To his credit, the ranking man of the two didn’t tremble at her fury. “No, Ki’an Gasan. We’re not certain whether he died as a result of our actions or if he killed himself. In either case, he’s no longer a threat.”
Margaurethe cursed.
Who was he? Whiskey stared out the tinted window, chewing her lip. She remembered his lips moving, watching the slow motion replay of memory. Was he defending someone, maybe even avenging a dead family member? “This is for...” But his eyes had held no life, no consciousness, no spark of emotion.
“We’re here.” The limousine pulled off the street, and bypassed the front apron of The Davis Group. Normally, they would stop at the main entrance to disembark. Due to the emergency they proceeded down the ramp to the bottommost of the two parking garages. There was a single express elevator there to carry her to her apartment. Looking out the window, Whiskey saw what looked like every member of the security personnel in the building guarding the entrance. It was something similar to what she had seen on documentaries of attempted presidential assassinations. It stunned her to realize that it was all being done to protect her. The magnitude of the situation took her breath away. Am I truly that important?
Within seconds, Phineas had the limo pulled over near the elevator. Whiskey reached for the handle, only to be stopped by the aga’us across from her. He shook his head, waiting for radio confirmation. The elevator opened, several guards pouring out of it to circle the vehicle. Only when all were in place did he open the door. Whiskey and Margaurethe were surrounded and hustled into the elevator. Four security officers blocked the entry as the door slid shut. It seemed ludicrous. What did they think could happen here?
Sasha plugged an unfamiliar code into the keypad on the elevator.
“What’s that?”
“It tells the system to bypass all other floors. It’s an express code.” True to her word, the elevator didn’t stop until it reached its destination. The doors opened, disgorging the occupants onto the dark marble. The sixteenth-floor foyer bristled with more guards, many armed with automatic rifles. Sithathor stood at the open penthouse door, and Whiskey was ushered inside.
Sithathor closed the door. Margaurethe pulled Whiskey into her arms. “Are you all right? Shall I have Daniel brought to examine you?” Her voice trembled along with her body. She thoroughly examined Whiskey, turning her this way and that in search of injury.
“I’m fine.” When Margaurethe ignored her, continuing her examination, Whiskey grabbed her lover’s wrists. “I’m not hurt, minn’ast. Really! I’m okay.”
Tension flowed out of Margaurethe, causing her shoulders to slump. She closed her eyes, and a single tear spilled over. Her wrists remained captured by Whiskey. Rather than free herself, she pulled them close, resting her head in the crook of Whiskey’s shoulder. Whiskey wrapped her arms about Margaurethe. They held tight to one another, both understanding how close they had come to history repeating itself. Though Margaurethe’s body shook with restrained emotion, she didn’t weep beyond the one tear.
After several moments, Sithathor broke the silence. “Can I get you anything, Ninsumgal?”
Whiskey sighed, pleased to feel Margaurethe relax. She looked past her lover to see the worried expression on her chambermaid’s face. She offered a smile to Sithathor. “Yes, please. Juice for me.” After a fraction of a pause, she added, “And a stiff drink for Margaurethe.” The woman in her arms gave a chuckle, one tinged with hysteria but not overly out of control. Sithathor bowed, though her body remained tense as she proceeded to the bar.“I’m all right.” Whiskey pulled back to peer at Margaurethe.
She sniffled, but appeared in command of her emotions.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. Everything was fine until you went inside. While we were waiting, someone came out of the crowd with a pistol, and started shooting.”
Margaurethe’s normally olive complexion turned pasty yellow. Her frantic gaze traveled across Whiskey’s body once more, searching anew for possible wounds. “How the hell did someone get in there with a gun?”
“Again, I don’t know. Security was doing searches at the door, but maybe they missed somebody.” Whiskey turned away, removing her jacket, tossing it onto a chair.
Margaurethe’s anger slowly began to boil. “This is Reynhard’s fault! Off on one of his little jaunts—he should have been here. Here! You’re damned lucky that assassin didn’t smuggle in a bazooka!”
