“Whiskey, I will not judge your visions. As I said, each is personal to the individual. No one will ever hear of them from my lips.”
She nodded. “In the second one, I—I’m Elisibet Vasilla.”
Dorst looked as if someone had gut punched him. His careful control faltered, and his face slackened in shock. It was hard to imagine he could become any more wan, but what little blood remained in his face drained completely. “What did you say?”
“I’m Elisibet Vasilla,” she repeated. His response alarmed her, and she began to babble. “I’m at a dance or something, and I see a woman there, the same woman that leans over me in my nightmare. Her name’s Margaurethe O’Toole. I tell someone that I want her, but I don’t see who answers me. Then I’m overlooking a garden where she’s playing with other women her age. After that, she’s in my suite, and we’re having something to eat.” She blushed hotly at the memory of what happened next, shutting her mouth with a snap.
He stood with such abruptness that she flinched back from him. He stalked away from her. Leaning over, his hands gripped the small table with such force, she heard the wood fibers creak. One of the cups overturned, spilling the dregs of chocolate to pool and drip to the carpet below. He stared out the window, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.
Whiskey relaxed. Her instincts had proved true; he hadn’t hurt her, and she still believed he wouldn’t. Whatever he felt wasn’t directed at her. Comparing his scent to that of others she’d smelled over the last few days, she recognized a faint odor of fear. She didn’t have enough experience with her senses to understand what other emotions he felt.
Several minutes passed before the rhythm of his heart slowed to normal. The table stopped shaking. When he spoke, his voice was gruff. “Zaz ne za tud?”
Her eyes narrowed as she considered the gibberish. She almost asked him to repeat it again when something connected in her brain. “Do I know who I am?” He didn’t move or answer, forcing her to seriously consider his question. “A few hours ago, I would have said yes. But now, I don’t know. It can’t be possible, Reynhard.”
He straightened, inhaling deeply. “What can’t be possible?”
Whiskey scoffed. “The shit going on in my head!” She tapped her forehead with a finger to accentuate her words. “I was a Sanguire queen several hundred years ago in a past life? And now, I just happen to remember it while going through meditations designed to physically change me into a being that drinks Human blood to survive? It sounds like a movie, or maybe an elaborate hoax. Where the hell’s the camera crew?” She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m going crazy. That’s all there is to it. I’m already in the psych ward at Swedish or something, and this is just a drug dream.”
“Your sanity is not in question, yet.” Dorst left the table to kneel before her. “What is your true name?”
She peered at him. The name she’d so carefully guarded throughout her adolescence rolled off her lips without a qualm. “Jenna Davis.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Davis.”
Whiskey couldn’t resist smiling at the absurd introduction.
He bowed his head. “I, Reynhard Dorst, Master of Spies and Chief Assassin, recognize Ninsumgal Jenna Davis as my liege and ruler. My dagger, my blood, my heart is yours, my Gasan, to do with as you will.”
Her mouth dropped open. She stared at the three strips of black hair atop his pate.
When she failed to respond, he lifted his head and grinned at her. “Well? Do you accept me?”
Whiskey closed her mouth, eyes wide. “Um. Yeah, I guess.” She forced herself to the task at hand. This required something formal, though she hadn’t a clue how to go about it. “Your dagger, your blood, your heart are mine to do with as I will. In return,” and here she momentarily faltered. “In return, I swear to treat you as you treat me, respect with respect, trust with trust, loyalty with loyalty.”
“Not bad.” He appeared impressed. “This will have to be repeated with the proper witnesses. Until then, may I rise?”
“Oh! Yeah.” Dorst did so, and resumed his chair. “What just happened?”
“I swore fealty to you, my Gasan. I’m honored to be the first of what will hopefully be many.”
Slightly suspicious, she wondered if it meant what she thought it did. “What’s ‘fealty?”’
“Ach, American education is sorely lacking these days.” His voice took on a lecturing tone. “Swearing fealty is an act of swearing my loyalty to you. The word was used extensively in the Middle Ages, usually sworn by vassals to their feudal lord. I have, in effect, sworn my life to you so that you may use it as you deem necessary.”
