Her pack was present, as were her directors. Zica had been of an age just young enough to enjoy the youth that surrounded her niece. They would miss her gentle teasing and intriguing conversation almost as much as her family. Five invitations had been given to each senior representative of the delegations in house; none had turned them down. India, China, Japan, Maya, America and Europe were all here, chattering among themselves. It created a crowded atmosphere. Whiskey hated putting a political slant on such a deeply personal gathering, but there’d be business setbacks if any government felt slighted. The last thing The Davis Group needed was to give inadvertent insult to a government negotiator.
She passed closest to the Agrun Nam on her way to the front row of chairs, purposely snubbing them. From the corner of her eye she saw Nijmege and McCall swell with anger at her slight. Orlaith glared with them, having finagled an invitation from somewhere, the third of their affronted triangle. The need to utilize this memorial as a tool was another unfortunate consequence of her position. She could only hope that Zica, wherever she was, would forgive her.
Whiskey reached her grandmother, stepping into a warm embrace. They held each other for long minutes as the others silenced their discussions to watch. Whiskey initiated a connection between them, allowing the sensations that were her grandmother to settle over her—the perception of sun on her skin and reddish loam on her hands, the smell of earth intensifying. She felt the terrifying sadness, shared the sense of utter loss they’d both endured, not just with Zica’s death but that of Nahimana, Whiskey’s mother, dead for fourteen years. Though Wahca had been by Whiskey’s side almost the entire time since the car accident, this was the first opportunity they’d had to connect and share their grief.
Eventually they returned to the present. Wahca wiped Whiskey’s tears, a tremulous smile on her face as Whiskey returned the favor. She shakily inhaled, looking around at their audience. No one had interrupted their joining, probably because of the stern expression on her immediate guards’ faces. Jake especially didn’t look like she’d accept any sort of shenanigans from the others, and they’d taken her unsubtle stance as gospel.
Margaurethe took up Whiskey’s hand again and they migrated to their seats. Beyond was a small table draped in black. A fat white pillar candle had been lit, protected from the breeze by hurricane glass. It illuminated a large color photo of Zica. She smiled widely at the camera, her eyes alight with mischief, hair free flowing. It was a portrait shot, and she wore an ochre-colored Western-style shirt with brown embroidery, a bone and bead choker of tan and gold caressing her throat. Behind her was the pale blue sky of the plains, wisps of cloud producing a watercolor wash. Whiskey felt her chest tighten as she looked upon the image of her aunt, forever smiling, forever gone.
The others took their seats and an old Lakota medicine man Whiskey hadn’t seen before came forward. He wore traditional buckskins and an elaborate headdress. With careful precision, he pulled various things from a pouch, laying them out on the table and began to chant. Whiskey forced her mind to silence, allowing her heart the freedom to mourn while she had the opportunity.
It would be a long time before she’d have the chance again.
* * *
“Can you believe it?”
Nijmege ground her teeth as Davis passed without bothering to even look at her. She turned to Orlaith. “Believe what?”
“Her attire.” Orlaith’s expression was a cross between annoyance and repugnance. “I mean, really…this is a memorial service. She looks like she’s ready to hop onto a motorcycle and raid a small town.”
McCall leaned in, voice low. “She doesn’t look that much different than the rest of her clique.”
Nijmege scanned the other younglings that socialized with Davis, giving them scathing looks for their disrespectful appearance. Leather, chains, brightly colored hair. Even the African’s daughter wore clothes that were more appropriate for a drug-deal shootout than a funeral service.
Orlaith tsked under her breath. “Our future leaders.”
“Not if I can help it,” Nijmege vowed.
“Really?” Orlaith cocked her head. “And what can you do about it, Bertrada? If the stories are true, she’s already survived two assassins.” Her gaze regarded the meeting between Davis and the old American Indian woman. “We can only hope that her next accident hits the proper mark.”
