too had followed the Strange Path at an earlier than normal age. While it was possible that the argument had merit as both brothers were quite vicious, it was equally possible that their first pack leader, Fiona, had nurtured their bloodthirstiness rather than that they manifested it because of their youth. It was standard practice now to wait for a youngling to reach beyond the age of majority—twenty-five years of age or more—before allowing them to follow the Strange Path.
What if that wasn’t the cause? What if Elisibet was just a bully that no one had the balls to punish when she was being a jackass?
Whiskey rode the elevator in silence, staring at the red digital numbers as they changed, an Aga’us beside her. Two hundred years of running the show as a petulant middle-school bully would certainly gain a person a bad reputation. Margaurethe had begun making a dent in Elisibet’s brutality before Valmont appeared on the scene. Whiskey recalled scenes of Elisibet wanting to do dire damage only to be persuaded otherwise by Margaurethe’s presence. Young Valmont had been fuel added to the cooling fire.
Not even Margaurethe’s quiet serenity could stop the inferno once it had begun.
The elevator stopped on the third floor, and she stepped out with her escort. The cardiovascular room across from them showed a handful of people on the treadmills and ellipticals.
Most were Human project managers getting in a few minutes’ exercise between meetings. The window beyond showed that the multiple current pools were well occupied. Whiskey turned right, and entered the gymnasium that took up the majority of the floor’s north wing. There her pack gave her a rowdy welcome.
Zebediah, ever the teenager, bounded forward. “Dude! You went to Tribulations last night? How’d it go?”
Surprised, Whiskey looked around at the others waiting to hear about her unauthorized field trip. “How the hell did you know?”
Cora blushed and looked down at her feet. “Anthony got called away last night...”
Laughing, Whiskey approached and took Cora’s hands as her pack surrounded her. “Of course. If you see him before I do, tell him I’m sorry Margaurethe stripped his hide.”
Cora grinned. “I will, aga ninna.”
Impatient, Zebediah bounced on the balls of his feet. “Come on. What happened?”
A flash of her victim’s fear raced through Whiskey’s system.
She shoved away the exhilaration, still not wanting to examine it too closely. “Not much. We went hunting, then came home.” She doubted that would be enough to sway the cutthroat younglings surrounding her, and prepared for an onslaught of demands for more details.
Alphonse snorted. “Who cares about hunting? What’s it like inside?”
His words were a slap to her, derailing her attempt to disassociate herself from the feral joy she had discovered the night before. “What...?”
“Inside!” Zebediah grinned at her. “What’s it like inside? We’re too young to get in.”
Thinking furiously to catch up, Whiskey realized they were more impressed that she had entered the bastion of adult Sanguire than with the act of her first hunt. Well, duh. They’ve hunted most their lives. Fiona never bothered with kizarusi . She found the sudden adolescent turn of the discussion amusing, never having expected to be on this side of it. “It was okay. Nothing like Malice, though.
The music was slower, and it seemed more...cultured.”
Zebediah grimaced in disgust. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. They have a series of hidden rooms for Sanguire to have privacy, but other than that—” Whiskey shrugged, and looked around. “What were you expecting?”
“No idea.” Alphonse shook his head, grinning at his brother.
“Not a milder form of Malice, that’s for sure.”
“Haven’t any of you been inside before?”
“Are you kidding?” Zebediah backed away a step, hands in front of him, palms out. “We’d be mincemeat there. Everybody’s more powerful.”
Whiskey conceded the point. An adult Sanguire’s mental power grew with age, the older the stronger. A youngling of eighteen like Zebediah didn’t stand a chance. Sanguire children were a rare gift, but once they hit adulthood they were just another resource for their elders to manipulate. That was why they remained in their familial compounds or banded together in packs. Whiskey hadn’t had any trouble because she had been with Valmont. Had she entered alone, she might have been able to overpower anyone attempting to compel her, but that would have certainly blown the lid off her cover. Provided that hadn’t happened already.
Chaniya shook her head in the negative. “You Europeans do things in different ways, but even in my country I would not consider entering an adult establishment.” She made a strange gesture with one hand, one she had used before as a sign of protection. “Gcwawama is always ready with a malicious prank for the unwary.”
“Gcwawama?” Daniel asked, ever the scholar.
“The mischievous trickster in our folklore.”
Nupa nodded in commiseration. “Yeah, Iktomi is one of our tricksters. Can’t ever trust him.”
