Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  How could her world fall apart so quickly?

  Cora and Anthony murdered, Valmont witnessed at the scene, funeral rites, assassins, uncontrolled attacks—was it only a handful of days ago that everything felt right? It seemed so much longer. She couldn’t believe her level of exhaustion, like she hadn’t slept in a week. Of course it had only been that long since things had begun to unravel. Her to-do list mounted faster than she had time to think. Needing the distraction, Whiskey went to her office to locate a pad and pen.

  Once more slumped in her living room armchair, she began writing. Valmont needed to be taken into custody first thing in the morning. His actions didn’t make any sense, but Andri had seen him at the scene of Cora’s and Anthony’s murders. If necessary, she would forcibly wrest the memory from Valmont.

  She shivered, greasy revulsion slipping through her gut at the prospect. It was an abuse of power to take such a gift and pervert it so. But what other choice did she have? She had to confirm that he had been in the building without escort. Was this how Elisibet’s atrocities began? Whiskey negated the useless thought, knowing the Sweet Butcher had been a bloodthirsty tyrant long before she had passed out of childhood.

  Staring at the paper, she wracked her brain for a distraction.

  The assassin. Sasha had reported that the Sanguire that had taken a shot at her in Club Express had died from his wounds, never having regained consciousness. He had been one of the India delegates, a low-level aide brought in as an assistant to the assistant of the ambassador. The delegation had extended its utmost apologies for the incident, offering any number of gifts in recompense, up to and including the dead man’s family for torture. Whiskey had authorized Chano to respond with thanks, and to sway them from punishing anyone in their party connected with the man. He had been young, barely two hundred forty years old. She was certain he had been compelled by someone older. She remembered his face, the snarl of hatred as he yelled, his eyes dulled of intelligence. “This is for—”

  Whiskey shook her head, banishing the sight, tapping her pen against the pad. Then there was Sithathor. Whiskey put her free hand flat on the surface of the paper, willing herself to reach through it to the arm of the chair. She tried to recall how she had felt when pressed against the cement wall of the club the night before, losing herself in an unfamiliar tingling that didn’t quite make her itch. Focusing on the feeling, she felt it spread across her palm, noting with odd disconnection when her fingers sank through the first layer of paper. Mouth open, she stared, wiggling her fingers to dabble in the almost liquid quality the paper had become. With a jerk, she pulled her hand free. The tingling disappeared, and she rested her palm on the now solid pad.

  Whiskey had a lot of questions for her chambermaid, Sithathor. She spoke of the Gidimam Kissane Lá as “we,” indicating an ongoing society of Sanguire who remained in contact with each other. The fact that she’d known Whiskey’s father and grandfather hadn’t been a coincidence. Distracted by that thought, Whiskey spoke them aloud for the first time, treasuring the sound. “Gareth Davidson, son of David Sceadson and Enid.” She wondered if that made her Jenna Davidson or Garethsdottir, like they named children in Iceland.

  Forcing herself back to the present, she jotted down questions for Sithathor, questions she hadn’t asked out of initial shock over the assassination attempt and the revelation of her talent. If the Ghost Walkers had knowledge of her father, then why hadn’t any come forward to find her when he had died? They were a tight-knit group that had wrapped themselves in secrecy to avoid the world.

  Had they decided she wasn’t one of them, not worth the effort if she couldn’t walk through walls like the rest? Had they even been able to come close to finding her in the Oregon foster care system?

  A jumble of emotions rumbled in her chest—she felt dismay that they had failed to locate her, and a sense of abandonment that they hadn’t tried hard enough.

  The one question that had always puzzled her—as well as the caseworkers she had been assigned—about the accident that had killed her parents had finally been answered. The same thing had occurred at Club Express last night. She had fallen through the booster seat and chassis of the car, hitting the road as her parents smashed headlong into a semitruck. Why didn’t Gareth Davidson try to escape? Wasn’t his skill strong enough?

