With no pause in his approach, Pacal kicked out, driving a foot into the nearest guard’s groin. The man dropped like a stone, clutching his abdomen and gagging. Pacal stepped purposely over his twisting body, reaching for the remaining professional between him and his target. With a flurry of movement too fast to follow, the aga’us defended his Ninsumgal. He had more training than his comrades, and it showed as he met Pacal blow for blow. But he was still young and inexperienced enough to fall into the trap of disciplined protocols. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden appearance of a weapon. Pacal whipped off the leather strap holding his loincloth in place, lashing it around the aga’us’ throat. Naked, he took the final step closer, twisting to bring the guard to the ground, incapacitated.
***
Castillo sent a silent plea for strength as Valmont entered the conference room, the door closing behind him. Margaurethe stiffened in her chair, eyes narrowing. For his part, Valmont appeared to realize his shaky position. He didn’t exhibit his usual acerbic mannerisms. Instead his eyes were calm, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. He remained where he stood, awaiting an invitation to come or go. Knowing this was Margaurethe’s show, Castillo kept silent.
After several moments, she rose with a measure of grace, her expression stony. Stalking toward the new arrival, she paused only long enough to rake her eyes over him. The speed and strength with which she struck Valmont nearly knocked him to the floor.
He staggered backward, head reeling from the impact. Castillo smelled the blood before seeing it, and he half straightened out of his chair in response.
Valmont used the door to push himself up, his other hand wiping at his split lip. He shook his head once before taking a deep breath. Squaring his shoulders, he stood without support and faced her. He steeled himself for another blow but didn’t raise his chin, didn’t yield. Another strike from Margaurethe, and again he stumbled. He had nowhere to go, pressed against the door as he was. He worked his jaw to check for broken bones and stood firm again.
Castillo pushed away from the table and neared them. “Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe,” he said, his voice gentle. “Please. Stop this.”
“Oh, I’ll stop this, all right.” She prepared another blow. “As I should have stopped it long ago. I knew you were dangerous for Elisibet from the first. But she could never see it, would never hear a negative word of you from anyone’s lips, least of all mine.
I won’t let you destroy her again.”
“Enough!”
The word was sharp and commanding. Castillo turned to see Chano limping forward with his walking stick, a frightful expression upon his face. Knees weak with relief, Castillo swallowed hard, willing his heart to slow down. His younger age made him the weakest of them, incapable of stopping this brawl no matter his desire.
***
Whiskey attempted to run, but Pacal was too fast. He hooked his arm around her throat, pulling back and turning so she hung from his muscled forearm, shielding him from the reprisals of the remaining fighters. The aga’us sat at Pacal’s right foot, clutching at the improvised garrote and fighting to breathe. Cora, Nupa and Zebediah hovered just out of reach, bruised and bloodied, looking for any opening. Whiskey’s fingers dug into the smooth muscles beneath her fingers, feeling her face heat up from lack of blood flow. He’s trying to kill me!
An all-encompassing fury exploded in her chest. Without thought, she sank her teeth into Pacal’s arm, forcing him to release his grip. In a move she couldn’t comprehend, she threw him to the ground, twisting his arm to pop the shoulder out of its socket. His grunt of pain shocked her out of the unnatural frenzy, and she realized the overbearing anger wasn’t a result of nearly losing consciousness. She staggered away from the melee, dragging Pacal with her as her mind reached out. It connected with a molten ball of wrath. That’s not coming from me!
“Margaurethe?”
Those still on their feet stared at her, and she released Pacal’s arm, backing away. This madness was from Margaurethe. What’s happening to her? “Stay here!” she ordered the others, running for the door.
***
Margaurethe glanced behind her, fangs still bared. “Stay out of this, Chano.”
“No. I will not.” The old man didn’t blink an eye as he approached, glaring at Margaurethe. “It’s a wonder you Europeans ever built an empire and took over this country the way you squabble amongst yourselves.”
