Castillo finished his prayer. Margaurethe gently nudged Whiskey’s elbow, urging her forward. Someone tripped the mechanism holding the gleaming cherry wood casket, and it slowly sank into the ground.
Whiskey’s eyes and throat burned with tears as she dropped a white rose onto Cora’s casket. Those that personally knew the deceased followed suit—Nupa and Chaniya each added a fetish derived from their peoples’ spiritual beliefs, and Daniel a rose so red it was nearly black. Alphonse and Zebediah caused a ghost of a smile on Whiskey’s face as they each pulled out a flask, took a deep draught, and poured the remainder on their fallen comrade.
A few of the more conservative Humans muttered imprecations, not realizing how easy it was to be overheard by the people they were there to impress. Whiskey glared at them, startling them into silence.
“Come away.” Margaurethe gently led her from the gravesite.
Unable to see through the angry blur, Whiskey allowed herself to be guided to the limousine. Phineas held the door for her, his cheerful smile missing. Margaurethe, Valmont and Castillo climbed in after her. As the limo pulled away, Whiskey stared out the window.
“How are you, m’cara?”
“Fine.” Everyone knew she lied. No one called her on it, and she continued to watch traffic as they made their way to the wake.
She had personally spoken with Anthony’s parents in Europe to tell them of his honorable service and unfortunate death.
They had requested his remains be returned to his family, and Margaurethe had seen it done. Whiskey had promised to punish whoever was responsible for taking their only son away from them. As for Cora, there had been no news from the private detective Whiskey had hired to locate her parents. All anyone knew was that she had been raised in the United States. Daniel had known her for thirty years, and hadn’t gotten much more from her beyond that. The least Whiskey could do was let them know where their estranged daughter was buried. The company hired to erect a headstone had been paid and only awaited a phone call from the family to determine what it should say. She had done everything she could. It wasn’t enough to appease the guilt.
Whiskey almost wished for Elisibet’s ability to not care, not feel. The entire issue would be easier to deal with without her Human sympathy getting in the way. It seemed odd to find something in Elisibet for which to yearn. For over a year Whiskey had denied everything to do with her previous incarnation, finding the Sweet Butcher too repulsive to emulate.
Somewhere an assassin lay in wait for her. She wondered who would be the next to die. Would it be her? Or another innocent victim?
The limousine stopped and the door opened. Her driver, Phineas, offered his hand. “My Ninsumgal.” Whiskey accepted his assistance, Margaurethe following her out. Valmont exited from the other side, and Castillo already stood on the sidewalk, having ridden in front.
Against her advisors’ wishes, Whiskey had insisted that Cora’s wake take place at Club Express rather than in the function area of The Davis Group building. The argument was that she could be better protected on her home turf. Though a valid consideration, Whiskey pointed out that the last place she wanted to celebrate Cora’s and Anthony’s lives would be on the premises where they had been brutally murdered. After much grumbling, cajoling and outright shouting, she reminded them that she was Ninsumgal, and they the advisors. Chano was the first to capitulate, followed by Castillo. Realizing she had been left siding with her nemesis, Valmont, Margaurethe decided to agree with the others on the condition that Whiskey went nowhere in the club without at least two aga’usi. Whiskey didn’t care for the restriction, but had agreed. Valmont had thrown his hands up in the air, and remained staunchly against the entire affair.
The owner of the sex club met them at the door, a tub of a Human with an oily air about him. Whiskey always thought of him as unwashed though he always smelled clean enough. Upon her arrival from Seattle, she couldn’t take her pack into regular youth clubs—her people were too young and rough, wolves slavering at the hundreds of Human lambs patronizing the various establishments.
With Margaurethe’s money and Castillo’s organizational skills, they had rented Club Express a number of times over the months to blow off steam before Margaurethe’s arrival.
“It’s good to see you again, Father.” The owner grasped Castillo’s hand. “It’s been several months.”
“Yes, well, we’ve been busy elsewhere.” Castillo extracted himself with grace. “Did the caterers arrive?”
