Silence. She rested in his arms, fear of his rejection causing her to tense. His hold remained warm and close. It didn’t retract, didn’t react to her words. She swallowed, wondering what he thought.
When he spoke, his voice remained compassionate and calm. “I doubt that’s what happened. Killing a person in that manner happens only in movies. It’s a myth.”
Whiskey sniffled, and pulled back to peer at him. “Then what else was it?”
“You said the smell of blood got stronger afterward. Perhaps when he fell he cracked his skull open on the ground.”
She stared at him, unable to process the information. Eventually she found her voice. “Is there any way you can find out?”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. “I can try. I don’t have many connections in the local political structure, but I might have an acquaintance close to the Saggina who might be able to get some information.”
“I really need to know, Padre.” She clutched at his shirt. “If you can tell me anything, it’d be great.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you.” Hope filled Whiskey’s heart. Even if Dominick had died from hitting the ground, she’d be responsible for his death. At least she’d know she hadn’t done it herself, that it had been an accident. “I thought you’d be really pissed at me.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed. But it’s not my place to judge, Whiskey.”
She felt a fresh wave of tears sting her eyes. “Still, what you think means a lot to me.”
“What I think is that you’ve had a rough row to hoe. You did the best you could considering the circumstances and resources you had. I wouldn’t have done any better in your place.” He tightened the embrace, hugging her. “I think that we all go alone before God, and His is the only judgment that matters. What you do between now and the day you pass the veil will decide whether Dominick’s death is atoned.”
“Is the furniture not to your liking?”
Whiskey looked up to see Dorst standing in the kitchen door. She wiped at her heating face, scrambling to her feet.
“My Gasan.” He bowed. “Dear Cora tells me you and the padre were having...an intimate moment, and did not wish to be disturbed. Shall I leave?”
Castillo got up and returned to the stove, sliding the pan of half-cooked eggs back onto the burner.
Whiskey reached for the paper towels. “No, that’s okay, Reynhard. We’re done.” She turned back to the sink, splashing her face with water and drying it with the towels. “Where have you been?”
Dorst gave her a mocking grin. “Out and about, dear Whiskey, doing what I do best.”
She sniffed. “And what’s that?”
“I am your chief spy and assassin, my Ninsumgal,” he reminded her.
“Meaning he’s been crawling around doing whatever he does to support you.” Castillo slid the eggs onto a plate. “Hungry, Sañur Gasum?”
Dorst raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head, his grin concurring with Castillo’s statement. “Thank you, but, no, Father.”
Picking up the centuries old recollection Elisibet had of Dorst, Whiskey scowled. Given an opportunity, Dorst would play political word games for hours, never revealing what his conversational partner wanted to know. She crossed her arms, and glared at him. “That’s not an answer.”
He gave a slight shrug of apology. “Sublugal Sañar Valmont remains in the area.”
Whiskey’s fangs made an abrupt appearance, a mixture of fear and anger surging through her. She clamped down on her lips, willing them to retract.
“He’s currently residing in the luxury suite of the Sorrento Hotel. He’s registered there for a month, with the stipulation that he may extend his stay. I’ve access to his hotel phone records, but he’s obviously using a cellular for most of his calls. It may take time for me to get the number.” Dorst frowned in thought, tapping his chin with a long index finger. “He’s spending a good portion of his night prowling the University District and, when not scaring the bejesus out of the youthful unfortunates living on the streets there, he frequents Crucible for company.”
“He’s not hurting anyone in the U District, is he?”
Dorst shook his head. “No, no. He’s shaking your peers down for information about you. It’s only a matter of time before he happens upon the right people who can describe Fiona and her pack. Until then, he’s grasping at straws.”
Whiskey thought of Gin. “What happens if he finds someone willing to talk to him?”
“Then he can approach the local Saginna for more information. Find out where Fiona has been residing, and what she’s been up to.”