Whiskey raised her hands in surrender. “I have no idea where Reynhard is, and I’m not concerned about it.” The alcohol and adrenaline faded away, and she sank with some force into an armchair. “But that wasn’t the weird thing.”
Sithathor returned to place a tray on the coffee table.
“Ninsumgal,” she murmured, making certain her employer knew of its presence.
“Thank you.” Whiskey didn’t give the woman a second thought as she continued the conversation. “I mean, the guy had me, dead to rights. He shot two of my guards. I had nowhere to go—I was trapped by the Aga’gída around me, and a wall behind me.”Margaurethe halted her furious pacing. She paled again, puzzled. “Yes, what happened? How did you get into the restroom? I had just checked the last stall when I heard the commotion outside.”
Whiskey remembered the sensation of everything being muffled as she cringed away from her killer. “I closed my eyes, waiting to die. And then I was inside with you.”
“Someone shoved you through the door.”
“No!” Whiskey jerked her head up to stare at Margaurethe.
“I had my back to the wall, and then I was standing inside facing the same wall.”
Margaurethe’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not possible.”
“But it is.”
Both of them looked at Sithathor who had remained in the room. Her smile was unexpected, at odds with her previous pinched expression. It was benevolent, with a hint of smugness.
She stood in a bubble of calm, her hands clasped before her.
“You are Gidimam Kissane Lá, Ninsumgal. You have finally discovered your gift.”
Whiskey recognized the words, but they didn’t register. She stared uncomprehending at her chambermaid, barely hearing Margaurethe’s gasp.
“Ghost Walker?” Margaurethe’s voice sounded somewhat strangled. “You think she’s a Ghost Walker?”
“Yes, Ki’an Gasan.” Sithathor’s smile widened. “It seems obvious considering the situation.” She turned to Whiskey who still gaped at her. “Did sound become dampened when you passed through the wall?”
“Yeah, it did.” Somewhat belatedly, Whiskey made the connection to the familiar words. “You’re saying I’m a Ghost Walker?” She pressed her lips together in irritation. Even to her, she sounded like an idiot, repeating what had already been said.
“That’s impossible. The Gidimam Kissane Lá haven’t been seen or heard from in centuries. I’ve asked around, and they disappeared almost worldwide at the same time.”
Sithathor knelt before her. “This is true, my Gasan. But we deemed it necessary to remove ourselves from society long ago.”
Still confused, Whiskey asked, “We?”
Her chambermaid’s skin flushed slightly. “My apologies, Ninsumgal, but the Sweet Butcher’s desire to exploit our abilities was only one of many wishing to do the same. In the beginning our gifts were slight, but they have strengthened over the centuries. As our abilities grew, so did the desires of many rulers. Only the oldest and most powerful could defend against compelling. We thought it best to remove the temptation.”
Whiskey’s mind flashed to a memory of Elisibet, a rage in her heart as she ransacked a building with her men in the hopes of locating just one of the elusive Ghost Walkers. To have one at her beck and call would make her privy to many state secrets. She could use them as assassins and spies, ultimately becoming the ruler of all Sanguire, not just the Europeans she currently led.
She reeled back from the recollection, the fury washing aw
ay to numbness. “Smart move.”
“You’re one?” Margaurethe demanded.
“I am.” Sithathor placed her hand upon the table, and Whiskey watched with fascination as it slid through as if the wood didn’t exist. Sithathor waved her hand back and forth just beneath the surface of the table, appearing to be caressing a puddle of water rather than a solid chunk of wood. “Were I to solidify myself, I would do irreparable damage to both my hand, and the table. The two sets of molecules are not mutually exclusive; they cannot exist at the same time in the same place.”
She removed her hand, looking at her audience.