Jovial, the owner chuckled. “Yes, indeed. Quite a spread you ordered. A lot of people have already arrived. What’s the occasion?” His greedy eyes wandered over the gathering people waiting to enter.
“A wake for a couple of dear friends.”
A parody of sorrow crossed the man’s face. “You have my condolences for your loss.”
Disgusted, Whiskey left Castillo to his job of making nice.
If she had to put up with the ugly man for long, she might do something everyone would regret. She didn’t need her ability to see a lie to know the Human didn’t give a damn about why they were there; his thoughts remained completely focused on the final tally of the tab that would be paid when the wake was over. Four of her Aga’gída exited the building, indicating it had passed their scrutiny. They surrounded their ruler with casual, evident menace. As they reached the entrance, she glanced across the street. A couple of homeless men hovered in a darkened doorway, eyes gleaming with hungry desire. She felt a sharp pang of remembrance. When was the last time they had eaten? It might be high summer now, but the weather had been capricious and autumn would arrive too soon. “Padre, how good’s my credit here?”
Castillo interrupted his conversation, following her gaze to the vagrants. “Everything’s covered, Whiskey. A woman of your standing shouldn’t be required to handle something as lowly as money.”
She grinned at his tone, allowing herself to play along with the royalty act for the club owner’s benefit. “Can you see that each of them gets twenty bucks?”
“Yes, it would be my pleasure.” He melted away from them to follow her command.
“They’re only Humans.” Valmont’s voice wasn’t as disgruntled as his feigned expression.
A frisson of irritation whispered through Whiskey. “Maybe. But I was once one of them.”
He shrugged.
She and her entourage entered the club. A DJ took up residence on a small stage normally reserved for more prurient entertainment. A poster-sized enlarged photograph of Cora and Anthony hung on the wall behind him, the only known photo of them together. Whiskey smiled, recognizing the man onstage as one that Cora had found particularly intriguing a few months ago. They had bonded over music. It was fitting that someone had invited him to be here, and she suspected Castillo had been the one. “Something to drink, my Gasan?”
She considered her options. Her last time here was the evening of Margaurethe’s arrival, surrounded by her pack and a layer of anonymity. Now she was surrounded by a Sanguire security force, and several of her guard were peppering the crowd in various states of civilian attire. Despite the added threat of an assassin, there was also added protection. Even with a couple of drinks, she had confidence she could mentally take on the eldest and most powerful Sanguire in residence. “Yeah. How about a Jack and Coke?”
“Yes, Ninsumgal.” The guard peeled away from the others to visit the bar.
“We have a table reserved near the dance floor.” Margaurethe guided her forward.
Valmont held chairs for both women, and Whiskey looked around to see the immediate tables occupied by her top staff—her advisors, her pack, the handful of kizarusi that had been in her presence, and her Human senior managers. Extending her mind, she found more Sanguire security ranging throughout the club, a couple even standing on the edges of the stage to afford a clear field of fire. Weapons weren’t prominently displayed, but Whiskey knew that her people were armed to the teeth, pun not intended.
“Ninsumgal.”
She smiled as she remembered Cora pouring shots of whiskey in a Seattle club last year. That had been the first time Whiskey had gotten drunk on her namesake drink, nearly falling on her face when she had attempted to stand. That was the night she had met Dorst. Her mind scanned the club. Where is he? Her first advisor hadn’t been seen or heard from since the murders. His continued absence was beginning to worry her.
A waiter approached the table, and retrieved orders from the others. Castillo arrived in time to ask for a root beer, and sat down beside her.
“Mission accomplished?” Valmont asked.
“Yes.” Castillo leaned close to be heard over the music.
Valmont snorted. “They’ll just find a liquor store and swill it away.”
“Or buy food. Or pay for a night in a flophouse, or get their first decent meal in three days.” Whiskey eyed him.
“Adult homeless have a tougher time than kids. Not as many services or as much money.” Margaurethe’s hand on her arm cooled her burgeoning anger, reminding her of the number of times she’d done the same with Elisibet. The comparison didn’t ease Whiskey’s emotions. Their drinks arrived, halting conversation.
