Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Ah, an example.” The sun was bright, and Whiskey grimaced at the sharp stabs of pain in her eyes. Fortunately, the maintenance staff had an excellent gardener on hand, and she escorted Margaurethe toward a shaded haven beneath a number of small saplings. They sat on a wooden bench.

  “Not just an example, m’cara. He really is the best of his people.” Margaurethe tangled their fingers together. “Now that you’re officially an adult, you can be challenged. You need to be able to defend yourself should that occur.”

  “Are you saying I couldn’t be challenged before last week?”

  Whiskey scoffed. “Did you forget Fiona?”

  “You challenged her, Whiskey. There’s the difference. You no longer have the luxury of being considered a child.”

  Margaurethe’s serious tone dampened Whiskey’s humor.

  She studied their entwined hands. “Do you think Valmont will challenge me?” The silence between them grew long enough that she looked up at her companion.

  “I don’t know.”

  Despite his history, Valmont had shown no indication of repeating his actions any time soon. If anything, he appeared to be in for the long haul. He gave his opinion on the board with acerbic wit and voted his conscience, though Margaurethe would argue he had none.

  Whiskey said, “I don’t think he will.” Margaurethe gave an uncommitted murmur, this issue being the major point of contention between them, and Whiskey squeezed her hand. “If he does, it won’t be for years, yet. I don’t know why he’s here, but he could have killed me when we first met, and didn’t.”

  Margaurethe didn’t offer her usual argument, probably aware it would make no difference. Instead, she smiled and changed the subject. “I hear Sithathor’s making baklava tonight?”

  Whiskey allowed herself to be distracted by discussions of her favorite dessert. She set aside her worries, trusting her people to keep her safe as she invited Margaurethe to join her for dinner.

  There was a time and place for politics and business, and a time and place to let such topics go for the sake of sanity. Elisibet had made paranoia an artform, and Whiskey refused to allow that to happen to her.

  Even if it killed her.

  Chapter Six

  Whiskey stood in the foyer on the second floor, elbows planted on a wooden rail as she gazed out upon the front drive.

  The marble in the lobby below made every voice and footstep echo, creating the illusion of a multitude though few employees were present on a Sunday afternoon. A foreign car pulled onto the drive from the street. The tinted window on the driver’s side dropped down to reveal Valmont, grinning at the first of three guards converging upon him. He said something, and winked, evincing pleasure at verbally yanking the chain of the supervisor on duty. As he climbed out of the vehicle, two of Whiskey’s Aga’gída arrived in the lobby to meet him. He made small talk, mirthful as he handed over the car keys.

  Since his “return to the fold,” Whiskey had kept him close, meeting with him three or four times a week. Her argument to Margaurethe had been one of education; she wanted Valmont to assist her with relearning the Sanguire. He held a different view of the political and social situation; Whiskey needed as many contrasting opinions as possible to put together a whole picture of a people she hadn’t known existed two years ago. Margaurethe absented herself from these meetings in protest. Unwilling to leave Whiskey to Valmont’s tender mercies, she had left standing orders to both building security and the Aga’gída to ensure Whiskey and Valmont were never alone together. Whiskey understood Margaurethe’s reticence—a wild card, untrustworthy, Valmont had murdered before though Elisibet had borne the brunt of that death, not Whiskey. Still, it had been several months with no threat in evidence. The extra guards had become less a deterrent and more an insult, not so much to Valmont who gave an air of expecting such abuse, but to Whiskey. Other than his flippant, acerbic tongue, he had minded his manners at the board meetings, slowly becoming a contributing member to The Davis Group. The extra security insisted upon gave the impression that Whiskey was weak, and unable to defend herself in her own home.

  Once inside the building, Valmont looked up and saw her. He gave her a sardonic wave and grin before disappearing beneath her feet as he was escorted toward the elevators. His words bounced readily off the marble flooring. “No strip search today?”

