Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Margaurethe had carried the youth in that relationship, those first decades a revelation as she grew in ability and experience. She had come to love Elisibet with fanatical fervor, refusing to see the glaring faults, rejecting the reality of their peoples’ plight as the European Sanguire writhed within the unmerciful butcher’s grip. When Elisibet had dallied with other women it had never been her fault. Margaurethe knew Elisibet’s very blood ran to excess, and women always flirted with her. How could they not with the shroud of authority woven so thoroughly through Elisibet’s essence? Elisibet couldn’t help but respond to their overtures.

  Her lips thinned at the recollections of those youthful delusions. Truth be told, Elisibet could have been monogamous had she tried. Somehow, being with Whiskey seemed to have broken through the idealized view Margaurethe had held of Elisibet for centuries. There had been so many things that occurred, so many hints and portents that should have made her flee the palace, return to the O’Toole estates and save herself not only a broken heart but near insanity. Why had she stayed?

  She set aside the question, knowing it would never be answered to completion, not without Elisibet herself standing before her with whom to discuss the issue. Margaurethe had a different puzzle to ponder.

  With Elisibet, Margaurethe had always been the supplicant. The natural order of the realm had put her lover in charge in all things. Elisibet had been rabid about control, never letting it go, even in intimate play or sleep. A youngling with no prior experience, Margaurethe had assumed such was the way it should be and hadn’t fought it. As time passed, she’d noticed other couples, subconsciously picking up the vagaries of power within their relationships, and wondered deep down in a secret place why things weren’t the same for her and her lover.

  She’d been spirited away from the palace after Elisibet’s murder, away from the sight of blood spilling across her dress, spreading upon the cool marbled floor. The Purge had begun as those wronged by the Sweet Butcher had risen up against those who had assisted in her oppression. Margaurethe, safely residing with her mother, had been oblivious. As the Agrun Nam had gathered their resources and put down the Purge, she’d lived in a dream world, one where Elisibet still existed.

  Margaurethe remembered some of the hallucinations despite the passage of several hundred years. Elisibet had come to her, day and night, and they’d spent hours talking or kissing or playing games—all the things her lover had never had time to do before. She always seemed to leave just before someone walked into the room, and no one had believed Margaurethe when she spoke of these visitations. It wasn’t until Mahar had uttered her prophecy that Margaurethe had been able to break the bonds of insanity and return to the world. Only then had she accepted that Elisibet had died in her arms. But she would return—the oracle had said so—and Margaurethe would wait for her.

  Whiskey sighed and mumbled in her sleep, rolling over onto her side. Her shoulders were bare, the tattooed arm flung across the sheets where it would have embraced Margaurethe had she still been in bed.

  The power structure of this relationship was quite different. Margaurethe had held the upper hand from her first meeting with Whiskey. A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips and her heart thumped in memory of that first sighting, excited by the recognition they’d both experienced across a crowded dance floor. She savored their initial introduction, remembering the smell of Whiskey’s hair, the feel of her burgeoning mental abilities, and the scent of the dragon’s blood ink she used to write in her journal.

  Whiskey never wrote in her journal anymore.

  Margaurethe pushed the errant thought away, returning to more pleasant memories.

  It had been refreshing to see the youthful exuberance she had missed with Elisibet, the raw emotions, the wonder of seeing new things, the enthusiasm she held for life. Elisibet had been far too jaded to show such weakness to anyone. Margaurethe could see the beginnings of such posturing in Whiskey, remembering the street youth standing in the middle of The Davis Group lobby, struggling to be cool and collected though hopelessly out of place. As Whiskey grew in experience, she became more at ease in her skin, not often acting with the wonder of a child.

  The hitch had come after the death of the assassin, Andri, three months ago. Something had happened to Whiskey then. She’d sealed a part of herself away from Margaurethe, a small shell of protection in her mind, guarding her thoughts. No amount of prying had dislodged the containing force. Margaurethe had given up on direct confrontation, instead looking to Castillo for probable answers, not that he’d had them. She knew the specifics of what had occurred during her kidnap and captivity from security reports and interviews with those involved. No one appeared to be hiding anything except Whiskey, which meant it was the internal dialogue of her young lover, a thought or belief, not a cover-up.