  Did he decide to stay with his wife in death rather than raise his daughter alone? Whiskey grumbled to herself. She didn’t even know if Nahimana Walker was a Ghost Walker. Neither her aunt nor grandmother had actually mentioned her mother’s skill. Maybe Nahimana had had no choice but remain in the vehicle that had killed her.

  Whiskey stared at the paper. Lots of questions, few answers, and no end in sight. Forcing herself into a practical state of mind, she jotted down people to whom she needed to speak: the India ambassador to accept apologies and suggest his low-level aide wasn’t as duplicitous as he assumed; Ugula Sasha Kopecki regarding security issues and that convenient express elevator code she had used the night before; her pack needed gathering and reassurance before they went off half-cocked in a misguided attempt to “protect” their leader. She shook her head. “And where the hell is Reynhard?”

  With a sigh, she glanced at the clock on the mantel.

  Margaurethe had been gone for three hours. Whiskey’s frown, fast becoming a permanent expression, deepened. A look outside showed full dark, and she smelled something cooking in the kitchen. A tentative probe revealed Sithathor fixing dinner.

  Margaurethe had said she would only be away for a few minutes.

  What’s taking so long? A spark of alarm flared across Whiskey’s nerve endings. The loss of Cora had taken place literally under the noses of building security, and they had somehow missed a weapon being brought to the wake. Not liking this train of thought, Whiskey cast out with her mind, searching for the familiar sensation of her lover in the neighboring apartment.

  There was nothing there.

  Whiskey shot up from her chair, expanding her search to include the entire building. She easily picked up the Sanguire in residence, as well as those still working in the labs down to the fifth floor. From there her coverage was spotty, even for someone of her strength. A sick feeling developed in her belly as she grabbed the nearest phone. Dialing Margaurethe’s downstairs office directly, she received no answer. Panicked, she bolted from her apartment, throwing open Margaurethe’s door and rushing inside. She searched every room, scaring Margaurethe’s Human chambermaid partaking of a light supper alone in the kitchen.

  “Where is she?”

  Maya leapt to her feet and gave a quick curtsy. “I thought Ki’an Gasan was with you, Ninsumgal. She said for me not to make dinner for her.”

  “When?” Whiskey demanded, fear and impatience flaring as the Human stuttered. She moved with preternatural speed to grab Maya by the upper arms, not quite shaking the trembling woman. “When? ”

  “Two hours ago, Ninsumgal.”

  Two hours. Releasing Maya, Whiskey backed away. Two hours?

  She pointed a shaking finger at the chambermaid. “You are not to leave this apartment until Sasha or myself tells you so. Got it?” Terrified, Maya stared at the floor. “Yes, Ninsumgal.”

  Whirling, Whiskey ran from the apartment and to the security desk in the corridor. “Margaurethe O’Toole is missing! She’s either unconscious or she’s been kidnapped.” She glared at the aga’us blinking at her. “Lock down the building. I want an immediate and full physical search of the building.”

  “Yes, my Ninsumgal!” He spoke two words into his radio.

  “Code Four, Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe O’Toole. I repeat, Code Four, Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe O’Toole.”

  Whiskey felt both pleasure and dismay that her Aga’gída had trained well enough to have a predetermined radio code for a missing person. Within moments her Ugula and a half dozen senior officers came out of the break area tucked behind the security station. Sasha and one other remained with Whiskey, the others dispatched to begin a f
loor-by-floor search. Sasha ushered Whiskey into the guardroom.

  “When was the last time you saw her, Ninsumgal?”

  Swallowing, Whiskey scanned her surroundings, having never seen its interior before. “About three hours ago. She left for her apartment to check on a few things.” The station out front had video feeds from security cameras in the corridor, fire exits and elevators. This area had even more extensive information-gathering equipment, making it the nerve center of her personal guard. She felt a moment’s surprise at her house sigil painted on one wall. Written in Latin beneath it was the phrase In Omnia Paratus.

  Sasha spoke into her radio to convey the information to her team.

  Whiskey grabbed Sasha’s tunic sleeve. “She’s not up here. I scanned all the way down to the R&D system labs and didn’t find her.”“We still need to check every floor, Ninsumgal. She may be here, but unconscious.”

