Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “That still wouldn’t explain why he’s beating the shit out of me every lesson.” Whiskey disliked the petulant grumble in her tone. Forging on, she pushed aside her irritation. “How would they have met? Do the Mayans have treaties with the Europeans?”

  She looked to Daniel, the only Euro Sanguire in the bunch.

  “We’ve had some dealings with them, but nothing extensive.”

  Daniel shrugged with one shoulder. “Just trade for the most part.

  Some travel regulations between the two nations.”

  “Hey.” Zebediah cut into the conversation. “Doesn’t your buddy Valmont have a ranch or something in South America? And he’s the asshole who killed you the first time, right? Maybe Pacal is working with him and that Agrun Nam chick.”

  Chaniya gave a grudging nod. “It’s possible. The Tibetans rule farther south, but Brazil is part of the Mayan territories. Maybe this whole assassin story is just a smokescreen to confuse you to Valmont’s true intent.”

  Whiskey had to admit it was a decent scenario, but it felt wrong. Valmont had sworn fealty to her months ago, and had done nothing to endanger her since. He swore fealty to Elisibet, too.

  Look where that got her. “So the consensus is that Pacal’s not an assassin, but working with Bertrada to kidnap me?” She chuckled.

  “You know, this paranoia thing is a bitch. I’m getting confused at all the ins and outs and possibles and maybes.”

  Nupa gave her a slight smile, opening his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by the slam of a distant door, and a whimpering.

  The two immediately visible Aga’gída closed in on Whiskey and her pack, alert as the mewling grew closer. Andri shambled around the corner of the elevator shaft with three guards behind him.

  He threw himself to the stone tile at Whiskey’s feet, prostrating himself. “I’m so sorry, Ninsumgal! I only just found her. Please, have mercy!”

  “What the hell?” Whiskey and the others rose to their feet.

  “Andri! Calm down! What’s happened?”

  “My Gasan?” An aga’us moved closer, one that hadn’t been with the others on the roof. He looked decidedly uncomfortable as he chewed his lower lip. “Your friend, Cora. She’s been found in her quarters. With Ugula Aga’us Anthony.”

  Whiskey’s heart thumped. “And?” she asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

  “They’re dead, Ninsumgal.”

  ***

  Whiskey sat alone in her apartment. The curtains drawn against clearing sky, they masked the sunlight, hid the sharp pain that awaited Whiskey and her kind. She felt numb, a miasma of antipathy that insulated her from thought. Visions of Cora’s and Anthony’s blood-spattered bodies cropped up at the oddest times, as if some higher power lay in wait to shock her. At least they hadn’t suffered much pain. Valmont’s experience and keen eye had been a boon; he informed Whiskey that both had died quickly.

  Had the tragedy never happened, she would be teasing Cora about her frivolous romances over lunch, their friends surrounding them. That would never happen again. How many others will die because of me? This attack upon her pack, her people highlighted the death threat hanging over her head. At any moment it could indiscriminately slop over onto those closest to her. The thought of Margaurethe or Castillo lying in a puddle of blood flashed unwanted through her mind. She shook her head to dispel it, barely succeeding.

  Whiskey had allowed herself to become complacent, settled herself too deeply into the pampered lifestyle Margaurethe had constructed for her. She had trusted Margaurethe’s in-depth scanning of Whiskey’s staff, ignoring the fact that despite her lover’s actions Margaurethe hadn’t the level of mental strength as Whiskey. Had Whiskey done the job, there would be no doubt who could be trusted. I’ve been too busy playing the spoiled rich bitch. I haven’t paid attention. Her imagination relentlessly substituted her aunt or grandmother for Cora. There was a killer on Whiskey’s ass, and she had assumed everybody would protect her, that nothing would befall her or them. Why the hell didn’t I think of this?

  She heard a knock, and ignored it. As expected, the door opened. Interesting that being Ninsumgal means people come and go as they please. Whiskey barely acknowledged Andri as he eased into the room.

