Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Whiskey’s spirits rose at Valmont’s presence. Even if she didn’t survive this, it wouldn’t matter. His being here meant Margaurethe would be safe. “You never listen to me,” she said to Valmont.

  “I never call, I never write,” he added in feigned boredom.

  She chuckled.

  “Enough of this.” The assassin cocked his gun. “Get out of here or I’ll shoot her.”

  “Like you aren’t planning on doing that anyway?” Valmont asked, scorn in his voice.

  The assassin’s was equally acid. “And then I’ll shoot you.”

  Valmont scoffed. “You’ll die before you pull the trigger.”

  “Do you want his blood on your hands, Ninsumgal?”

  Whiskey’s mind searched for options. “What, are you stupid? Of course not.” She turned to Valmont. “Leave us.”

  His gaze barely flickered from the assassin. “You’re joking.”

  Yes, I am. Smirking, she reached out to caress his mind. Even as strong as she was, she didn’t think she could take on a Sanguire of Andri’s apparent age alone. But maybe with Valmont’s help, I can.

  “You heard me. Get out.”

  Valmont’s face twisted with a mix of emotion, his jaw setting stubbornly as he lowered his chin. “Fat chance, my Ninsumgal.”

  He adjusted his grip on the pistol, cocking the hammer.

  The sensation of their essences melding together wasn’t lost on the assassin. He took another step back, raised the pistol to Whiskey’s head. “Don’t even think about it!”

  Whiskey stabbed out with her mind, hoping the shock and pain of it spoiled his aim.

  ***

  The time it took for Phineas to open the locks stretched far too long. Her legs finally free, Margaurethe glared ineffectually at her cousin as he worked on the one at her waist.

  “It’s hardly my fault.” He worked with diligence as he whispered. “Bastard made a right mess of things, buying these locks. Special, they are. Takes a bit more to get through ’em.”

  Upstairs she heard more movement, and discerned faint voices through the ceiling. It sounded like Andri and Whiskey, but then she heard Valmont’s distinctive tones. “Just hurry!”

  ***

  Sharp pain pierced Whiskey’s head as he defended himself with surgical precision. There was no wasted energy, no fumbling as he thrust his mind against her attack, the barrel of the gun still aimed at her head. Despite having Valmont’s strength to draw from, she scrambled to keep herself shielded, amazed at her opponent’s mental discipline. Her only other experience with a duel had been Fiona Bodwrda—a Sanguire no more than a hundred years old. The differences in ability between her and the assassin staggered Whiskey. God, it’s no wonder Margaurethe went into convulsions when I lashed out at her!

  He seemed content to continue in this vein, though his finger remained solidly on the trigger. Just as she found a way to block his advance in one area, he switched tactics and engaged another part of her mind. Her body shook from the mental exertion, her vision clouding as she and Valmont struggled. It was so hot, sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. She barely noticed that she had thrown off her trench coat, and taken a physical step closer to Andri as she concentrated on staying alive. She tried to flank him, to surround his mind with hers as she had done to others. A tendril of his thought slid out to cut off her advance with no lessening of power in his frontal attack. Again and again he met her, strength with strength, defeating her at every twist and turn.

  Whiskey felt Valmont weakening, heard him groan at a particularly vicious counterattack. She pulled her mind inward, not able to shield herself alone, not able to put the assassin on the defense. Frantic, she searched Elisibet’s memories for anything, anything to help her. All she saw was a young Margaurethe hovering over her dying Elisibet, and cold, darkness filling Elisibet’s vision. “No! ” Gathering up every shred of her might, she surged forward. She grabbed at the gun in Andri’s hand, but it was almost as if he saw her actions before she took them. He brought his arm down, closed the distance between them, and planted the pistol in her gut. I can’t die! I can’t do this to Margaurethe again!

  An alien thought entered her mind, a whispered response from her enemy. My apologies, Ninsumgal . But this is something I have to do.

