Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  The grief seemed to be winning as her vision blurred. She cleared her throat, working past the knot there. “And I swear to treat you with all the integrity and honor with which you treat me, Sublugal Sañar Valmont.” She faltered a moment, glancing at Castillo and Chano. Much as she would love to add that she would never attack Valmont, she couldn’t say such a thing.

  Circumstances could change, just as they had in Elisibet’s time.

  Sniffling, she added, “I swear to treat you honestly and fairly in all things, no matter the cost.”

  Valmont’s chuckle was dry and weak. “You might want to renege on that last.”

  Regaining her emotions, Whiskey wiped at her eyes. “Get up, and tell me what the hell is going on here.”

  He didn’t rise though he boldly met her gaze. “I throw myself on the mercy of your court, Ninsumgal. My mission here has been traitorous toward you.”

  The immediate thought that he had something to do with Margaurethe’s disappearance after all lit a fire in her heart. Only supreme effort kept her rational enough to remember his echoing fury at the kidnapping. “Clarify your statement, Valmont.”

  “I knew of Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege’s plans for you. She originally contacted me to come here and verify your existence. When it proved you were Elisibet reborn, she insisted I help return you to her so that she might gain the revenge she so dearly seeks.”

  Whiskey stepped away, confused. This had nothing to do with Margaurethe. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because the phone call I made was to tell her I quit. I’ll not be party to the killing of an innocent, which is what you are.” Valmont watched her as she leaned against her desk. “And because I believe Reynhard knew of my connection with Bertrada and didn’t tell you.”

  “What?” Castillo sounded shocked.

  “Yes. When he reported about the assassin, he made mention of Bertrada’s goals and all but told me he was aware of my duplicity.” Valmont raised his chin to Whiskey. “Why wouldn’t he tell you such a thing? At the very least, he would have told you privately about his suspicions, wouldn’t he?”

  Was this further proof of Dorst’s true nature, or simply an indication of his enjoyment of the game? It would be just like him to toy with Valmont this way. There was no love lost between her advisors of old; aside from Valmont and Margaurethe who had been the best of friends before Elisibet’s murder, all her other advisors had been at each other’s throats. Elisibet had fostered the dissension among them to retain control. If anything, the news of Valmont’s involvement with Nijmege pulled Whiskey from her angry funk. Valmont still knelt on the floor, and she felt a stab of irritation. “Oh, stand up, Valmont. My knees ache just looking at you.”

  Slowly, he stood, frowning. “I’m willing to accept any punishment.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I don’t see any reason to punish you. You did what you thought was necessary.” Whiskey lifted an eyebrow. “We start from here.” She almost laughed at the expression on his face, one of dismay mixed with a healthy dose of wonder. “Besides, I need you strong and healthy when we find Reynhard. Once we locate him, we find Margaurethe and Andri, and get our pound of flesh.”

  “Each?” Chano asked.

  Whiskey’s twisted smile expressed her opinion. “He’ll be lucky to have any flesh left when I’m through with him.”

  ***

  Whiskey paced her office. The phone sat ominously silent on her desk. Castillo had pulled a few books from her private library, and sat surrounded by open volumes on the couch around him.

  Chano perused one of them, occasionally murmuring ideas and suggestions to the priest. Valmont paced at the other end of the room, still edgy from his confession and oath.

  She still felt the shock of surprise when she looked at him. It had never occurred to her that he would work for Nijmege again after the last fiasco. Of course, it put everything into clearer perspective. Her sudden concern and distrust at Tribulations during their hunting lesson had been valid. He had still been seated on the fence’s edge regarding whether or not to carry through with Nijmege’s plan. Whiskey was glad to know her instincts had been right; it eased the growing doubts she had experienced over recent events. Regardless of the justification, it didn’t help now.