  The poor man’s terror had persisted. He must have felt responsible for her pain, having been the one to discover the grisly remains. The dishes on his tray rattled as he trembled. Still, he eased closer, sliding the tray onto the table beside her. “My Ninsumgal,” he whispered. “My apologies for the interruption, but Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe insists that you eat.”

  Whiskey glanced at him. His flinch cut her to the quick, and she looked away. “Thanks, Andri. Go away.”

  His swallow was audible. Bowing, he backed away. He paused at the door. “I’m so very sorry, my Gasan.” He didn’t await a response, slipping out of the room. What could she say to him?

  He was probably happy to still be alive. Had this happened with Elisibet, he would have suffered either a torturous death or simple maiming as she released her anger and grief.

  And there was anger. Despite the apparent indifference she projected, she felt it. It beat against her with fists of fire, demanding to be free, to avenge Cora’s completely needless murder. It desired to be quenched by the life’s blood of the assassin responsible, to rise again from the killer’s ashes and destroy the person who hired him. To succumb to it would be so easy. Whiskey only needed to open the door, to stand aside as the rage boiled up to become the monster that controlled Elisibet for so many centuries. So easy.

  It would never be worth the price. As much as she longed to give in, she fought it, not succumbing to the desire to slash and rip and tear flesh. Elisibet’s mistakes all boiled down to her indiscriminate lashing out. Whiskey couldn’t afford to do the same. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Someone else knocked on the door. Again she ignored it, and again it opened regardless. A stab of fury sliced through her emotional lethargy, clean and pure, before succumbing once more to the heaviness. Margaurethe and Castillo entered and approached. For a change, he didn’t react as a petitioner toward his monarch. With no invitation, he pulled an armchair close to hers and sat, watching. Margaurethe knelt at her feet, for the moment not touching.

  Whiskey vaguely recalled telling Castillo to inform the leader of the Agrun Nam of recent events. Now she couldn’t dredge up interest at Bentoncourt’s response. She wondered if she disregarded them, would they go away?

  “Are you all right?”

  Well, that answers that question. “Fine and dandy, minn’ast.”

  Her voice cracked. She cringed from it. Not wanting her words to sound weak, she continued, forcing them out of her throat.

  “One of my friends, someone under my protection and living under my roof, has been murdered by someone targeting me. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  “It’s not your fault, Whiskey.”

  She barked out a laugh, surprising herself as tears finally burned her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. I kept her here, I let others do for me, protect me, fight my battles. She’d still be alive if I’d sent her and the others away like you wanted me to months ago.” The muscles between her eyebrows twitched as she tried to control her tears, tried to force them back behind the apathy.

  Her throat stung from the effort.

  “If it wasn’t Cora, it would have been someone else.”

  “Then it should have been someone else!” Whiskey gave up the struggle, and leapt to her feet to pace the room, nearly trampling Margaurethe in her haste to get past. She hugged herself tight, as if fearing she would explode. Her tears were acrid, burning her cheeks. They both stood with her, watching her storm about the room.

  “You can’t take the blame for everything that happens around you. Cora’s and Anthony’s deaths were sudden, unplanned. The killer was surprised by their presence; if they’d been on the streets with friends, it could have happened just as easily. Where we receive the Angel of Death is writ
ten on God’s heart. It was their time.”

  Swearing, Whiskey let Castillo know exactly what she thought of that. She rounded on him, teeth bared, tears streaming across her cheeks. Margaurethe intercepted, wrapping arms around her. Whiskey felt the bestial anger surge forward. Her lip pulled into a sneer, her will lashing out against both of them. Despite the fact Margaurethe had been prepared, Whiskey shredded her defenses, focusing all of her rage upon that which kept her imprisoned. Margaurethe’s grip tightened, and her eyes rolled up into her head as she convulsed from the invasion. Her physical reaction sent icy tendrils through Whiskey. Horrified, she mentally reeled back. As Margaurethe’s body sagged, Whiskey supported her, guiding the limp form into the nearest armchair.

  Castillo was there beside her, a pained expression on his face. Margaurethe appeared dead. Before Whiskey could fully articulate what happened Castillo called out to the guards in the hall. “I just...I was so angry...She tried to stop me!” She watched Castillo check for a pulse. “I didn’t mean to!”