  One of his escorts responded. “No, Sublugal Sañar Valmont. Not today.”

  “Ah, I’m wounded. I so enjoy those meaningful moments with you.”

  One of the guards chuckled. “I’m sure you do. The Ninsumgal is up—” The words cut off as the elevator doors closed on their conversation.

  Whiskey laughed as well, pushing away from the railing.

  She turned and crossed her arms, leaning back against the wood.

  Up here, the carpeted floor muffled their footsteps, though she heard the elevator’s soft chime and the doors open.

  Valmont rounded the corner, her personal guards trailing.

  He gave her a light bow. “Good morning, Whiskey. How are you today?”

  “Not bad. Are you hungry?” She gestured toward the Executive Dining Room to her right.

  He glanced in that direction, a grin playing across his face.

  “I could do with a bite.” Showing off his teeth, he clicked them together without unsheathing his fangs.

  Whiskey smirked. “Come on then. I have some sandwiches heading our way. Do you like ham and cheese?”

  Falling in beside her, they entered the dining room. “It’ll do for the moment.”

  Behind them, the two Aga’usi followed. One remained just inside the door, and the other placed himself at the fire exit.

  Whiskey ignored them, but decided it was high time to have a word with Margaurethe. “Have a seat.”

  From the kitchen, Andri appeared with a tray of sandwiches and sodas. Behind him, Whiskey saw another guard loitering there, and scowled. Maybe a reminder to Anthony about who’s really in charge.

  Valmont eyed the server. “New hire?”

  Whiskey frowned a moment before catching the hint.

  “Something like that. This is Andri Sigmarsson. He used to be Elisibet’s valet. Margaurethe found him, and brought him here yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember now.” Valmont watched him set down the tray. “How are you, Andri? It’s been quite some time since I’ve had the pleasure.”

  The homely man swallowed, eyes flickering about the room as he bowed again. “I’m quite well, Sublugal Sañar Valmont. Thank you for inquiring.”

  “Thank you for lunch, Andri.” Whiskey smiled softly. “You can go now.” Andri bobbed, and backed away before disappearing in the direction he had come. “We’ve hired him back as my valet, but he’s insisted on fixing my food when I’m away from my apartment. He’s been skittish like that since he got here. I hope he’ll loosen up eventually.”

  “Considering your predecessor’s disposition, you may have a long wait.”

  “Did Elisibet... Did she do anything to Andri?” Whiskey leaned forward. “I don’t recall much, but a lot of my memories are spotty.”

  Reacting to her earnest tone, his flippant expression sobered.

  He chose his words carefully. “I don’t think Elisibet did anything but be Elisibet in his presence.”

  “That would be enough, wouldn’t it?” Not expecting an answer, she pushed the tray to the center of the table. “Have one. I had him make up enough for both of us.”

  Valmont helped himself to a sandwich and a soda. Whiskey offered food to her personal guard, and Valmont smiled when they sternly declined. Whiskey found their stiff reaction humorous, knowing that it was Valmont they attempted to impress. She had no idea why, nor did she think they had succeeded with instilling a sense of danger. All three would have to link together to take Valmont down. None were old enough to do so on their own.

  They ate mostly in silence, occasionally speaking of weather and business. Each time she met with him, she had something ne
w she wanted to ask, something she felt uncomfortable bringing up to anyone else, even her aunt and grandmother. It was easier with Valmont—he was a predator like Elisibet and Dorst. Margaurethe and Castillo would feel alarm at some of Whiskey’s musings, and Dorst was too much a servant. He would never lie to her, but his responses would be filtered by what he thought she wanted to know, not the truth she desired. She had to ask these things of someone who would tell her the truth without sugarcoating or becoming agitated. It felt odd to realize Valmont was the one person to fill the bill, but over the months she had become used to their strange relationship. “Why do you hunt when there are kizarusi to be had everywhere?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Because we are born to hunt, not feed off Humans like cattle.”

