Castillo turned with a delighted smile. “Yes, I do. One of the original six, I believe. I ran across it at an antique dealer in Madrid several decades ago. The poor soul had no idea what he held, and I bought it for a decent price.” He sat behind his desk, gesturing for his guest to sit as well. “I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of ancient history.”
“I don’t have much time for hobbies, but our ancient forbears have always intrigued me.” He pulled his gaze away from the artifact, reminding himself why he’d been brought here.
“Would you like something to drink? I’ve found myself addicted to sarsaparilla these days. I’ve plenty on hand, or I can call the kitchens if you’d prefer tea.”
Bentoncourt raised a hand. “I’m fine. Thank you, Father.”
“Then to business.” Castillo nodded, leaning back in his chair to regard his guest. “As I said, your…discussion with the Agrun Nam was overheard and reported. Don’t concern yourself with rumor. Reynhard was the witness. As far as we know, no one else did.”
“Thank you for that assurance.” Though a certain tension faded at Castillo’s information, it galled Bentoncourt that Davis’s chief spy had been the one to eavesdrop on his colleagues’ contention. Airing dirty laundry always chafed, but doing so to one of the most dangerous Sanguire in the European world went beyond the pale. He watched the priest, finding his hesitation of interest. Castillo was the same age as McCall, but it seemed he was less inclined to hold his emotions as close to the chest.
“We have been…aware…of Bertrada Nijmege’s plan for Whiskey for some time.” Castillo waited for an indication from Bentoncourt, continuing after he received a nod. “We’ve also known that Samuel McCall supported her in this endeavor. The news about Rosenberg, however, concerns us.”
Bentoncourt debated with himself. Davis’s people seemed to have evidence that one of the Agrun Nam had hired the assassins that had plagued her since her discovery. He had to admit that even without seeing such information he couldn’t discount their opinion as paranoia. Someone had certainly attempted to kill her, using Bentoncourt’s name to do so. “You believe Ernst might be the threat?”
“Do you?”
He drew in a breath, eyes scanning the books and scrolls behind Castillo as he searched for the right words. “His intention to support Bertrada can be construed as somewhat suspect, I’ll admit. But I don’t believe he’d go so far as to hire assassins. He’s logical and straightforward, not prone to subterfuge. If he had decided Ms. Davis needed to die, he would have done so under his own name and not in secrecy.”
Castillo pursed his lips as he frowned. “You don’t think he has designs on your position?”
Bentoncourt released a huff of laughter. “He’d have to get through Aiden and Bertrada first. They have seniority.” He noted Castillo’s stoic expression. “I realize that his opinion may be rather sudden to you, but he’s always been reticent in regard to the matter of Davis’s place. To be honest, I’m not certain what tipped the scales with him today. Up until now, he’s abstained from every vote on the issue.”
“He told Whiskey he saw Ninsumgal Elisibet Vasillas at your welcome reception.”
Blinking surprise, Bentoncourt’s mind raced as he remembered his first meeting with Davis. She must have asked Rosenberg the same question she’d asked him. If such was the case, why had Rosenberg abstained from recognizing Davis as the European ninsumgal during their initial negotiations? “I realize that you have no experience with Elisibet, but Ms. Davis’s essence is almost identical to hers. It could be that he’s decided the similarity doesn’t end there.”
“So I’ve been told.” Castillo tucked his chin. “Do you believe he may be the person who has sent assassins against us?”
“No,” Bentoncourt said with ease. “Ernst is a warrior, a damned good one, and he takes the concept of honor quite seriously. If he had decided Ms. Davis needed to die, he’d have come here himself and challenged her.”
They studied one another across the desk for long moments. Castillo raised his chin and smiled. “I appreciate your candor, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt.”
“Of course.” Recognizing their meeting was concluded, he stood, his actions mirrored by Castillo. For being over half Bentoncourt’s age and ill-equipped to deal with the higher forms of political scheming, the priest was certainly a fast study. Bentoncourt felt a grudging admiration as Castillo escorted him out of his office. I could work with a man like this.
