It had been so long since they had been together. Centuries had passed with Margaurethe ever diligent as she awaited the return of her lover, the return of her soul. She had to admit that she had idealized Elisibet through the decades, romanticized the reality of the Ninsumgal, and lost herself in the love filling her. With Whiskey’s arrival Margaurethe found those heartfelt fancies to be wisps of fairytales, her recollections challenged on a daily basis. Now she remembered the sheer bullheadedness of Elisibet, the desire to do things her way. She had always been cruel, a spoiled child tossed into a pack of rabid wolves slavering for her power. Somehow, the little girl had picked up this diseased yearning for dominance, and had realized that to keep control she had to be more ruthless than the best of them.
Or perhaps that was another idealization on Margaurethe’s part.Elisibet had been content to merely have a heavy hand with her people. After Margaurethe had arrived at court, the Ninsumgal had actually begun to mellow. The next two centuries of her rule had become less a constant scrabbling for control and more a true kingdom of laws, strict though they may have been. Margaurethe had always been proud that perhaps she had been the one to begin teaching Elisibet the nature of compassion.
It all changed when Valmont had been presented at court.
He was a man who reminded Elisibet of the youth she hadn’t been allowed to have, the freedom to make mistakes and experiment without concern for repercussions. Margaurethe hadn’t recognized the danger until long after the pair had committed several atrocities on both Human and Sanguire alike.
Valmont magnified Elisibet’s cruelty, and she in turn encouraged his bloodthirstiness. The worst of it was that Margaurethe had truly liked Valmont. They had become tight friends, the three of them, regardless of the constant escalation of tortures for which he and Elisibet were responsible. Margaurethe had always hoped she could talk sense into her lover, calm her irrational furies, and guide her along a less gory path. That chance had been violently taken away from her when Valmont murdered Elisibet. Agrun Nam orders or not, Valmont had succumbed to the ultimate brutality. He not only killed the ruler of his people but his best friend. His tragic whining about his loss of honor and his broken heart were useless to Margaurethe. Hers had been the worst pain. She had been left alone, bereft, the dark light of her heart no longer shining.
And here he was, to do it again.
Whiskey sensed Margaurethe’s tenseness and shifted, mumbling. Instantly, Margaurethe accommodated her, forced herself to relax. Her lover sighed, hugging Margaurethe until she drifted further asleep, breath causing goose bumps on Margaurethe’s flesh. Gods, how could I have forgotten this? Whiskey’s skin against hers, the warmth radiating between them, the tingle of arousal always on the edge of her body, things she had vowed to never forget as she had mourned Elisibet’s death.
Margaurethe had had other lovers over the decades, none for any length of time. After a century of mourning, she finally succumbed to her body’s physical desires. None of those lovers ever held her heart, for that part of her had already been claimed though it wilted on the vine of her grief. They had been invited into her bed solely to relieve a bodily yearning she couldn’t ease alone. It had been so long since Elisibet, that Margaurethe couldn’t be certain of the differences between her and Whiskey.
Their lovemaking was sweet and generous, not quite up to the rough standards Elisibet occasionally employed. They hadn’t exchanged blood and Margaurethe wasn’t certain whether it was Whiskey’s innocence or the newness of their relationship keeping such from occurring. Was Whiskey truly Elisibet in a new body?
Would she fall to the depravity Elisibet had welcomed with a full embrace? Would Valmont succeed in warping her yet again with his twisted soul?
Margaurethe had to do everything in her power to keep that from happening again. What else would stop Valmont from reenacting the past, urge Whiskey on to plumb her moral depths, and become outraged at the result? That was what had happened before. He had been the cause for Elisibet’s downfall as well as her death.
Perhaps she needlessly worried. Whiskey seemed quite nonplussed after her escapade. Elisibet had never been upset after spending time hunting with Valmont; she had always been exhilarated, her passions ignited with the bloodlust that she quenched with Margaurethe. Maybe Whiskey’s innate sense of compassion was strong enough to deny the temptation Valmont placed before her. It could happen. Margaurethe knew that Whiskey was right when she said she needed to know all aspects of her people to rule them. She had been detached from them for her entire childhood, inexperienced, unsophisticated; in danger simply due to her willingness to assume her people’s culture aped Humanity.
The time had come to open the doors. Security had had plenty of time to finalize their training; the building was as safe as it was going to get, and operating procedures were in place for travel and exterior security. Other than the Baruñal Ceremony, the function levels had been empty of diplomats long enough.
It was time to begin the process of lifting the stranglehold and allowing Whiskey and her pack a little freedom to act their age.
At least Margaurethe would have more control over Whiskey’s safety with her total involvement in the process.
Margaurethe felt a tremor in her heart. Would Whiskey appreciate the sacrifice? As much as Margaurethe didn’t want to do this, Whiskey was right. She needed to be seen by her people, needed to interact with them all, not just the diplomats and ambassadors. Whiskey needed to experience everything the Sanguire had to offer. And perhaps the activity would thwart Whiskey’s desire to go hunting with Valmont again.
She glanced at Whiskey sleeping beside her, noting the unrestful expression on her face. I know one way to stop that from happening.