  After yesterday’s board meeting, this mental separation had intensified. Margaurethe’s concern was that Whiskey held anxieties that grew with each dispute, each altercation, youthful inexperience and indiscretions fueling her sense of self-deprecation. Had Elisibet started this way? Had she taken in the vile whispers and rumors of court intrigue as a child, planted them in an internal garden of insecurity, nurtured them until they ruled her inner world? The only one Margaurethe could possibly ask was Dorst, and she couldn’t trust any answer he’d give. He’d been at Elisibet’s side from the beginning, devoted to her from her brutally short childhood and onward. He would never give up her confidences, even to Margaurethe, even despite her death centuries ago. And despite her and Whiskey’s conversation last night, Whiskey still appeared to be protecting some thought, some emotion. The shell remained intact, even in her sleep.

  Just as Elisibet had always done.

  Margaurethe remembered Whiskey’s initial fears. Whiskey had experienced visions, memories of Elisibet’s time that had confused her during her walk along the Strange Path. Her primary concern had been whether or not she was truly herself or Elisibet’s mental and emotional clone. Drawn to Margaurethe because of those alien memories, she hadn’t wanted to get lost within them. Her fear had kept their intimacy from evolving for several months as Whiskey and Margaurethe both sorted out their personal confusions with the specter of Elisibet hanging over them. After the initial shock of their first meeting, Margaurethe had almost always seen Whiskey, though there had been the occasional jarring recollection. Whiskey’s mental touch was so like Elisibet’s it had confused Margaurethe in the beginning. The emotional differences between them, however, staggered her. It helped that Whiskey’s eyes, black as night, were no comparison to the glowing pale ice of Elisibet’s. Taste and smell were dissimilar to what Margaurethe remembered of her previous lover. Every so often, the odd muted sensation of Elisibet’s thought patterns gave Margaurethe a momentary upset but they didn’t often occur. Margaurethe hardly gave those rare instances a second thought anymore.

  She lightly caressed Whiskey’s sleeping mind, finding the shield tightly in place. Her scowl deepened. The shell didn’t feel like Elisibet. It was wholly Whiskey. Another lesson from Elisibet’s memories bequeathed to her successor? What thoughts did Whiskey defend in her sleep?

  Too many questions. Never enough answers.

  Whiskey moved again, hand searching the sheets. She inhaled deeply and cracked open one eye, spotting Margaurethe perched on the side of the bed. “You okay?” she asked, her voice a rough burr.

  Putting away her fears and depression, Margaurethe smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She yawned, rolling onto her back. “Come back to bed.”

  Margaurethe stood and slipped out of her robe. The linens were warm with slumber. Despite her troubled thoughts, she settled into the sheets and Whiskey’s arms. Whiskey snuggled close, pillowing her head on Margaurethe’s breast, pulling the comforter up over both of them.

  “I love you,” she whispered, her breath deepening as she drifted back to sleep.

  She wrapped her arm around Whiskey’s shoulders, holding her close. A gen
tle caress of Whiskey’s mind surprised her. The protective outer shell had receded. Not wanting to risk its abrupt return, Margaurethe barely dipped past the surface, bathing in Whiskey’s essence with a sense of relief.

  Whiskey remained. Elisibet was a memory. The previous morning’s political snafu hadn’t sullied Margaurethe’s future with her lover. It was a misunderstanding, pure and simple. Whiskey would become a better ninsumgal than Elisibet ever had been. They would remain together forever.

  “I love you too, Whiskey.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Why are we going again?” Zebediah demanded, tugging fiercely on the cuff of his dress shirt. He’d recently shaved the scalp around his brilliant red mohawk, his head gleaming in the overhead light of Whiskey’s sitting room.

  “Because I said so.” Whiskey grinned as he swore under his breath.

  With a grunt of exasperation, he glared at her. The black slacks he’d chosen had sinfully skinny legs, and the bow tie dangled untied about his neck. “This is shit. I don’t give a fuck about some stupid symphony.”