She opened her mouth to respond, and froze. Castillo reached out with his mind, assuming Chano had compelled her to cease her attack. Instead of the vague sound/sensation of cool rain, the familiar essence of the elderly Indian, he met the essence of roses and blood. His eyes widened as the door to the conference room opened to reveal an angry Whiskey, the door guard and a newly arrived Reynhard Dorst flanking her.
“Step away from her.”
Castillo hastily obeyed, risking a glance at Margaurethe.
She remained frozen in place, only her eyes moving, hair wild from the physical exertion of her attack. Whiskey had overcome Margaurethe’s will barely in time, stopping her from flaying her prey’s flesh from his bones. Valmont said nothing but did as ordered.
Whiskey entered the room, looking only at Margaurethe.
“All of you, get out.”
Castillo bowed perfunctorily, and filed with the others past the two women. Chano grunted in acceptance as he passed. When they were safely outside, Castillo gave a mighty sigh. The guard hesitated a split second before securing the door, and blocking their return. Two newly arrived Aga’gída joined him.
Valmont used the back of his hand to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. The disdainful smirk had returned to his face as he examined the smear. “Well, that was pleasant.”
Chano grunted again, an unsupportive response regardless of his apparent position in the conference room. “If you poke a stick at a wounded animal, you should not be surprised when it defends itself.”
Dorst interrupted Valmont’s attempt to answer by chortling, softly clapping his gloved hands before him. He had been absent since the Baruñal Ceremony. Now he wore the usual black leather and metal spikes for which he was known. Gone was the long brown hair, replaced with three black mohawks striping his scalp. “Is there no end to the fount of American Indian wisdom you spout, sir?”
Rather than be put off by the effeminate act, Chano peered at the gaudy caricature beside him. “No. It is as endless and bottomless as the deepest dung pit.” His words were rewarded by a rare genuine laugh from Dorst.
Sourly, Valmont stared at Dorst. “I asked about you the other day, but no one knew where you were. Up to your same old tricks?”
Dorst’s humor faded into mock seriousness. “I’ve only been back an hour or so. I’ve been away on a little errand for our Ninsumgal.”
Something sparked in Valmont’s eyes, in contrast to the lack of emotion he’d exhibited throughout Margaurethe’s attack. It disappeared so quickly, Castillo wasn’t sure he had actually seen it. He glanced around the lobby. “I’m going to go clean up. Is this meeting over, or are we reconvening?”
“I’m not certain.” Castillo glanced back at the closed doors, a sensation of ominous gloom pushing him away. “Perhaps we can get some coffee in the Executive Dining Room until they’re...finished.”
“Excellent idea!” Dorst slipped his arm through Chano’s, guiding them toward the elevators. “Perhaps we can root in that dung pit of yours for more gems, eh?”
Castillo ignored their chatter as he followed, his mind working on the abortive meeting. How were they supposed to guide Whiskey when they couldn’t consolidate themselves? And what was that between Valmont and Reynhard? More secrets to learn. Depending on the day and hour, the advisor meetings were a morass of egos, all battling for control. It was sad to say, but the two most qualified people stood firmly at the center of breach.
Until Margaurethe and Valmont resolved this schism, what would be the point of adding any new representative nations brought into the coalition? How can we even t
hink about adding the Mayans considering their enmity with the American Indians? He stepped into the elevator, pretending polite interest to the ribald discussion between Dorst and Chano. It’ll be a free-for-all.
Chapter Fifteen
“I don’t have to ask what you were doing.” Whiskey released her control over Margaurethe, watching the slender shoulders slump. Some days the strength and intensity of the growing bond between them frightened her, but today she was glad of it. Who knew how far Margaurethe’s actions would have taken her with Valmont if she hadn’t interceded? She hadn’t had time to wonder from where Dorst had appeared. She had only seen blood and Valmont in her mind’s eye as she had taken the emergency stairs to the lobby.
Margaurethe remained in place a moment before straightening.
She turned to Whiskey, her expression sternly beautiful. “My apologies. I let my anger get away from me.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
Her expression altered, a faint sneer flickering across face.
Calmness replaced it. “I’m more than happy to tender my apologies to Father Castillo and Chano for witnessing my lack of control, but don’t expect me to do the same with him.”
