Orlaith frowned and sat back as she watched the transformation. “She’s with you now?”
Margaurethe sat straighter. “Yes and no. She’s watching through security cameras.” She indicated their location with a subtle flick of her hand. “She can see I’m upset and is here for me.”
Her distaste obvious, Orlaith shot a glare at the indicated camera. “I suppose the advanced technology available will be a boon to her. She can spy anywhere she desires.”
A flash of anger shot through Margaurethe. “That’s not what she’s doing, Mother.”
“Oh?” A refined eyebrow rose in question. “Tireachan wrote me a letter. He says she has Elisibet’s memories. Who’s to say what else she may hold?”
Warning bells went off in Margaurethe’s mind. “How does Father know that?”
“Just because we weren’t at court during her reign doesn’t mean we don’t still have connections. Your father has heard the same rumors as I. He went to Bertrada to see what he could ascertain.”
A flash of anger coursed hot and clean through the remainder of Margaurethe’s childhood emotions. She shot to her feet, startling her guard into taking a step forward. With a quick wave, she halted him. “Bertrada Nijmege has the soul of a dung heap,” she said, pleased to note she kept control of her voice. It would hardly do to scream such things at the top of her lungs.
“Margaurethe—”
“No!” She took another step back as her mother stood. “You know nothing. You don’t know Whiskey. You don’t know the obstacles she’s had to overcome or understand her true nature. Instead you listen to a vicious woman who infects the air around her with her vile poison.”
Orlaith dipped her chin, her eyes steeling. “Then you’d best get me an audience with this woman.” She jerked a rude thumb at the portrait. “I can only make decisions on the information I have. You say she’s so different from the Sweet Butcher who, I might add, nearly destroyed you. Let me see it.”
As quick as the anger formed, it faded, replaced by grudging respect. A slow smile crossed her face, obviously easing the security personnel’s minds. They relaxed their stances, though not their vigil. “You always could play me well.”
“It’s the benefit of being a mother. Someday you may know the same skill.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
Orlaith’s lips twisted into an echoing grin. “As protective as you are of her? Do you really think you’d have granted my request?”
Margaurethe examined her. During Elisibet’s time, her parents had made their intentions quite public as far as Elisibet was concerned. They hated the ruler for taking their daughter against their will, subverting her sweet innocence to the decadence of the European court and Elisibet’s bed. Margaurethe remembered how Elisibet’s death had all but destroyed her until word of Mahar the Oracle’s prophecy reached her ears. Her parents had protected her from the Purge at no little expense. She knew how they would feel about Whiskey. “No. I wouldn’t have.”
“And now?”
She looked around the lobby, not seeing the rich elegance of the décor or the seemingly placid security posted there. A featherlight touch reminded her of Whiskey’s vestal presence. Whatever happened, her lover wouldn’t forsake her. Perhaps seeing Whiskey’s true nature would begin to heal the vicious wounds caused by Elisibet’s callous actions. “I’d like to ask you to a small get-together this evening, Mother.” Margaurethe acted as if she’d always had the intention to invite her. “Are you staying in the city?”
Orlaith smiled, subtly raising her chin. “Actually, I took a taxi from the airport. I’ve yet to check into my hotel.”
Margaurethe took her mother’s arm in hers and began walking them toward the security desk. “We’ve plenty of room. Let’s get you situated here, and I’ll show you around.”
Chapter Four
Whiskey entered the sitting room from the direction of her apartment, tugging at the cuff of her silk shirt. She disliked cuffs but knew rolling up the sleeves would wrinkle the material. Sithathor would have a cow over the issue. Better to suffer the discomfort than her chambermaid’s annoyance. To vex Sithathor resulted in fewer desserts offered at mealtimes. A glance at the clock told her she had less than an hour before the reception. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Even when interacting with pompous asses who deserved the deportment, she didn’t feel comfortable with the royalty act. Occasionally she received some mischievous satisfaction and a little bit of pleasure at making some idiot fall over backward, but the whole genuflection thing embarrassed her.
