Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Let him go.”

  As soon as he was free, Valmont took two steps, staying well out of reach of Whiskey as he knelt to the floor. “You have my word, my Ninsumgal. I had nothing to do with this. I wasn’t here.”

  Whiskey studied him. This was the first time he knelt in her presence of his own accord; even his oath of fealty several months ago could have been considered coercion. She let the sight of him blur in her gaze. The telltale indication of a lie wasn’t there. He told the truth as he knew it. What if someone stronger compelled him, like Reynhard? Was it possible to plant false memories? She hated the thought, but Dorst’s sudden reappearance was suspect.

  Though the idea of the betrayal hurt almost as bad as losing Margaurethe, she had to consider that her master spy might have changed his allegiance. “I can find out. I can look inside your mind, Valmont.”

  Trepidation cleared his features, and he leaned back on his heels. When he spoke, his voice was droll, as though he didn’t believe her. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She moved closer to him, waving back the sudden surge of guards preparing to surround her. “We can do this the hard way, or not. I’d prefer to not hurt you.”

  Valmont studied her, a worried frown on his face and what looked oddly like relief in his eyes. After long thought, he raised his chin. “All right. Do what you need to do.”

  Whiskey paused, then ordered security from the room.

  Castillo and Chano joined forces, preparing to give her the added strength she would need should Valmont decide to revoke permission to enter his mind. “Just relax. It’s kind of like joining to some degree. Then I’ll go a little deeper to look at your most recent memories.” Sweat had popped up on Valmont’s forehead.

  Whiskey frowned. Considering their mutual past, it was no wonder he was almost as nervous as Andri had been with the prospect. “I won’t go digging around, okay? Just the last few hours. Maybe the day of Cora’s and Anthony’s murders.”

  Valmont gave her a stiff nod, then raised his chin.

  The difference between this excursion and Andri’s was stark. With her valet, it had been a dim and tenuous thing, always seeming on the verge of collapse. Here, Valmont actively strengthened their bond though he didn’t control it. She looked out of his eyes as he ate a serving of beef stroganoff, tasting the mushrooms that flavored the dish. The night was young, and she had no meeting scheduled until the morrow. As she finished, a waitress arrived to top off her glass of burgundy. Feeling sated, she leaned back and swirled the glass, watching the sweet young kizarusi on the dance floor. Perhaps a little snack.

  Another odd tidbit to file away; with Andri, Whiskey had been a third party witnessing what occurred. Here she became Valmont, seeing things from his point of view as he went through his day. She wondered if this changed from person to person.

  Valmont told the truth. He’d had nothing to do with kidnappings and killings, didn’t even have a care in the world regarding knowledge of an attack. Whiskey scrutinized the memory closer, sifting through his thoughts. Something about Bertrada Nijmege caused anger and sorrow, not unexpected considering their past. The sight of an African contingent at a nearby table brought up cold calculation over recent disagreements during treaty negotiations. Disdain for a number of what he considered low-lifes hanging about the bar. Nothing more.

  Prodding a bit, she introduced a vision of Dorst into his mind, and received an instant ripple of fear. That surprised her.

  Had Dorst threatened Valmont? As much as she wanted to delve into the topic, she had promised to leave him his privacy. She had confirmed his alibi as well as proved to herself that he’d had nothing to do with tonight’s abduction. She eased back out of his mind, until she was conscious of sitting on the floor in front of him. Whiskey took a deep breath, and stretched. “Get someone in here to release him. He has nothing to do with it.”

  Several minutes passed as Valmont’s handcuffs were removed.

  Whiskey returned to her station at the window, staring out over the city, feeling hollow. When they were once again alone, she turned to study them.

  “Do we have any leads?” Valmont asked, his voice stern with fury.Whiskey found his response familiar. “The only solid one we had was you showing up on video.” An odd sense of peace drifted over her at his outrage. Many were the memories of just such an incident, Elisibet furious at some slight or other, Valmont standing beside her, righteously echoing her sentiments. This was as it should be. It felt right. And there lies the danger. Regardless of Elisibet’s friendship with him, he’s still an unknown.