Nijmege’s eyes wandered over the gathering. Most of the invited delegates were enamored with their own false displays of mourning, none having actually known the vital woman who had died. Disgusted, saddened that she herself hadn’t had more than the briefest exposure to Zica’s personality, she glanced at Bentoncourt and Cassadie, who stood off to one side. She took a minute step closer to Orlaith, lowering her voice to a bare whisper. “No. Davis will be dead soon.”
Orlaith gave her a sharp look. She, too, checked their surroundings for eavesdroppers, taking the time to link her arm through Nijmege’s. “Explain.”
“I plan to engage her in a duel before I leave here.”
Shock washed across Orlaith’s expression before solidifying into interest. “Do you need any assistance? I have few fighting skills, but I know you’re much more adept with centuries of experience. I’ll gladly stand as your second.”
A faint smile curled Nijmege’s lips. “I don’t believe your daughter will ever speak to you again if you’re involved.”
Orlaith emitted a haughty snort. “I don’t care. I’d suffer worse to get her away from that woman.”
“Perhaps. But it would be better if you were there to help her through her grief. She was so distraught last time.”
With grudging comprehension, Orlaith nodded. “True.”
Nijmege patted Orlaith’s hand on her arm. “Never fear, my friend. We’ll see the Sweet Butcher’s progeny permanently dead soon.” She glared at the back of Davis’s head, dreaming of the blood that would shortly splash across her pale hair. “Soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Are you certain you don’t want me to stay?”
Bentoncourt smiled at the concerned Cassadie. He placed a hand on Cassadie’s shoulder, gripping it tightly and releasing it. “No, Aiden. I’ll be fine.”
They stood in the lobby of The Davis Group headquarters, morning sunlight brightening the floor-to-ceiling frosted glass windows. The coffee kiosk was closed despite the hour, and the lobby held an ambience of solitude. A handful of aides with briefcases clustered here and there, voices lowered as they chatted, subconsciously supporting the overall sense of veneration. It was almost as if they stood in the nave of a church, except the state portrait of Whiskey Davis looked down upon them rather than the Christ figure. Tragedy had turned a three-day visit into a week. Today was Sunday, and it was past time for two of the Agrun Nam delegates to return home.
Cassadie grimaced. “I know you’ll be fine, Lionel, I just meant…I feel like I’m abandoning you.” He glanced at the small huddle of their Agrun Nam associates nearby. Nijmege, McCall and Rosenberg stood together near a sitting area. Gasan Orlaith O’Toole perched on a sofa, listening to their discussion. Leaning closer, he whispered, “What happens if things go sour? Who will be here to aid you?”
After following Cassadie’s gaze, Bentoncourt shook his head. “I have faith that I won’t need protecting. Unlike two of our colleagues, I don’t believe Davis is the Sweet Butcher despite holding Elisibet’s memories. I’m counting on her to keep her head, regardless of what happens.”
“And I’m counting on you to keep your head, in more ways than one.” Cassadie stared at him, a frown knitting his dark eyebrows together. “Don’t do anything foolish, Lionel.” As Bentoncourt affected innocence, Cassadie tucked his chin into his chest. “You know what I mean. Your sense of honor has gotten you into trouble in the past. I won’t be here to pick up the pieces this time.”
Two town cars pulled up on the front drive, distracting Bentoncourt as he saw them through the clear glass of the doors. He shook hands with Ca
ssadie. “Thank you, my friend, but it’s been several decades since I’ve allowed my heart to rule over my head. I know when discretion is advisable these days. I’ll keep my neck protected.”
“Do.”
A handful of security entered the main doors, looking expectantly in Bentoncourt’s direction. “I believe your transport is ready.” Cassadie turned just as a guard arrived at their side.
“Sabra Sañar Cassadie, if you’ll follow me?”
Bentoncourt scanned the lobby. Surely The Davis Group would send some sort of representative to see them off. As if the thought had called him, the elderly American Indian hobbled out from the offices behind the main security desk. Bentoncourt felt surprise. Up until now, the Agrun Nam’s dealings had been with the other European Sanguire on Davis’s board. They’d had little to do with Chano or Dikeledi.
Cassadie turned on his impressive charm, smiling and closing the distance between himself and the man’s halting approach. “Director Chano, I’m so sorry we didn’t have more opportunity to spend time together.”
