“It has to be, Bertrada. You won’t have it any other way.”
“Quite right.” They came together again, but neither landed solid blows. Nijmege held the grace of a dancer as her sword flashed, sparking as it met Whiskey’s machete repeatedly.
They pulled back after the flurry, panting. Whiskey’s side ached abysmally. She knew she was dripping blood down her pants and onto the floor, but couldn’t spare the time to check the injury. Any attention drawn to it might let Nijmege know how bad it truly was. “Was that the best you could do?” Whiskey asked as she hunkered into a fighting stance, smiling through her weakened exhaustion. “Nahib must be turning over in his grave.”
The use of her old lover’s name spurred Nijmege forward in another impulsive charge.
Her uncontrolled emotions gave Whiskey a mental opening. Probing hard at a weakened section of Nijmege’s mind, Whiskey put all her considerable power into the psychic attack as she brought up her machete to parry the oncoming saber. The mental stab was just enough to freeze Nijmege at a crucial moment. With vicious glee, Whiskey grabbed Nijmege’s sword arm, pulling her forward and off balance as the machete speared Nijmege’s left side. They crashed together, chest to chest, and she stared into Nijmege’s eyes, seeing the slow realization dawn that Whiskey didn’t just have Elisibet’s memories but her martial experience and rugged mental power as well.
With a grunt of pain, Nijmege pushed Whiskey away, her mental shield firming up around the point of attack. She staggered backward into McCall’s arms, sword out to counter another onslaught.
Valmont’s laughter pealed across the open space. “Well, dear Samuel. Shall we play now?”
* * *
Sudden terror flared in McCall’s heart at Valmont’s invitation. He felt Nijmege scrambling at his essence, demanding both his mental and physical support as he helped her stand. “I thought you said you had this well in hand!” he said, voice squeaking in a shameful way.
“I. Do.” Nijmege pushed him away, reeling ever so slightly. “I told you not to listen to him. He’s just taunting you! I need you with me one hundred percent. Focus!”
“But you’re older than both of them!” He waved a hand at Davis who had remained where she was after Nijmege’s retreat. “She’s just a child.”
Nijmege’s gasping for breath lessened as needed oxygen filled her lungs. “Apparently she’s a bit more than that, my friend.”
“But—”
“Enough! We can’t back out now. It’s too late.” She turned to glare at Davis. “She’s going to die at my hand. Today.” With that, she limped back into the battle, transferring her sword to her left hand.
McCall tried to concentrate, adding his mental strength to Nijmege’s to use as she saw fit. He knew on an academic level that a swordsman who could use both hands equally was someone to be feared. Davis didn’t look particularly scared, however. His gaze darted to Valmont. Valmont leered back, winking when he caught McCall’s eye. Cold sweat swept over him, and Nijmege faltered as a result before he could center his mind. He resolved not to look at Valmont again until this fiasco was over.
Nijmege gave a war cry and attacked. To his horror, Davis was prepared for her opponent’s altered weapons hand. She ducked under Nijmege’s longer blade, sliding her machete upward with as much strength as she could muster. McCall stared as the black blade sliced leather and the flesh of Nijmege’s upper arm, separating the muscle there. The saber tumbled to the floor, hitting the wood with a clang.
“No,” he whispered. He took one lurching step forward, concentrating his mind on Nijmege’s.
She still lived, still fought, though her conflict now seemed fully mental. Davis had brought her machete up for another downward slash, but Nijmege had intercepted it with her still hale right hand. The machete trembled as they both gripped it at the hilt.
Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths to ground himself. He felt the mental struggle between them, marveling at the strength of Nijmege’s opponent. Roses. Roses and blood. The air was saturated with it as he offered assistance, shored up areas of her shields as they started to tumble. He could sense nothing else and wondered if Valmont was even assisting. Frantic, he opened his eyes to confirm Valmont wasn’t sneaking toward his position, relieved to see him in his place.
