Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Margaurethe seemed to sense her need. She disappeared from Whiskey’s view for a brief moment, returning with a paper cup. “Daniel said you could have ice chips until he’s had a chance to look at you.”

  Blessed icy wetness caressed Whiskey’s parched lips. She eagerly pulled the ice into her mouth, allowing it to melt as she swirled it around with her tongue. As she swallowed the liquid, she cleared her throat again. “What happened?” she asked, her voice a weak whisper.

  Tears brightened Margaurethe’s eyes, and she fed Whiskey another ice chip. “We were on our way to the symphony. You remember?”

  Brief flashes of memory crossed Whiskey’s mind—Alphonse and Zebediah in bow ties and leather jackets, the bottle-green of Jake’s blouse, Reynhard bucking tradition as usual with his full-black leather regalia. She hadn’t seen Reynhard until they’d reached the lobby, though she had no recollection of exiting the elevator. “No…We left my apartment.”

  Margaurethe nodded. “Yes, m’cara. Then we got into the cars and drove toward the theater.”

  Whiskey struggled to remember but came up with nothing but blackness. She gently shook her head, a tremor of apprehension in her mind. “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s to be expected, Ninsumgal,” Daniel said. He’d arrived at the other side of her bed, looking strange with a lab coat over his usual punk clothing. He pulled a flashlight from one pocket of the coat and leaned over her. “You were in a car accident on the way to the theater. Traumatic incidents like that almost always cause short-term memory loss.” He played the light across her eyes, monitoring her pupil response and otherwise blinding her. “You suffered some extensive internal injuries, but we were able to operate immediately.”

  “Daniel saved your life.”

  Whiskey’s gaze flickered from Daniel to Margaurethe and back again. She remembered him standing up to his former pack leader for her, suffering Fiona’s wrath when she tortured him as punishment. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  A faint smile crossed Daniel’s normally grim expression. “You’ll be fine, Ninsumgal. I want you to stay here one more day, then I’ll release you to your apartment. In a week you’ll make a full recovery.”

  Margaurethe captured Whiskey’s hand. “Thank you, Daniel. Will there be anything else?”

  Something passed between them, a vague discomfort that Whiskey witnessed as they looked at each other. Regardless of her good prognosis, it seemed bad news rumbled upon her immediate horizon.

  “No.” He pulled a small gray remote closer to Whiskey’s free hand. “Push the red button to call a nurse. The television controls are there as well.” He turned his attention to Margaurethe. “As soon as you’re finished, I have a kizarus in the waiting area for her. She needs fresh blood to facilitate her healing.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  Daniel patted Whiskey’s hand and left the room.

  Whiskey wished she could remember what the hell had happened. Obviously something more than a simple car accident had occurred. If she’d gotten into a car, both her bodyguard and her driver would have been there. “Where’s Jake?” she asked in a moment of panic. “Is Phineas okay?”

  “They’re fine.” Margaurethe pulled away a moment to readjust something, her face coming closer to the bed. “Jake dislocated a shoulder and Phineas came out of it almost without a scratch.”

  Twisting for a better look at her lover, Whiskey ignored the stretching pain in her abdomen as she noted Margaurethe in a wheelchair. Her fear increased. “You’re hurt!”

  “I’m fine!” Margaurethe took Whiskey’s grasping hand, holding it tightly. “It’s a broken leg, nothing more.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, that and a slight concussion. I’ll be right as rain in a few days, just like you.”

  Relief eased across Whiskey’s terror. “Then what’s going on? What happened? Did someone else get hurt?” The expression on Margaurethe’s face told the story. Had Valmont been in the car with them? Reynhard? Was that why Whiskey remembered Reynhard so clearly? “Who? Who else?”

  “Your aunt, Zica.”

  Whiskey blinked in confusion, not expecting that answer. As the information filtered through her mind, she frantically attempted to locate a memory of Zica sitting beside her. “Zica?”

  “Yes.” Margaurethe gripped Whiskey’s hand. “She asked to ride with us to the theater. You sat between us, she on the passenger side and I on the driver’s. A car ran the light, smashing into the rear passenger side.”