  “Shhh.” Castillo stood and took Whiskey into his arms.

  “She’s still alive. Calm down.”

  Three Aga’gída rushed inside. As Castillo held the sobbing Whiskey, he directed them to move Margaurethe to her apartment, and call Daniel at once. When they were gone, Whiskey found herself sitting on the edge of the couch, Castillo still holding her as she cried. “Will she be all right?”

  “We’ll see. She’s alive. That’s what counts. And Daniel has experience with this sort of thing.” Castillo brushed Whiskey’s hair away from her face.

  Whiskey wiped her face with a sleeve. A handkerchief appeared in Castillo’s hand, and she took it. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her, the tears beginning anew. “I’ve fucked it all up. I got Cora and Anthony killed, and now I’ve tried to kill Margaurethe.”

  Castillo pulled her close, rocking. “No. You didn’t get anyone killed. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I did it! I should have sent everyone away as soon as I knew about the assassin.”

  “Whiskey, you can’t blame yourself for not being omniscient. We had no idea that the assassin would attack so soon or go after someone not targeted. Valmont is of the opinion he didn’t strike by choice. Cora saw something she shouldn’t have, and that’s why it happened. Anthony came upon the aftermath, and had to be eliminated.”

  “Is Margaurethe going to be okay?” Whiskey felt juvenile for needing the assurance.

  “I don’t know.” Castillo clucked at the fresh spurt of tears.

  “She’ll probably have one hell of a headache. Chances are good you didn’t cause permanent damage; you let her go as soon as you realized what had happened.”

  The guilt was too much to bear. Whiskey curled up, her very soul in agonizing pain. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Castillo eased back, pulling her unresisting form with him.

  He continued holding her close. “She won’t leave you, Whiskey. She trusts you to do what’s right. We all do.”

  Her weariness at all the emotions cascading through her made a response hard. “I don’t trust me.”

  “You will. I promise.”

  Bittersweet chocolate stole over her. It was a measure of her emotional bankruptcy that she didn’t have the energy to deny him. Instead, she allowed Castillo to ease into her mind and caress her soul.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cassadie was the last to arrive at the emergency meeting.

  He wore a black tuxedo. “I do have tickets to the ballet with my paramour.” He tossed a hat and a pair of white gloves onto the table. “Let’s make this quick so I don’t end up paying for my absence over the next decade, shall we?”

  Rosenberg looked him over with a humorous eye. “Top hat and gloves, Aiden? Didn’t they go out of style about seventy years ago?”

  Snorting, Cassadie sat in his chair. “Tell Genevieve that. ‘When one goes out in public, one must be exemplary in appearance at all times.’ She’s hooked on etiquette and fashion these days.”

  “Let’s get this over with.” Nijmege, impatient with the flippancy, turned her attention to the head of the conference table. “Why did you interrupt our dinner plans?”

  Face grave, Bentoncourt said, “Father Castillo has informed me that the assassin has struck.”

  Nijmege half stood up from her chair, her complexion paling.

  McCall and Cassadie both exclaimed in shock, but Rosenberg remained silent. Bentoncourt watched their responses carefully, hoping to surprise the traitor into a misstep. He wondered if the assassin had been able to report. If so, Rosenberg’s response could be construed as foreknowledge. He held up his hand to halt their rapid-fire questions. “Davis was not harmed. A Sanguire friend of hers was murdered under her roof, as was the captain of her personal guard. Whether it was by accident or intent is currently unknown.”

  Sinking back into her seat, Nijmege closed her eyes.

  Bentoncourt imagined she was overcome with relief that her perceived vengeance remained on track.

  Beside her, McCall’s face flushed. “This is ridiculous! How are we to protect Davis if we refuse to bring her here?” His black eyes snapped, and he thumped the table with a fist. “Order Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe and Sublugal Sañar Valmont to return with her. Now.”

  “It certainly seems as if their ability to protect Davis is slipping,” Rosenberg said.