Jake followed, closing the connecting door behind her. She strode across the sitting room to take up her normal post near the front door, a deadly shadow.
Whiskey threw herself onto one of the couches. The long narrow room held a combination of tasteful and comfortable furniture. Margaurethe had tried to install furnishings appropriate to Whiskey’s rank, failing to consider that Whiskey and her rambunctious pack of young Sanguire were all less than fifty years of age. At least half of their spare time was spent loitering here with Whiskey, playing video games on the big-screen television or music on the state-of-the-art stereo system. It had taken two impromptu wrestling sessions between Zebediah and Chaniya before Margaurethe had saved the French provincial chairs from future abuse, replacing them with cheaper and more modern materials.
Whiskey’s gaze strayed out the glass doors separating her from the balcony, knowing that she suffered an attack of nerves. Her first official meeting with the Agrun Nam was imminent and the unknown gnawed at her gut. She remembered her first encounter with Valmont, the sudden fear and anger that had nearly overwhelmed her when he’d finally gained an audience. Those emotions weren’t hers, they’d belonged to Elisibet. Watching the Agrun Nam arrive had caused an echo of that fury. She’d almost eviscerated Valmont when they’d met face-to-face, would these distant emotions for the Agrun Nam cause similar reactions? Or would she be able to control herself and leave the European Sanguire with a positive impression of her?
Up until now, the idea of being the reputed Ninsumgal of the European Sanguire hadn’t been too difficult to swallow. After she’d gotten over the initial confusion of the Ñíri Kurám and heeded the bizarre memories of another life, it was easy. Besides, she’d been focused on business and dealing with other nations, not governance. Today she would meet the five people responsible for keeping their government in action since Elisibet Vasillas’s assassination four hundred years ago. The only conversation she’d had with them was the video link she’d set up three months ago, demanding their attendance. This time, she would be in the same room with some very powerful people, at least two of who wanted her dead—one on a very personal level.
Unable to sit still, Whiskey stood. She paused at the stereo, turning it on and jacking up the volume. The sounds of hard-core death metal filled the room. She strolled to the French doors and stepped onto the balcony, the strains of electric guitar, and Jake, of course, following behind.
The terrace was now enclosed by glass, yet another indication that the situation had changed. After the second assassination attempt by the shape-shifter imitating her valet, Margaurethe had insisted on upgrading security. Dorst had assigned Jake, and Margaurethe had put up bulletproof glass around the balcony. Whiskey didn’t know whether to feel protected or caged. Terra-cotta containers held several varieties of plants, the smell of loam and growing things enhancing the sensation of being outside. It remained an enclosure, however, a sign that she would never be free again.
Moving to the edge, she looked out over the Willamette River. Shards of reflected streetlights sparkled back at her. Trees across the river had begun to change, indicating that winter wouldn’t be long in coming to the City of Roses. She peered at the traffic sixteen floors below. From here she saw the front drive where the Agrun Nam had arrived, all five of them. Gesture of support, my ass. Frowning, she caught sight of Jake standing nearby, making herself visible to throw off potential snipers. “You don
’t have to do that, you know.” Whiskey rapped a knuckle against the glass protecting her. “I’m safe here.”
Jake grinned, tapping the barrier herself. “Maybe so, Ninsumgal, but if there’s enough confusion from a distance, it’ll help if anyone makes it past the perimeter.”
Meaning an assassin might go for Jake first in the chaos. Knowing another person would die because of her didn’t make Whiskey feel better. She stifled a flash of anger at her sense of weakness, returning her gaze to the eastern half of the city. Castillo had said that she had every reason to feel helpless. Anybody with half a brain felt that way when swimming in a pool of sharks. Valmont had agreed. One of the Agrun Nam had hired two assassins, and another had made it plain she wanted to rend Whiskey to pieces with her bare hands. At least Whiskey had begun to settle into the role of leadership when dealing with other governments. This quagmire of Elisibet’s memories and emotions made things so much harder with the Europeans.
