Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Imagine that.” Valmont’s voice held a measure of sarcastic wonder.

  Chano grunted. “Sounds like a true politician.”

  “Did anyone bother to explain why all five of them showed up?” Margaurethe focused on Dorst, who tittered in response.

  “Oh, my, yes! That did come up in my discussion with Aiden.” His expression morphed into the sly conspirator as he leaned forward, dropping the volume of his voice to complete the effect. “Apparently this is a gesture of goodwill toward My Gasan. They wished to show her their…‘support,’ if you will, for her business endeavors. Aiden and Lionel will be returning home in three days to carry on governing their people.”

  “Leaving two snakes and an unknown element to talk terms?” Chano snorted.

  Dikeledi nodded, an imperious motion that was echoed in her rich voice. “This ‘support’ seems quite useless.”

  “But not unexpected,” Dorst added with an enigmatic smile.

  Whiskey watched the monitor. McCall and Rosenberg had long since left the elevator. With another glance at the instruction sheet, Whiskey switched the camera view to the twelfth floor of the neighboring building, focusing on McCall being directed by house staff to his apartment. At Dorst’s request, Margaurethe had purposely put McCall and Nijmege on different floors. It seemed McCall wasn’t at all pleased about sharing his floor with Rosenberg though they were each in different wings. Irritation glowed on his young face. At the door to his quarters, he snapped something over his shoulder to his escort, chasing the woman away. He opened the envelope from his packet, plugged in his password and utilized the keycard. Three of his staff preceded him before he disappeared from Whiskey’s view.

  She regretted not having security cameras or microphones inside the residences. Dorst and Valmont had both argued for them. Even without the Padre’s disapproving frown, she knew better. If this was to work, the Agrun Nam had to feel safe in their temporary apartments. Their personal security officers would probably do full sweeps to ensure their privacy anyway. She hoped it would raise their opinion of her if they found nothing out of the ordinary.

  With nothing further to watch, she instructed the monitor to return to its programming and leaned back in her chair, turning toward her advisors. Margaurethe moved away, settling a hip on the edge of the console beside her. Another knock on the door heralded Castillo’s arrival.

  “That’s one less thing to worry about.” He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “Your guests will soon be comfortably ensconced in their suites, My Ninsumgal.”

  “Thanks, Padre. Now sit down. You know when you hover it gives me a headache.”

  He grinned and took a chair.

  “We’ve heard Reynhard’s report,” Margaurethe said. “What of yours?”

  Castillo stroked his beard. “As I expected, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt and Gasan Francesca were pleasant and professional. Regardless of the circumstances, I think they both believe what they’re doing is necessary.”

  Valmont nodded. “And Bertrada? Does she feel the same?”

  The priest grimaced. “You know as well as I.” He gave Whiskey a serious look. “I highly recommend you keep Valmont separated from Nijmege. It wouldn’t take much for those two to fall to blows.”

  “No doubt,” Margaurethe murmured.

  Whiskey saw Valmont’s indignant expression and waved her finger at him, shaking her head. “No, don’t act innocent. You showed up here two hours early just for this. You know as well as I do how you enjoy goading your enemies.”

  His face melted into a rueful grin and he relaxed back into his chair. “Guilty as charged.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at his unrepentant manner. Behind her, she felt Margaurethe’s displeasure and shrugged it off. Her lover’s problems with Valmont were based upon their shared violent history. It would take more than a few months for them to satisfactorily work out their differences. Knowing how Margaurethe felt, it would take decades or more for that to happen. She marveled for a moment at the thought, noting how her perceptions from a short Human lifespan to a much longer Sanguire one now came so easily, before reaching out with her mind to soothe Margaurethe’s annoyance.

  Castillo continued his report. “In any case, Nijmege will be trouble, as expected. She’s of the obvious opinion that you are not who you claim to be.”

  Dorst’s melodic tones cut into the conversation. “How odd. It rather defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

  “How so?” Dikeledi asked.

  He gave an effete wave of a fine-boned hand. “If My Ninsumgal is not who she claims, then how can the esteemed Nijmege reasonably attain her goal of revenge? Yet, she seems to believe you are who you say you are, My Gasan. Else why plot with McCall against you?”