  Those much-touted Sanguire instincts still insisted that Dorst had absolutely nothing to do with Margaurethe’s kidnapping, regardless of all the evidence against him. But why else would he not tell her of Valmont’s deceit? While it was true that Dorst enjoyed his little games, would he have withheld information that could have been dangerous to her? If he was the assassin, then indeed he would. But if he wasn’t? Could it be because he already knew Valmont well enough to know that Valmont wouldn’t follow through?

  Her heart flipped when the phone rang, both she and Valmont freezing in their tracks to stare at it. Castillo stood and strode across the room to snap up the receiver. “Yes?” Whiskey extended her hearing to catch the report despite the rudeness of eavesdropping.

  “Sir, we’ve had reports of a man matching the description you gave us living at the Hollywood downtown.”

  She almost bit through her lip in surprise and pleasure. The Hollywood was a ramshackle, low-income hotel. The business rented rooms by the week. Junkies, punks and the occasionally flush street person resided there. Even Whiskey had spent a night or two at the Hollywood in her early days to take the rare shower when panhandling had paid off exceedingly well.

  “Do you have a room number?”

  The voice gave one and, before Castillo could even hang up the phone, both Whiskey and Valmont were heading toward the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I’ll not be left standin’ at the car.” Phineas stood with his arms tight across his chest. “Beggin’ my Ninsumgal’s pardon, but that’s my cousin the bastard’s nabbed.”

  Valmont rolled his eyes, his lips twisted into a grimace, and Whiskey found another reason to appreciate his presence—he exhibited all the negative emotions she couldn’t. They stood on Northwest Couch Street, five blocks from the sluggish Willamette River, the same river that Whiskey saw every day from her apartment. The limousine hadn’t quite caused raised eyebrows in this neighborhood, though it was a near miss. A few old establishments remained, the Hollywood Hotel being one.

  Previously dilapidated buildings had recently been renovated into upscale apartments and expensive shops, making the vehicle not too blatantly obvious.

  Sasha spoke into her microphone, and reported, “We have the building surrounded, Ninsumgal. There’s no evidence of Sañur Gasum Dorst, but we haven’t closed in on the hotel room.”

  “Don’t get too close. We don’t want to tip him off if he’s here.”

  Whiskey turned to Phineas, fighting to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Phineas, I understand your concern.” Her urgent desire to locate Margaurethe safe and sound made his demand an unnecessary delay.

  “I’m sure you do, my Ninsumgal. I just want you to know where I stand.” He paused, thinking about what he had just said.

  “And it ain’t out here!”

  Castillo stepped between them, ever the voice of calm and reason. “Perhaps Phineas can accompany us inside? He could keep an eye on the exits, to ensure Dorst doesn’t escape?”

  Phineas frowned, knowing he was being thrown a bone of appeasement, but didn’t argue the suggestion. “It’s better than sittin’ in the damned car.”

  “Whatever you decide, Whiskey, it needs to be fast.”

  Valmont studied the windows of the hotel. “I doubt Reynhard is defenseless. He may already know we’re here despite our not advertising ourselves.”

  Whiskey sighed, glancing behind her at the two sedans that had carried her personal guard to this location. “All right. Phineas, you stay in the lobby and keep an eye on the stairs and elevators.”

  She smiled grimly at his satisfied air. “I’ve been here before. You’ll be able to see the street, as well. I’d suggest you mentally sca
n the first floor; the back door is behind the front desk.”

  “Aye, then. Let’s get to it.” He cracked his knuckles, apparently ready to move.

  Warm air gusted out the glass door as Valmont opened it, redolent with mildew, cigarette smoke and the meaty smell of sweat and alcohol. The five of them stepped into the foyer, joined by three more guards. The only apparent difference between the interior and exterior was the level of light—regardless of bright lamps, the lobby appeared darker and damper than the street. The windows faced west, and morning illumination hadn’t yet crawled high enough to illuminate the lobby. Brown carpet beneath their feet sucked in the light, holding a multitude of indecipherable stains. To one side sat several moth-eaten couches and armchairs, mismatched in style and color. An old man lounged in a rickety wheelchair, staring out the picture window, tongue lolling as he drifted in and out of sleep.