The song faded, opening to another. This one was heavy with bass, one she had heard at the underage club in Seattle many times when she lived on the streets. Whiskey stepped away from the glass, gliding into the sitting room. She needed to center herself and nothing did that better than riding the music. Closing her eyes, she ignored her shadow on the balcony and gave up the trepidation of the unknown, the frustration of trying to be someone she didn’t feel. She let them go and sank into the bass and drum, dancing, moving in a way she hadn’t done since this whole mess had started.
One song faded into another and then again as Whiskey lost herself. No pressure, no expectations, only the sound and the release as she reconnected with her spirit. Her soul, starved for the attention, reveled in the experience. As the music wound to an end, she slowed. Her eyes still closed, she felt Jake, who had remained out on the balcony to lend her some semblance of privacy, and realized someone else had entered. A lazy smile graced Whiskey’s lips. “Hi.” She opened her eyes to observe Margaurethe leaning against the wall by the stereo. The next song began, its strains muted as Margaurethe had adjusted the volume.
“Hi, yourself.” Margaurethe walked to her. “How are you doing?”
“Much better. I didn’t know how badly I needed that.”
Margaurethe stopped just out of reach, studying Whiskey with an amused expression. “You look marvelous. That outfit does you justice.”
Whiskey looked down at her clothes. “Really?” She wore black slacks flared at the bottom where solid motorcycle boots covered her feet. Her silk shirt was a splash of color, a royal blue, shimmering in the lamplight. Somehow, she’d rolled the cuffs up to her forearms while dancing, revealing the twining dragon scales on her right wrist and a thick silver bracelet on her left. Internally, she winced, her gaze flickering behind her as if expecting Sithathor to be waving a nettled finger at her. “Isn’t it a bit much? I mean, they’re probably expecting something a little more frilly or professional.”
A chuckle brought her gaze back to Margaurethe. “I doubt I could get you into anything frilly.” She stepped closer, adjusting Whiskey’s collar. “Besides, we don’t want to give them what they expect. The longer we keep them off balance, the easier our task will be.” Her hands stilled, resting lightly against the silk above Whiskey’s breasts. “Their first impression of you must be one of danger, of uncertainty.”
Whiskey conceded the point with a grin, though she didn’t feel particularly dangerous. “I’ve missed you.” She wrapped her arms around Margaurethe’s slim waist. It was a measure of how relaxed she’d become in Jake’s presence that the bodyguard didn’t even cross her mind.
“I know.” Margaurethe leaned against her. “I’ve missed you too.”
“And it’s only going to get worse.” Now that the Agrun Nam had arrived, the amount of work would triple. They both knew it and both dreaded their diminishing time together.
“We’ve got decades together, m’cara. Centuries. As soon as everything settles down, you and I will go on a very long, very expensive vacation.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Whiskey kissed her nose.
Margaurethe smiled. “But first, we need to get through tonight.”
Sobering, Whiskey peered into Margaurethe’s eyes. “How did it go with your mother?” She watched ire flash across Margaurethe’s face. “That bad, huh?”
“We have always had our differences.”
“No surprise.” Whiskey well knew the dispute between the O’Tooles and their daughter. Elisibet had many memories of dealing with the acrimonious parents. Rather than having centuries to spend with their daughter, the O’Tooles had lost her to Elisibet’s bed by the time she’d reached twenty-five. The Sweet Butcher, showing a surprising measure of restraint, had banned them from court to avoid the overwhelming temptation of executing them. The only thing that had kept them alive was their blood link to the woman she had loved. “I’m guessing you didn’t patch things up with them…afterward.”
Margaurethe glanced away, covering her discomfort by checking the clock on the wall. “No. After Elisibet…afterward, when I came out of my fugue, I was too focused on Mahar’s Prophecy. Mother and Father were unimpressed.” She drew a deep breath, her expression changing as she put away the dusty pains of her past. “It’s time.”