  Feeling like an idiot, Whiskey released Sasha, rubbing her face. “Yeah. Right.” I knew that.

  Sasha guided her to a folding chair at a large table. Coffee cups, snack wrappers and paperwork littered its surface. Apparently, they had been having a meeting. “We’re doing everything we can to find her, Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey planted her elbows on the table, and put her face in her hands, fighting the fear beating in her chest. “I know. Find Castillo and Chano, make sure they’re safe.” She jerked her head up. “And my family! The pack!” As Sasha gave orders over the radio, Whiskey added, “And find Valmont and Reynhard, for Christ’s sake. I want to know where they are, and where Valmont has been tonight.”

  As much as Whiskey wanted to be fully involved in the search, she shut up and stared blankly around the guardroom.

  Contingencies were in place. One thing Margaurethe had taught her was the need to step back to let her people do their jobs.

  So she waited, ignoring the coming and going of a number of people, not paying attention when Sasha slipped out to take over the search, praying to God that this was just an embarrassing mistake on her part.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The hour was late. Whiskey and her advisors had taken over the sixteenth-floor guardroom since no one wanted to allow her to roam the building. Her aunt, grandmother and the members of her pack had been moved to her apartment for their safety. Those governmental delegations that had accepted her hospitality were secure in their quarters until further notice. The search had turned up a number of inconsistencies—the body of a security guard in the garage, a missing vehicle and another absent Sanguire. No one had been able to locate Whiskey’s valet, Andri.

  It was assumed he had been kidnapped along with Margaurethe.

  Building security had a video from the parking garage, showing Valmont driving the absconded car out of the garage.

  Whiskey stared out the window. “I know they hate each other, but how could I have been so wrong about him?” It felt like Rufus Barrett all over again; she’d had faith in him to some degree, and had almost died as a result. How can I lead if I can’t even trust my own judgment? She saw movement in the window’s reflection as Castillo shifted.

  A scowl had fast become a permanent addition to the priest’s handsome face. “I feel the same. I can’t imagine what possessed him to do this. It just—” He ran both hands through his curly hair and leaned back in his folding chair. “It just doesn’t seem like him at all.”

  “Perhaps we should wait to judge him or our supposed failings until we hear his side.”

  Grimacing, Whiskey turned. She leaned her hands behind her on the windowsill as she looked at Chano. “Which side is that?” She waved at the screen that held the frozen image of Valmont’s face behind the windshield of the stolen vehicle. “That he sneaked on the property without checking in with security, went to the garage, and took a car? What would be the point unless Margaurethe and Andri are unconscious in the backseat?”

  And why now?

  Chano grunted, a sound with which Whiskey had become familiar over the months. Valmont’s caustic wit and flippant reactions had often elicited this response—disapproval. “What would he have to gain?”

  “Well, that’s it, isn’t it?” Whiskey returned to the window.

  “Nothing. He’s had plenty of opportunity to harm me. Maybe he ran into Margaurethe and they got into another argument. Maybe they fought.” She refused to voice her darkest concern, but the thought couldn’t be denied. Maybe he killed her, and is running to conceal it. Apparently no one else wanted to bring up that particular idea, since neither of the men suggested it.

  “Ninsumgal.” Sasha stepped inside the door, finger against the bud in her ear. “Sublugal Sañar Valmont is in custody, and is being transported here. He’ll arrive in five minutes.”

  The news didn’t improve Whiskey’s mood. If anything, she felt worse than before, adrenaline increasing the tremors in her hands. “Bring him in when he gets here.”

  Sasha bowed. “As you wish, Ninsumgal.” She paused a moment, and lifted her chin. “We’ve found something else.”

  Whiskey ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Who else is dead? “Tell me.”

  “Sañur Gasum Reynhard Dorst checked in with security about two hours before Ki’an Gasan was noticed missing. He hasn’t checked out, and we’ve been unable to locate him in the building.”

  “Reynhard?” Whiskey struggled to make the connection.