Sweat beaded on McCall’s forehead, dripping down his face at his exertions. Davis and Nijmege fought for dominance over the machete, but Nijmege appeared to be weakening from the mental attack. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
He had plans to take over the European Sanguire, plans that had been put into place a hundred years ago. He only awaited a likely trigger to destabilize their entire governmental structure. Rosenberg had told him it didn’t matter whether Nijmege lived or died in her pursuit of this challenge. McCall had tried to distract her from her goal, but the time for that had passed. He’d had hopes of her winning this bout and getting her away from The Davis Group long enough for assassins to be set upon her. That could have stirred things up at home nicely. But Davis seemed to be growing stronger. Her forays into Nijmege’s mind stabbed pain behind his eyes and must agonize Nijmege. If she truly were the Sweet Butcher returned, McCall would never have the chance to rule the Euro Sanguire. Never. The yawning maw of failure opened before him.
He was moving before he realized it, sword upraised. Davis had to die in this match, no matter what. If she survived, a treaty would be negotiated. She’d become overseer of the Agrun Nam. He’d never gain the power he’d worked for his entire life.
In his mind, he felt Nijmege slowly dying. Rather than prolong her death throes, he retracted his help, mentally fleeing as he rushed forward to physically attack. Davis’s fangs were bared in a hungry snarl as she felt Nijmege weaken, too busy concentrating on her goal to realize her peril. McCall, too, was entirely fixed upon his objective. With a growl, he brought the borrowed saber back for a downward sweep, putting everything he had into the maneuver.
Steel flashed before him, briefly blinding him as a curved cutlass reflected light from the windows. The shock of impact rattled McCall’s teeth, his saber slamming into the blade before him. He staggered back, dazed, grabbing his aching wrist with his other hand.
Valmont stepped past the women in the final throes of conflict, an ugly smile on his face. “I was so hoping you’d try that.”
McCall’s mind blanked as panic swept over him. He brought his weapon up, using both hands to brandish it before him.
As he backed away, Valmont approached, step for step. “It took us a while to figure out who was sending those assassins. You covered your tracks well, but it really only turned out to be a process of elimination.” He tapped the tip of the saber, chuckling as it wildly wavered in McCall’s grip. “What did you think would happen when we finally pinpointed you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Though Valmont loomed close, he didn’t seem too inclined to attack quite yet. McCall frantically searched for help from the assembled witnesses. His only colleague in attendance was Bentoncourt, and McCall could tell there’d be no assistance from that quarter. Valmont barked laughter, drawing his attention back.
“You certainly don’t think Lionel will help, do you? He suspects you as much as we did.” Cocking his head, he stroked McCall’s saber with his cutlass, the hiss of steel against steel sickening the less experienced man. “What do you think is going to happen if you get out of this alive? I bet you’ll be under investigation before you leave this city. No doubt the order has already been given to ransack your office and home.”
McCall felt his eyes widen at the thought. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath as he tried to recall if he’d left incriminating evidence anywhere.
Valmont closed the distance between them. “You won’t be Maskim Sañar for long, will you?”
“No!” Unable to help himself, McCall pulled back just enough to gather momentum for a strike. The move left him defenseless and Valmont utilized the brief opportunity to attack.
Nijmege might have been graceful in her skill, but Valmont was almost beautiful in form using a lethal economy of motion. He bore McCall’s blade aside, not even blinking as the saber snapped with a sharp ting! to fall musically to the floor. His cutlass arced back, floating across McCall’s field of vision, deftly slicing into the meat of his inner right thigh.
McCall stood puzzled a moment, still gripping the broken weapon. Why hadn’t Valmont gone for his throat, decapitated him? Lethargy washed through him, counteracting the adrenaline in his bloodstream. But I’ve hardly been touched. He dropped his gaze to see blood gushing from the wound. The color was wrong. Having seen his fair share throughout his life, his blood was a much brighter red than he’d expected. It pooled on the floor beneath him. Repulsed, he attempted to step away from the puddle but stumbled. Vertigo spun the room and he fell to the floor as a bone-deep chill took root within him. He stared up at his opponent.