  “No one said she has to make sense.” Valmont snorted. “She’s become a vicious and irrational woman since Nahib died.”

  A vision of Nahib’s execution flashed before Whiskey’s vision, his once strong body nothing more than pieces of raw meat after Elisibet’s punishment. “Small wonder.” Before Whiskey could succumb to melancholy, she forced herself to remember that she was not the Sweet Butcher of the past, regardless of the vivid memories that plagued her.

  Margaurethe lightly touched Whiskey’s mind before speaking. “Do you have an idea when Nijmege will act?”

  Dorst’s face became a caricature of disappointment. “Regrettably, no, Ki’an Gasan. Though I doubt she’ll be too swift to make an attempt. She’ll wish to settle in, become familiar with her new environs before moving forward with her plans.”

  “Appoint me your champion.” Valmont sat forward in his chair.

  Margaurethe made her opinion known with a derisive scoff. Ever the observer, Castillo merely raised an eyebrow as Dorst turned to gaze at Valmont. Dikeledi pursed her lips in puzzlement, and Chano merely grunted as if he’d heard a tired argument one too many times.

  Whiskey glanced sharply at Valmont, not expecting him to make public a demand she had already refused in private. The ambivalence was odd. Valmont had been Defender when he broke his original oath of fealty to Elisibet. Though Whiskey trusted him with her life now, she couldn’t get over a sense of dread at the thought of appointing him to the position again. It smacked of tempting the Fates, begging them not to set the same story in motion.

  Valmont continued speaking, bolstered by her lack of immediate refusal. “If I’m your champion, it would sway others from making a challenge. Certainly Bertrada will think twice before doing so.”

  “And what’s to stop her from doing something to circumvent such a challenge? She’s hardly any more honorable than you are.” Margaurethe’s words were spoken with distaste. “I haven’t forgotten that the two of you have colluded before.”

  The hopeful expression on Valmont’s face faltered, and his jaw set in familiar anger. He lowered his chin, rising to glare at Margaurethe. She, in turn, braced her feet as she prepared for an attack.

  Castillo and Whiskey also stood. She felt the air crackle between her lover and her friend. Much as she wanted to use her mind to separate them, she knew they had to make the decision to obey her. Nevertheless, she remained poised to interrupt any physical or mental bloodshed.

  “Stop that!” Chano barked in a voice that sounded young and strong. “I’ve no patience at my age for your temper tantrums.”

  Margaurethe’s face reddened. Whiskey felt both fury and shame coming through their bond. Valmont glared at her, jaw twitching as he ground his teeth. After a slight pause, he lifted his chin in concession. Margaurethe accepted the motion and the two potential skirmishers backed down from one another in slow increments. The crisis past, Whiskey ordered them both to sit, daring them to disobey her. Valmont dropped bonelessly into his chair, a hint of his usual sarcastic self in his faint grin. Margaurethe lifted her chin in concession and took Whiskey’s discarded seat.

  Whiskey returned to the topic at hand. “We’ve discussed this before, Valmont. This isn’t the European Sanguire. I’m not the r
uler of a nation. I’m the president of a corporation. Business and industry leaders don’t need champions.” He grimaced, looking away, and her heart went out to him. “Realize, however, that if I ever have cause to appoint a defender, you’re first on my list of applicants.” She felt Margaurethe’s hackles go up, but a quick caress of her mind stopped a verbal argument. No doubt she’d hear all about the vagaries of that insanity before the night was through. So be it. There were other things to worry about right now. “So. Tonight. What should I expect?” She took Margaurethe’s previous position—hip perched on the edge of the counter, arms crossed over her chest.

  “Ass-kissing and backstabbing,” Valmont said.

  “Hardly helpful.” Whiskey grimaced. “I was hoping for something a little more specific.”

  He waved a vague apology, still miffed at her rejection.

  “If I may, My Ninsumgal?” Dorst awaited a nod of permission before speaking. “You’ll have little to fear from the lesser aides and attendants of the Agrun Nam, though I’m sure everyone will be under orders to be watchful for any weakness that can be exploited.” He brought an elegant finger up to tap his lower lip in thought. “As for the sanari themselves, I doubt there will be any immediate action. Aiden Cassadie is quite pleasant, and Ernst Rosenberg reticent. If trouble comes from any quarter, I believe it will be from Bertrada Nijmege.”