  Whiskey lifted a shoulder, and looked away as if bored.

  “What difference does it make? Blood is blood. A kizarus is always available.”

  Valmont smiled. “So says one who has never hunted.”

  “Then what’s the attraction?”

  Instead of answering, he posed a question. “Do you enjoy feeding from a kizarus?”

  She pursed her lips, looking inside for the answer. Since her initial feeding from Aleya during the Ñíri Kurám, she had fed from a number of Humans. As a youngling, she required more blood than an older Sanguire, and feeding from the same kizarus over an extended time was unhealthy for the Human. “I feel better when I’ve finished. I enjoy it to the extent that I enjoyed eating this sandwich. It fills the need.”

  He edged forward on his seat, and placed his elbows on the table, hands crossed before him. “But it tastes different when you go to the kitchen and make it yourself, doesn’t it? You can pick and choose the ingredients depending on what appeals to you at the moment. Some days you use a bit more mustard than others, other days Swiss cheese instead of cheddar. You have control to please your palate.”

  Whiskey considered his point. “I understand the analogy.”

  Valmont smiled. “I much prefer rummaging through the refrigerator to having my meals served upon demand.”

  She felt the rightness of his words. “I’ve noticed differences in flavor.” His gaze sharpened, and she allowed a little of her uncertainty to show through. “At first I thought it was, you know, different blood types. But now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why?”

  She searched for the words, feeling them out in her mind before pronouncing them. “Because I’ve fed from two different people with the same blood type. They tasted very different from one another.”

  “Have you figured out why?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me.”

  “One is a kizarus whose family has served the Sanguire for generations. It’s an honor and a privilege for him to do this. He feels pride. The other is a woman who gets off on it; to her it’s a form of sex.”

  “That’s it exactly.” Valmont’s grin was one of pride. “Humans feel emotion. Their bodies pump out chemicals in response to these emotions. Fear, arousal, anger—all color the blood in different ways.”

  “Some days a bit more mustard than others.”

  He winked at her. “There you have it.”

  She studied him, though he remained nonchalant under the examination. Nodding her head once, she turned to her security force. “You’re dismissed.”

  Valmont’s eyebrows lifted to his hairline, his expression echoed by the others.

  “My Ninsumgal, our orders are to remain in the room when Sublugal Sañar Valmont is present.”

  Whiskey dropped her chin, glaring at the one who had spoken. She reached out to him and his immediate companion, gathering their essences to her with little effort despite the age differences between her and them. The one who spoke paled, and the other stumbled. Valmont shrank into his chair to avoid notice. “You forget who is the one in charge here.” Whiskey’s low voice carried a whip crack of authority. “You swore your allegiance to me, not Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe. You will obey me.”

  The Aga’us swallowed once, and bowed. “Yes, my Ninsumgal.”

  He hastily backed toward the door Andri had used, waving at his companion to leave the other way.

  “And tell your friend in the kitchen to leave as well.”

  “Yes, my Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey frowned. “I don’t think we have long. He’s probably gone to report to Margaurethe.”

  “Have long for what?” Valmont asked, tentative. “Having pissed Margaurethe off many times in the past, I’m not too keen on the idea of repeating the adventure.”

  Whiskey smiled. “Well, an adventure is exactly what I’m thinking.” She laughed at his suspicious expression. “I want you to take me hunting.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want you to teach me to hunt,” she repeated slowly. “There’s something missing and I need to find it, or I can’t rule effectively.”

  “And I’m to teach you?”

  “You’re the only one I can trust in this matter.”

  Valmont barked out a laugh, and pushed his chair back from the table. “You must to be kidding! I’m the last person to trust, Whiskey. You’ve remembered enough of Elisibet’s past to know that.”

  “Maybe.” She paused, wondering how to word this. “But you’ve had ample opportunity to do the deed again, and you haven’t. I think the Agrun Nam played you. They twisted your natural anger and mourning for your mentor to convince you to assassinate Elisibet.” She tilted her head. “And I think you’ve figured out I’m not her.”

