Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Castillo ruminated over Valmont’s words. By the time he hastened to catch up, Valmont was already in the foyer leading to Whiskey’s quarters. Two aga’gída stood in the corridor, and Whiskey’s seething anger and worry blanketed the area. Castillo sped after him, reaching the door at the same time as Valmont.

  “Wait!”

  Valmont stopped in place, shoulders slumped, eyes looking askance at the ceiling. “What?”

  Mindful of the attentive security, Castillo took Valmont by the arm and pulled him back the way they had come. He was surprised when Valmont acquiesced, following his lead. Once back inside Margaurethe’s sitting room, he closed the door.

  “Why did you come here at all?”

  Valmont’s exasperated expression cleared, a smile growing.

  “You always have questions, Padre. And all those books. You’re a research junkie, aren’t you?”

  Castillo called up his previous anger at Valmont’s duplicity.

  “You’re evading the question.”

  Valmont raised his hands in a supplicating gesture. “All right. Bertrada Nijmege called me when word of Whiskey reached the Agrun Nam. She insisted I ascertain whether or not Mahar’s Prophecy was coming true.”

  “And?”

  “And—” Valmont pursed his lips in thought, no longer seeing the priest standing before him. “I didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. But then I saw her.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head, eyes sparking with humor. “She’s the mirror image of Elisibet. It’s like seeing a ghost, Padre; a living, breathing ghost.”

  Castillo said nothing, letting Valmont remain caught up in his recollections.

  “But the ghost has memory loss. Half the time she scares the hell out of me with the things she says. I remember my friend, I can see her, alive and well despite my actions. The rest of the time, she’s so innocent, so naive. She’s nothing like Elisibet and I very much doubt she ever will be.” Valmont’s eyes focused on Castillo. “That’s why I planned on telling her about Bertrada. Whiskey doesn’t deserve to die before she’s had a chance to prove what she can do. And I’m certain she can do so much more for our people than Elisibet or the Agrun Nam ever did.”

  Too many months of dealing with Valmont’s snide attitude and sardonic humor had done its work. Castillo wasn’t sure whether to trust this information or not. Was it truly what Valmont felt, or was this a ruse to keep him off guard? “If that’s the case, then why did you stay?”

  Valmont shrugged one shoulder, his countenance darkening.

  “I still don’t truly believe it. Besides, what difference would it make? She’s dead the minute the Agrun Nam get their hands on her. I didn’t expect her to refuse to go or to keep me around. When that happened, Bertrada insisted I find a way to secretly return Whiskey for her version of revenge. It was easier to agree than to argue with the shrew.”

  Castillo glared intently at the man before him. “What’s changed?”

  They stared at one another.

  “I murdered my Ninsumgal, my best friend. Whiskey is my Ninsumgal, almost literally the child of my best friend. I will never, ever do such a thing again. In my grief and anger, I made a horrible mistake and I refuse to do so once more.”

  “Even if it causes your death?”

  “Even then.”

  Castillo inhaled deeply, his stern expression softening.

  “Maybe you should tell her that.”

  A familiar grin broke out on Valmont’s face. “You’re funny, Padre. Why did she want an oath from an oath breaker? Unless you think the process amused her? It was good for a giggle the day I swore fealty, and probably will be several decades down the road.”

  “Perhaps. But I know Whiskey to be a kind person, one to give her people opportunity to rectify their errors. As you said, she’s not Elisibet.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  “Sirs? Ninsumgal Whiskey awaits you in her sitting room.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Valmont called out. Returning attention to Castillo, he studied the man. “What are you suggesting? That I bow my stiff and prideful neck, give her another vow of loyalty?”

  “Yes.”

  “My vow is no good. She remembers the first one I broke.”

  “She also remembers why it was broken. I’ve had plenty of opportunity to discuss history with her. Whiskey feels that Elisibet was a horrible person, and she struggles daily to be better.”

  “Elisibet wasn’t horrible,” Valmont said in automatic defense.

  “She had her reasons for being what she was, some of them revolving around me.”