At the threshold of the lobby, Castillo reached out to shake hands. “Thank you, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt.”
“You’re most welcome.” He wavered a moment. When he spoke again, his voice lowered. “You realize what Bertrada is attempting, do you not?”
A troubled expression briefly hid Castillo’s smile. “We do. Unfortunately, there’s only so much we can do to protect Whiskey at this point. Either Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege will come to her senses or the inevitable will occur.” He paused. “Are you prepared for the consequences of her actions?”
His words caused Bentoncourt’s hackles to rise, and he bit back an immediate retort. Was the priest stooping to threats now? But, no, that wasn’t Castillo’s style. He merely spoke common sense. Bentoncourt readjusted his perception. The priest only asked whether or not the Agrun Nam was aware of the myriad of political possibilities that would occur whether or not Nijmege succeeded. “As a council, we do not support Bertrada’s agenda. She is acting as an individual and any consequence of her actions are hers alone.”
Castillo flashed him a bright smile. “Thank you. That’s what I’d hoped to hear.”
In the lobby, his personal guard came to attention. Rather than go back to his apartment, Bentoncourt exited the building by way of the glass doors leading out onto SW 1st Street, his guard following. He needed some fresh air to clear his head and heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
The door closed on another petitioner and Whiskey slumped back into the welcome softness of her mattress in slow motion. She’d learned the hard way that sudden movement caused an ache in her abdomen that rivaled the one in her head.
“Almost done, m’cara.”
She turned her head and smiled at Margaurethe beside her, reaching out to stroke the mind that had cradled hers throughout these interminable encounters. Grasping the fingers that reached for her, she gave them a squeeze. “I can’t believe I actually want a nap. I hate naps.”
“You need the rest.” Daniel arrived at her other side, his fingers automatically finding her pulse.
Whiskey pouted. “I also hate being an invalid.” She watched Daniel, his attention on his watch as he checked her vital signs, remembering the first time they’d met. He and his pack had saved her ass from a serious beating or worse. He with his dirty blond mohawk, tattoos and piercings, black leather and vinyl—she’d been annoyed that such a man could enjoy the luxury of an education, become a medical doctor, and throw it away to hang out with rich punks. It wasn’t until later that she discovered he was Sanguire, that his lifespan was much longer than any Human she’d ever known, and that he was still considered a child though he’d just reached his fiftieth birthday.
“Better than the alternative.” Daniel released her and placed the back of his hand on her forehead.
Her eyes automatically flickered to her grandmother sitting beside Dikeledi. Wahca had lost both her daughters now, both to senseless car accidents too. It was sheer luck that Whiskey, Wahca’s only grandchild, had been involved in and survived each of them. It was almost enough to give Whiskey a phobia about ever riding in a vehicle with her grandmother. They said lightning didn’t strike twice, but…
Daniel lowered Whiskey’s blanket, lifting her baggy shirt to check the surgical wounds on her abdomen. Apparently finding them acceptable, he covered her again. “How many more visitors are scheduled today?”
Margaurethe glanced at an appointment book in her lap. “Three more.”
“I suggest you make it quick. No last-minute additions. Aga N
inna needs a light snack and a lot of sleep.”
The use of the phrase caused Whiskey to shiver, reminding her of the missing pack member who had always called her by it. The Sanguire assassin sent to kill Whiskey had murdered Cora several months ago. At the time, her senseless death had angered Whiskey, but at least she’d had somewhere to vent her fury. Someone had been responsible, someone could pay for the slaughter. Now she had nothing and no one to blame. Zica’s death was an accident, and the person responsible dead. No one could be held accountable. Whiskey had been able to contain her ire so far. Her current incapacitation and the painkillers helped. But the part of her that was Elisibet brooded in a vengeful craze, demanding restitution, wanting amends that could never be repaid.
She forcibly set aside her urge for bloodshed. “Who’s next?”