Chano peered at Cassadie with a sharp gaze, reminding Bentoncourt that venerable age didn’t necessarily equate with mental feebleness. “I agree. You should visit again. I can show you some wonderful fishing on the coast.”
“That would be marvelous.”
As they nattered on the other sanari approached, Orlaith in tow. As soon as Rosenberg was near, Chano turned toward him. “And I’ll miss your sensible opinion at the negotiation table, young man.”
Until now Chano had always struck Bentoncourt as acerbic, not gregarious. He frowned in suspicion, as did Nijmege and McCall. Though it was rude to prod a single Sanguire, especially one that wasn’t a close friend, it wasn’t particularly barbaric to generally scan an area. Having people with the ability to shape shift was an ongoing security concern, and the mental rake of a crowd a normal occurrence. Bentoncourt did so now, getting a general feel of the Sanguire nearby, recognizing many as his colleagues and their people. Nothing indicated that Chano was anyone but himself, at least he didn’t give off the amber and steel Bentoncourt associated with Dorst.
Chano’s expression reflected amusement, obviously aware of the sudden interest, but didn’t call attention to their curiosity. “Whiskey wanted to thank you for accepting her invitation to visit. She apologizes for not being here to see you off.”
Nijmege sniffed. “Typical. She snaps her fingers and we come running. Now she doesn’t bother to show her face. It’s to be expected from an undisciplined child.”
Cassadie’s countenance darkened, and Bentoncourt felt a flush of anger spread up his neck. Even Orlaith seemed appalled at the overt snipe. McCall muffled a snort, turning away for a light cough. Only Rosenberg remained unaffected.
His smile faded and eyes sparked, but Chano refused to be baited into an argument. “Most of your staff has already left for the airport. We have two vehicles here for you and your immediate aides. Have a pleasant journey.” He didn’t wait for a response, promptly turning away from them.
As much as Bentoncourt wanted to take Nijmege to task, he couldn’t, not in a public venue and not with Orlaith as witness. He could tell Cassadie also wanted to say a few choice words, probably ones not as diplomatic as was his normal vocabulary.
“Sañars?” a guard asked. He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
Rosenberg accepted the escort, not speaking to any of the others as he was led out the doors, a handful of his staff following. Rather than tempt fate, Nijmege took her coterie with her, McCall and Orlaith trailing behind, not bothering to say farewell as they drifted to the elevators.
Cassadie turned toward Bentoncourt. “I know Ernst thinks we can’t do anything, but you have to stop her!”
“I’ll do what I can, Aiden. I can’t promise anything more than that.” His words didn’t ease Cassadie’s troubled mind. What else could he do? Rosenberg’s political analyses had rarely been wrong. He took Cassadie’s hand and shook it. “Safe journey, my friend. Take care of our people.”
They stared at one another a brief moment, Cassadie’s eyes expressing what he couldn’t say aloud. With a curt nod, he released Bentoncourt. Turning, he gathered his people with a gesture and went outside to his waiting car.
Bentoncourt trailed after, remaining at the door until the cars pulled out into morning traffic. His depression returned with his last glimpse of taillight. Turning back to The Davis Group lobby, he regarded Davis’s life-sized portrait—all leather and rags, a sneer on her beautiful face and dragons writhing from her arm.
“God help us.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Whiskey’s anger simmered as afternoon drew into evening. She sat, elbow on the arm of her chair, her chin resting upon palm with her index finger at her temple. This day of political squabbling was almost finished, and her nerves were sharp. Was it only this morning that Cassadie and Rosenberg had left? It felt like weeks ago. She knew some of her weariness came from her still-healing injuries, but the constant drain of keeping her emotions at bay had exhausted her.
As expected, Nijmege had taken every opening to insult Whiskey and her advisors. The strain showed on everyone, even Nijmege’s associates. Bentoncourt had spent most the day fighting a perpetual grimace as Nijmege shot one gibe after another at Whiskey. McCall remained stone-faced, though an air of smug joy clung to him as he backed Nijmege’s every counter, ensuring that the hours spent in conference were utterly unproductive.
