Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  And Whiskey couldn’t let it stop her.

  Chapter Seven

  Whiskey paced. Hunger gnawed at her belly, an unfortunate consequence of being Sanguire. The biological impetus was both strength and weakness. Blood activated her endocrine system in ways unknown to Human scientists. Her studies had gone past general biological sciences and into the systems specific to Homo Sanguirus. There was an enzyme in Humans that Sanguire lacked. That complex protein boosted a Sanguire’s physical abilities and speed, and assisted other internal functions down to the molecular level. The failing came from starvation—

  Whiskey could eat and drink day and night, but without feeding from a Human she would die as surely as if she had refused any sustenance at all.

  She circled the room and considered what Valmont had discussed with her. Prior to their conversation, she thought the idea of hunting a Human seemed archaic. Certainly, with kizarusi always available, she had no need to find her own sustenance.

  Besides, she had lived on the streets, knew its denizens and the dangers inherent there. Who did the Sanguire hunt if not the helpless and hopeless of society? She couldn’t hunt a street person down; she would feel too much compassion for her victim. Whomever she targeted would live, certainly; the Sanguire needed only a small amount of Human blood every few days. Stories of vampires draining their victims of their last drop illustrated myth, not reality.

  On the flip side, she felt disassociated from the Sanguire despite being surrounded by them. During any number of political discussions with old-timers on the streets, she had heard the argument that the politicians ruling the country had no sense of their constituents. They sat in their gilded mansions, receiving hundreds of thousands of dollars in annual salaries as they passed incomprehensible laws, and couldn’t understand the poor man’s point of view. Whiskey had begun to think that her exalted position as president of The Davis Group and burgeoning high Ninsumgal of the Sanguire had created the same political schism.

  She knew nothing of the day-to-day existence of her people, not having lived with them for most her life. Her current level of protection against potential danger had made it all but impossible to learn anything about them.

  She recalled Valmont’s analogy of food from a refrigerator.

  Up until now, she had been fastidious in her meals; she took what she needed to survive without fuss or dramatics. The kizarusi brought to her were all handpicked by Margaurethe or Father Castillo. Either the Humans had served Sanguire families for generations, or they received a certain level of enjoyment from the exchange. She had never manipulated the kizarusi coming to her, and she wondered if actively enhancing the experience would create a difference in taste as Valmont had suggested. Today was the day of enlightenment.

  Whiskey stopped roaming the room when she heard the soft chime of the elevator in the hallway. She smiled as she picked up a familiar scent. Aleya had been her first kizarus during her Turning. It seemed appropriate that she should also be Whiskey’s first attempt at enhancing their meeting. Her taste was well known to Whiskey, and any experimentation would be noticeable. She responded to the light knock on the door with a call to enter.

  “My Ninsumgal. May I present Aleya.”

  “Thank you, Sasha. You can leave us.” She kept her back to the room until she heard the door firmly close. Turning, she smiled at the plump Goth woman. “How are you, Aleya?”

  The young woman’s heart-shaped face flushed, her eyes widening at Whiskey’s sultry purr. “I’m...fine.” Her bag remained on her shoulder, and she clutched the strap with one hand. “Are you okay? You seem different.”

  “I’m quite well.” Whiskey’s eyes focused on the woman’s throat, and she padded closer. Though she portrayed a sexual energy to her prey, her thoughts focused more on a giddy enjoyment of the game and the ending of her hunger. Aleya’s scent changed, and subtle differences indicated her arousal.

  Their previous exchanges had always played out with Aleya as the aggressor. Her usual forward demeanor fled in light of Whiskey’s active seduction. Whiskey circled behind, not quite touching as she inhaled deeply. Aleya shivered in response. “You look nice.” Whiskey came back around, allowing her gaze to roam the curvaceous body. “Is that a new blouse?”

  Aleya swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, it is.” Flushing, she smiled, reminiscent of a teenager given a compliment by her high school crush. “I was hoping you’d like it.”