  Whiskey tucked her chin and gave him the evil eye. A quick tap of her essence against his reminded him of who held the power. “Tough. You’re going. I don’t make you suffer near as much as I do. You can survive three hours.”

  Alphonse came out of the bathroom, his bow tie resembling a gnarled knot. “At least we don’t have to wear a full tux and dress shoes, bro.” He glanced down at the motorcycle boots on his large feet.

  Zebediah grunted and looked away, flushing. It was rare Whiskey took him to task, so his concession came quickly. “Whatever.” Still not pleased with his sleeves, he began rolling them up.

  Whiskey clapped him on the back in commiseration. She well understood his reluctance, still feeling like a clown when forced to dress up for these functions. Normally she’d have let her pack sit this one out, but Chaniya and Nupa were already attending because her mother and his grandfather had insisted. Castillo had delicately suggested bringing the rest of Whiskey’s pack as a cultural experience, and Margaurethe had thought it an excellent idea. That didn’t mean Whiskey was going to insist they go far beyond their comfort levels, hence the motorcycle boots and jackets the brothers planned to wear to the event. If Margaurethe wanted to go toe-to-toe with them, Whiskey was more than happy to stand aside.

  Margaurethe looked over the younglings with a faint distasteful sneer but said nothing as she donned her earrings. Emerald chips caught the light, flashing with her eyes. She wore a flowing strapless sheath of dark green that balanced her hair color and skin tone. It had been difficult for Whiskey to keep her hands off her lover when she’d first seen it. “Where’s Daniel?”

  “Here, Ki’an Gasan.” Daniel entered the sitting room from the corridor.

  Zebediah let out a whistle. “Damn, man! Check you out.”

  A faint blush caressed Daniel’s cheeks, but he kept his expression calm. He wore a full tuxedo with a burgundy cummerbund, and his tie looked crisp and polished. A burgundy handkerchief adorned the front pocket. He hadn’t shaved his scalp, dark fuzz visible beneath his relaxed dirty blond mohawk. Brushing at a piece of lint, he said, “Gotta grow up sometime, ebánda.”

  “Smooth.” Whiskey circled him, smiling. “Does Chaniya know you clean up this well?”

  Unable to keep his composure under the gentle teasing of his ninsumgal, Daniel looked away with a grimace. “Not yet. She said her mother’s making her wear traditional clothing, so I thought I’d do the same.”

  “You look wonderful, Daniel.” Margaurethe came forward to pat his upper arm, contributing to his discomfort rather than easing it.

  Laughing, Whiskey punched his other arm. “Better than these two.”

  “Hey!” Zebediah frowning at the leather jacket he’d just donned. “This is a Schott vintage cowhide Perfecto, top of the line.” Alphonse snickered and nudged him with his shoulder.

  “My Ninsumgal?”

  Whiskey left off teasing her pack mates. Jake stood at the door, looking a vision in an almost identical outfit as hers. She wore black tailored slacks, a dark bottle-green sleeveless shell and a black jacket that was more thigh-length sweater than anything. The front edge and hem were embroidered with golden and emerald threads. Somewhere amidst all that finery was a firearm. Whiskey could smell the gun oil and knew Jake never left her quarters without one.

  “Yes?”

  Jake tilted her head toward the door. “The cavalcade is in place and the delegates are gathered in the lobby. Security has cleared your movements.”

  “And the venue?” Margaurethe asked, picking up a black lace shawl and draping it across her bare shoulders.

  “The aga’gída are in place and ready, Ki’an Gasan. Doors are already open and ushers are seating the ninsumgal’s guests.”

  “I guess this is it then.” Whiskey crooked her arm, smiling as Margaurethe drifted close and slipped a hand around her bicep. Glancing back at her pack, she saw Alphonse had finished primping in front of the mirror by the door, his blue mohawk perfectly in place. “You guys ready?”

  Zebediah grunted, too annoyed to speak. Alphonse smirked at his brother and hustled him out into the hallway. Daniel gallantly held the door, giving a slight bow as Whiskey and Margaurethe passed. The express elevator already stood open, called there by security. As Whiskey entered it with her exotic entourage, she sighed and braced herself for the longest night of her life.