  His mental invasion angered her. She grabbed his throat, glaring into his eyes as she fought for her life. He stared back, face reddening as she cut off his oxygen, no fear in his eyes, no remorse. “No!” So close were their minds, she saw his intention as he thought it. Glancing down, she saw his hand wrapped around the grip, felt his finger tightening on the trigger. She growled as she tightened her hold on his throat, feeling a familiar tingle settle in her torso. A gunshot echoed loudly in the small room.

  Valmont swore as the bullet punched into the wall beside him.

  Whiskey felt nothing but the tingle in her gut. She dug her thumbs into the assassin’s throat, crushing his windpipe, nails burrowing into the flesh. His mental attack faltered when she didn’t weaken. Taking the initiative, her mind pounded against his, sensing the narrow margin of his endurance beginning to ebb. His mental shielding began to shred, tatters of uselessness through which she slipped. She felt confusion in his mind, watched his mouth gape in search of breath, felt the flesh part beneath her fingers. A godawful ripping noise filled her ears and blood spilled hot across her hands, spraying her face. She held him until his eyes rolled up into his skull, and his mind turned sluggish, swirling down into the dark. Disgusted, she tossed him aside.

  Valmont staggered into view as he circled her, looking down upon the dying man. Sweat slicked his dark skin, and he had bitten his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. His eyes trailed up, carefully examining her torso. “He shot you. I saw it.”

  Whiskey took a deep breath to calm herself, though her gore-ridden hands still shook from adrenaline. “I’m Gidimam Kissane Lá.”

  He stared. “Ghost Walker?” Before she could answer, he burst out laughing. “Why not? Of course you are!”

  A smile crawled across her face at his laughter, the sound chasing away her fear and revulsion. Footsteps rapidly approached the room, and she turned to see Margaurethe and Phineas rushing in.

  “Margaurethe?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  By the time Bentoncourt arrived at the meeting, everyone else was there. The glares he received were odd, and he frowned as he took his place at the head of the table. “So, what is this all about?” he asked Cassadie.

  The others shared puzzled glances. “Why are you asking me?”

  Bentoncourt stared at his longtime friend. “Because you called us here.”

  “No,” Nijmege said. “You called us here. At least that’s what my note said.”

  “And mine,” McCall agreed.

  “Whereas my note came from you.” Rosenberg’s heavy-lidded eyes stared at the woman.

  Nijmege scoffed. “I most certainly did not call this meeting.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  The door popped open, interrupting them. A man entered, his garb and hair that of a black-and-white clown. His skin was pale and three mohawks graced his otherwise bare scalp. “Ah! You’re already here! My apologies for being late.” He moved to the other end of the table from Bentoncourt.

  They stared for a second in shock. No one but the Agrun Nam entered this room. It just wasn’t done.

  “Who are you?” Nijmege demanded.

  The stranger’s face twisted into a petulant frown, his long fingers fluttering over his heart. “I’m crushed, Aga Maskim Sañar Bertrada! You don’t recognize me?” He scanned the others in the room. “Well, I suppose it’s to be expected, though I daresay one of you should have an idea.”

  Bentoncourt tilted his head, listening intently to the man’s voice. Leaning forward, he peered at the man. “Reynhard?”

  A grin of delight quickly replaced the frown. “Oh, very good, Lionel!”

  “Who?” Unlike the others, McCall did
n’t immediately make the connection.

  “Before your time, I’m afraid.” Dorst’s manner was conspiratorial. “Though I’m most pleased to make your acquaintance, Samuel.”

  While the others tried to catch up, Bentoncourt said, “Davis brought us here.”

  “Oh, two for two. Very good.” Dorst produced a laptop and blithely set it up as he chattered. “She most certainly did, though I suggested the subterfuge. I seriously doubted some of you would appear if you knew.” He gave a small shrug, beaming at them. “I could have been wrong.”

  Nijmege, jaw moving as she gritted her teeth, rose to her feet. “I’ll not be at some pipsqueak’s beck and call. I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, I think not.” Dorst’s tone remained pleasant. A pistol had appeared in his hand, pointed at her. “You see, I’ve been given permission to use any and all means at my disposal to ensure your cooperation for this little meeting. You’ll find the door locked.”