Whiskey linked with Margaurethe, finding a swirl of conflicting emotions; residual anger at the nearly successful assassination attempt, disbelief of Sithathor’s words, a tentative joy at the discovery of Whiskey’s gift, and fear of unknown capability. “Nobody knew my father. If you’ve been working on this stuff for centuries, he’d have to be part of it.” Whiskey shook her head. “My family would have told me if this talent came from my mother’s side. I might not be the best student, but at least I know enough biology for that.”
Sithathor, her hands clasped neatly in her lap, smiled. “We do know your father, Ninsumgal. Gareth Davidson—son of David Sceadson and Enid.”
***
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He held the phone away from his ear, a smile on his face. The ranting continued for a solid minute before his employer paused to inhale. “I had no choice. The youngling saw me. Wrong place, wrong time. Very unlucky for her.”
“Very unlucky for you! Because of your idiocy, the Agrun Nam has voted for her to return at once.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. A waitress arrived with his drink, and he sent her away with a flick of his wrist. “I’m intrigued. Do they actually believe she’ll bow to their whim?”
There was no response. He refused to fill the emptiness, twirling the liquid in his glass with a thin straw. From the sounds of it, his employer had yet to hear of the attempt at the club last night. He considered not answering his phone after this, just to avoid another verbal tantrum.
“How should I know?” came the reluctant answer.
He grinned, knowing he had scored a point. Here was rudimentary proof that his mysterious employer indeed worked for the esteemed ruling council. He wondered what the chances were of him actually being one of the sanari. It made sense considering the identity of his assigned target. “I thought you might have more information than I.” He sipped his drink. Ah, a Bloody Mary. Or was it Susan? Perhaps Gretchen. The alcohol swept over his tongue, leaving behind the tasty hint of blood.
“The news I get here is weeks old.”
“You don’t need news. You need to get the job done!”
“Of course. But if you don’t mind, I’d much rather do it and survive than sacrifice myself. It seems when I took this assignment, you failed to mention the target’s well-trained security escort and the presence of a certain eccentric spy in her employ.”
“She’s nothing. An upstart.”
He chuckled at the lack of reaction to hearing Reynhard Dorst was involved. “Aye. An upstart who just happens to have a massive security detail around her and at her estate at all times.”
“Not all the time. It seems she went out hunting one night with only Sublugal Sañar Valmont. You would have had the perfect opportunity if you had paid the slightest bit of attention.”
Leaning back in his chair, he scanned the interior of Tribulations. Though only afternoon, the place boasted being open twenty-four hours a day. Several Sanguire were scattered about the room. Very few Humans braved the club before evening hours; those that did were fully cognizant of his people’s existence.
“Actually, I followed them. They have a rather marvelous club here.”
“You what?”
He smiled at the muffled curse on the other end. As he took another drink, his employer sputtered until regaining a modicum of control.
“I hired you to do a job. Now do it!”
“Aye, you hired me to do a job. And I will. In my own time.”
“If you don’t kill her before she can be returned to the Agrun Nam, you’ll have failed. Not only will you not get the remainder of your fee, but I’ll see to it that you’ll follow her into the grave.”
He felt his expression stiffen, and he leaned forward. “You threaten me?”
“You’re a dog I’ve sent to attack a rabid animal. If you fail, you’re useless to me, and a danger to everyone else. I’ll put you down. Count on it.”
He remained silent, eyes closed, teeth gritted. Finally, he spoke. “Your job will be done, and you’ll pay me what you owe.”
He paused, opening his eyes. “But you’d better consider ‘putting me down’ anyway, guv. Because I’ll be looking for you next.”
Disconnecting the line, he tossed the phone onto the table.
“Cheeky bastard.” He nursed his drink, ordering another when it got low.
The longer he investigated Davis, the more inclined he was to believe what was said of her. She was Mahar’s Prophecy embodied; the Sweet Butcher’s soul lived and breathed within hers. What else could account for her mistaken but successful mental attack of her Margaurethe O’Toole last week? That woman was older than Davis by seven hundred years! No normal youngling had the strength of will to do such a thing.