  Whiskey traced the low neckline of the clothing in question, drawing her finger along the shoulder, down the exposed flesh across the collarbone, caressing the top of Aleya’s abundant breasts, and dipping into the hollow between them. She found it interesting that Aleya found her seduction so intense though Whiskey felt nothing but curiosity and hunger. A stray thought passed through her mind; did Sanguire and Humans ever become involved in lengthy relationships? Were there half-breed Sanguire?

  Her stomach twinged, and she returned to the game.

  Eyes closed, Aleya stood still, white-knuckled hand still gripping her purse strap. She jumped when Whiskey lifted the bag from her shoulder. Before she could react, Whiskey kissed her for the first time. Aleya groaned at the wet invasion into her mouth.

  Her heart pumped fast, and her scent changed dramatically, causing Whiskey’s mouth to water. Aleya had always enjoyed their time together, finding the entire process sexually arousing, but Whiskey’s active participation magnified Aleya’s responses.

  The kizarus’s breasts heaved as she panted, and her hands slid up Whiskey’s back, demanding in their pressure.

  Whiskey continued to play with her food, teasing incessantly, her lips and hands alternating between gentle caresses and rough gropes. At no time did she touch Aleya in an overtly sexual manner except with kisses. That hardly seemed to matter to the woman as her arousal escalated. Whiskey reached the point where her hunger would not be denied. Walking Aleya backward, they bumped into the wall by the door. With a growl, Whiskey planted her thigh between Aleya’s, knowing the woman needed the contact. Her teeth already extended, she buried them in Aleya’s neck. Hot blood splashed across her tongue. Aleya’s hand buried itself in her hair, holding her close as she surged against Whiskey’s thigh. Whiskey drank her fill, marveling at the difference. It seemed richer, fuller; it was hard to describe. Feeding always soothed her, filled her, sharpened her edges and boosted sensations. This time it did the same only more extensively.

  When she finished, Whiskey pressed against the now slumped form in her arms, her forehead resting on the wall, nose nestled at the crook of Aleya’s neck. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  There came a groggy chuckle, and Aleya nodded weakly.

  “Yeah.”

  Whiskey eased away, giving Aleya time to reacclimatize herself to standing alone. She helped her into one of the chairs scattered around the room, and retrieved her bag. With gentle motions, she found the first-aid supplies Aleya always carried for her visits, and carefully bandaged the slowly seeping wounds. By the time she finished, Aleya had regained more of her senses, and watched her with curiosity.

  “What the hell was that?” The smile on her face indicated she wasn’t upset.

  “An experiment.” Whiskey sat beside her, holding her hand.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Aleya reddened and rolled her eyes, fanning herself with her free hand. “Whew! Very much so!”

  Whiskey grinned. “Good.”

  “What about you?”

  She licked her lips, still tasting the aftereffects of her test.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Aleya smiled impishly. “I suppose I should go now.”

  “No. Stay awhile. I’ll have Sithathor bring you something to eat.” Whiskey brought Aleya’s hand to her mouth and kissed it.

  “You can leave when you’re ready.”

  “Are you sure?” Her brow furrowed.

  “Yeah. You fed me. It’s only right I return the favor.”

  Aleya laughed, and Whiskey joined her.
r />   Chapter Eight

  Whiskey had finished a hot shower and now wore a thick, warm robe. Ignoring her reflection, she stared unseeingly out her apartment’s office window. Lights illuminated the east side of the Willamette River, darkness speckled with silver flashes of falling rain. The low clouds reflected a glowing yellow street-lit backdrop upon which headlights and taillights from the overpasses and bridges danced across her vision. Through the glass, she smelled the wet earthiness from the planters that Andri had insisted upon setting on the balcony; she saw them through the patio door into her sitting room. She always thought of home as the scent and sound of rain on greenery and pavement.

  A light tap at the door drew her away from the window. “Come in.” Sithathor entered, smiling. “My Gasan.” She entered with a tray that smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate and baklava. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Whiskey smiled. “No, thank you, Sithathor. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “Of course, Ninsumgal. Thank you.” She bobbed once and left the room.