  “Perhaps.” They stood in silence. “We’d better go before she comes looking.”

  Valmont nodded and opened the door. “Let’s see if I survive the next ten minutes.”

  “I think you’ll be surprised.”

  His laugh held a slight edge. “Or you’ll be, Padre.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It took a quarter hour before Nijmege calmed herself enough to speak coherently. Valmont’s betrayal laid waste to her current scheme. Without someone inside Davis’s organization to seize and deliver her to Nijmege’s doorstep, little else could be done. She should have pushed to accept the Baruñal Ceremony invitation.

  She caught sight of herself in her dressing room mirror and stared. She had never been considered a beauty—the strong lines of her nose and jaw gave her face a masculine cast she had long rued. After one too many lonesome dances seated along the wall with the other unattractive girls, she had made the decision to prove her worth in other ways. Logical discourse, political rallying and a potent wit had become her weapons of choice. Her disdain for courtly prattle garnered the attention of Nahib, the Nam Lugal of the ruling council. With him Nijmege had never felt ugly.

  Her muddy brown eyes shone with unshed tears, and the lump in her throat burned. “Enough of that!” Nijmege turned away from the mirror, pushing away the crippling depression.

  She gathered her anger about her, carefully wrapping it about sorrow, protecting it from exposure.

  With her emotions under control, she searched the room for the cell phone she had thrown across it. Fortunately, it hadn’t broken in her rage, having squarely hit the clothes hanging in an open wardrobe. She found the thing amongst her shoes and dialed a number from memory.

  “Mmm, yes? What is it?” The voice was furry from sleep.

  The hour was still early enough that those who preferred a lazy sleep-in could partake of one.

  “I’ve just had a call from Valmont.” Nijmege closed her eyes, cloaking her vision in order to focus.

  There came the sound of rustling as McCall came awake.

  “Does he have her?”

  Nijmege gritted her teeth. “He quit.”

  After a pause, McCall said, “Excuse me?”

  “He quit! He said he wouldn’t do it. I confronted him about the hunting trip he had taken the bitch on, and the bastard told me he wouldn’t bring her to me! He said he was going to tell her about our plot against her. And that’s not all.”

  “What else?”

  “Apparently Margaurethe O’Toole has been kidnapped. The snake said he was going to tell Davis that I was somehow responsible for that, too.”

  “What?” McCall’s voice came sharp and clear, no hint of sleep in its tone.

  “They think Dorst did it.” She shook her head, gripping her braid tightly in one hand. “Though I don’t see how that’s possible. Dorst had been in love with Elisibet since she was a child.” She tugged her hair hard enough to cause little stabs of pain in her scalp. “He’s been at Davis’s side for this long; I thought he believed her claim.”

  “As did I.”

  A tone came over her phone, and she pulled it away to check the caller ID. “Lionel’s calling. That blasted priest probably reported to him. I guarantee he’ll be setting up another emergency meeting.”

  “Talk to him. I’m getting dressed now. I’ll see you in chambers.”

&n
bsp; They had worked together long enough that there was no need for standard farewells between them. Nijmege disconnected the call, her cell phone immediately ringing through. She took a deep breath, calming herself, and answered. “Yes?”

  “Bertrada? If you were sleeping, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  She almost snorted her derision as she looked around the dressing room. “I was already up.”

  “Oh.” Bentoncourt paused a moment. “I’ve just heard from Father Castillo in Oregon. It seems someone has made another attempt on Davis’s life, and has abducted Margaurethe O’Toole.”

  “You’re joking.” She rolled her eyes and began searching for something to wear.

  Bentoncourt was oblivious to her scorn. “We’ve nothing scheduled for today. I’m calling an emergency meeting to discuss this. When can you get here?”

  “I must dress first. An hour?”

  “Good. I’m already here; hadn’t left the office yet. I’ll call the others.”

  She frowned, pausing in her hunt. It was nearly ten in the morning. He had spent all night in the office? Whatever for? “All right. I’ll be there.”