  He tsked in apparent concern. “And I’ve put a guard on the door for the duration. Let’s all have a seat until my job is complete. It will be much less messy, don’t you think?”

  “Sit down, Bertrada,” Bentoncourt said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She looked as if she would fight the order until McCall reached out to touch her hand. Their gazes met, something communicated between them, and she returned to her chair.

  “Very good. Thank you so much. I do so hate bloodshed.”

  The pistol disappeared and he finished whatever he was doing. “I present to you, my Ninsumgal, Jenna Davis.” With a flourish, he turned the laptop around.

  Davis stared back at them. Having only seen still photographs of her, Bentoncourt couldn’t help but be fascinated by her image, hardly noting the choppiness of the transmission. When she spoke, her voice was a bit tinny, more from the speakers than anything else, but the sight and sound of her brought back all the memories of Elisibet. There was no way any of the others could doubt her veracity now.

  “My apologies for going about things this way, but I’m pretty sure it was the only way to get you all together at one time.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ninsumgal.” Of course Cassadie would be the one to remember protocol and politeness.

  She grinned, obviously thinking the same. “Thank you, Aiden. I remember you from before this, however.” Her eyes didn’t move, but Bentoncourt assumed she looked at all of them on her computer. “I remember all but Mr. McCall.”

  Nijmege was pale as death. “Then you remember me, as well,” she snapped.

  “Yes, I do, Bertrada.” Davis’s expression softened. “What happened to you was one of the worst things that could happen to anyone short of death. While I had nothing to do with Elisibet’s decisions, you have my heartfelt sorrow at your loss.”

  Her mouth opening and closing, Nijmege looked like a fish out of water.

  Bentoncourt took back his role as Nam Lugal. “Since you’ve brought us together, Ninsumgal, perhaps you could tell us what you wanted us to know.”

  Davis nodded. “Of course, Lionel. I know you’re busy with the day-to-day operations of your people. I’ll be brief.” She paused a moment, collecting her thoughts. “This is your official notice. You will stop harassing me. I will not be coming to place myself before the Agrun Nam and beg your protection and assistance. Whether or not you believe who I am means nothing.”

  “I believe it means a lot,” McCall muttered.

  “Perhaps so, Mr. McCall,” Davis said. “But you are no more a Sañar than I am. If you recall the laws of the European Sanguire, only royalty can assign a member of the Agrun Nam.”

  He gaped at her.

  “I hereby demand that the Agrun Nam prepare a delegation for travel. I’ll give you three months to assign a representative to attend me in Portland, Oregon. I’ve already found a fairly nice complex of buildings for your offices and residences should you wish; you don’t need to reside at my headquarters if you don’t want to.” Davis paused to stare at them. “This is not up for debate. At least one of you will attend me. Is that understood?”

  Bentoncourt scanned his companions, all apparently speechless.

  “We understand.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you in a few weeks. Reynhard?”

  Dorst, who had been smiling pleasantly at the gathering, turned the laptop around. “Yes, my Gasan?”

  “I’m finished here.”

  “Of course, Ninsumgal. I’ll see you soon.”

  He busied himself with disconnecting the computer from the data line and putting it away as everyone stared at him. When all was ready, he strutted to the door. “Have a nice day!”

  Bentoncourt almost smiled at his shell-shocked peers. His eyes met Cassadie’s, and he remembered the last time they had spoken. He had said then that Davis wouldn’t attend them, that she would demand their relocation instead. It was with great diplomacy that Bentoncourt refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

  ***

  It was with great care that he closed the door. He stalked across his office, standing for a few minutes before his desk.

  Nijmege’s “pipsqueak” had displayed a steel backbone and shrewd political insight. Her use of Dorst as her messenger boy was a calculated move to impress the Agrun Nam with her resources at hand, and it had succeeded. None of those fools realized how close to the edge of the precipice the Agrun Nam sat. Having now seen Davis almost firsthand, he still wondered how much of Elisibet’s memories she truly had and how much was coaching from O’Toole and Valmont. If the latter, the situation might not be as dire as it seemed.