  Margaurethe had remained away since Valmont’s visit. She hadn’t joined Whiskey for dinner which had become their usual habit. Whisky wondered if Margaurethe absented herself out of anger; she had appeared to take Whiskey’s order regarding security during Valmont’s visits well enough, but there was no telling. Margaurethe had utilized the cold shoulder with Elisibet in the past. They needed to discuss the situation, preferably before this rift between them grew wider.

  Returning her gaze to the view outside, Whiskey opened her mind, searching. She felt the tickle of others nearby— Aga’gída and servants, residents on the floor immediately below hers—and ignored them. The essence for which she sought was near.

  Margaurethe occupied her apartment, only a few feet of space and a vast gulf of emotion separating them. Whiskey brushed a gentle query across the surface of Margaurethe’s mind. In answer, wood smoke and mulled wine reached out to strengthen the connection.

  Margaurethe didn’t knock. She let herself into Whiskey’s apartment, a shadowed wraith crossing the sitting room as Whiskey observed from her post at the window, disappearing out of sight. Moments later, the office door eased open, and Margaurethe slipped inside. She, too, wore a robe—burgundy with silver lining—her dark hair flowing along her shoulders in damp waves. Her natural spicy scent mingled with the soap and shampoo she had used in her shower.

  “I missed you at dinner.”

  Margaurethe regarded her with a hint of uncertainty. “I wasn’t sure I was invited.” She moved closer.

  Whiskey tilted her head and looked away, pained. “I wouldn’t turn you away, Margaurethe. We’ve had misunderstandings before and will in the future. I don’t want to let them separate us before we’ve had a chance to explore things.”

  “I’m not sorry for this afternoon.” Margaurethe thought a moment. “I’ve spent the day thinking, and I know my feelings remain the same.”

  Her tone held a note of steel Whiskey recognized. When she had first heard it, she realized that Elisibet never had. Margaurethe had changed dramatically from the sweet young consort of the Ninsumgal all those centuries ago. Upon closer inspection, Whiskey had decided she much preferred this version of the woman to the one of her unsought memories. “I understand. Your goal is to keep me safe.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She turned and studied Margaurethe. “You know that’s impossible.”

  Margaurethe bristled. “No, it isn’t.”

  Whiskey barely resisted rolling her eyes. “The very nature of my position prevents you keeping me from harm. You can’t protect me all the time. I’ve got to start acting like the Ninsumgal if I’m going to be one.” She watched Margaurethe struggle with the argument, wanting to further deny the truth. “What kind of ruler would I be if I allowed you to continue as you have?”

  “Alive.”

  She chuckled despite Margaurethe’s acid tone. “No, not alive. Less than alive. And just as susceptible to assassination as Elisibet.” She offered to link with the woman, but was rebuffed.

  “God, you’re stubborn.”

  “As would you be had you been in my place!” Margaurethe immediately flushed, and turned away. Marching to the other side of the room, she stared at the desk.

  “I won’t allow a guard present when he visits anymore.”

  Margaurethe’s lips drew into a tight line. “I trust you to take care of yourself. But I don’t know that you have the ability to defend yourself against physical attack.”

  Whiskey moved closer, breathing her words into Margaurethe’s ear. “What do you mean?”

  Margaurethe gave a start at the proximity. “How many times have you had to physically fight? You have no training in the martial arts. Swords, knives, none of it.” She sighed as Whiskey’s arms wrapped around her stomach. “That’s why I hired Pacal, to teach you these things. You may be able to mentally take on most people you meet, but physically you’re unable to stop a knife from piercing your heart.”

  “In this day and age, I can’t defy death. A sniper rifle from a rooftop can do the job just as well, regardless of how much training I have in swords and knives.”

  With a grimace, Margaurethe conceded the point, but not the argument. “Perhaps. But the same could have been said for arrows and siege engines. Elisibet knew about and protected against these things, and still Valmont succeeded in killing her.”

  It always came down to her. Whiskey sighed. When will people see me for who I am rather than who she was? “Elisibet was a fool. Her status blinded her to reality.”