Whiskey lowered her guard as she realized the immediate danger was over. She stepped closer, brow furrowed in concern.
“What will it take, minn’ast, for you to trust me?” The pet word Elisibet used for Margaurethe seemed to have an effect. She watched confusion cross her lover’s face.
Margaurethe narrowed her eyes, looking away. “I do trust you.” I thought we cleared this up last night. “No. You don’t.” She moved closer, and took Margaurethe’s chin in her fingers. “You’re pissed off at Valmont for not trying to stop me from doing what I wanted to do. You’re convinced he either set me up and I fell for his manipulations, or he should have done more to keep me from my goal.” She relaxed her grip, gently tracing Margaurethe’s jawline with a thumb. “You don’t trust my ability to take care of myself.”
“I don’t trust Valmont or his intentions.” Margaurethe pulled away, lips pressed together. She marched to the chair she usually sat in during board meetings. “He’s a traitor and a murderer. You’ve let him into this company and into your heart. He will be your downfall.”
Whiskey frowned. “Even Judas had a logical reason for his actions.”
Margaurethe whirled around. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Having put her foot in it, Whiskey refrained from the temptation to retreat. She had done enough of that as a street kid, and had resolved months ago to stop running. The thought tickled her funny bone given the irony of her attempt to run away from Pacal only minutes ago. “You and I both know how monstrous Elisibet was. Her entire reign went from bad to worse.
She was a terror as a child, incapable of understanding how her actions destroyed hundreds of people, Human and Sanguire alike.” She moved closer. “The circumstances of her death were engineered by her.”
“You’re saying she planned to be assassinated by her best friend?” Margaurethe was livid, her skin flushed, hands balled into fists at her side.
“Of course not. But her lack of compassionate insight blinded her to reality—her people wouldn’t stand still for much more of her abuse. She painted her ass into a corner. There was no way out.”“You are wrong!”
Whiskey expected it; Margaurethe’s essence was a jumbled quagmire of emotion, but she caught the raw fury seconds before Margaurethe struck. When it came, Whiskey felt the stinging slap on one cheek. Unlike Valmont, she didn’t allow Margaurethe to continue. She grabbed the flailing wrists, pressing close to give Margaurethe less advantage. “I was there, Margaurethe. I remember! Elisibet wasn’t surprised when Valmont showed up in her quarters with a sword. Don’t you think she could have stopped him with her very will if she had wanted to? Just like I stopped you a few moments ago?”
The baldly stated truth broke through Margaurethe’s attack. Her actions were no less frantic as she struggled, but her intentions had changed. She no longer fought Whiskey.
Instead she struggled against the niggling doubt that had rested in her heart since Elisibet’s assassination. Sensing the difference, Whiskey released her. Margaurethe clutched at Whiskey, buried her head in her shoulder, and cried loudly against the pain she had held for centuries. Automatically, Whiskey’s mind sought the guards just outside the door, sending a soothing sensation to ease their alarm. She didn’t want anyone bursting into the room to witness Margaurethe’s breakdown.
“How could she have been so stupid?” Margaurethe gripped Whiskey’s shirt, shaking her. “She was the strongest of us! The best. She could have blasted that bastard’s mind into ashes if she’d given it half a thought.”
“She was tired. She had nowhere else to go, no place to be safe. She wanted it over.”
“She had me, damn it!” Her fist thumped Whiskey’s chest.
“She had me. I would have kept her safe.”
Whiskey sighed and closed her eyes. Hugging Margaurethe close, she felt as weary as Elisibet had so long ago. Her throat was thick with unshed tears. “You couldn’t keep her safe, Margaurethe.
You knew that then. Just like you can’t keep me safe now. Don’t blame Valmont for being Elisibet’s tool.”