Castillo, finished with his stint as chef, shut down the stove, and joined the conversation. “It’s required by Sanguire law to announce your presence to the local authorities when you’re in the area. Considering the nature of our people, it’s best in case something happens.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Then it’s just a matter of time before he tracks me here.” She glanced wildly about the kitchen, searching for an exit that didn’t exist. “When Manuel and Bronwyn tell the locals about Fiona, I’ll be up on murder charges. This...Saginna will have to tell the Agrun Nam about me, and Valmont will be informed.”
“Actually, no.” Dorst drew off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair at the breakfast nook. He casually leaned his elbows on the counter, studying the plate of bacon. “What happened between you and Fiona was a duel, and accepted by law. No charges will be filed in this matter. Should anyone think otherwise, I’ll file my statement as your Second.” Picking up a piece of bacon, he gave it close examination as he continued speaking. “Manuel and Bronwyn have had a change of heart regarding the Seattle area. It’s so dreary, don’t you know. They’re already gone, moved away. Rumor has it they’re in the company of a certain youngling who’s just completed the Strange Path. Poor woman. She bears an uncanny resemblance to our long dead Ninsumgal Elisibet Vasilla.” Dorst took a bite of bacon. “Pity. They both had such potential as assassins.”
“They’re gone?”
“Far away.” Dorst waved the remaining chunk of bacon at his audience. “Did I mention a horrible fire that occurred not long after they left the premises? Terrible, that. The authorities say someone left the gas on in the house when they left. Decimated the place.” He popped the rest of his snack into his mouth.
Whiskey stared at him, unsure whether she should feel appalled or pleased or suspicious. She inhaled, focusing her senses on Dorst, wondering why she hadn’t caught the faint scent of burnt wood when he’d entered. I was crying; my nose was congested.
“Amazing how that worked out,” Castillo drawled.
Dorst nodded. “Isn’t it, though?”
She shook her head, trying to look at the situation with a little objectivity. “So, if Valmont does get far enough to find Fiona, he’ll think I’ve gone with Bronwyn and Manuel?”
“One could hope.” Dorst pushed away from the counter. “And since I’ve never registered my presence with the authorities, it’s doubtful he’ll realize I’m here. There’ll be nothing keeping him in the area.”
Whiskey inhaled deeply, releasing a slow breath as she considered. “So, what next?”
Castillo answered this one. “Your education. You might have picked up the language well enough, but you need some serious schooling in our ways, our history, our law. If you are to take over as the Ninsumgal of the European Sanguire, you need to know as much about our politics as possible.”
Take over? The idea repulsed her. She’d seen what having that kind of power had done to Elisibet. Granted, the woman had been a spoiled brat without an ounce of compassion, but running the whole show certainly hadn’t done her any favors. Last thing I want is to become like her. She knew that her life experiences wouldn’t allow it to happen, but she also remembered the feral joy she’d felt as Fiona’s mind broke beneath her attack.
“Whiskey?”
She glanced up at Dor
st, realizing he’d asked a question she missed. “What was that again?”
“While our dear Father Castillo schools you in our etiquette and protocol, what would you have me do?”
Whiskey almost laughed. I’m only eighteen years old. What the hell do I order a seven hundred-year-old spy and assassin to do? Her heart stilled in her chest as a thought occurred to her. “I want you to find Margaurethe O’Toole and bring her— No. Ask her to come here.”
Chapter Forty
She didn’t see the warning signs until it was too late. How could she not see them? The tension in the palace had been all but impenetrable after Nam Lugal Nahib’s grisly execution. Valmont had refused a direct order to attend the proceedings, and had gotten into a shouting match with Elisibet afterward. It had been three weeks since he’d left the palace and the capital city for Aga Maskim Sañar Bertrada Nijmege’s estate, taking half of Elisibet’s disaffected royal guard with him.
Someone had seen him in the palace. Today.