Whiskey watched the others
withdraw from the conversation in disbelief and discomfort. She found the religious underpinnings of the various peoples of the world intriguing, but the European Sanguire in her pack tended to mirror the less spiritual view of their Human counterparts. The American Indians and Africans kept closer to their religious roots. Whiskey wondered if the world would be a better place if everyone believed in their races’ original faith. And here you are with a Catholic priest as your advisor.
The door of the gym opened, and she turned to see Pacal striding forward with three of her aga’usi trailing behind. The guards were the youngest of her security staff, and had taken to hanging out with her pack while off duty. They wore workout clothing since Whiskey had publicized that training was open to all interested parties. It was Pacal’s attire that surprised her. At their first meeting he had worn typical modern clothing. Now he was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a linen breechclout held in place by a thin leather band. Being nearly naked did nothing to diminish his confidence as he stalked across the space between them, well-delineated muscles gleaming in the overhead light.
His black hair was loose, and a leather headband kept it from falling forward into his face. When he spoke his voice held an edge of contempt. “Is everyone here?”
Glancing around, Whiskey was happy to see she wasn’t the only one startled by his appearance. Even Daniel the Pragmatic stared at their instructor. She also wasn’t the only one who didn’t care for his attitude as was evinced by Nupa’s glower. “Yeah, we’re all here.”
“Good.” Pacal came to a halt, arms crossed over his magnificent chest, feet spread wide. “Who will take me on?”
Whiskey blinked, frowning. Again she looked at her pack, seeing her confusion reflected back at her. The three security guards seemed as baffled, moving to stand with them. “I thought this was our first lesson, not a duel.”
“Like any of you could survive a duel with me,” Pacal snorted, his lip curling.
Her frown deepened at his arrogance. Still, she knew better than to challenge him to a physical fight. Whiskey had absolutely zero experience with hand-to-hand fighting, having always resorted to flight when she couldn’t talk her way out of a confrontation. She hoped this was some weird Mayan way of starting a lesson rather than a reaction to Nupa’s presence.
“No takers?” Pacal shook his head, scorn dripping from his words. “You think you’re all malandros, yet you don’t have the balls to take me in a physical fight? I can take all of you on at the same time and win.”
No one seemed to know what the strange word meant, but his tone left no question of its derogatory nature. Zebediah nudged Alphonse. “No mind fucks?”
“Like I’d need to use my mental abilities to win against a scrawny thing as you.”
Though Whiskey didn’t appreciate Pacal’s manner, she had lived years on the streets with arrogant bastards who loved nothing more than provoking others into a fight. Rather than take the bait, she gauged the mood of her pack. Most of them had joined Nupa in glaring at their new instructor, the young brothers visibly trembling with the adrenaline rush. Even Daniel and Cora were close to losing their tempers. Despite the angry tension building around them, the pack didn’t attack without Whiskey’s permission. Proud of their control, she stepped to one side, hands raised in surrender. “Do what you want. Don’t let me stop you.” With the leash that held them back cut, the pack split up to surround Pacal. He didn’t bother to move, allowing them to orbit him without apparent care. The three aga’usi considered one another. Two stepped back as the third joined the others preparing their assault.
There was little testing or feinting, and less forethought.
Cora and Daniel were the first on the offense despite Alphonse’s and Zebediah’s eagerness. Whiskey blinked at their swiftness, hardly able to see them move as they thrust and jabbed at their enemy. Rather than meet force with force, Pacal danced aside, their fists meeting air. Chaniya circled behind with Alphonse and Zebediah. She dropped to the ground and swept in a leg, heel aiming for the back of Pacal’s knee. He sidestepped. She whirled back to her feet with a snarl. The boys flanked Pacal, attempting a clothesline tackle from both sides. This time Pacal leapt backward, somersaulting over Chaniya to bounce lightly on the balls of his bare feet. Alphonse and Zebediah crashed together in a heap, swearing as they disentangled themselves.
Nupa had remained clear of the first attack, though he crouched to one side, watching. As soon as Pacal hit the ground behind Chaniya, he closed the distance between them, chest butting the Mayan. They scrabbled for a few seconds as Nupa attempted to gain a wrestling hold on his opponent. Chaniya turned and lent her strength to the endeavor, Daniel not far behind. The others followed suit. The combat had turned into nothing but a mass of younglings overpowering their arrogant master-at-arms. Whiskey smirked. That was quick.