Whiskey’s heart thumped with sudden adrenaline, not pursuing the topic. This wasn’t a conversation to be had with witnesses and just before meeting a nest of vipers. She sighed, giving her lover another squeeze, and released her. “I’m not ready, but I doubt I ever will be.”
“You’ll do fine, love. I have every faith in you.”
“You ready to go, Jake?”
Hearing her name, Jake entered from the balcony, firmly securing the door behind her. “Of course, Ninsumgal.”
Whiskey felt the gentle caress of Margaurethe’s mind and opened herself to it, basking in the familiar woodsmoke and mulled wine. What trickle of dread still remained within her heart melted into nothingness as they walked together, Jake trailing them to the door. They paused long enough for Whiskey to don her leather jacket, Margaurethe pulling her long blond hair from beneath the collar.
Whiskey donned sunglasses as they exited the apartment. Four of her personal guard, the aga’gída, stood at attention in the corridor. She acknowledged them with a nod and a smile, amazed that she didn’t blush. Though her insides trembled, Margaurethe’s mental and physical touch grounded her as she entered the waiting elevator.
* * *
Whiskey held Margaurethe’s hand in the crook of her arm as the small crowd marched along the back hall toward the banquet kitchen. Three guards led the way and four trailed behind. Gone were the days when Whiskey could run around the service areas of the building with impunity. The Sanguire assassin three months ago had changed all of that. All members of the board had agreed that Whiskey’s safety was much more nebulous with the Agrun Nam in residence. Whiskey hadn’t argued the point but wondered if the extra fuss would ever feel comfortable. Rather than go through the kitchen, they slipped out into the southeast corner of the foyer. A black drape had been hung across the hall here, hiding her from the view of her political guests in the main foyer. A set of double doors to her right led into the ballroom, but she was directed toward a single door on her left. She heard muffled chamber music beyond the curtain as her guards whisked her into a small room and closed the door. Jake locked it from the inside.
The room had been transformed from a standard conference room to a cozy lounge. One corner held a conversation area with several plush leather armchairs. Teak occasional tables gleamed beneath lamplight. A buffet stretched along one wall, filled with food and an impromptu wet bar. Whiskey’s stomach reminded her she was hungry, though the thought of eating made her queasy. A large television screen had been spliced into the security feed, its high definition display divided into six scenes, each showing different aspects of the ballroom and foyer.
Whiskey turned in a slow circle. “Wow.”
“You like?” Margaurethe
smiled. She took two glasses from the stack on the buffet.
“It’s nice. My home away from home tonight?”
“Something like that. Consider it your private audience hall.”
The clink of ice hitting glass drew Whiskey’s attention. She joined Margaurethe as her lover poured a can of soda. “Nothing a little harder?” She took her sunglasses off, laying them on the table.
Smiling, Margaurethe handed her the drink. “Not yet. You don’t want to lose your edge. Not tonight.”
Whiskey feigned discontent. “Too true.” She took the glass and turned away, circling the room. Jake stood at the door, eyes fixed on the monitor as Whiskey joined her. Her guests sprinkled the foyer, enjoying the two bars that had been set up near the ballroom entrance. Waitstaff filtered through the crowd, offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne. A four-piece orchestra played in one corner.
Scanning the people, she saw only three sanari present. Lionel Bentoncourt escorted his wife, Ernst Rosenberg stood alone and Bertrada Nijmege spoke with Margaurethe’s mother.
Whiskey’s heart thumped. Compared to dealing with the Agrun Nam, the idea of meeting Orlaith O’Toole made her palms sweat. She gulped half her soda, the bubbles painful as she swallowed the carbonation. Margaurethe was right. If Whiskey drank any alcohol, she’d be hard put not to drown herself in an abortive attempt to flee the inevitable meeting. Teeth clamped together at the thought of it. She considered lessons learned, both from her time on the streets and those from Elisibet. Get it over with now. Running away, letting fear stop her only made her more vulnerable. She closed her eyes. “Jake, give me your radio.”
Lady Dragon Page 5