When had the halls become so endless, so wide and empty? They went on forever, seeming to expand before her as she went. She dashed through them, holding her skirts up without decorum, a stitch needling her left side. Nothing appeared out of place, nothing odd, except the sound of her tortured breathing, and the fear choking her throat. She held out hope that the brainless, nameless ninny who’d reported seeing Valmont in the kitchens had been wrong. The chance of a misunderstanding were small; he was a distinctive man, well known in the palace environs.
As she rounded the corner, her heart leapt into her throat before sinking to the depths of her belly. The corridor to the royal wing wasn’t simply unguarded. Had it been so, she would have assumed Elisibet was elsewhere in the palace, conducting business. The smell and sight of blood put lie to that supposition. One hand in her skirts, one clutching the suddenly constricting collar of her gown, she slipped past the pooled blood. Streaks marked the floor, leading into a nearby room. She didn’t bother to check for survivors, instead pushing on, attempting to run faster. No time!
A thump.A crash. The blood smell faded with distance, and then grew stronger. She sprinted for the ornate door that marked Elisibet’s personal audience chamber, cursing that it was closed. The sounds of a fight echoed and reverberated from behind the heavy wood, causing sharp pain in her ears and head. It seemed hours before she finally reached the door, and burst into the room to confront her worst nightmare.
Valmont weaved on his feet, the black devil still holding his weapon. His back to the door, he didn’t see her arrival. He towered over Elisibet’s prone, crawling form, sword raised in two hands.
“Get away from her!” Her headlong motion, so slow for so long, abruptly sped up. She crashed into him as he turned. They fell to the ground with a crash, his sword skittering away on the marble.
With the immediate threat stopped, she wasted no time on the enemy. She scrambled to her lover, pained to see the amount of blood smearing the floor as Elisibet crept away from her attacker. It’s too much! It’s everywhere! She reached Elisibet, turned her over, calmed her, cradled her. Tears stung her eyes. I can’t stop this. What can I do?
Behind her, Valmont spoke. “What’s done is done.”
She leaned protectively over her lover, turning to hiss and bare her teeth at him. He wiped the blood from his blade, and sheathed it. For a long moment, he stared at Elisibet, both revulsion and longing on his face. He spun around.
As he strode away, she turned back to Elisibet. “Stay with me m’cara! We will get you to a healer and soon you will be fine.”
It was a lie. They both knew it, though she still tried to convince herself of its truth.
Ice blue eyes regarded her, and Elisibet had enough energy to laugh. “Nay, Margaurethe. It’s beyond that, and we both know it.” It was hard for her to speak, her breath coming in gasps. She coughed, tried to hang on for just a little while longer.
“No! You cannot die, Elisibet.” I cannot live without you! How could she fix this? Where was the healer? Why didn’t anyone follow her as she ran past them? Certainly someone had to have witnessed her indecorous gallop through the palace corridors.
“Apparently so, minn’ast. Will you forgive me?”
She focused on Elisibet. “There is nothing to forgive.” Not to me.
“It’s cold, Margaurethe. Hold me.”
She gathered Elisibet into her arms, hugging her close. It wasn’t much longer before the panting slowed, paused, tortured and rattling as Elisibet struggled to breathe. A lethal quietness followed. The hand holding Margaurethe’s arm relaxed, and fell away. The body lightly twitched in her grasp until it came to its mortal rest. The silence didn’t last long, soon broken by a keening escorting her Elisibet, her heart, her life past the veil separating this life from the next.
***
The world went dark as she realized the lamenting wail came from her.
Margaurethe O’Toole sat upright, gasping for air. Her frantic hands searched for her lover among the bed linens. No blood, no cold marble floor, no cooling body. She looked wildly around in the darkness, searching for Elisibet. Instead, she saw the murky depths of her bedroom. No elegant sitting room, no exquisite artwork, no cool black marble. A slight gap in the bed curtains illuminated a fire gone cold in the hearth, and polished wood furniture. She saw her robe draped haphazardly over the foot of the bed. No overpowering smell of blood met her indrawn breath. The scent of roses filled her nostrils.