Never ones for introspection, Alphonse and Zebediah promptly dragged Chaniya and Aleya onto the dance floor.
Zebediah drank deep from a bottle of vodka he had appropriated from the bar. “To Cora!”
A roar from the rest of the pack echoed his toast, and Whiskey shot to her feet, joining them. “To Cora! To Anthony!”
“To Cora and Anthony!”
Several hours later, the party still surged on with the younger set. Of Whiskey’s advisors, only Margaurethe stayed.
All the older Sanguire had left, stopping by her table to bestow their sympathies upon Whiskey before departing. Even Pacal had given his somber condolences, his dark eyes seeming to sparkle in the light. The remaining Humans were the young kizarusi attached to Whiskey’s pack and those working the club.
Considering the number of delegates courting The Davis Group, it was no surprise that half of the strangers were from a number of different nations—children of the Japanese, Mayan, Indian and African diplomats. The DJ had set up a microphone at the corner of the stage, and every so often someone would tell a story about the fallen. Some were funny, some heartbreaking, but the whole idea was for them to celebrate their friends’ lives, to honor their highs and lows, to put some closure to the devastation left in the wake of their deaths.
Drink in hand, Whiskey didn’t quite stagger up to the microphone. The buzz of alcohol dulled her senses, and Margaurethe stabilized her as they walked. Whiskey tapped the mic, a heavy thock thock interrupting the flow of music. The volume decreased, and everyone turned to see who wanted to speak next. Whiskey released Margaurethe and straightened, taking a deep breath.
“The first time I saw Cora Kalnenieks, I was getting my ass handed to me by a bunch of punks. She proceeded to take one of them down with a single punch, becoming my hero.” Alphonse and Zebediah grinned in remembrance. “A week or so later, she and Daniel stood up to their pack leader, a woman twice their age, to protect me during my Ñíri Kurám.” Whiskey raised her glass to acknowledge Daniel, who nodded back. Nupa jostled him with a smile. “She suffered—they both did—and she became my hero once again. All she ever wanted from me was for me to remember her, to remember who helped me in the beginning.”
Whiskey stared down at her drink with a frown. “We had our differences of opinion. My upbringing was different than most of yours, and sometimes that was glaringly evident. But I could never forget her sacrifices or her friendship.
“Anthony came to me with Margaurethe a few months ago.
He took over as Ugula of my Aga’gída.” She grinned up at the audience. “What a thankless job that was, huh? I’m surprised the lot of us didn’t give him an aneurysm. He took it in stride, though, never shirking in what he thought was right to protect me—when he could find me.” Another chuckle reverberated around the room. “When I heard that he and Cora had become lovers, I was happy for them. It looked like Cora was thinking about settling down, and I couldn’t think of anyone more trustworthy or courageous for her to be involved with.”
Whiskey raised her glass, feeling the tightness in her throat.
“To Cora and Anthony. They will be sorely missed.” She tossed back the shot while the others echoed her toast. Setting her empty glass down on the edge of the stage, she stumbled away, eyes blurring. She didn’t want to break down in public. “I need to get to the restroom.”
“Of course.” Margaurethe went with her toward the back of the establishment. The two nearest guards flanked them as they walked, one speaking into the radio mic at his wrist.
Whiskey bit back a drunken snicker at the absurdity of a personal escort to the toilet. The silliness didn’t ease as several other aga’usi emerged from the crowd, clearing the way to their intended destination. A few of the revelers tried to gain her attention as she passed. It was a futile effort. The loud music and level of alcohol in her bloodstream made even her Sanguire hearing suspect, and she heard nothing but noise. At the restroom, she was forced to remain outside with her aga’usi while Margaurethe swept the interior for potential danger. Whiskey’s bladder became more insistent in its demands. She leaned against the wall by the door, six burly men and women keeping the others at bay. A sudden popping noise interrupted her melancholy.