  “He hasn’t responded to messages in over a week. Why would he turn up tonight and not speak to me?”

  Sasha swallowed, chin still raised. “I don’t know, Ninsumgal.”

  Rather than torture her Ugula with the threat of a royal temper tantrum, Whiskey waved her away. “Keep looking. Enlist anyone who knows his essence, scan every person in the building, Human and Sanguire. If he’s hiding here, we’ll find him that way.”

  “Yes, Ninsumgal.”

  As soon as the door closed, Whiskey stared at the others. “If Reynhard’s here, why hasn’t he checked in with me?”

  Castillo chewed his lower lip. “Perhaps he wasn’t here.”

  Chano rumbled in his chair, hands clasped over his belly.

  “Shape shifter?”

  The priest nodded. “Yes.”

  Whiskey felt disconnected, light-headed. When was the last time she ate? She leaned heavily against the window frame. “You think someone breached security, a Gúnnumu Bargún?”

  “It would make more sense than Sublugal Sañar Valmont sneaking on the property to kidnap your valet and your woman.”

  Chano hooked his thumbs in the belt of his jeans.

  Castillo rubbed his forehead with one hand. “That might not even be Valmont.” He pointed at the damning evidence of Valmont’s treachery, the frozen video of his face in the stolen car.

  The only other person Whiskey had reason to suspect was her man-at-arms. “What about Pacal? What talent does he have?”

  Chano stared at her. “The Mayan? You think he has something to do with this?”

  She swallowed, not wanting to play into the American Indian’s prejudices but unable to think of anyone else who had regular access to the building and possible motive. “I don’t know. He’s very…rough in training. He seems to target me and Nupa more than any of the others.”

  “He’s not a shape changer.” Castillo shook his head. “His talent lies with weather.”

  “But how do you know?” Whiskey considered the evening’s multiple disturbances. “I can’t believe Reynhard would put a crack security department together without paying attention to some sort of precaution.”

  “He didn’t.” Castillo dropped his hands to his lap. “That’s why I so rarely leave the building. All Gúnnumu Bargúni living here are registered, and all Sanguire are put through a rigorous examination before being allowed re-entry. That’s how I know Pacal isn’t one—I’ve seen him come and go without the need for the extra testing.”

  The news startled her. Curious despite the current circumstances, she studied Castill
o. “What sort of examination?”

  A knock at the door precluded his response. Sasha entered, holding the door open for Valmont and four of Whiskey’s aga’gída to enter.

  “Whiskey? What is the meaning of this?” Valmont raised his handcuffed wrists, affronted. “I was having dinner at Tribulations when these goons descended upon my table and arrested me! None of them will answer my questions.”

  Great. I didn’t think to give them different orders if he was in public. Rampant rumors had probably spread throughout the city that the budding ninsumgal was arresting her advisory council.

  Shades of the Sweet Butcher. As if I don’t have enough to worry about.

  “Where were you for the last three hours?”

  “What?” Valmont yanked his arms from the grip of the guard on his left. “I just told you. I was having dinner.”

  Castillo cocked his head. “For three hours? How many courses did you have?”

  Valmont sneered. “No one’s speaking to you, eunuch.” He returned his attention to Whiskey. “So I had a couple of drinks beforehand, and was looking for a little snack after. What of it?”

  Whiskey walked to the computer screen on the security panel and pointed. “According to that video, you were here just over an hour ago, and stole a car from the garage.” As he stared in shock, she added, “There’s no record of you checking in with security, we have visual evidence you stole a car, three people are missing, and one is dead.”

  The indignation drained out of him as he took in her words.

  “Who’s dead?”

  “One of the security staff stationed in the garage. His neck’s been broken. Not a drop of blood spilled.”

  “And who is missing?”

  It took every ounce of control Whiskey had to keep from attacking him, or anyone else. “Reynhard, Andri and Margaurethe.”

  Valmont stared blankly at her, lips silently moving as he repeated the names. He attempted to step forward, but was held back by a guard on his right. Tugging, he glared over his shoulder at the man.