Fiona’s voice was silken. “You are most welcome, sweet Whiskey.”
Chapter Sixteen
Whiskey roared down the street on the motorcycle. Having been dependent on her feet or public transportation for most her life, she enjoyed this ability to go anywhere she wanted at any time. Though Fiona’s home skirted the U District, Whiskey had left early to enjoy the bike, ranging far and wide along the major thoroughfares before finally heading to her appointment with Dorst. She’d leave the bike in a parking lot near there, and the keys with Dorst. He could return the vehicle to Fiona, saving Whiskey the trip.
She located the corner Dorst had spoken of, and pulled to the side of the street. As he’d said, the establishment centered in the alley, sharing the spot with a funky little dress shop. Two scooters already occupied a spot across from a tiny outdoor seating area, so she parked beside them. It took a moment of fumbling before she managed the helmet storage lock by the rear wheel. Eventually she got the bike locked up, pocketing the keys and retrieving her pack.
A literal hole in the wall, the place held seating for half a dozen people at most. Dorst sat at the only occupied table. Whiskey walked past the coffee bar that took up half the business’s space, and sat across from him.
“Interesting choice of vehicles, Gasan.” A smile perched upon his gaunt face. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
Whiskey grinned. “Yeah! It’s fantastic. I’ve never driven one before last night.”
“How fortunate for you.” He gave her a regal nod, then slid a porcelain cup across the table to her. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don’t find my actions too presumptuous.”
“No, that’s cool, thanks.” Whiskey picked up the drink, and took a sip, rich chocolate filling her mouth. “It’s very good.”
“Only the best, Gasan.”
Whiskey set the cup down. “What does that mean?”
“Gasan?” He considered a moment. “Many of our words can mean many things, depending on the inflections involved. With you, I use it as a term that translates to ‘lady,’ similar to a lady of ancient times as opposed to the generally accepted term of the modern era.”
“And Ninsumgal?”
Dorst grinned. “Dragon lady.”
Whiskey blinked, wondering why Cora would refer to her in such a way. Her hand rubbed the arm with the dragon tattoo, hidden beneath her jacket. Cora had used that word before she’d gotten the tattoo. But it was Cora’s suggestion that it be a dragon.
“Additionally, it could mean ‘lady of all’ or ‘lady sovereign.”’ He shrugged. “Unless it was utilized as ‘monster of composite power.’ Somehow I doubt that was the usage you overheard. It’s been several hundred years since anyone has had reason to speak that particular phrase.”
“One word means all that?”
Dorst made a noise of agreement as he took a drink from a porcelain cup of tea.
“It’s going to take forever for me to learn the language.”
“You have time, sweet Whiskey.” He chuckled. “You have the Book?”
“Yeah.” Whiskey located the leather-bound volume in her pack. Her eyes narrowed. Why the hell is it warm? She handed it to Dorst, wiping her fingers on her pants after she released it to his care.
They spent the next hour going over the second chant. Again, Whiskey learned more of his native language, and the strange angular writing known as cuneiform. When she could ably recite the words with their proper intonation, Dorst pronounced her ready.
“Do you have someplace safe to conduct this meditation?” He closed the Book.
Whiskey hesitated. “Not yet. I’m still looking.”
“And Fiona’s residence is out of the question?”
Dread filled her heart at the thought of being surrounded by Fiona’s people. “Am I supposed to be looking for someplace that is safe, or a place where I feel safe?”
Dorst cocked his head at her. “Most definitely the latter, sweet Whiskey.”
“Then Fiona’s place is out of the question.”
His lips quirked in a faint smile.“Understood.”
Whiskey chewed her lower lip. “Are all—” She broke off, considering her words. “Do all our people live like Fiona and her friends do?”
He lifted a hairless eyebrow, tilting his head to one side in thought. “You mean as opposed to the nuclear family arrangement you are familiar with here in North America?”
“Yeah, I guess.” That wasn’t quite what she meant, but it would do as a start.
“Some do, some don’t. Humans live together, raise children, and send their children into the world. Their limited life span makes this a convenient arrangement. Sanguire, however, live significantly longer. Our death toll would no doubt skyrocket if our children remained with us until they reached, say, two or three hundred years of age.”
Whiskey imagined that would be true. “You said that Fiona has been using the same tactics for forty years. How old is she?”
Dorst smiled. “Perhaps you should ask her. Sanguire women are just as sensitive about their age as Human ones.”
She scowled at his nonanswer, taking the Book from him to put away. The leather was still warm, and her fingertips tingled.
After studying her a moment, he said, “You wonder if the living situation of Fiona and her friends is the norm?”
“Yeah.” Whiskey closed her backpack. “To be honest, I don’t get why Cora or Daniel hang with her. If they have their own families and contacts, why put up with her shit?” Privately, she thought Bronwyn and Manuel were right where they wanted to be; they had more in common with Fiona than anyone else in the pack.