  Her words echoed in Whiskey’s head. The accident had caused serious internal injuries to her and a broken leg for Margaurethe. She could almost see Jake in the front with Phineas driving. A fuzzy image of Jake reaching toward her hovered for a moment in her mind’s eye before dissipating. Whiskey felt the tension leave her body as she regarded her lover’s sympathetic eyes. “She didn’t survive, did she?”

  A tear finally spilled onto Margaurethe’s cheek as she whispered, “No.”

  Weariness swept over Whiskey as she turned her head, staring at the ceiling. Another death, another innocent killed because of her. Emotional reserves too depleted to cry, she could only lay there in desiccated mourning.

  After several minutes of silence, Margaurethe spoke. “You need your rest. Call the nurse. Once you have some blood in your system you can sleep and heal.”

  It was a measure of her weakened state that Whiskey didn’t bother to argue despite not wanting to deal with a kizarus right now. She nodded agreement and pushed the red button. Life would go on. She would live and others would die for her, again and again. Perhaps someday she would be in the right place at the right time and no one else would ever need to be the next sacrifice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nijmege exited The Davis Group elevator onto the fifteenth floor Residential Lounge. Before her sat a small oasis. Tables and chairs littered the open area, the room liberally decorated with potted plants and a large wall-mounted television tuned to a national news station; an eternally stocked buffet curved along the far left corner emitting mouth-watering aromas; downtown Portland spread out beyond the large windows, tall brick or white buildings against a backdrop of forested hillsides. A Human attendant puttered about the lounge, refilling the buffet, busing tables as diners completed their breakfasts, and disappearing into a back room for occasional supplies or special orders. A hallway split off into two directions from where Nijmege stood, leading to the private residences on this floor. On the floor above her was Davis’s apartment. Unfortunately, Nijmege and her staff were housed in the neighboring building, so she had no point of reference as to the sixteenth-floor layout. It hardly mattered since one needed a special key or code for the elevator to go beyond this floor. No doubt the fire stairwells were equally impassable.

  The smell of food called Nijmege from her musing. She wasn’t alone here. She studiously ignored a table of guards bearing the maroon and silver scorpion armband of her enemy, marching across the open area to retrieve a heated plate from a stack at the end of the buffet. Castillo and Dorst sat at a corner table near a floor-to-ceiling window, heads together though they’d paused their conversation. They nodded acknowledgment, a recognition she ignored with a disdainful sniff. Another table held a man she recognized, one of Bentoncourt’s lackeys, wolfing down his food as he perused a magazine. She recognized none of the other half-dozen diners.

  Turning her back on Davis’s people, knowing even Dorst himself wasn’t a threat in such a public place, Nijmege focused on the food artfully displayed before her. Dorst’s preference for playing games was known to her and the priest was a nobody, a child. They were no threat. She picked through the offerings, her stomach grumbling with a different sort of hunger as she dished a selection of fresh fruit onto her plate. It was a good thing she’d brought her own kizarusi on this extended jaunt. Human city officials had no doubt begun to feel the weight of so many Sanguire in residence, the police probably baffled by the increase of personal assaults that included biting. Public
attacks would worsen as more Sanguire migrated here to attend this “ninsumgal’s” court. Nijmege found grim humor in the idea, wondering if the increased violence would ever be attributed to The Davis Group.

  An announcement had been made that Davis had survived the horrible accident she’d suffered yesterday afternoon. Too bad the delightful young American Indian woman had been killed. Irrespective of Zica’s opinion of and relationship to Davis, Nijmege hadn’t wished her ill. Nijmege’s relief had been absolute at the news of Davis’s recovery, however, causing her vague unease as she realized just how much the incident had impacted her. She’d spent so much of her life anticipating this opportunity, this moment in time, that she had nothing else with which to fill her days when she succeeded. For the first time her future was uncertain, and the knowledge unnerved her.