***
“Are you all right?”
Whiskey blinked, looking up from her barely touched breakfast, feeling a tendril of cool rain brushing against her mind.
Chano, the leader of the Wi Wacipi Wakan and newest board member of The Davis Group, studied her. “You are far from here.”
Since learning of the existence of her mother’s family several months ago, Whiskey had made it a point to have breakfast with the old man at least three times a week. Normally, she enjoyed their time together, listening to stories about her people’s history and mythology, but not today. Shying away from the familiar touch of his essence, she opened her mouth to proclaim she was fine, stopping as she looked at him. One thing she had learned was that her ability to spot a lie came from her native blood.
Whiskey had vowed to never lie to any of them as a result. “I’m just unsettled.”
Chano grunted acceptance. “The security guards were upset last night, and you could not be found. Did something happen?”
Whiskey rolled her eyes. How could she explain her fears of becoming an abomination? The American Indians never knew the Sweet Butcher, had no frame of reference for the heinous behavior for which Whiskey held potential. She returned his expectant gaze, knowing she might as well confess her actions; he would hear of it soon enough. “I ditched the place last night, and went hunting with Valmont.”
Chano cocked his head, brow furrowed. “And this distresses you?”
“Yeah.” Whiskey pushed her plate away, not really hungry.
“We went to a bar, picked up a woman, and tormented her.”
Silence reigned for a moment. Chano responded with hesitation. “Would you feel better had it been a man?”
Whiskey’s head came up to stare at him. “Don’t you understand? We hurt her, scared her half to death, then left her unconscious when we were done.”
He paused a moment, studying her. “Was she permanently damaged? Did you cripple her in some manner, leave her to die?”
Horrified, Whiskey felt the blood leave her face. “No! Of course not!”
Now he looked puzzled. He reached out and took her hand.
“The first hunt is always distressing. It is difficult to remember that our Human brothers and sisters ar
e necessary for our nourishment. They can be friends, allies, and enemies, but they are also our sole source of survival.”
Whiskey didn’t pull away. “That’s not it exactly.”
“Then what is ‘it’?”
She stared at Chano’s hand upon hers, the darker skin contrasting against her lighter hue. It should be the other way around. My soul is darker than his. “I’m afraid.”
He squeezed her hand. “There is nothing to fear in hunting for sustenance. I think you fear the pleasure of the hunt, not the hunt itself.”
“Yes, that’s it. It was...” Whiskey paused, a sensation of pleasure washing over her at the memory. “It was exhilarating.” Dismayed, she pushed the joy away, not wanting to experience such things.
“Many find it so. And some lose themselves on that path, falling sway to the powerful feeling it gives.”
“Yeah.” Whiskey nodded. “That’s what happened with Elisibet.”
“Ah.” Chano used his free hand to pat and cover hers. “Now you come to the heart of the matter. It isn’t that you enjoyed the hunt, but that you remembered the past hunts of the woman you were.”
Those memories came alive in Whiskey’s mind, and she shivered at the strength of them. Her response was a mere whisper, though it seemed to echo loudly in the dining room.
“Yes. It scares me.”
“There is nothing to fear. You are not her.”
“How do you know?” Whiskey clutched Chano’s hand. “How do you know I won’t become just like her?”
He smiled. “Do you remember Elisibet ever questioning herself in this way?”
Whiskey scowled, wanting to pull away from him, a perverse part of her wishing to continue her personal chastisement without interruption. Though he was ancient in appearance, his grip was iron. There was nowhere to go. “No. Sometimes she wondered if she was doing the right thing, but she enjoyed herself too much to stop.”
“There is your answer.” Chano again patted her hand. “You do question. You analyze what happened, and feel remorse for your feelings. Did Elisibet ever feel remorse?”
The question distracted Whiskey from her self-castigation.
Though many of her memories of Elisibet were sketchy, a few were quite strong. “I think...” She trailed off, puzzling through the mix of recollections. “Yeah, once.”
“And what did she regret?”
An image of young Margaurethe, tears sparkling in her eyes as she hovered within sight filled Whiskey’s mind. “She regretted leaving Margaurethe when she died.” Odd. She hadn’t expected that answer. Sometimes things just blurted out of her mouth like this, leaving her both wiser in the ways Elisibet’s mind worked and confused as to where the words came from. She puzzled over it as Chano squeezed her hand.
“Maybe her last feeling is what prompted you to have such compassion for the people around you,” he ventured. “I think that you have nothing to worry about—you can never become like Elisibet.”
Still stricken, Whiskey stared at her friend and advisor. She tried to say something, but a lump clogged her throat. When she spoke, her words came out in a croak. “Why not?”
Chano smiled. “Because you feel so much compassion for a stranger now. So long as you hold on to that awareness of others, both Human and Sanguire, you will never need to worry about becoming Elisibet.”
“Can it be that easy?”
He nodded. “Yes, it can. Besides, there is something you have that Elisibet did not.” His smile widened. “Elisibet did not have family who would gladly take her to task. I will stand by your side, support you on your path, and swat your behind when you make mistakes like any good grandfather should.”
The image caused Whiskey to release a watery chuckle. She could well imagine Margaurethe’s outrage should it ever happen.