On this end of the table, Valmont echoed Nijmege’s anger for altogether different reasons. He watched her like a hawk, rather apropos considering she resembled the creature, and answered her sniping with remarks of his own. Everything said here was being recorded for posterity, so neither of them were too bloodthirsty in their verbal sparring. Whiskey debated the pros and cons of that as she fumed, remaining silent as she accepted the verbal abuse, occasionally stepping in to squelch Valmont’s invective.
Castillo had also received much of Nijmege’s contemptuous attention. Her snobbery had much to do with her opinion that he was an outsider, a commoner. He had no family in power and served a Human religion. It seemed that Castillo’s return sentiment was on equal level, for the sharp barbs aimed specifically at him fell fruitlessly to the ground, not wounding him. He seemed far more irritated in defense of Whiskey than of himself, huffing in outrage only when Nijmege slung barbs at his Ninsumgal.
Chano didn’t merit even that much from Nijmege. Her European sensibilities followed the straight and narrow regarding the American aboriginals, namely that his presence in these proceedings was unnecessary. On the rare occasion when he spoke, she ignored him with supercilious calm, leaving Bentoncourt or McCall to answer his questions.
Dikeledi and Dorst were the only two that Nijmege treated with any level of respect—the former because the European and African Sanguire had held political treaties with each other for centuries, and the latter due to a healthy fear of the unknown. Who knew what Dorst would accept as insult before taking offense? His cultivated unpredictability stood him in good stead here as he sat back and watched the sparks fly.
Whiskey could have told Nijmege that she had little to worry about in that area. Dorst remained a pleasurable burble upon Whiskey’s psyche, purposefully keeping light mental contact with her. He had found many of the slurs and rude comments humorous, his lips turned upward in a perpetual smile. She didn’t know whether he truly felt such or if he transmitted this low-grade levity to prevent her from bursting into fury. Studying the shining black eyes of her chief spy, she decided he truly did enjoy the show.
Then there was Margaurethe, who sat stiffly beside her, glaring at their enemies.
Nijmege’s threat had drawn them closer than ever. This was something of a surprise to Whiskey. She’d built a place in her mind to house those desires she attributed only to Elisibet, never allowing Margaurethe full access and not looking too closely at her motives for keeping that part of her back. Their pact over the fate of Nijmeg
e and McCall had caused her to reconsider that mental separation. Last night, after Zica’s memorial service, she had joined her mind with Margaurethe’s, sharing deeper than ever before. The morning had dawned with the two of them entwined and that place in her mind no longer fettered. Instead, the seeds of ire and despair had rooted and grown bearing the fruit of anger, desire, regret and loss that seemed to emanate from both of them.
On an emotional level, they were so close now that words couldn’t even describe the sensation. If she didn’t need Margaurethe as backup should she fail, Whiskey would prefer her as her second in the inevitable duel. That piece of her that was Elisibet reveled in the joy of their joint perfection, knowing nothing and no one could withstand them. The sensation was both daunting and exhilarating.
Nijmege turned a page, and everyone dutifully followed her lead with the copies she’d handed out that morning. “That’s the last of it.”
Castillo flipped back through several pages. “While I can appreciate the time it took to gather this information, Sañar Nijmege, I fail to see why we need a laundry list of legal proceedings for which your office is responsible. We requested information on your laws, not your courts.” He referred to the paperwork. “You’ve apparently tried treason cases in the last decade but haven’t given us specific data on what comprises a treasonous action.”
“I’ve given you all I have,” Nijmege said, spine rigid. She shuffled her papers into some sort of order. “I’m done with it. How we run our nation has nothing to do with this treaty.”
“Come now, Bertrada,” Valmont said. “You’ve always been anal retentive. Surely you’ve got what we need.” He flipped the stack of papers so they fluttered and settled into a haphazard pile in the center of the conference table.
“I’ve more important things to be worried about.” Nijmege glared at Whiskey rather than Valmont, daring her to argue.
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