  Castillo nodded. “I agree, though I don’t believe she’ll act overtly. As Reynhard said earlier, she’ll wait until she’s more comfortable before taking steps to achieve her goal.”

  That covered all but one. Whiskey tilted her head. “And Lionel?”

  Castillo smiled. “At this time, I think he’ll be a valuable ally. He has ever been open-minded regarding your return.”

  “As has been my opinion,” Dorst agreed. “When I investigated the Agrun Nam at your order, I found Lionel Bentoncourt to be a staunch and honorable man. He believes that you’re here to lead our people, and will gladly assist in any way possible.”

  “Until he changes his mind,” Margaurethe said.

  Whiskey ignored the comment, knowing that Margaurethe’s distrust of the European Sanguire leadership was as deeply rooted as her hatred for Valmont.

  “As for Samuel McCall…” Dorst’s shoulders hunched in a shrug. “I’m afraid to say that I have no honest clue. He’s enigmatic, rarely prone to discussing his views except inside council chambers. His behavior in the limousine indicates he’ll cause no trouble today.” He cocked his head. “In fact, I believe young Samuel is the more level-headed. He’ll no doubt keep Nijmege in check for a time.”

  “Then I guess there’s nothing more to discuss here.” Whiskey glanced up at the monitor that automatically flickered through various camera views.

  “If you will excuse me, My Ninsumgal, I’ll be on my way.” Dorst bowed.

  “Of course, Reynhard. Will you be there tonight?”

  He grinned, his gaunt face twisting into a death’s head visage. She wondered if he knew what he looked like, then decided he did. He was Gúnnumu Bargún, a shape-shifter, and one of the more powerful ones known. “I may or may not, My Gasan.”

  “I understand.” If her chief spy were present, she wouldn’t know it without mentally scanning for him.

  As Dorst bowed himself out of the room, the others stood, this informal meeting unofficially called to a close.

  “I’ll see you this evening, Whiskey.”

  She took Castillo’s hand with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d miss it. I can tell you’re itching to interview everybody.”

  He grinned. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Just a bit,” Valmont said dryly. He stood a bit stiff after her public refusal but no less loyal as he bowed. “Until this evening.”

  Whiskey watched everyone but Margaurethe and Jake leave.

  As she turned back toward the row of monitors, a phone rang. One of the guards answered. After a brief back-and-forth, he hung up. “Ninsumgal?”

  “Yes?”

  “The security desk in the lobby requests Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe’s presence. She has a visitor.”

  “Thank you.” Curious, Whiskey returned to the notebook of camera instructions. She called up the view of the lobby, seeing a diminutive woman calmly seated on a divan. Alarm bells went off in her head. The woman was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her. Beside her, Margaurethe gasped in recognition. “Who is it?”

  Emerald eyes stared blankly at her. “It’s my mother.”

  * * *

  What in God’s name is Mother doing here?

  Margaurethe’s heels clicked upon the marble floor as she strode down the corridor of the security complex. It had taken some doing, but Whiskey had agreed to remain in the office instead of escorting Margaurethe to the lobby. She probably had the security cameras trained on both women right now. Reminded of her invisible audience, Margaurethe hid her expression of concern behind a mask of pleasantness. It wouldn’t do to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing this unexpected visit unsettled her. As if Margaurethe hadn’t enough problems today, what with the Agrun Nam’s arrival.

  At least her father hadn’t made an appearance.

  Pushing trepidation away at that idea, she exited into the lobby. The elevators were to her right, and she turned in that direction. One of the aga’gída silently joined her, an unwelcome but necessary companion considering the tensions and guests on the premises. As she rounded the corner, she passed the long reception desk. One of the attendants subtly nodded to his left. An unexpected feeling of pleasure jolted through Margaurethe as she saw her mother rising from a couch, at odds with the annoyance of her unannounced visit. It had been some time since they had seen one another. How long? Thirty-five years? Thirty-six? “Stay back,” she ordered the guard. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, Ki’an Gasan.” He drifted away from her side to stand at the security desk and keep distant vigil.

  Bracing herself, Margaurethe smiled and stepped forward. “Mother! What a surprise.”