Everyone moved in slow motion. She heard two more pops, and watched her security turn their heads toward the sound.
One of them crumpled to the ground before her, his companion reaching out to stop his fall. The others surged around her, blocking her view as they put their bodies before hers. The people clamoring for attention turned away, attempting to leave the suddenly claustrophobic area, a neat trick considering how tightly packed the crowd had gotten in Whiskey’s vicinity. She saw the ripple of movement, like someone had dropped a rock in a still lake. But where was the rock?
A man materialized from the cringing mob, an automatic pistol in each hand. He shot another of the aga’us, leaving the way open to his intended target, her.
They stared at one another for what seemed like forever. He was unfamiliar, someone she had never seen, someone Elisibet had never known. He was Indian and Sanguire, looking a little older than Whiskey, which—considering the much longer lifespans of the Sanguire—placed his age anywhere between twenty- and sixty-years-old. His face was contorted into a savage snarl, at odds with the dull look in his eyes. Despite the expression on his face, his eyes told the true story. Compelled. Taking careful aim, he said something, but Whiskey couldn’t hear him over the screams of the crowd trying to escape, the yells of her remaining Aga’gída as they aimed weapons to protect her. She felt the wall solid against her back, knowing there was nowhere to go, praying to God that Margaurethe wouldn’t come bursting from the restroom and get herself killed as well. Whiskey closed her eyes, pushing backward as if she could simply step through the solid concrete construction that had gone into the making of this building. With an almost fatal calm, she awaited the next pop, knowing that bullet would be for her.
It didn’t make a pop this time. The sound was muffled, almost impossible to hear. In fact, all sound became smothered. She wondered if this was what happened when one was shot to death.
That didn’t seem right; she had detailed memories of Elisibet’s death. If anything, sound sharpened toward the end. She felt no pain, just a sensation of being cocooned, followed by a smell of sanitizer, and a cool draft of air.
“Whiskey?” a baffled voice asked.
She opened her eyes to see Margaurethe in the process of opening the bathroom door to go out. Startled, Whiskey scanned her surroundings. “What the hell?” She stood inside the restroom, having pushed through the wall. Somehow, she had entered this safe haven, and had left no evidence of her passage.
The door burst open, revealing Sasha. Th
e sound of radio chatter and general chaos entered with her, and she had to shout to be heard. “Ninsumgal? Are you hurt?” Too confused to speak, Whiskey stared. Sasha closed the distance between she and Whiskey, quickly running her hands over Whiskey’s body. “She appears uninjured.” Sasha shouted, “We have to get her out of here!”
While Margaurethe and Sasha arranged the abrupt exit of their ruler, Whiskey reached out a shaky hand. Cool unmarred concrete met her fingers. What the hell just happened?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Margaurethe, Sasha and every security person under her command surrounded Whiskey, and hustled her through the chaos to the waiting limousine. She barely had time to hear the owner’s strident tones as he disavowed any knowledge of danger to her before the door slammed, and Phineas drove away from the bedlam. Whiskey tried to piece together what had happened. How had she gotten inside the restroom? She had been completely helpless, watching her killer aim the pistol at her head. Then she’d stood on the other side of the wall, safe from harm, as confused as Margaurethe.
Two Aga’gída rode in the back of the limo with her and Margaurethe, and Sasha had hopped into the front seat. One of those seated across from Whiskey listened intently to the earplug connected to his radio. “Ninsumgal, Captain Kopecki wishes you to know that all your friends have been accounted for, Human and Sanguire alike. The shooter only hit the aga’usi.”
Still fuzzy from the alcohol and excitement, Whiskey nodded. “Thank you.” Her mouth was dry, and she wished she had a drink of cool water. She cast her eyes around the interior of the limousine, fumbling with the small refrigerator that held refreshments.
Margaurethe was less confused, jaw tucked to her chest as she glared at the two men across from her. “Were we able to apprehend the assassin?” Her words were lightly slurred, not from drink but because her fangs were unsheathed.
Inner Sanctuary Page 19