  Chano grunted. “No, we have more. Reynhard checks into the building after being missing for so long. He doesn’t respond to messages or phone calls, yet cannot be located within.”

  Castillo pursed his lips as he stared at the video image of Valmont. “And he is Gúnnumu Bargún. He could have assumed Valmont’s shape to throw off pursuit.”

  Andri remembered seeing Valmont going in to Cora’s apartment. Was that Reynhard, too? Whiskey fought the sudden urge to rage and cry.

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, Padre?” Valmont said.

  “Margaurethe ran into Reynhard, and the valet showed up at the wrong place and time. The guard was killed when he interfered in Reynhard’s escape.”

  Castillo, perhaps becoming inured to Valmont’s caustic wit and older strength, scoffed in derision. “Where did Margaurethe meet her abductor? It’s possible he got the jump on Andri, but Margaurethe would have known something was wrong.”

  Whiskey’s thumb tapped restlessly on the windowsill.

  “Unless he looked like the guard. If he’s a shape shifter, he could have taken any form and Margaurethe wouldn’t have had a clue unless she tried to scan him.”

  “True. Even among others of my talent, Dorst’s abilities are legendary,” Castillo murmured.

  Valmont growled. “We have to find him before he does her any harm.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  Whiskey forced herself to remain composed when all she wanted to do was attack something. “Reynhard might be able to come and go anywhere he pleases and in whatever disguise he prefers, but certainly he doesn’t hide his travels elsewhere around the city. Someone is bound to have seen him; who could forget it with his clothes and hair?”

  Eagerness lit Valmont’s expression. “Let me hunt for him.”

  “No.” She shook her head at his flash of anger. “I think his ability to shift is extensive and automatic. He changes from one person to another in the time it takes one of us to walk one step in front of the other. If he sees you before you see him, by the time you turn around, he’ll be someone else.”

  Valmont ground his teeth, but accepted her refusal, exposing his throat.

  “Then who?” Castillo asked. “He knows all of us. Besides, it’s one thing for a priest to wander the streets at night to reach the unfortunates. It’s quite another for one to saunter into Sanguire nightclubs and the like.”

  Whiskey stared at him.

  “What?”

  “It couldn’t be that simple.” She turned to Valmont.

  He picked up her thought. “It could be. I know of two other establishments in town, but it’s for the less...extravagant of our people.”

  Chano tilted his head. “You think Dorst has been hanging out at another club in his current guise?” Their expressions gave him the answer.

  “But, that’s ridiculous! Why would he do something as idiotic as that?” Castillo held his hands in front of him, palms up. “He can look like anyone, why would he remain in his current form in a public place?”

  “Reynhard has always liked games, Padre.” Whiskey stopped drumming the sill. “It would be just like him to set me a trail of breadcrumbs to locate him.”

  “And Margaurethe is the bait?”

  At Valmont’s words, a surge of rage pounded against Whiskey’s containment. If he’s responsible for this, if he’s hurt her... She
gritted her teeth to keep from baring her fangs. “Very effective. Reynhard never misses an opportunity.”

  “Then what happened to Andri?” Castillo wondered aloud.

  “Who knows?” Valmont shrugged. “The mouse no doubt stumbled onto the abduction. It wouldn’t take much for Reynhard to overtake him.”

  Whiskey remembered the depth of power she felt in Andri earlier. She would bet that he and Reynhard were very close to one another in strength. Would it have been so easy for him to be thwarted? She felt a stab of guilt, knowing it was entirely possible; Elisibet had broken Andri so well he might not defend against attack by his “betters.”

  “Padre, I want you to gather your resources. Send contacts into Tribulations and anywhere else Valmont knows. We need to locate Reynhard, or at least get an idea of where he’s holed up. I doubt Margaurethe is there, but it could give us a place to start.”