  At the front desk, a relatively young man studied them. His head was bald and tattoos peeked from the collar of his button-up shirt. A nose ring glinted in the light of a small television.

  “Whaddya want?”

  Castillo stepped closer. “We’ve come to see a friend.”

  The clerk jerked a thumb at a sign behind him. “No visitors allowed. Can’t you read?”

  Valmont grinned. After receiving silent permission from Whiskey, he sidled forward and leaned against the counter.

  “Who’s going to stop us?”

  Looking the newcomer up and down, the clerk sneered.

  “Please, old man. You ain’t packing. Give me any shit and the cops will be all over you.” He pointed at the camera parked prominently above and to one side behind him, and then patted the top of the small television. “You think I’m watching Oprah on this thing?”

  “I don’t think you’re watching anything.” Valmont gave the camera a glare, concentrating.

  Whiskey smiled. Valmont was telekinetic, able to move physical objects with his mind. It was child’s play for him to turn the camera off.

  The clerk stared as his television went to snow and static.

  “What the fuck...?” He paused long enough to slap the machine, not seeing any change in reception. He glared at Valmont. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Here, let me help.” Castillo reached across the counter and took the receiver before the clerk could. With little exertion, the molded plastic shattered in his hand, and he gave the young man a contrite look. “I’m so sorry! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  Whiskey smelled the beginnings of fear, her mouth watering.

  It didn’t help the bloodlust for revenge already pounding in her heart. She gruffly pushed aside the hunger reaction, “Come on. We’re wasting time. Phineas, keep an eye on him.”

  “Aye, Ninsumgal.” Phineas grinned, all teeth and just a hint of fang as he stepped forward. “Don’t be pulling one o’ those newfangled phones out of your pocket, son. I don’t know my own strength neither.”

  Castillo dropped the pieces of phone onto the desk, shrugging apologetically. Valmont winked at the clerk, his smirk a promise of more to come before moving to rejoin Whiskey. Sasha was already at the elevator, holding it open for them.

  Whiskey stepped inside the car. “Valmont, you and Sasha come with me. Padre, if you don’t mind?” She indicated a door marked Stairs.

  “Certainly. Shall we race?”

  Regardless of the seriousness of the situation, Whiskey chuckled. “No, Padre. You’ll win. This elevator is slower than hell. When you get to the fourth floor, wait for us. Don’t approach the room.”

  “As you wish.” He disappeared up the stairs, another guard in tow, leaving two in the foyer with Phineas to keep control.

  The elevator door closed with a groan. Valmont raised an eloquent eyebrow. “You sure this thing can hold us?”

  “I’m sure. It’s stronger than it looks.” Whiskey expanded her awareness to include the exterior of the car. She didn’t want to miss Dorst should he be in the elevator shaft itself, already aware of their approach. When she pushed the proper button, she wasn’t surprised when it didn’t light up. With a grunt and a rattle, the elevator began its ascent.

  “You realize, of course, he’s probably not here. He’s not stupid.”

  “I know.” Whiskey’s tone was distracted as she concentrated on their immediate surroundings. “I’m hoping he left a clue about where he took Margaurethe. Since he hasn’t called me, he has to leave a message somehow. Otherwise, he’ll never have an opportunity to trade her life for mine.”

  Valmont sucked his teeth a moment. “Have you considered that he may have already killed her?”

  Fury flashed icy fire through her veins. “Reynhard is an intelligent man. The only thing to keep him alive will be Margaurethe safe and well.”

  “I agree.”

  Their gazes met, a rush of emotion and communication transferring between them. This richness in their connection was new to her, probably a result of her in-depth scrutiny of his thoughts, coupled with the clearing of his conscience. It resounded through her soul with familiarity. Elisibet had shared this type of bond with him. It held a different texture than the link Whiskey shared with Margaurethe, though the intensity was as strong. It smacked of consuming flame and terrified screams.