Valmont, who had taken to escorting the never-ending parade in and out of her sitting room, hovered at the entryway. “It appears the next one is Orlaith O’Toole.”
Margaurethe actually growled, startling Whiskey. She looked at her lover as Margaurethe studied the appointment book. “No, it’s not! Saggina Basco requested a brief moment of time, and I slipped him in.”
“Apparently he decided to forego the pleasure of a visit in favor of your mother,” Valmont said, his expression serious.
That alone set off warning bells. Valmont was rarely sober when given the opportunity to tweak Margaurethe’s nose and Orlaith O’Toole was a prime opportunity. Whiskey frowned, noting an underlying tension unconsciously radiating from him. Her pack picked it up as well, their attention no longer on the video game but on the other occupants in the room. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“Nothing.” Whiskey knew it for a lie the moment Margaurethe spoke. She seemed to regret the words as soon as they left her mouth. She lifted her chin, an apologetic look on her face. “We had some words while you were recovering from surgery. It’s nothing you need worry about.”
Whiskey pushed herself into a sitting position, grimacing at a twinge on her right as the stitches pulled. “What kind of words?”
Margaurethe didn’t say, her lips pinched.
“Unpleasant ones, Ninsumgal.” Jake stepped forward. “They regarded family matters. Gasan O’Toole became rather incensed and had to be removed from the clinic.”
Whiskey ignored the glower Margaurethe directed at Jake. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“What is there to say?” Margaurethe visibly reined in her temper, smoothing her expression. “You’re recuperating from an injury that almost killed you. It’s nothing you need to deal with now. Once you’re better, I’ll discuss it.”
This nonanswer would have to do. Whiskey was too weak to deal with a confrontation regardless of whether or not it would ease Margaurethe’s obvious irritation.
“Shall I allow her in?” Valmont asked from the door.
Dikeledi cocked her head. “If your wish is to avoid a meeting with her at this time, you are free to claim exhaustion. No one would think poorly of you.”
Whiskey looked at Jake. “What do you think?”
Jake scanned the room. “I don’t believe she’ll cause a scene here. There are too many people in attendance. The argument between Gasan O’Toole and Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe was conducted while you were unconscious and there were no other witnesses.”
Chano, having kept silent for the majority of the visitations, spoke up. “You witnessed it.”
“I am a servant.”
The old man snorted, muttering under his breath about the European tendency toward class structures.
His words made Whiskey smile. He was one of the many constants in her world. Chano could be an opinionated, cantankerous old man upon occasion, but he was also one of the wisest she’d ever met. Valmont raised his eyebrows in silent question. “Let her in.”
For a wonder Margaurethe didn’t offer immediate complaint, instead grinding her teeth and dropping her chin to her chest with a glare toward the door. As Valmont left the room, Nupa’s game character died a loud and inglorious death from his inattentiveness. Chaniya smirked and took the controller from him, beginning another round as Daniel returned to sit beside her. Jake didn’t return to her post by the entry into Whiskey’s apartment. She stood in the spot Castillo had vacated, a faint smell of carnations about her.
Whiskey tucked her own chin. Whatever had occurred while she was out had riled her zi agada. Was Whiskey’s future mother-in-law a physical threat? She scanned the room, noting her pack and board of directors, and relaxed. Orlaith O’Toole wasn’t an idiot or a suicidal terrorist. Even if she did mean Whiskey personal harm, she’d hardly attempt something here and now.
“Gasan Orlaith O’Toole,” Valmont announced as he gestured the petite woman forward.
“Thank you for coming, Gasan Orlaith.” Whiskey smiled. “I appreciate your taking the time, though I thought Saggina Basco would be here.”
Faint distaste wrinkled Orlaith’s nose as she passed the younglings lounging in the sitting area. “My apologies for the subterfuge, Ms. Davis.” The expression disappeared as she moved with economical elegance to the foot of the hospital bed, nodding greetings to the others. “I seemed to be having some difficulty in scheduling an appointment of my own, and Alfred offered his. Please do not think ill of him.”