  * * *

  The lobby was awash with conversation as more people congregated in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment. Nijmege stared at the sea of black town cars and suits gathered on the front drive of The Davis Group, arms tightly folded across her chest. This little outing was a waste of time. Rather than continue negotiations today, Davis’s people had piddled the hours away, letting the Agrun Nam stew. Bentoncourt had called a meeting to privately discuss some of the topics that had been raised in their initial meeting with the board of directors, but what difference did it make? If Nijmege was successful, there’d be no treaty to sign; there’d be no Jenna Davis to negotiate with. The Davis Group would cease to exist.

  “Aga Maskim Sañar Bertrada Nijmege?”

  Nijmege turned toward the voice, her scowl easing slightly as she realized she didn’t recognize the younger woman at her elbow. “Yes?”

  The American Indian woman smiled, her dark eyes alight with pleasure as she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Puzzled, Nijmege automatically clasped her hand in return, relaxing her stance. The woman’s grip was strong without being overpowering. She wore a beige Grecian-style gown with a slightly flared skirt, one shoulder bared despite the cool weather outside. Sheer mesh of the same beige material covered her other shoulder, glints of silver from the metallic sequins and beads flashing as she moved. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a single braid, and silver jewelry adorned her neck and wrists. That she was here in Davis’s lair was enough for Nijmege to keep her guard up, though she retained her diplomatic training. “I’m sorry…”

  The woman gave a partial laugh as she remembered her manners. “Oh, I’m the one who should apologize! My name is Zica.”

  Nijmege blinked as she attempted to recollect if she’d ever known who “Zica” was. The name sounded familiar, but she’d waded through a mountain of intelligence information before leaving Europe. Coming up with a blank, she tilted her head in question, a faint grin curling her lips in response to Zica’s natural effervescence. “I’m afraid you still have the advantage on me.”

  Zica reached out, lightly grasping both of Nijmege’s hands with a squeeze. “I’m Whiskey’s aunt.”

  “Ah,” Nijmege said to gain mental breathing room and process the information. This was Davis’s aunt, from her American Indian mother’s side of the family. Stiffening, she dropped her chin as she felt the pleasant expression fade from her face. She was glad Zica had released the gentle grip on her hands. It was an effort not to wipe them on the sides of h
er floor-length gown.

  Despite the stern glare, Zica remained bubbly as she peered over her shoulder at the cars outside. “I’ve never heard Dvorak’s Symphony Number Nine, have you?”

  “Yes, I have. Multiple times.”

  Zica wasn’t put off by the unrelenting tone. If anything, her smile grew wider. “I imagine you have. Wasn’t he Czech? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d attended one of his symphonies personally.”

  It wasn’t any secret that Nijmege hailed from a Slavic nation. The fact that this woman had taken the time to ferret out the information made her uncomfortable. What’s Davis playing at? She turned and scanned the people loitering about the lobby. Her fellow sanari had congregated near the main security desk with their aides and staff, Rosenberg’s impassive attention the only one directed Nijmege’s way. A colorful knot of Africans stood several meters away, Director Dikeledi surrounded by her people. Elsewhere were smaller assemblages of Asians, Mayans and American Indians. An older woman stood among the last, closely watching Nijmege. Other than Dikeledi, there didn’t appear to be anyone from Davis’s inner circle to witness this meeting. Bringing her attention back to Zica, she frowned. “What do you want?”

  Zica tilted her head, her gregarious smile fading at the acerbic delivery. “To meet you, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everyone seems to believe that you’re a danger to my niece, and I wanted to see if that were so.”

  Taken aback at the blunt response so pleasantly stated, Nijmege almost smiled. She respected political strength, and Zica appeared to have good deal of that. Instead, she looked away, affecting boredom with the conversation. “Why would I be a danger to her? The Agrun Nam is here to arrange a treaty with The Davis Group, nothing more.” Returning her gaze to Zica, she caught a sympathetic understanding from the other woman’s expression, proof that Nijmege’s true aim was public knowledge in Davis’s camp.