Her mouth dropped open as both Alphonse and Zebediah flew out of the upheaval to land in shameful heaps. The sharp smell of blood filled the air, and Cora staggered away with blood pouring from her nose. The single guard who had joined the fracas cried out in sharp pain, careening out of the fight with an arm twisted into an awkward position. Whiskey’s eyebrows crawled to her hairline. Nupa, Daniel and Chaniya continued to struggle, but Pacal seemed to be gaining the upper hand despite the overwhelming odds. Was he cheating? She reached out her mind to taste the essence of the tumult, but found no indication that Pacal was attempting to manipulate the younger Sanguire with his mental strength. In a classic Three Stooges move, Pacal grabbed both Daniel and Chaniya, bouncing their heads off one another loud enough to be audible to Human ears.
Both collapsed, dazed, at his feet. Nupa still gamely attempted to bring his opponent down, grappling him around his waist, trying to grab and pin down the strong arms. Pacal dropped back, taking Nupa with him as he somersaulted backward. The change in gravity loosened Nupa’s hold. Pacal spun him around and pushed him away. Nupa stumbled several feet from the force, his normally impassive face ugly with anger.
With the most dangerous foes out of the way, Pacal crouched as he tried to keep an eye on all of them as they regrouped for another attempt. His body was slick with sweat, and he breathed heavily, but there was no other indication that he had been attacked. No apparent injuries marred his skin. “Let’s play a new game.” Fangs bared, he pointed a long arm at Whiskey. “She’s mine. Try and stop me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Margaurethe’s voice became a growl. “And what is the truth?”
She hadn’t quite extended her fangs, but she leaned forward in a menacing way.
Castillo forced himself to remain calm as he ran interference.
“That Whiskey is as much to blame for what happened last night as Valmont. Yet you show no fury toward her, no complaint with her taking her life in her hands so recklessly. She’s as much to blame as he is, probably more so.”
Margaurethe scoffed and dropped backward into her chair.
“So I’m to be mad at a youngling for acting impulsively as opposed to the more experienced Sanguire man who has the brains of a gnat?”
Relieved his head remained on his shoulders, Castillo fought the impulse to stretch his neck. “She’s not really a youngling, is she? She has Elisibet’s memories and power. She can decimate the lot of us with a single thought if she wished. Whiskey might react on the basis of her nineteen-year-old self, but the wealth of experience, strength and wisdom come from the Sweet Butcher.”
“Wisdom,” Margaurethe muttered, looking away.
Castillo decided not to pursue that topic. Until Margaurethe worked past her emotions, it was useless. Her vision remained clouded by idealized love and the denial of facts. He pondered how much Whiskey chafed at the subconscious restrictions put upon her by someone for whom she cared so deeply. It wasn’t any wonder she had coerced Valmont into taking her hunting.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The door opened and one of the security guards politely intoned, “Sublugal Sañar Valmont.”
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br /> ***
Whiskey hastily stepped back, shaking her head. He can’t be serious. The two guards that had stayed out of the initial scrimmage sidestepped to block her from Pacal’s view. Pacal took three steps before running into an immovable object—Nupa blocked and seized him, throwing him to the ground. Surprised at his success, Nupa hesitated before he pounced. He hit the treated gymnasium floor, Pacal having used the minuscule pause to flip agilely away.
Alphonse had had a chance to collect himself, and delivered two punches to Pacal’s kidneys before an elbow rammed back into his chin. He slumped to the floor, unconscious. Zebediah screamed in fury, launching himself at his brother’s attacker. With a grim expression, Pacal met him, blocking Zebediah’s useless fists, spinning him about and sending him stumbling away with an insulting kick to the backside.
It was Cora who got the first significant hit on Pacal. While he was occupied with the boys, she jumped him from behind, wrapping her arms and legs about him, sinking her teeth into his neck. He flailed at her uselessly for a brief moment. Unable to get a good grasp on her, he toppled, using the weight of his body to crush her to the floor. The tactic drove the air from her lungs, and she released him. Pacal bounded to his feet to keep from being dog-piled by the others. Cora’s abrupt removal from his neck had torn the flesh there. Blood poured freely from the wound, though not enough to seriously hamper his energy—he hardly seemed to notice. He closed the distance between himself and Whiskey’s guards, his gaze only upon her. She stared back at him over the shoulders of the two men blocking him. Crap. I don’t think he’s kidding around! She trembled, smelling her fear in the perspiration erupting all over her body. What if he’s serious? Is this an assassination attempt because I’m half Indian?
Inner Sanctuary Page 11