  Bentoncourt scanned the others. Even Cassadie’s expression was apologetic as he nodded an agreement with the others. It occurred to him that by being the lone dissenter, by not wanting Davis to return in order to facilitate her assassination, he would appear to be a traitor. He exhaled, and frowned. “I’m not certain you understand—”

  “What’s to understand, Lionel?” Nijmege glared. “O’Toole is deluding herself if she thinks she can keep her precious little Ninsumgal safe. Two needless deaths have occurred. The assassin is playing with them, letting them know he can come and go at will, that he has the ability to slay Davis with ease.”

  “What you don’t understand,” Bentoncourt said, pinning her with hard eyes, “is that no matter what we vote on here, Davis will refuse to relocate.”

  McCall sneered. “What matters that? We can send a force in to arrest her.”

  Unable to help himself, Bentoncourt chuckled. “You’re working on the assumption she’s not who she says she is. Her strength of will has multiplied tremendously since her Ñíri Kurám. She is Elisibet reborn, and will be able to sway anyone attempting to take her by common sense or force.” He laughed again, waving dismissal at their youngest member’s suggestion.

  “And I won’t even go into the legality of arresting an American Indian Sanguire for transport to Europe. We still have no clue as to her paternal parentage.”

  “It doesn’t have to be an arrest. At the very least, we can appeal to her sense of self-preservation,” Cassadie argued. “Certainly, when she hears the nature of our precautions, she’ll understand she’s safer here.”

  “She’s the spitting image!” Nijmege thumped her fist on the table. “I don’t give a fig about her parentage. She’s Euro whether we have genetic proof or not.”

  Bentoncourt shook his head, remembering his discussion with Castillo. “If anyone moves, it will be the Agrun Nam. I believe Davis will remake her court in today’s image, and center it where she feels most comfortable.”

  Cassadie tilted his head. “I move that we vote to bring Davis to the heart of her people by ordering Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe and Sublugal Sañar Valmont to bring her here.”

  “I second the motion!” Nijmege slapped her hand on the table, her muddy brown eyes alight.

  Unable to deny the motion, Bentoncourt ground his teeth.

  “All right. All those in favor of demanding Davis’s return?”

  As expected, Nijmege and her conspirator, McCall, raised their hands. When Cassadie did, as well, Bentoncourt felt his heart lurch. Everyone stared at Rosenberg.

&n
bsp; “Davis must know she cannot thwart tradition. She appears to be attempting to unite all Sanguire under her banner.” He raised his hand. “This is where the center of her people originates; this is where she needs to be.”

  “I don’t think we need to continue.” Nijmege’s aquiline face seemed almost feral with the toothy smile she displayed.

  Bentoncourt looked away from his companions. “No. We don’t. I’ll notify Castillo of our decision tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have one of my aides send letters to Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe, Sublugal Sañar Valmont and Davis with orders to return posthaste.”

  With the meeting concluded, the others rose to leave. Soon only Bentoncourt and Cassadie remained. “You know, I haven’t seen Bertrada that ecstatic since the birth of her grandchild.”

  Cassadie picked up his gloves and hat. “It’s for the best, Lionel. We can keep her safe here.”

  Bentoncourt stared off into space. “I think you’re wrong. Bringing her here only furthers Bertrada’s warped goals.”

  “Please. We all know what she wants.” He gently hit the edge of the table with the gloves. “It’ll never happen despite her most ardent wishes.”

  “You’re deluded, Aiden.” Bentoncourt finally looked at his friend. “You’re working under the assumption that Davis will be as malleable as every European Sanguire who comes under our rule.”

  Cassadie cocked his head.

  “What you fail to understand is Davis knows her place in the scheme of things. And we’ve just confirmed it.”

  “And her place is...?”

  Bentoncourt felt a well of laughter spring up inside him. He couldn’t help but chuckle. “She’s our ruler, of course, destined to destroy and unite us. She and we both know it.”

  “So.” Cassadie blew out a breath. “You’re saying regardless of our order, she’ll disobey?”

  “Listen to yourself! ‘Disobey.’ It is presumption that what we say has anything to do with her. She’s our ruler in all but fact. We’re not hers.”