It was too bad, really. He had actually come to like the girl.
Unlike the Sweet Butcher, she had compassion. If left to her own devices, she would have made a tremendous positive impact on their people. He remembered living during Elisibet’s time—the backbiting, the squabbling over her attentions, and the fear of attracting her jaundiced interest. Given what he had observed so far, he doubted those evil years would be repeated. Unless his employer preferred to step into the Sweet Butcher’s slippers, of course, which seemed a likely prospect.
Very unfortunate it was that he hadn’t gotten all the information available before accepting the job. He had a certain level of honor, probably more so than many of his ilk. He had hired on for the job, he would do it, and he would regret it. Such was his long life. But he would also discover who hired him. The thought of publicly taking his employer down warmed his heart.
First find him, then unveil his intentions and actions. They both might die as a result, but it would be well worth the cost of his life, knowing that the man who had stopped the reputed Golden Age of the Sanguire from happening would join him in hell.
Satisfied with a plan of action, he stood, drained his drink, and dropped money on the table. It was time to return to the estate and arrange things. After the ill-timed attempt at the club last evening, Davis wouldn’t leave the estate alone. The incident had been more a test of her security than anything else, one where his toy had failed to achieve the desired result. To enact his plan, he needed to procure a new bit of bait. The last one had died with her burly boyfriend when her kidnapping had been interrupted.
Pity that. Cora had been a darling.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Castillo sat in his office, peering at a book. He set aside the tome and turned his office chair to scan the shelves behind his desk.
He had a smaller yet more extensive collection than Whiskey’s private library, books he had gathered over the centuries as he followed the precepts of his church. It hadn’t done him much good for his current task. So far, neither he nor Whiskey had found any legal precedent for the Agrun Nam to insist she go to Europe except upon arrest for crimes against the realm. That was a fairly new law put into place not long after Elisibet’s demise.
To his mind, the search went well. Except for the one aforementioned ruling, nothing among the laws of the Sanguire allowed for the Agrun Nam to order anything of their Ninsumgal.
Castillo felt surprise at this lack. After Elisibet’s atrocities, he assumed they would have given themselves more power to keep a future ruler in check. Perhaps they were so relieved at the Sweet Butche
r’s death, they simply hadn’t taken her reincarnation into account, despite the prophecy. Certainly they had attempted to negate it entirely by taking control of the realm sans monarchal leader.
With a sigh, Castillo stood and picked up the book he had been scouring, intent on returning it to its place. He heard an unfamiliar scratching and paused, looking over his shoulder at the door. Since moving into The Davis Group, he had requested and received permission to conduct prayer meetings for the faithful. He wondered if someone needed religious guidance. He answered the door and his dark eyebrows rose.
“Father Castillo.” Andri hovered in the hall, wringing his cap in his hands.
“Andri! What a pleasant surprise.” Castillo stepped back to allow Whiskey’s valet entry. “Please, sit down.”
The homely man took a hesitant step into the room. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether to stare at the floor or the window or the books, his eyes occasionally darting to the priest.
Castillo softened his voice. “You’re not here as a servant, Andri. Please. Sit down.” To illustrate his point, he returned to his desk and resumed his seat.
Andri’s Adam’s apple bobbed once before he gave a curt nod, and perched on the edge of a chair.
Offering Andri something to drink would probably unnerve him more, so Castillo refrained from the hospitality. Instead, he studied the man, surprised he would knock at all. To Castillo’s knowledge not a single Sanguire here followed the Human religion as he did. “Can I help you?”
Andri cleared his throat, eyes always on the move, never letting his gaze rest anywhere long. “My Ninsumgal has given me the day off, sir. She mourns her friends.”
“Yes. Cora was one of her best friends among her pack, and Anthony her Ugula Aga’us. It’s been difficult for her.”
“Yes, it has.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re here, Andri, unless you wish to partake in a prayer meeting? I was unaware that you were a believer.”
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