  Margaurethe stiffened at hearing criticism of her dead lover.

  It was a knee-jerk reaction that Whiskey had grown used to over the months, made worse because it was Elisibet’s voice that spoke the words. She tightened her grip into a hug. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to hear things like that.”

  Turning in Whiskey’s arms, Margaurethe smiled reassurance.

  “Something I need to get over.” She leaned her forehead against Whiskey’s.

  “You never liked it when Elisibet talked smack about herself, either.”

  Margaurethe grinned at the modern statement. “You’re right.”

  Whiskey pulled back, and peered into her eyes. “Did you ever disagree with her or her methods?”

  “Yes, I did.” Margaurethe’s smile faded. She stepped out of their embrace, and returned to the window alone, wrapping her arms around herself. “I always knew she had the ability to do such wonderfully good things. Valmont and I were prime examples of her generosity and kindness. I had such hopes she would mature into the loving ruler for which I knew she had the potential.”

  “I don’t know that she had all that much potential.” Whiskey couldn’t help her sour tone. Regardless of which European Sanguire she spoke to, they all measured her using Elisibet’s tyrannical yardstick. Some found Whiskey lacking.

  Margaurethe looked over her shoulder. “Your memories are sketchy. Perhaps as time goes on, you’ll find that Elisibet did indeed have a heart. I know. I loved it well enough.”

  Though not actively linked, Whiskey saw tears threatening Margaurethe. Chagrined, she approached, lightly caressing Margaurethe’s upper arms. “I’m sorry. I know how helpless you felt then. I know it can’t be easy to feel that way now.”

  “You don’t know what it was like after she died.” Margaurethe’s voice was low enough that Whiskey had to strain to hear.

  “Everyone fell upon each other in anger and distrust. Our people attacked one another for any reason. The Purge was a horrible bloody time in our history.”

  “And much of it was Elisibet’s fault for cultivating fear and violence in her reign. I can’t say I understand thoroughly. I wasn’t there. I don’t have any basis for comparison. But, Margaurethe...”

  Whiskey turned the woman around to face her. “I can’t change that if I can’t be trusted to lead.”

  She sniffled. “I trust you to lead.”

 
“Then let me do so.”

  Margaurethe seemed about to argue.

  “If you must disagree with me,” Whiskey interrupted, “then do it privately, okay? I don’t want a repeat of what happened today.”

  Margaurethe blushed, and dropped her head. “I understand.”

  Whiskey sighed, and wondered if Margaurethe would concede her next request. “Will you apologize to Valmont?”

  Emerald ice shot up to glare at her. Margaurethe’s jaw worked a moment before she finally spoke. “Yes, of course. I was rude.”

  “Thank you. I would like my advisors to at least be civil to one another.”

  “But I’ll not apologize for distrusting him. He assassinated Elisibet, and has not received proper punishment for his deed. I still believe he’s a coward and a traitor.” She held her chin low in defiance, as if expecting an argument.

  “Of course. I’m not asking you to change who you are. Just remember proper etiquette.” Whiskey ventured a smile. “You are always harping at me about proper etiquette.”

  Margaurethe’s Irish temper hadn’t been completely soothed.

  She sniffed once in response, her tears like stained memories on her cheeks.

  “Again, I’m sorry. Maybe someday I will have other memories to balance out my feelings.” Whiskey shrugged a shoulder, feeling like the ill-prepared young woman she was instead of the monarch everyone proclaimed her to be. “I do know she had love for you. I remember that.”

  Something in her words eased the last of Margaurethe’s hurt.

  She felt arms wrap around her waist. “When we started this, you said we should take it slow. You didn’t want me to see Elisibet when I looked at you.”

  “I meant it. I know how much you cared for her. I’m selfish. I want you to love me.”

  Margaurethe smiled. “But I do see you, Whiskey. I think the real issue is that you fear you see me with Elisibet’s sight and not your own.” She hugged Whiskey. “How much of Elisibet do you carry within your heart?”