That damned nightmare again. She slumped, shoulders and head down, eyes closed. After almost four hundred years, it still had the power to plague her. Over the centuries it came and went with irregular frequency, but the last decade had shown an alarming increase of nightmare nights. A week rarely went by that she didn’t wake in the throes of grief and fury, suffering the loss anew.
She drew in a shaky breath, calming herself. Fully awake, she rubbed sleep from her eyes, and climbed from bed. She slid her fingers through her hair, settling the worst of the snarls before donning her robe.
Moments later, she entered her private office. A silver tray on her desk held a porcelain cup and teapot. Steam drifted from the cup, the aroma of ginseng driving away the memories of blood. She pursed her lips, glancing back at the door. I must have cried out loud again. She hated when she did that. It had begun happening too often. She hadn’t called out during her nightmares since the late sixteen hundreds. This would make it the third time this week.
Disgruntled, she drifted to the window. Moist fog clung to the ground this morning but she easily saw the brick wall in the distance that marked her property line. The grass would soon need cutting, and new green looked to be budding on the trees. Spring awakening was just around the corner. Her eyes caressed the rose bushes. There’d once been a full garden on this side of the estate, but she’d had it removed. Too many memories. None she wished to lose, but all far too painful to endure even three hundred eighty years later. She’d never part with the roses, however. Those memories she wished to retain for the duration of her life.
She sighed again, the smell of the tea calling her, and sat at her desk. At a touch, her computer screen lit up. She accessed her email and Internet programs, and began to catch up with the morning’s news. While she waited for her messages to download, she sipped her tea and marveled at how far technology had advanced in the last seven hundred years. In the days of her youth, a courier took weeks to get messages from her family’s homestead to the palace. Now it was a matter of typing out a missive and hitting the send button. Instantaneous.
Sometimes, especially after the vivid reminder of her nightmares, she wondered how Elisibet would have fared in this day and age. It had taken centuries of struggle for her to hold onto four hundred thousand kilometers of territory. At the time, she’d been one of the most successful and ruthless leaders of their people, rivaled only by Tairo-no-Mitsuko in Japan. In her foolish moments, Margaurethe daydreamed that a contemporary Elisibet would be a more merciful ruler, less subject to
violence as a tool of control. Those thoughts withered in the blistering light of Elisibet’s true nature. Her admittedly low level of compassion was reserved for an elite few—Margaurethe and Valmont, for the most part. Margaurethe’s nose wrinkled at the thought of him. She pushed him from her mind, and began to peruse her messages.
In the last century, she’d invested money in several technological advancements that had flourished. Many of her peers and elders floundered in the modern age, preferring to sequester themselves away from the rapid advancements. Elisibet had been a strong proponent of new things, and Margaurethe had honored her memory, taking the modest stipend from her parents, and turning it into a financial empire. An active board member in one software and two computer hardware companies, her stock portfolio showed a keen understanding of the market, and she held majority interests in two satellite communications companies. If she were to liquidate her earnings and holdings, she’d have three times more money than Elisibet had ever held in the royal treasury, even accounting for current day inflation.
She used the next hour and a half to go over the messages, answering those that required an immediate response, filing the informational ones, and deleting those of no consequence. This afternoon she’d attend to those from her family, and those missives requiring a more focused response. She spent another hour going over the daily newsfeeds, and stock exchange data. By the time she completed her morning routine she’d emptied the teapot, and the sun had burned off most of the fog.
A knock at the door took her unaware. She raised an eyebrow at the door, staring. Her staff never bothered her at this hour unless it was an emergency. Other than her personal assistant delivering tea, no one would ever approach until she left her private suite for the public rooms. She reached out with her mind, simultaneously picking up the phone. Amber and steel met her mental touch, an essence both familiar and alien, one she hadn’t felt in several hundred years.
The Strange Path Page 28