  It was oddly comforting.

  The elevator creaked to a stop and the doors opened, breaking their subliminal connection. Sasha promptly stepped out first, and scanned the dingy corridor. Whiskey shook her head in amusement as Valmont followed suit. So now he had appointed himself her protector. How long would it be before she disabused him of this notion? Following him out, she sent a tentative scan through the immediate area, not pushing herself as far as Dorst’s room. She picked up Castillo and the guard just inside the fire exit door, waiting for them. At her mind’s touch, he opened the door and they stepped out. Castillo idly glanced at his watch to indicate how slow they had been to catch up.

  Whiskey saw Valmont give him a grimace, and tried not to laugh.

  The smell of cigarette smoke and urine was stronger here.

  Whiskey didn’t think the window at the end of the hall had ever been opened. A quick glance at the room numbers around them told her which direction to go, and she glided past Sasha and down the hall in silence, her advisors and security flanking her.

  She refrained from scanning Dorst’s room until they arrived at the entry. If he was still inside and unaware of their presence, she didn’t want to tip him off. The room stood at the rear of the hotel. Unless he had assistance from spotters or cameras, he wouldn’t know how close they were.

  Taking a deep breath, she guarded herself against a potential attack. Then she stabbed her consciousness into the room, searching with sharp and vicious thrusts for any Sanguire presence. She almost fumbled when she realized Dorst was inside. Surprised, she pounced on his mind and held firm. “He’s here!” Something didn’t feel right, the link seemed hazy and indistinct compared to the rich amber and steel to which she was accustomed.

  Valmont needed no further urging. He pushed Whiskey aside, and crashed through the door into the squalid room.

  Sasha and the guard flowed through to clear it, weapons drawn.

  Castillo remained beside Whiskey, his attention on the hall and surrounding doors in case of ambush.

  As Whiskey entered, she realized that Dorst hadn’t fought her control, didn’t struggle. His essence slithered and flopped in her mental grasp in a revolting manner. She frowned at the odd sensation, not comprehending. She watched Valmont grab the form on the bed and haul him to his feet before she understood.

  Dorst was unconscious, his arms and legs tightly bound with chains. A partially full intravenous bag hung from a nail in the wall above the bed, the tube snaking down and entering the IV shunt expertly taped to the back of his hand.

  “What the hell is this?” Valmont shook the spy’s limp form.

  Castillo backed into the room, quietly closing the door before turning to regard them.


  “What is that?” Whiskey asked.

  Valmont eased his bundle back onto the bed. “I’m not liking this.” He touched the IV at Dorst’s wrist, lightly drawing his fingers up the tubing.

  “He’s been drugged.” Castillo walked over to a cracked plastic table where he picked up an empty bag. There was no writing upon it, no indication of what sort of narcotic it had held.

  “But why? And who could do it?” Whiskey’s mind rushed through her preconceptions, washing away the fallacy. She came up with an answer to her question at the same time as Valmont.

  “Reynhard isn’t the assassin.”

  Whiskey felt wobbly, and she sank onto the foot of the bed.

  While it was good to know her instincts had been correct about Dorst, this new knowledge shattered any plan she had to regain Margaurethe safe and sound. Where was her lover? And who had her? The only name that came to mind was Pacal’s, but she couldn’t see how he’d be involved if he couldn’t shape shift. All the evidence indicated the culprit was a Gúnnumu Bargún.

  Valmont roundly cursed in several languages, pacing the tiny room.

  Forcing herself to attend to the present, Whiskey looked at Sasha. “Stand down.” As her captain relayed the order, she went to Dorst’s side. Crimping the tubing, she pulled it from the IV shunt. “Think we can get him awake?”

  Castillo set the drug detritus down. “It’s possible. He’s a spy. No doubt he has all sorts of concoctions and antidotes on his person. Search him, and I’ll start looking through his things.”