Whiskey raised an eyebrow, glancing at Margaurethe who glowered at her mother. “I’m sorry you had trouble with that. I’ll make certain the security staff is aware you’re as welcome as any other guest we have here.”
Blue-gray eyes pierced Whiskey. After a thoughtful pause, Orlaith tilted her head, a gesture that bared her neck for the briefest of moments and also acknowledged the statement with a nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Whiskey cast about in her mind for something to say. Her other visitors had all been political negotiators, intent on confirming her health and the future of their talks. Orlaith had nothing to do with that, only here because her daughter was present. They hadn’t spoken since the reception four days ago. “Are you enjoying your stay in Portland?”
“It has been…interesting.” Orlaith clasped her hands before her in an easy stance, eyes flickering beyond Whiskey’s shoulder at Jake’s observation. Turning, she focused on Wahca, blatantly excluding Whiskey from her next statement. “My condolences for your loss.”
Wahca, stony-faced, nodded politely. “Thank you.”
Whiskey’s eyes narrowed. She noted the subtle bristling of everyone in the room at the obvious snub toward her. Had she been at full health, she would have called Orlaith on her discourtesy. As it was, she quickly reached out with her mind to subdue Margaurethe’s outrage and gave Valmont a look of warning.
By the time Orlaith returned her attention to the bed, Whiskey had a pleasant expression back upon her face. “I don’t wish to take up too much time, Ms. Davis. I know how busy you must be.”
“Of course.” Whiskey braced herself, knowing from Elisibet’s memories that Orlaith O’Toole never walked away from any confrontation without slinging a final barb.
Orlaith nodded and turned away. Valmont eased up from his slouch by the sofa to escort her to the hall. Before he reached her, she turned to regard Whiskey. “Tell me, though, how many more must die before you’re satisfied?”
“Mother!” Margaurethe made an automatic move to stand up, hampered by the wheelchair and her leg sticking out at a right angle.
The pack had risen, Nupa taking a step forward only to be blocked by Daniel’s hand on his chest. Chano cursed, attempting to creak to his feet, raising his walking stick. Using Sanguire speed, Dikeledi closed the distance between them and grasped his elbow to keep him from toppling over.
“Death follows you with eager hands, Ms. Davis. It’s only a matter of time before he takes everything you say you hold dear. Those you keep close are the most in danger; surely you know that.”
Jake hustled past Whiskey, drawing near to Orlaith, Valmont taking position beside her. “It’s time for y
ou to leave, Gasan.”
Orlaith held her hands above her head, keeping just out of reach to show they had no cause to touch her. “I’m leaving.” She marched to the door, calling back, “How will my daughter die, Elisibet? An accidental victim or another broken heart at your death?”
Whiskey felt light-headed at the rush of adrenaline, the desire to attack coursing through her. It didn’t help that Orlaith only said what Whiskey had secretly wondered. She knew some of what had happened to Margaurethe after Elisibet’s death, though her lover didn’t care to relive that time in either word or bonding. There was always the chance that everyone was wrong, that Whiskey would die and leave Margaurethe alone just as Elisibet had done. She didn’t think her lover would survive another breakdown like that.
Daniel returned to her side. It was an effort not to rip her arm out of his hand as he checked her racing pulse. Out in the vestibule, she heard Orlaith’s plaintive complaint as either Valmont or Jake took her arm to hurry her along. Then the double doors to the hallway closed, cutting her off. Daniel released her, turning away to a nearby armoire where he had placed his medical bag.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to give you a sedative, Ninsumgal. And I think we need to cancel the rest of your meetings for the day.” He turned back toward her with a hypodermic needle and a small vial of medicine.
“No.”
Margaurethe touched her hand. “Whiskey.” She was as flushed as Whiskey felt, her green eyes snapping. “Daniel knows what he’s doing. Let him do his job.”
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