“Your life?” Her head swam at the impact of his statement. “Then it’s real? These visions and dreams are real?”
“I believe they are.”
She shook her head to clear it, her distrustful traits rising to the fore. “You know, skipping past the impossibility of the whole thing, how do you know I’m not just a plant? From what the padre told me about my resemblance to Elisibet, I’ve already figured out what Fiona’s plans are for me. It could just be coincidence that I look like her, and am Sanguire.”
Dorst nodded slowly. “Excellent point, my Gasan. However, you’re not taking one thing into consideration.”
“What’s that?”
He smiled. “I knew Ninsumgal Elisibet. I have personal experience with the nature of her being.”
Whiskey pursed her lips, not getting the distinction.
“Tell me, how did you discover the priest was Sanguire?” He crossed his legs, and perched his hands upon them.
She remembered the dark chocolate warmth. “I felt him. Like I felt you when I got to this floor.” Reaching out with her mind, she easily engaged with the steel and amber she’d sensed before. “Like I’m feeling you now. Does every Sanguire feel different?”
“Yes, they do. It’s subjective, as well. How I feel to you is different than how I feel to Cora. Sometimes it’s just a matter of degree, but the nature of an adult Sanguire is similar to a person’s appearance—each is varied from individual to individual. No two will ever feel, smell, sense or sound the same.”
“So.” She considered a moment, the thought dawning as he spoke again.
“Ninsumgal Elisibet’s essence was a heady mixture of roses, as is yours.” He frowned in thought a moment. “I’ve always wondered if the fairly non-threatening essence of her being had something to do with her rather violent nature.” He shook his head, and waved it away with an elegant gesture. “No matter.”
Violent? “You’re saying I feel like Elisibet?” The bond between them grew stronger as Dorst focused once more upon her. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but she imagined it had the ability to be so with the wrong person.
“To a good degree,” he pronounced. “There are some slight differences, a hint of water and blood that I don’t remember experiencing. All in all, however, your nature is strikingly similar to hers.”
“Would that mean anyone else who’d known her would find something similar?”
He smiled. “To my knowledge, no Sanguire has ever ‘returned,’ so to speak. Perhaps so.”
Whiskey digested this information. The offhand manner in which Dorst had mentioned Elisibet’s violent personality disturbed her. She was a “monster of composite power” to these people. Castillo had immediately notified the Agrun Nam when he’d seen her. Fiona, subtle threats aside, wanted Whiskey under her thumb. But Reynhard says I feel different than her.
Dorst waited for a response from her, calmly watching her.
Why wouldn’t I feel different? I’m me, not her. Why would Castillo, a self-proclaimed “expatriate,” notify the leading European council upon seeing her? Why would Fiona think she could use Whiskey just because of her appearance? Why would Reynhard swear...himself to me? I’m just a screwed-up street kid!
She said, “There’s something missing here, something you haven’t told me. I get that I look like this badass bitch from y
our past, but what does that have to do with anything? I’m guessing you think I’m the person you’ve been searching for all this time. You said at Malice that you’d thought you’d found her a couple of times, but hadn’t. You just said this has never happened before, so Sanguire don’t reincarnate. Are you here to test me like the Dalai Lama or something?”
He chuckled. “No, my Gasan, I will not trot out a favored bowl or pen that Ninsumgal Elisibet enjoyed to test you.” He glanced over at the bland knife still on the dresser. “Though, had I done so, you’d already have passed the test.”
“That was hers?” Whiskey stood and stared at it, her body suddenly edgy with the desire to take it from its resting place.
“It belonged to her father, one that he wore all his days. She did, as well.”
Whiskey forced herself to resume her seat, tearing her gaze from the knife with an effort. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“After my Ninsumgal was assassinated several bad years passed. They are now known as the Purge. Anyone who was truly loyal to or a patron of Elisibet was hunted down, put on trial, tortured, or outright killed.”