  They said their goodbyes, and she tossed the phone onto the nearby table. Perhaps she would be able to salvage something of this mess. If I can’t reach her from outside the country, perhaps I should arrange a personal visit. The thought cheered her as she pulled out her clothing.

  ***

  He gritted his teeth as he dialed the number from memory.

  The heated interior of the limousine was soundproofed; he had no worry that his driver would overhear the conversation.

  “Hello?”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Why, I’m doing the job you sent me to do, guv.”

  The response held a flippant note and the muscles of his jaw jumped. “You’ve kidnapped Ki’an Gasan O’Toole, you idiot! You’d better not harm her, or you’ll wish you had never met me.”

  Laughter. “Oh, no worries there, certainly! I already wish I’d never met you. Unfortunately, I gave my word and I’ll do the job.”His nostrils flared. “Why did you kidnap her?”

  “Well, you did say I’d have an easier time of it if I got the target away from her estate. What better way than to steal the love of her life? She’ll come running, make no mistake, and the job will be done.” The assassin’s tone of voice implied the rest of the sentence; that he would then be free to follow through on his threat to his employer.

  “I was told you were a professional, but ever since I hired you, you’ve mucked things up! You let at least one golden opportunity to complete your contract get away. Now you’ve created a situation to put Davis’s entire security on guard against you. How do you expect to do the job now? Can you turn invisible? Walk through walls? I thought you were Gúnnumu Bargún, not Gidimam Kissane Lá.”

  “Calm down, guv! You didn’t have all these stipulations when you hired me, you know. You wanted the job done, and I said I’d do it. Now butt out and let me do my work.”

  “Then do it. Time’s running out.” He hung up the cellular phone, knuckles whitening as he held it tight. Staring out the window, he tried unsuccessfully to regain his equilibrium. Until he could control his anger, he couldn’t return to the Agrun Nam.

  Pending Davis’s death, his plans remained on hold. He’d never expected the youngling to drop everything in Portland and come running upon command, unlike most of the council who seemed to believe their word remained law. Despite this, his plan couldn’t continue forward until she was dead. Once the deed was done, he could produce evidence that Bentoncourt was responsible for murdering the last best hope for the Sanguire people. That would destabilize the Europeans enough for him to take control. His Russian allies only awaited his word. If it didn’t happen soon enough, however, the Agrun Nam might uproot themselves and move across the ocean to begin political negotiations with the upstart, ruining all for which he had worked.

  This assassin turned rabid worried him. He knew the man was a shape shifter, able to make himself into anyone he wished.

  It would be easy for him to slip inside the security net and make good the threat he had made at their last contact. But would he?

  After an exhaustive background check, he had learned that the assassin was the quintessential professional. That was the only reason he had been hired for the job.

  Ah, this was getting to be such a mess! If Davis didn’t die soon, it would all be moot. If this assassin attempted to bite the hand that paid him, he would have to hire someone else to take care of it. Would that person be as unpredictable and willing to ruin future reputation by attacking an employer? If, if, if!

  And what of Bentoncourt? What if he convinced the others to displace themselves and attend Davis in the New Country? If this final bid to remove Davis failed, perhaps it would be best to leave Nijmege to her revenge. At least the deed would be done, though he’d be no closer to his goal of becoming the ultimate authority over the European Sanguire.

  Calming somewhat at this turn of thought, he glanced at the phone in his hand, surprised to see blood. He had squeezed so hard, the plastic had cracked, sending a shard into his palm.

  With a mild curse, he dropped the useless electronics onto the floorboard, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap the wound. His concern had always been that Davis would stand before the Agrun Nam and sway them with her presence; that with word and deed she would make them understand the truth of who she was, and compel them to follow her. If the assassin failed, perhaps he himself should assist Bertrada in her goals. Not only would his goal be met, as well as hers, but the Agrun Nam would begin its fall with the murder of their young Ninsumgal directly staining their hands.

  Alternate plans and thoughts filled his mind, the ache in his hand hardly noticeable. Tapping on the window between he and the driver, he indicated his desire to head to the Agrun Nam offices. Perhaps this would all work out for the best.