Valmont watched with idle boredom, pausing to study his fingernails a moment before returning his attention to McCall. “Femoral artery,” he explained in matter-of-fact tones. “Quick, of course, but Whiskey needs medical attention more than I need to make an example of you.” He looked over his shoulder, checking the progress of the other battle. Squatting down, he lowered his voice. “Interesting point of trivia, Samuel. This is how Elisibet died too. I opened the artery and she bled out within minutes.”
McCall slumped backward, unable to gather the necessary energy to do more than shiver as Death drew its black cloak over him. His last sight was Valmont’s gaze, his last sound Valmont’s voice.
“I have to say I have a much better appreciation for your death than hers.”
* * *
Nijmege’s consciousness faded beneath Whiskey’s onslaught. She hardly noted a flurry of movement beside her, the clash of metal, too intent on her goal to pay attention to the sounds of melee moving away. As darkness enveloped Nijmege’s mind, Whiskey set aside her vicious glee of victory. That was an aspect of Elisibet, not of her. “I’m so sorry, Bertrada,” she whispered as Nijmege released her grip on the machete, her life snuffed out as her mind collapsed.
Whiskey pulled back from the final spiral, knowing from experience and training that to follow a Sanguire into death meant death itself. She stared at the hawk-like features, slack in release, the final spark of emotion dissipating from the muddy-brown eyes. Slumping, she moved with pained and awkward caution as she gently shifted Nijmege’s body to the floor.
No longer concentrated on death, she watched her immediate surroundings come back into slow focus. She heard a voice. Turning, she saw Valmont squatting beside the bleeding form of McCall, distantly recognizing the brilliant crimson color and hearing McCall’s last expiration. Her friend looked unaffected by wear as he wiped his cutlass clean on McCall’s T-shirt before rising. Whiskey attempted to do the same, but couldn’t dredge up the energy quite yet.
A rush of sound and sensation cascaded over her. Wincing, she glared around the gymnasium, realizing that the lú-inim-ma must have dropped their protective shield. The witnesses had broken into applause, some more enthusiastic than others. Then Valmont was beside her, helping her to stand. Pacal took up a position on her other side, pride on his face as they both helped her from the battlefield.
Woodsmoke and mulled wine eclipsed all other sensations as she staggered into Margaurethe’s embrace. She fought the urge to collapse into tears, pulling herself together for a show of strength. Daniel was there, urging her toward a gurney. “No.” She shook her head, stopping when it made the room spin. “I’ll walk out.” No one argued her order, not even Margaurethe. Instead, a bottle of water was shoved into her hands, and she drank greedily. Pausing, gasping, she looked at Valmont. “If we do this again, remind me to bring in a canteen.”
He smiled. “I’ll do that.”
“Ninsumgal, you need medical attention. This can wait.”
Whiskey gave Daniel a bare nod, allowing them to usher her out of the gymnasium and away from the mayhem. Despite the blood loss, she remained on her feet until the elevator doors closed. Only then did she allow the darkness to sweep over her as she fainted.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Whiskey stood near the gymnasium windows, arms crossed over her chest as she stared at the predawn stillness. For the first time in months, she was here without a cadre of aga’gída to protect her from constant threats. Though she rejoiced in their absence, a part of her kept stumbling over the lack, her mind continually scanning for mental essences that were no longer there. This morning Jake was her only companion, a pale shadow positioned near the doors. Whiskey had gotten so used to her zi agada’s presence it seemed silly to fire her from the position. Whiskey might have made a dramatic point yesterday morning with the challenge, but eventually fear of her power would wane among those set on getting retribution for the Sweet Butcher’s past deeds. Until Whiskey came fully into her own on a physical level it behooved her to have at least one bodyguard on hand, and she’d become attached to Jake.
“Ninsumgal.”
She smiled at the window, sensing cold beer on a hot day. “Let him in.” The door opened, and she turned to Bentoncourt, dropping her arms to her side. “Lionel, it’s a bit early isn’t it?”