A vision of Margaurethe O’Toole being tortured or killed made Whiskey dizzy. “You survived. Did others?” she demanded, her voice strained.
Dorst cocked his head at her. “If you mean Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe, have no fear. She lives.”
Whiskey’s heart pounded. She does exist. She’s alive.
“Shall I continue?”
“Yeah.”
“The Agrun Nam, in all their wisdom, decided to forego a monarchy, and rule in the Ninsumgal’s stead. Thirty-two years later, a trio of ensi’ummai attended a public session. Their leader, Mahar, proclaimed that Elisibet may be dead, but her spirit lived. She would return to bring order to chaos, compassion to corruption, and peace to warring peoples.”
“Oracles?” She concentrated on the name. “I don’t recall Mahar.”
“Mahar was ancient, one of the oldest Sanguire alive even then. Some said she lost her mind to senility in the shrouded history of our past. Others thought she was someone to venerate for her visions and wisdom.” Dorst gave a light shrug. “She rarely made public appearances, so you can imagine how her words went over with the council.”
Whiskey smirked. “Not well.”
He mirrored her expression. “Exactly. In any case, because the session was a public one, word of Mahar’s prophecy spread far and wide in no time. Hence, my search for you.”
“And also why Fiona thinks she can get something out of me, and the padre let the Agrun Nam know when he saw me.”
“Yes, my Gasan.”
It made sense, even if everyone had it wrong. She wasn’t Elisibet reborn. She wasn’t a full-blooded European if Castillo had the right information about her mother. It meant her life was going to be that much tougher in the long run as she dealt with this Elisibet’s long-term mess. “So what now?”
Dorst raised a hairless eyebrow. “Now we begin your lesson for the third meditation.”
Of course.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They spent the next two hours going over the chant. The farther Whiskey went through the process, the more the slim volume loomed sinister in her mind. What used to be a simple book now became the Book. Had she been raised Sanguire, she supposed she’d have assumed the veneration that Dorst and Castillo gave the item. Her lack of cultural experience didn’t change her growing physical aversion. She sensed it inside her backpack, beating in sync with her heart, a sensation of blood coursing beneath the surface of the leather cover. The more she handled it, the more alive it felt, somehow attuned to her body rhythms.
Do all Sanguire feel this way, or is it just me? Can Reynhard feel the Book as easily as he feels me? She shivered, and pulled her focus away from the thing. More than enough other things to worry about.
She’d left Dorst’s apartment with strict instructions not to conduct the third meditation until the next day. He’d also given her a key to his door, advising her to return whenever she wished. She walked down the street in a light daze, hardly seeing the people and vehicles around her.
Dorst had answered her immediate questions, but she still had a hundred more. It unnerved her that he took the strange developments with such aplomb. He seemed pleased with the situation. After searching for four hundred years, having the end in sight had to be a relief. His endorsement of her strange visions and newfound memories didn’t ease her discomfort. He’s got to be wrong. What happens when he figures that out? Hell, when I figure that out?
She yearned to talk over this mess with someone she knew, to vent or get a second opinion. As much as she trusted Dorst, he had an utter devotion to his Ninsumgal, a requirement to have kept looking for so long. Not even Margaurethe O’Toole had searched with such diligence. Whiskey experienced that same worn yearning she’d held her entire life, finally connecting it to its origins. The idea that she had spent the majority of her adolescence pining over a woman she hadn’t known existed frightened her. She shoved those thoughts away. It would have been so cool to talk to the padre about this. Regret and annoyance washed over her. Damn him. The sky began to darken. She looked up to see cloud cover. Maybe tomorrow would be overcast. She certainly hoped so. The days of sunshine hadn’t helped her mood, or the transition.
With nightfall coming and no place in particular to be, her feet automatically took her to Tallulah’s. Cora’s text message had been somewhat agitated; going to Malice was out of the question. Probably for a very long time. Too bad. Whiskey had liked the music there. The illicitness of being underaged in an adult bar hadn’t hurt, either. She chuckled to herself as Tallulah’s came into view.