  Castillo stood and bowed. “Anything else?”

  She didn’t want to say it, but knew she had no choice. “If you could search the morgues and hospitals, as well? I don’t think I can.”“Of course.” Castillo raised his chin. “I’ll put out the word for Andri, too. Perhaps he did see something, and ran in fear. I’ll need to use a phone.”

  Whiskey didn’t want to be in the room to overhear those calls. She strode across the room and opened the door. Four Aga’gída jumped to attention in the hall. Leading her entourage down the now crowded corridor, she stepped into the foyer joining her residence with Margaurethe’s. “There’s a phone in Margaurethe’s apartment, Padre. Take your time. I’ll be in mine when you’re finished.”

  Castillo nodded and slipped inside.

  Valmont pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a couple of calls, as well?”

  “Sure.” Whiskey gestured to Margaurethe’s door. “You can do it in there. There’s plenty of room. I’ll see you when you’re finished?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Whiskey stood in the tiny foyer, not alone. Her guards hovered close, a constant reminder of how bad things had gotten in such a short time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Once he had given Castillo the locations of the appropriate businesses, Valmont slipped into another room to make his call. He ignored the Victorian dining room, scanning it only long enough to confirm he was alone. The cell phone was new, bought a day or two after destroying the previous one. He had been out of contact with Nijmege long enough for her to have become irritated, no doubt. This call wouldn’t be a pleasant one.

  Considering what he wanted to tell her, he didn’t think she would take his news well anyway. As her phone rang, he calculated the time, knowing it would be late morning there.

  “Ah, Bertrada! You’re home!”

  “Valmont?”

  He grinned at her sharp tone. After centuries of association, he easily saw her in his mind, bristling with agitation, pacing whatever room she occupied as she twisted her thick braid with one hand. “How have you been, Bertrada? Well, I trust?”

  “How dare you!”

  She seemed a bit more put out than usual, too much so for his lack of communication. Puzzled, he decided to play the game.

  “Well, you know me. I’m a daring kind of man.”

  “You’re no man at all! I wish to God Nahib had never met you, never brought you into our home. You were a traitor then and you’re a traitor now.”

  Thoroughly confused, Valmont sat on the edge of a spindly chair. He hadn’t heard that sort of vitriol from her in some time, not since Elisibet had executed Nahib, a deed which Valmont had been unable to stop. “You’re not making sense, Bertrada. Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

  “You bastard! How could you have taken her hunting when you’ve told me time and again you couldn’t get her away from the estate?”

  Valmont’s eyes closed. Shit. “Who told you?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, annoyed. “Was it your new little friend on the Agrun Nam? McCall?” She didn’t respond immediately, and Valmont knew he had scored a point.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her outrage cooled.

  Valmont’s smile was crooked. “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “If you’re calling to gloat, Valmont, I suggest you hang up. You have bigger worries ahead.”

  Her words set off alarm bells. “Bigger worries? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that soon our young ninsumgal will know exactly what kind of man you are.”

  The threat caused his mouth to go dry, and he stood. He refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting, though his thoughts were spinning. “Is that so? Well, I suppose she’ll be happy to know the true merit of two of the sanari she’ll be dealing with, as well.”

  Nijmege laughed, a nasty sound that skittered across his spine. “Like she’ll believe you! Chances are good you’ll be long dead by the time she realizes the truth. I know what she did to Margaurethe; you think she’ll stop when she attacks you?”

  Valmont swallowed, the recent experience of Whiskey rooting through his mind a grim reminder. For decades after killing Elisibet, he had puzzled over why she had refused to mentally defend herself. It wasn’t as if he had any more defenses than anyone else. He had eventually come to the conclusion that she had iron control from years of experience and truly didn’t want to destroy his mind, despite the fact that he destroyed her body. Whiskey didn’t have that level of control to refrain from blasting his mind into a bubbling gray mass. Nor did she have centuries of loyalty and friendship to dissuade her.