  But the insult!

  With a growl, he released the fury he had held in check throughout the unscheduled meeting. In one smooth motion he bent, sweeping his arms across his desk, savoring the crash as everything fell to the floor in a jumbled heap. The sound echoed the chaos of his anger, but didn’t appease it. He raised his fists over his head, locking them together and bringing them down with all his Sanguire strength. It wasn’t enough to completely shatter the solid oak, but it gave a satisfying crack as a split opened across its surface.

  There’d been no word from his assassin since the day before. He’d assumed the man had completed the job and was en route to fulfill his promise of destroying his employer.

  This message from Davis put lie to that supposition. She lived. Whatever that buffoon had done, Davis was now on the offensive. Maybe she thought Nijmege was involved, and this forced delegation would flush the saboteur out of hiding.

  There was nothing and no one linking he or Nijmege to any of the assassination plots—he’d made certain of that. The only option Davis had was to get each sanari under her thumb long enough to interrogate them. To go to her now would most certainly ruin his plans.

  Or would they?

  He stood before the wreck of his desk, ignoring the aches in his wrists as he considered his options.

  The phone rang, interrupting his mulling. He frowned, staring blankly at the empty space on the desk where it resided.

  It rang again, and he moved around to find that the receiver had miraculously landed in the cradle. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  His secretary’s voice was timid; she’d obviously heard his temper tantrum and was loath to interrupt it. “Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege is on line one for you, sir.”

  He didn’t bother thanking her. Reaching down he placed the phone base on the desk to pick up the call. “Bertrada?”

  “If I can’t get these ñalga súpi to bring that bitch here, then I’m going there.”

  Samuel McCall nodded to himself. “Of course. I concur. What do you need me to do?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Whiskey quietly shut down the computer. She was alone in her apartment office, the only place currently deemed safe by her Aga’usi and advisors. Despite the fact that the assassin had been discovered and personally dispatched by her, The Davis Group was still in security lockdown. From her apartment office she could see the A
ga’gída stationed on the roof, patrolling directly above her.

  From this vantage point she also saw movement in her sitting room. Her pack, family and advisors idled there, the younglings chafing at the imposed restrictions this threat had caused.

  Whiskey hoped that her demands of the Agrun Nam would allow their reins to be loosened. Whichever one of the sanari was responsible for the multiple assassination attempts should be backpedaling now, trying to regain control of the situation before the impending departure of the European delegation. That would allow her pack the opportunity to break out within the bounds of her responsibilities, have some fun and mourn the loss of their comrade. She had no doubt that the person ultimately responsible for Cora’s demise would be one of the European delegates. After both a Human and a Sanguire assassin had failed to kill her, she anticipated that the mystery mastermind would come to see the job done properly. She looked forward to that.

  It would be nice to put a face to the bastard before she destroyed him.Whiskey set aside the visceral anger, forcing her teeth to sheathe. Was it only last year she had first discovered her heritage? She remembered the terror of those fangs sprouting in her mouth and her inability to make them go away. A smile quirked her lips. A lot of things had changed since then.

  Picking up her desk phone, she said, “Send in my advisors.”

  Through the glass she watched as the message was conveyed.

  Margaurethe, Valmont, Castillo and Chano rose from the large table. Moments later Whiskey’s lover, protector, priest and elder filed into her office.

  Margaurethe came behind the desk, her hand settling on Whiskey’s shoulder. Whiskey covered it with her own, looking up to receive a kiss. Since arriving in the aftermath to discover Whiskey had dispatched her attacker and survived a bullet, something indefinable had changed within Margaurethe. She seemed less forceful in words and action, as if she had come to terms with Whiskey’s abilities to protect herself and no longer needed to waste energy in worry over the matter. Whiskey found Margaurethe less combative and more inclined to listen, even to Valmont. While the change was a bit of a relief, Whiskey didn’t want Margaurethe to regress to the woman she’d been with Elisibet. She liked the strong professional Margaurethe had become.