Being a Tuesday night, local high school students didn’t spend much time here. Slipping past the pool tables to the back, Whiskey nodded to some kids she recognized. She saw a couple of adult men trolling for jailbait at the bar, the aging chickenhawks ludicrous in their hip-hop clothes as they flashed money and made eyes at the homeless boys on the dance floor.
Whiskey grinned when she saw Gin at a table, a heavy load rising from her shoulders at the mere sight of her. There were six others from her street family there, but no Ghost in residence. She could talk to Gin about this. Maybe she can help. Her step quickened as she approached.
“Hey, chica!” Gin stood up, a welcome smile on her face. “Where you been? I missed you.”
“Around.” Whiskey sank into the hug in a way she never did with anyone else, feeling a sense of comfort and affection similar to what she’d felt in her parents’ arms in the first vision. Her mind automatically reached out to connect with her best friend, as it had with Castillo and Dorst, recoiling when no essence met her quest. She stiffened at the blankness between them, feeling disoriented at the lack, bringing other senses into play. It took a moment before she realized what she heard. Two heartbeats. Reynhard was right. Pulling back, gripping Gin by the upper arms, she stared. “You are pregnant.”
Gin’s mouth dropped open, one hand reaching for her belly. “How did you know that? I haven’t told Ghost, yet.”
The confirmation told Whiskey everything she didn’t want to know. Releasing Gin, she stepped back, her world slowly crumbling to her feet. “I just do.” I can’t drag her into this, not with a baby on the way. She doubted Fiona would hold off using Gin as a bargaining chip in the future. If Whiskey continued her defiance, Fiona would utilize every opportunity to keep her in line.
Gin studied her with a puzzled expression. “Are you okay? You seem...different.”
“I’m fine.” Whiskey took off her backpack, and set it on the floor beside her, feeling more weary than anything else. She remembered Dorst saying that Humans naturally steered clear of Sanguire, and wondered if that’s what Gin now noticed.
“You sure?” Gin looked around the area. “You still hanging with those punks that gave you the money and tattoo?”
Whiskey looked away. “No. They’re bad news.”
Gin reached
out, and gently cupped Whiskey’s cheek. “I thought they were. Nobody gives out mucha dinero for nothing.”
Staring into Gin’s caring eyes, Whiskey fought back tears. Had Fiona and Dorst found her six months ago, all would be well. She’d at least have had a friend by her side through this, someone she could trust. That avenue had closed forever with the advent of Ghost, and a baby on the way. I can’t endanger my closest friend in the world, and her unborn child. I’m on my own with this shit. A different emotion built in Whiskey’s chest. Not wanting to analyze her feelings and thereby deny herself, she leaned into Gin and kissed her. For just a second, Gin responded as she’d often done in the past. Emboldened, Whiskey pressed her case, tongue teasing full lips.
Gin pulled away.
“What the fuck’s going on here?”
Gin quickly snatched her hand away as Ghost stormed up to them. “Nothing, mi corazón. Whiskey just got here.”
“Looks like she was getting there, yeah.” Ghost pushed Gin back away from Whiskey, inserting himself between them. Gin stumbled against a chair, almost falling.
“Hey! Watch it, asshole.” Whiskey tried to move past Ghost to support her friend, but he blocked her, shoving her back.
“You watch it, dyke. I’m sick of you hitting on my girlfriend. I heard you slept together while I was gone.”
Whiskey scanned the crowd, noting several of Ghost’s street family had arrived with him. A loose circle of street kids surrounded them. Dominick, the young kid nicknamed Spot, grinned at her, leaving her no doubt as to who had passed on that bit of information.
Gin slipped her arm through Ghost’s. “That’s all we did, muchacho. Whiskey crashed at the flop with us, nothing more. Don’t you trust me?”
He wouldn’t be put off. “I trust you just fine. It’s this bitch I don’t trust for shit. She still acts like you’re cut buddies when you’re not.”
The Strange Path Page 15