A sense of rightness filled her heart, pushing the anxiety aside as she belatedly realized that she wasn’t alone. Overwhelmed by Elisibet’s memories and desires, she had forgotten. Elisibet had fended for herself for two centuries before Margaurethe had joined her, and had continued out of habit to block any attempt at easing her burdens of leadership. Buried beneath learning other cultures as well as how to guide them, Whiskey had begun relying too much upon Elisibet’s tactics. Last night’s escapade had been a lesson, nothing more. Whiskey couldn’t allow herself to wallow in guilt over Elisibet’s choices; that emotion had magnified her feelings, nearly choking her.
“Your family may not always be at your side, but I am your family, too. We are all One People created by powerful spirits in the world.” He gave her a rare wink. “We must stick together to confound the European invaders.”
Whiskey chuckled, shaking her head. Only an old American Indian Sanguire would still consider the European expatriates invaders. Sniffling, she strengthened her hold on Chano’s hand before releasing it. “Thank you.”
“It is what a family does.”
Chapter Thirteen
Castillo rose as the door opened, and smiled welcome. “Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe, good morning.” He noticed the pinched look on her otherwise beautiful face, and her stance indicating a preparation to go into battle. Subduing his naturally cheerful demeanor, he pulled her usual chair from the conference table, offering it to her.
“Father.” Margaurethe waited for him to return to his seat.
“Thank you for being here.”
“Of course.”
“I appreciate you taking the time.”
He tilted his head. Her jaw flexed as if the need for routine politeness grated upon her. Something had clearly annoyed her.
Right now, the one person capable of that was Sublugal Sañar Valmont. Lord, have patience. What has he done to incur her wrath this time? His musings were interrupted by the next arrival.
Chano hobbled into the room with a carved walking stick for support. Castillo automatically stood and went to the coffee station where he filled a cup for the elder Sanguire. “Good morning. How are you today?”
“Still kicking.” The craggy Indian reached his chair and sank gratefully into it. “Old age ain’t for sissies.”
Castillo chuckled, bringing the cup and the sugar container to him. Chano enjoyed it strong and sweet, similar to the Basques in the Old Country. Considering Chano’s sweet tooth, it was a wonder he still had his original dental work. “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever reach your...stature.”
Chano winked. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Margaurethe cut off the pleasantries. “Can we get this started?”
Puzzled, Castillo nevertheless nodded and returned to his chair. Chano was less inclined to take things at face value, being the eldest and strongest in the room. “We’re not waiting for Reynhard and Valmont?”
“No, we’re not. Reynhard has been out of town on an errand for Whiskey. Valmont knew the time and place; it’s hardly my fault he’s a coward.” With the acid tone stronger than usual, Castillo wondered again at Valmont’s offense. Her next words enlightened him. “Valmont took Whiskey hunting last night.”
That impressed Castillo. He wondered what brought that up. “Really? How interesting.”
“Interesting?” Margaurethe’s sharp word matched the flash of anger in her eyes as she glared. “She bullied her guards into not telling me she’d left, and Valmont took her to Tribulations, of all places!”
“Isn’t that the local Sanguire haunt here in Portland?” When Castillo agreed, Chano shrugged. “Not very sensible on his part.”
Margaurethe must have assumed the elder’s remark had given her tacit permission to rant. “To think how close she came to being hurt or killed... There are dozens of Sanguire using that place as a hunting ground.”
“A hundred or more,” Castillo corrected softly.
“Hundreds!” She seized on Castillo’s comment with grim satisfaction. Standing, she paced around the table, forcing the men to crane their necks to keep her in view. Castillo had the sudden vision of being an owl, wondering
if his head would twist off like the cap of his favored root beer before she finished. “If she had made a mistake, told anyone who she was, they would have ripped her to shreds. We can’t lose sight of the fact that there are some here in Portland who have seen Elisibet during her reign. What if they had recognized her last night?”
“It sounds like both of them were completely irresponsible.”
She paused to stare at Chano, gauging his sincerity, then glanced at Castillo. “Yes. Completely.” Castillo gave her his full attention, studiously urging her to continue. Margaurethe must have decided their responses were genuine for she returned to circling the room. “How could Valmont be so idiotic?”
“Whose idea was this?” Castillo asked.
Margaurethe’s lips thinned further, the muscles in her jaw visibly throbbing in time with the grinding of her teeth. “Whiskey claims it was hers, that she asked Valmont to take her hunting.”
Chano narrowed his eyes. “You doubt her?”
Margaurethe waved dismissively. “I believe her, of course. But I know Valmont well enough after centuries. The conniving bastard probably brought the subject up, and made her think it was her decision.”
Her statement didn’t change Chano’s expression. “To what purpose?”
She paused, mouth open, as she considered the question. “To put her in danger, of course! He’s never happier than when he’s taking risks, and he wants to take risks with Whiskey.”
Chano frowned. “I do not understand. Why would he wish to put Whiskey in danger? It would defeat the purpose of what we are doing here, and put him in danger of being hunted by every American Indian Sanguire on this continent, not to mention any other nations currently in negotiations with us.”
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