  She found a table far from the other diners, disquiet following her with its silent censure, and tucked into her repast. The servant appeared at her elbow. Nijmege gave an order for coffee. Soon a steaming cup sat at hand as she considered the day’s workload, a notebook and several files spread out on the table before her. She’d had several messages from Europe regarding both the High and Low Courts. With Davis out of the immediate picture, it looked like Nijmege had time to catch up on Agrun Nam business before negotiations proceeded again.

  From her position, she saw the elevator door open, expelling Rosenberg. Cassadie the Casanova remained inside, dressed in his health club finest. Why he’d escorted Rosenberg up to this floor was a mystery, considering the spa was on the third. No doubt he’d struck up an “arrangement” with the pretty masseuse working there, a little tryst to sow a few of his many wild oats. Good thing the Sanguire naturally had such difficulty procreating. Had that not been the case, baby Cassadies would have overrun the world centuries ago. She continued reading her files and jotting down notes until a shadow crossed her table. She glanced up to see Rosenberg, plate in hand.

  “May I join you?”

  Preferring McCall’s company to his, Nijmege nevertheless acquiesced. “Please.” Perhaps she could pick his brain regarding Davis’s injuries and how they could affect their supposed “treaty.” As he settled into the chair across from her, and the server approached for his drink order, she examined him. Had he been surprised by Bentoncourt’s initial demand to place Davis at the head of the Agrun Nam? He’d always been distant from the hierarchal games played during council meetings. How had he felt when Davis had played hard to get? She snorted to herself, hiding her amusement with a swallow of coffee. Whether or not Rosenberg held emotions at all had been a question for as long as she’d known him.

  Once he received a glass of juice he began to eat. Past experience kept Nijmege from engaging him in conversation. Rosenberg preferred a silent meal to be followed by discourse. She took his example and finished her breakfast. She’d get more information from him if she waited, though even that would require squeezing wine from a turnip.

  They finished their meal, the server appearing from nowhere to gather their plates and offer more coffee. After placing a fresh pot on the table between them, she whisked away, hopefully never to return. Nijmege poured another cup. “I’ve been meaning to ask your opinion on all of this. I just haven’t had the time.”

  “And I have been meaning to ask your intentions toward Ninsumgal Davis.”

  She soured and looked away. Having chosen a table near the window, she looked out on a parking lot across the way that rapidly filled with cars. Never one to mince words, Rosenberg had gotten right to the meat of the matter. Which would he defend—Davis as his future ruler or Nijmege’s right to vengeance? “As I’ve been told by Aiden, he already has a good idea what I intend. Certainly, you know the same? It was stated as such in council chambers months ago. You’re much too intelligent to have missed it.”

  He appeared unmoved, but then she hadn’t expected him to respond to ego stroking. “You wish to avenge Nahib’s death by killing the Sweet Butcher. That’s been proven.”

  “Yes.” She glared. “Will you stop me?”

  Rosenberg’s face actually cracked a tiny bit. She realized she had surprised him. As she marveled at seeing this weakness in his emotional equilibrium, he answered, “Why should I? You’re quite capable of rational thought. You’re able to make decisions on your own.” He pondered something deep inside. “If you desire my opinion, I think your attempt is folly.”

  “Folly?” Nijmege grimaced. “Have you been talking to Aiden?”

  “No. Why?”

  She snorted. “He believes Elisibet has already been punished for her crimes. If I attempt to inflict punishment on Davis, I will be attacking an innocent.”

  Rosenberg didn’t speak for long moments as he stared at her. His gaze caused her a shiver of discomfort. He didn’t attempt to mentally approach but it seemed as if he saw into her soul. “I am not qualified to comment on the moral and ethical repercussions of your actions,” he finally said. “The folly I refer to is the death of one or both of you.”

  “You worry about the death of an upstart?”

  “I’ve not made myself clear. My concern is that you win your goal, depriving us of a much-needed ninsumgal. Or, if you lose, stripping the Agrun Nam of your centuries of wisdom.”

  Nijmege blinked. If his words were translated from Rosenberg-speak, did he just say he cared for her? She shook the thought from her mind. Of course not. His issue was the political upheaval that would follow her course of action.