  That may be a blessing.

  “Maybe she won’t stop, but I’ll be damned sure she knows about the plot you have against her, Bertrada. I’ll give her all the gory little details. She’ll know everything I know and everything I suspect about you and your little playmate. Hell, I’ll even tell her you have something to do with Margaurethe’s kidnapping as a bonus.”

  “What? What kidnapping? I don’t know anything about a kidnapping!”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Certainly by now you have some idea who’s working behind your back to kill her. The priest is making calls now; I expect one of them will be to Bentoncourt. We believe the assassin may be Reynhard Dorst and that he kidnapped Margaurethe tonight.”

  “Dorst?” Her shout was loud enough that he jerked the phone away from his ear. “That’s preposterous!”

  A mirror on the wall showed his grin was more a death’s head grimace as he sank back onto the chair. “He knows about you and me, Bertrada. How else did I find out about McCall?”

  Silence. He didn’t know how to feel; terror for his impending exposure, relief that the game would soon be truly over, or gritty happiness at possibly thwarting the plans set in motion so long ago. He would receive his punishment for killing Elisibet, a richly deserved reward to end his monotonous existence. And maybe Whiskey would live to be a better ruler. “I called to tell you I quit,” Valmont said. “I plan on spilling my guts—both figuratively as well as literally, if necessary—to Whiskey as soon as we locate Margaurethe and get her back. If Whiskey can use the information against you, all the better. You’ve become a crazy and bitter old woman, Bertrada. Elisibet is dead. Killing Whiskey will not make things better. Nahib is gone. Accept that.”

  She sputtered her fury over the phone, unable to speak.

  A wave of sadness swept over him, coupled with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Nahib would never have wanted to see you this way.”

  That ended the discussion. She shrieked at him and the line went dead.

  Nahib wouldn’t have wanted to see his protégé this way, either. Valmont turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He felt hollow, as if he didn’t know who he was anymore.

  But then, he hadn’t been himself since Elisibet had executed Nahib for speaking common sense. Slowly rising, feeling his true age of six hundred plus years, he went to the door and opened it.

  Castillo stood quiet
ly on the other side. The expression on his face was alien and it took Valmont a few moments to place it.

  Anger.

  “Are you going to tell Whiskey or am I?”

  ***

  Castillo braced himself for an attack. He didn’t know if he’d survive it, but consoled himself with the fact that at least Whiskey would know of Valmont’s actions by the evidence of Castillo’s death. Hopefully, she would realize the second traitor in their midst.

  He had finished his phone calls quickly, only having a few to make. One was to an associate on the police force to begin the process of locating Dorst, the other to a woman on the city council who would search various outlets for Margaurethe’s wounded or dead body. Upon hanging up the phone, he had overheard Valmont’s argument with someone he called Bertrada.

  There was only one Bertrada with whom he could be fighting.

  “I’ll tell her.” Valmont’s voice sounded weary.

  Castillo blinked. At the very least he had expected denial, at the most a desperate attack. This quiet acceptance was foreign to his experience with the volatile man before him. Was he playing with him, perhaps hoping Castillo would change his mind or take pity?

  “If you overheard enough, you also know that I planned on telling her anyway.” Valmont closed the apartment door and proceeded through Margaurethe’s sitting room.

  “Wait.” He circled Valmont to stand before him. “You’d do that? You’d confess to her all that you know, all that you’re involved in?”

  Familiar impatience curled Valmont’s lip. “That’s what I said, Padre.”

  Castillo’s thirst for knowledge far outweighed anything in his life, running an embarrassingly close second to God Himself.

  Here was a puzzle to which he had to know the answer. “Why?”

  “Because she deserves better than to be stabbed in the back twice,” Valmont said, his tone long-suffering. “She deserves to have people like you and Chano around her, good and honorable people. Not worn-out old traitors like me.” His minimal levels of tolerance at an end, Valmont shouldered past and continued on his way.