The truth was hard, and it sank slowly through the layers of Margaurethe’s essence. She no longer fought against her demons. Her tears were hot against Whiskey’s neck, her hands firm as they held her close. Whiskey tentatively brushed her mind along Margaurethe’s, easing past the acrid self-hatred, and projecting her love and acceptance. They slipped into a bond so deep, Whiskey had no point of reference. She not only felt Margaurethe’s emotions but saw her memories as she relived them. A sense of shock whispered through Margaurethe, indicating her awareness of this fundamental change: What is this? An answer came, not a sound but a feeling rising from the well of their joined minds. I don’t know. The bitter edge of regret and sorrow burned the edge of the thought, indicating it was Margaurethe’s answer to Whiskey’s question.
Neither knew how long the fugue lasted. Eventually, Margaurethe’s recriminations faded as she accepted Elisibet’s state of mind. For the first time, Whiskey was able to show the emotions and memories she lived with, the ultimate weariness that permeated Elisibet’s soul as events spiraled out of control.
Margaurethe shed tears of sorrow and regret for her lover as she had been and as she was now. Whiskey wept as well, releasing some of her self-doubts as she truly saw Elisibet for the first time through Margaurethe’s eyes—not the horror and barbarism that forever haunted her, but the thousands of tender moments that had occurred between them, moments to which she hadn’t yet become privy.
When they broke from their mutual reverie, the room had considerably darkened with the threat of summer rain. “Are you all right?” Whiskey wiped the tears from Margaurethe’s face.
“Aye. I am.” Margaurethe took a deep breath. “What was that?”
Whiskey blinked. “You don’t know?” As soon as the words were out, she shook her head. “No, you don’t. I remember.”
“I’ve never felt that before, not even with Elisibet.”
“Maybe it’s part of whatever makes me so much stronger than others my age.” Whiskey didn’t want to hurt Margaurethe’s feelings with the idea that perhaps Elisibet’s inability to feel compassion and empathy had blocked something like this from happening before. That has to be it, right? I’m as strong as she was; everybody says so. It’s a good thing she couldn’t get into her victims’ heads like this. Is it even possible for me to do this with someone else?
“Maybe so.” Margaurethe’s gaze flickered to the door. “I still won’t apologize to him,” she said with a trace of her former stubbornness.
Whiskey chuckled. “You don’t have to.”
“Good.” She drew a shaky breath and stepped away, straightening her clothes.
Following Margaurethe’s cue, Whiskey rearranged herself and wiped her
face. Nothing could hurt her, not with Margaurethe by her side. They had weathered a storm worse than the one building outside, and they were so much stronger because of it.
She took Margaurethe in her arms and kissed her soundly. “I love you.”“I love you, m’cara.” They held the stance for a fraction of time before she pulled away. “I suggest we locate the rest of your advisors.”
“I can go find them. Shall we meet back here?”
Margaurethe looked about the room. Other than a cup of coffee going cold on the table and a spot of blood by the door, nothing indicated the violence that had so recently taken place.
“No. You shouldn’t be fetching your advisors. Perhaps we should repair to the Executive Dining Room.”
Whiskey sent a questing tendril out to Castillo, locating the others upstairs. “They’re already there. Shall we?” She held out her arm to Margaurethe. As her lover’s hand nestled in the crook of her elbow, she remembered the comforting sensation of this same action over the centuries, and smiled.
Chapter Sixteen
Valmont had heard Margaurethe’s mournful cry after using the lobby washroom to remove evidence of her assault. The cry had struck his heart; surprising considering the bottomless depths of his apathy. He had barely mustered a need to defend himself from her attack. What would have happened if Whiskey hadn’t intervened? Would Margaurethe now be celebrating his long-awaited demise, pleased to finally have had her revenge upon him? Odd that the thought brought up an image of Bertrada Nijmege, one who held the same vendetta toward Whiskey. At least Margaurethe’s lust for Valmont’s death was based on fact rather than fancy.
Upon arriving in the Executive Dining Room, he noted the others had settled at a table, and ordered food and drink from the kitchen. He resisted sitting when offered a chair, preferring to loiter near the window. He was still too agitated from Margaurethe’s bold attack and news that Dorst had been on an expedition for Whiskey. For the next twenty minutes, he listened to the trio discuss a number of topics that didn’t interest him, and one that left his heart cold and a bad taste in his mouth.
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