  Despite Elisibet’s bloody reputation and the Purge that had followed her death, there were those among their people who bought Mahar’s Prophecy in totality. They believed Elisibet’s return would bring about a Golden Age, that all wrongs would be righted. By now, Davis’s ascension to the European throne had all but been publicly announced among the European Sanguire gossips. It hadn’t helped that the Agrun Nam had prepared the old capitol for occupation last year upon discovering her presence. Soon it and the nearby surviving township would swarm with misguided believers should Davis ever deign to move there. If she died in residence, another Purge might well take place. Considering the delicate nature of national politics, the European Sanguire couldn’t survive another such mob action. If by some extreme chance Nijmege died in an attempt on Davis’s life, the Agrun Nam would go into upheaval. It always happened when a sanari died and was replaced.

  Rather than give away her current plan to bait Davis into a challenge, Nijmege frowned at her coffee cup. “It’s all moot, Ernst. If Lionel has his way, Davis will be accepted as our Ninsumgal. I cannot go forward with my plans without being called to my own court for treason.”

  He tilted his head. “It is true you cannot call challenge. I assume your insulting nature during meetings is designed to cause our liege to make the challenge, thereby relieving you of the burden of treasonous charges.”

  A slow smile grew on her face. “You’re very good. And she’s not our liege. I haven’t sworn fealty to her, and neither has any of our delegation.”

  “That will change when negotiations are complete.”

  Nijmege gave a scoff of disbelief. “You really believe she’ll be enthroned as our ruler? She’s stated she doesn’t want the position.”

  “It’s a foregone conclusion. Our presence here indicates we follow her orders. By that decision alone we’ve indirectly assigned her power over us.” Rosenberg let out a deep breath, his heavy-lidded eyes catching hers. “Our treaty will set her above us, regardless, just as she’s been set above the Africans and the American Indians. She need not be invested with the European mantle of rule if she’ll be above all nations in the world.”

  Nijmege leaned back in her chair, sour at his sentiment. “That’s the same claptrap Lionel and Aiden have been spouting.”

  “It doesn’t make it any less true.”

  She shook her head, looking away to keep from snapping at him. Dorst and Castillo were still present, still deep in their talk. Frowning in their direction, she considered how much had been sai
d and gauged whether or not they’d overheard Rosenberg’s comments. It doesn’t matter now, does it? My goal is no secret, not even to them. “What do you think? I’ve heard from Samuel and Aiden on the matter. What’s your opinion? Should I continue on with this ‘folly’ or give it up?”

  His answer was long in coming. “You should see it through. You’ve waited too long, worked too hard to relinquish your vision of revenge. If you don’t follow through with your plans, you will become useless to us. Better to die in the attempt than deny your nature.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t expected him to agree with her. For years it had seemed that only McCall was of like mind in most matters coming before the Agrun Nam. It occurred to her to wonder if he was a shape-shifter sent by Dorst to gain intelligence information. Without thought, she sent a tendril of her mind to his, verifying his identity. Rosenberg met her essence with his own, proving his validity. “No charges of treason?” she asked, her voice dropping low. “No pleas for common sense?”

  “No. I assume you aspire to have Davis challenge you. It’s a solid plan. Unless, of course, she names a Champion.”

  “She hasn’t yet.”

  “No.”

  “And if she should, I’ll go through her Champion first. I will not be stopped, Ernst.”

  The conversation faded between them, everything having been said. He drained his coffee cup. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll see you at our next meeting. I believe Lionel wishes to gather this afternoon.”

  “Certainly.”

  Nijmege watched him leave. So. Two for and one against. Two against if she officially polled Bentoncourt. Having the subtle support of two of her comrades made the entire plan feel less unbalanced. She resolved to begin the insults and sniping, perhaps starting with the board members. Word would get to Davis regardless of her convalescence. Eventually Davis would sicken of the remarks, become angry and decide to do something about them. How does one put a bug in a child’s ear about trial by combat?