  “I’m certain it is.” Orlaith O’Toole was a smaller-boned version of Margaurethe, slightly shorter but similar in most other respects. It was obvious to anyone that the women were related, sharing thick reddish brown hair and delicate facial features. Orlaith’s mother had been born near the Black Sea, imparting on her daughter and granddaughter the Mediterranean skin tones they shared. They could almost pass for sisters due to their Sanguire heritage’s slow aging process, yet Orlaith was a full two centuries older than her daughter. She took Margaurethe into her arms. Their embrace was quick, yet strong; not a token hug between potential enemies. It eased Margaurethe’s mind. There’d been no love lost between the Sweet Butcher and her parents. Hopefully, her mother would see Whiskey for who she was now and not see Elisibet’s memory.

  “How did you know where to find me?” She urged Orlaith to sit with her on a couch.

  A shadow crossed the older woman’s eyes. “Rumors have run rampant of Elisibet’s return.” She took Margaurethe’s hands in hers. “I received a letter from your father telling me the specifics. With the Agrun Nam coming to North America lock, stock and barrel, it seemed a logical choice to follow.” Her eyes, blue-gray compared to her daughter’s green, flickered to the portrait hanging above them, her lips thinning. “I had no doubt I’d find you here.”

  Margaurethe looked at the painting. She had insisted on putting it there to throw off the Agrun Nam, knowing they would see Elisibet in Whiskey’s sullen, street-tough appearance. Apparently, her plan had worked too well, backfiring as Orlaith assumed the same thing. “You don’t know her, Mother.” She squeezed the hands in hers. “It’s not as it seems.”

  “Really?” Orlaith gave her a cool appraisal. “Does she even know what you went through? Does she care?”

  Flushing, Margaurethe dropped her gaze at the reminder. How was it that her mother knew exactly what to say to trouble her? Margaurethe angrily shook away the shame and loss she had held at bay for so long, lookin
g up. “She’s not the same. She’s not Elisibet.”

  “She doesn’t know.” Orlaith sighed, lips pursed as she tightly gripped Margaurethe’s hands.

  Margaurethe frowned. “Not exactly. I haven’t told her.” No, she hadn’t spoken of it, but Whiskey was aware of the painful emotions of that time for Margaurethe, had felt the soulless despair she’d suffered. How could Margaurethe explain to her mother the unique bond she and Whiskey shared? Very few Sanguire seemed aware of the deep, abiding mental bond that Whiskey could induce between them. To voice it could reveal a strength to her enemies. Like it or not, Margaurethe knew Orlaith still ranked among them.

  “Why? Will she see it as a weakness? Will she decide you’re not worth the effort, throw you aside for someone else?”

  The words weren’t nearly as damaging as the almost hopeful gleam in Orlaith’s eyes. Margaurethe tucked her chin, pushing her mother’s hands away. “No. She’s not that way. She’ll feel guilty for something she didn’t cause.”

  Orlaith studied her. “If she didn’t cause it, she has nothing to feel guilty for.”

  Margaurethe’s chuckle was humorless. “You don’t know Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey.” Orlaith looked back to the portrait. “Is that her name or her alcohol of choice?”

  “It’s her nickname. Her true name is Jenna Davis.”

  “Intriguing. She doesn’t look all that dissimilar from her portrait at the old palace.”

  “Her eyes are different.” Margaurethe blushed at Orlaith’s calculating attention, cursing her inability to remain calm and serene in the woman’s presence. To override the sensation, she forced herself to explain. “They’re dark brown, almost black. This painting doesn’t show them.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Margaurethe brushed nonexistent lint from her skirt, unable to keep from prattling. As she spoke, her Irish accent became more pronounced, indicating her level of nervousness. “The tattoos are real, though, and she’s gained some weight now that she’s eating regularly. She was living on the streets when Father Castillo found and reported her to the Agrun Nam. She’s dyed her hair back to its original color—” She stopped speaking, her tongue seeming to cleave to the roof of her mouth. Distantly, she felt Whiskey soothing her. Her lover didn’t interfere with the private moment, didn’t do more than let Margaurethe know she was there, available if necessary. Tranquility washed through her as frayed nerves and emotional history faded to a dull ache.