He bowed and approached. “I thought it best to acclimate myself to European time before I left, Ninsumgal. Less jet lag.” Visually scanning her, he said, “I see you’re well.”
“Yes. Daniel patched me up pretty well.” Her hand automatically strayed to her abdomen where the majority of battle damage had occurred. Daniel had released her less than six hours after the duel.
“I’m relieved to hear that.” His gaze flickered to the floor a few meters away.
She followed his gaze. Only faint stains marred the wood where Nijmege and McCall had met their ends. The brutal violence caused an odd time dilation. Though the challenge had taken place less than twenty-four hours ago, it felt like weeks had passed. At the same time, the fury and fear hovered too close, making Whiskey loath to discuss it so soon. Rather than be drawn into such a discussion, she changed the subject. “Margaurethe tells me that you’re leaving today.”
Bentoncourt pulled himself away from his survey of the floor. “In less than an hour, as a matter of fact. I’m pleased I inquired after you.”
“As am I.” She mentally grimaced at her stilted statement, not liking the formal diplomacy. Talking in such a way smothered her like a straitjacket, fettering easy communication and squeezing the life out of mutual understanding. “Look, I’m not going to act high-and-mighty here, Lionel. It’s not my style, and I feel like an ass when I attempt it. Let me apologize in advance for offending you by anything I say.”
Bentoncourt grinned, relaxing just a hair. His smile took years off his face, and he bared his neck. “I consider myself duly warned.”
“What happens now?”
He accepted her blunt question without qualm. “Now I return home and the Agrun Nam calls two new members to serve on the council. When that’s completed, we’ll have a serious look at your latest proposals. I hope to hammer out an agreement between the European Sanguire and The Davis Group within the year.”
She studied him. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
A grin curled her lips at his flippant repetition. It was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. “Do you expect Ernst to give you any problems? He thinks I’m Elisibet.”
Bentoncourt paused in brief thought. “I doubt he’ll stand against you. He sees the benefits as well as any of us.” He shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t stand against you this time, really.”
“No, he just took abstention to a whole new level because he thought not supporting Bertrada would destroy your people.”
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” he asked, his deep voice soft. “To keep all our peoples from destruction? You can hardly blame Ernst for his loyalty to his countrymen.”
Whiskey chuckled and took his ha
nd in hers. “Thanks for the reminder. Sometimes I get lost in the details and forget the big picture.”
“Considering your youth, I believe you’re doing a fine job, Ninsumgal.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Francesca and Orlaith are downstairs with Baltje and our luggage. I had the majority of my staff leave yesterday afternoon and evening.”
“Of course.” A wave of relief swept over her as she shook his hand, touching his bicep with the other. “I’m glad I had a chance to say goodbye.” And I’m glad you’re taking Orlaith with you.
“As am I.” The stilted language sounded much better when he said it. He grinned, an impertinent flash in his dark eyes bespeaking an impish sense of humor that didn’t have much opportunity to present itself. Releasing her, he took three steps backward and formally bowed. “Until next time, Ninsumgal Davis. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Thank you again, Lionel. I’m sorry it had to come to this.”
Sorrow flickered across his expression, rapidly replaced with acceptance. “Ernst was right. Nothing I could have done or said would have changed her goal. And as for Samuel…” Disgust briefly curled his lip. They stared at one another a moment before Bentoncourt gave another quick bow and turned away. He paused at the door. “Would you pass on a message to Father Castillo for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him that we’ll expect him back in Europe sometime next autumn.”
Whiskey blinked. “Okay…”
“As I said, a restructure of the Agrun Nam is in order. I believe he’ll make a fine delegate for our upcoming negotiations with The Davis Group. It helps that he already understands the inner workings of your board—he’ll fit right in.” He actually winked before leaving the gymnasium.
Delight rippled through Whiskey as Jake closed the door behind Bentoncourt. “Man, the padre’s going to be surprised.”
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