  She must have read him well enough, because he scowled back at her. “So that makes you think I’m trustworthy enough to escort you on a hunting trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the security? Enough dogs mucking about ruin the tracks.”

  His argument sounded hollow. She had sprung the idea on him so thoroughly that he still struggled to catch up. “It’ll just be you and me.”

  Valmont snorted, half amused and half incredulous. “You’re serious.”

  Whiskey nodded. “Very much so.”

  He considered her request, and she left him to his thoughts.

  If Margaurethe got wind of this before they pulled it off, they both knew she would kill him. The longer Whiskey spent time with Valmont, however, the more she missed the Valmont of her memories. He had stood tall and proud at Elisibet’s side once, and that was the man Whiskey admired. In the end, he had stood up for what was right, regardless of the centuries their friendship had enjoyed. He had attempted to sway Elisibet from the path she had chosen, and faced her down when nothing else worked.

  He had been counted a hero to his people, and been denigrated ever since among those whom he had once considered friends.

  “We both know I can force obedience, Valmont. But I won’t compel you if you really don’t want to do this.”

  Her words interrupted his thoughts. He looked sharply at her, then flicked a glance toward the main entry. She heard approaching footsteps, and Margaurethe’s angry voice as she asked questions of the dismissed Aga’usi outside. “Yes,” he said.

  She smiled and relaxed in her chair. “Thank you.”

  The door flew open, stopping more discussion on the matter.

  He quickly assumed his devil-may-care pose for the new arrival.

  “Margaurethe.” Whiskey stood and held out her hand.

  Valmont rose and bowed in greeting. He liked tweaking his nose at her with courtly behavior, and employed it generously whenever she was near. “Dearest Margaurethe, what a surprise.”

  His tone left no question that he lied.

  Suspicion coloring her movements, Margaurethe approached the table and took Whiskey’s hand. She ignored Valmont. “Alan told me you dismissed him.”

  Here it comes. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Certainly you can understand that being alone with this...man can be dangerous?”

  Valmont’s grin widened.

  Whiskey’s disappeared. “His name is Valmont, Marg
aurethe. And I believe I know how dangerous he can be.” She sent a tendril of her essence to Margaurethe, caressing the wood smoke and mulled wine with her mind.

  Margaurethe’s lips thinned, eyes snapping. Whirling about, she glared at Valmont. “I don’t trust him. He assassinated Elisibet, and will do the same to you. You must never be alone with him.”

  Valmont sobered at the attack, but he didn’t defend himself.

  Appalled, Whiskey stepped between them. “Margaurethe!”

  Startled by the keen authority in her tone, both older Sanguire turned to stare at her. “Thank you, Margaurethe. Your opinion is noted. Please, leave us.”

  Margaurethe gaped. Her skin blanched as she realized she had crossed a subtle line between them. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “Please.” Whiskey’s expression softened. “I’ll be fine.”

  After a minor hesitation, Margaurethe lifted her chin. She swept past Valmont, who remained silent until she was gone.

  “She loves you, and only wishes to see you safe. I can’t say she doesn’t have cause to be concerned.”

  Whiskey smiled. “You haven’t killed me yet. Besides, if I’m to be this Ninsumgal you all want me to be, I can’t be kept safe, can I?”

  Valmont shook his head. “No. Unfortunately not.” After a moment of silence, he winked. “Now if you will excuse me, I’ve some things to attend to.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “I’ll show myself out.”

  Whiskey nodded. As soon as he was gone, she rubbed her temples. She fully understood the origin of Margaurethe’s worries. The fear of losing Elisibet had made Margaurethe overly protective. The differences between the Margaurethe of Whiskey’s borrowed memories and the one of today seemed shallow on the surface. Beneath the calm and loving exterior was a depth of helplessness Margaurethe refused to be a party to ever again. It colored everything.