  A grim smile crossed his face as he stared unseeing at passing scenery.

  ***

  Whiskey didn’t have the patience to deal with anyone, and her people prudently understood that. The younger members of her pack had taken over the sitting area, playing a violent video game and making bets on who would kick whose ass next. The absence of Cora still echoed across the pack to the point that the armchair Cora would have normally occupied remained empty, though the couch was too crowded by far. The older Sanguire—her aunt, grandmother and Chano—sat around the dining table, drinking strong coffee. They were entrenched in a conversation with Sithathor who was learning the fine art of making Indian fry bread. Equidistant between gatherings, Whiskey fought her fear and fury, forcing herself to stillness lest she shake apart from the urge to destroy everything and everyone.

  She surged to her feet at the appearance of Castillo and Valmont. The adults quieted, but the younglings continued their game, perhaps becoming a little rowdier at the potential for bad news. Whiskey gestured for the two to follow her into her apartment, nodding at Chano’s quizzical expression to include him. Once in her office, the door closed behind them, she spun around. “Well?”

  “I’ve made the necessary phone calls, my Ninsumgal.” Castillo bowed. “We should hear soon from my contacts.”

  Some underlying current in the room felt odd. Whiskey wondered if her fury had anything to do with the priest’s deference. Here in the privacy of her office, she thought he would abandon his formal behavior as he had in the past. Chano gave Castillo a searching look, before hobbling to a chair to sit down.

  Whiskey looked at Valmont, and frowned. Did he seem stiffer?

  “I’ve made my call as well, my Ninsumgal.”

  She blinked at the title coming from his lips. A trickle of dread ran icy through her heart. Automatically, she mentally scanned them both, relieved neither was Reynhard in disguise.

  “What’s wrong? Why do you call me that?”

  Valmont didn’t answer. Instead, he approached and knelt a
t her feet.

  Fear mixed with her trepidation. He had willingly bent his knee to her once tonight, and now again. She glanced at Castillo, finding intense compassion in his eyes. “Get up, Valmont. There’s no time for this.”

  “If I don’t do this now, Ninsumgal, I never will. Please. Allow me the opportunity.”

  Castillo gave a slow nod, guiding Whiskey through the puzzling circumstances.

  She returned her attention to Valmont. “Say what you have to say.”

  He sighed, whether from relief she would listen or resignation, she couldn’t say. “I once gave this oath to my best friend and Ninsumgal, Elisibet. At the time, I was young and impetuous.

  I didn’t understand the true meaning of the words, or that I’d break that vow so thoroughly.”

  Whiskey recalled the first time Valmont had been presented to Elisibet and shrugged. “That’s in the past, Valmont. And you’ve already sworn allegiance to me. What does it have to do with the situation now?” What indeed? Her mind worried the connection.

  He peered up at her. “Please, let me finish.” When she didn’t interrupt, he dropped his gaze to the floor and continued.

  “I’ve had centuries to contemplate my actions and mistakes. I’ve changed considerably from those rash decisions, from my inability to control my emotions. I want you to know, I refuse to break my oath again.”

  Whiskey realized he somehow felt responsible for Margaurethe’s kidnapping. Why? They’d already confirmed he had nothing to do with it. She held her mental breath as he spoke, teetering on the razor’s edge of emotion where she could tumble either direction—destructive fury or an implosion of grief.

  “I told Elisibet I had a willingness to follow her to the ends of this earth and beyond. But I didn’t follow. I ushered my friend into the darkness of death with betrayal and the sword with which I had sworn to protect her. I’ve lived with that knowledge too long.” Again he breathed deeply, his shoulders slumping. “I offer this solemn oath from an oath breaker, Ninsumgal Jenna Davis. I know I’ve done this already, but I think it needs doing again. I, Sublugal Sañar Valmont, swear that I will never raise my hand against you and yours, that I will die at your hand or at your behest or in the defense of you and yours, that I will follow you beyond should you pass the veil before me.”