“Ah,” he said in sudden comprehension. “When you’re farther along the Ñíri Kurám, you will understand the way of things. As you walk the Strange Path, you’ll develop an ability to feel the strength of other Sanguire about you. Fiona leads because she’s the eldest and the strongest among them, nothing more than that.”
“Strong?” Whiskey considered the various pack members. “Manuel or Alphonse can snap her like a twig. Hell, I saw Cora take out a guy with a single punch to the kidneys. How can she be weaker than Fiona?”
Dorst leaned forward, tapping his temple with two long fingers. “Mentally strong. You’ll understand better when you’ve finished the meditations. While Fiona is a slight woman, she can easily lay waste to everyone there.”
Whiskey shivered at the implications. “When I’m finished with this...Ñíri Kurám, will she have power over me?”
“It’s highly probable.”
“Can I combat it? Stop it?”
His serious expression faded to sympathy. “Fiona does not usually compel her people. They are there of their own accord. Unless she’s changed her strategy, if you do not wish her to have power over you, you may simply leave.”
Whiskey felt both relief and concern. “So there’s a way to ‘compel’ other Sanguire?”
“It has been known to happen. It’s not an easy task to undertake, and she would have to use her full concentration to keep you yoked.” He tilted his head. “It is not something that can be done lightly or for any length of time. This sort of ability is used primarily for immediate gratification rather than long-term situations.”
She sighed, eyes restlessly scanning the interior of the coffee shop, the cozy little place a trifle claustrophobic.
Dorst covered her hand with his, bringing her attention back to him. “Do not let it concern you so, sweet Whiskey. Your primary goal is to get through the Ñíri Kurám, nothing more. There will be plenty of time to plan for your future.”
His touch comforted her. Considering the strange turn her life had taken, she felt herself becoming more and more dependent on him. A part of her found such a situation perfectly acceptable; he would never lead her wrong. The street kid, however, the homeless wanderer whose desires to belong had disappointed her so many times in the past, knew better. This kindness was false, a prelude to an obligation she couldn’t even begin to perc
eive. Her obligation ran pretty deep with Fiona, what with the toys and money. This emotional connection with Dorst was worse.
She forced herself to pull her hand away from his.
Despite Whiskey’s original decision to hand the Ducati over to Dorst, he didn’t give her the opportunity. She left to utilize the bathroom, and returned to an empty table. The barristo, as mystified as she, insisted he hadn’t seen Dorst leave. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. How can he get away while looking and dressing the way he does?
Astraddle the motorcycle, she contemplated her options. She needed a safe place to conduct the next meditation. But where? Starting the bike, she pulled to the mouth of the alley, idling there as she watched traffic and pedestrians wander past. A bus blew by, the advertisement on the side panel suggesting she shop at MegaMart Grocery to save money. Her eyes latched onto the sign, following it intently until the bus turned the corner.
Gin’s street family had stayed at an abandoned building near that store. Gin had told her at Tallulah’s that they’d found another flop somewhere else, thereby vacating that one. She hadn’t said that the police raided the place.
A possible safety net realized, Whiskey drove the motorcycle into the street. If her luck held, the building remained empty. She could hole up in one of the smaller rooms upstairs once she finished the chant.
Chapter Seventeen
Whiskey wiped her palms on her pants, staring at the small Book in her lap. She sat in a wooded area of the university campus, darkness surrounding her, a refreshing breeze ruffling her hair, filled with the scents of earth and wood and greenery. Hidden beneath, subtler in texture, the smell of human habitation marred the illusion of privacy. The University Village Shopping Center stood just beyond the wall of trees.
The Book pulsed with hidden energy at her touch. Its warmth bled through the cloth of her pants, heating her thighs. She found it oddly intriguing that, although it beat in time with her heart, she detected no corresponding sound. Tentative, fingers shaking, she brushed the leather cover. A tingle greeted her, coursing up her arm, thrilling her heart. If she didn’t know better, blood pumped just beneath the soft leather surface. She swallowed, pulling away.
She hadn’t thought to ask Dorst if this was normal or not. What if it isn’t? What if I’m really not Sanguire, and that’s why this thing feels like this. Could something go wrong with the process? Daniel had said a Human couldn’t become Sanguire. Could he have been wrong? Can a Human go through the motions and be changed? And if she did, what would happen to her? There’s only one way to find out.
Whiskey sighed, forcing herself to relax. Using a lighter for illumination, she whispered the words twice more until it burned hot in her hand. Satisfied, she flicked the lighter closed, and gingerly dropped it beside her. She left the Book in her lap, wanting it ready in case she needed to refer to the words, and began the meditation.
As before, her first run-through awakened something within. This time, she kept her eyes open, curious to see if the words did indeed become as visible as they felt. They didn’t. Despite her disappointment, a rush of excitement gushed through her veins that didn’t correspond with the environment.
The second repetition triggered an ache in her belly, a combination of hunger and lust that left her dizzy. The little light available in the clearing coalesced about her, a bubble of heat that tightened with each passing second, surrounding her, filling her. Unable to keep her eyes open, she closed them, beginning her third round. With no visual distraction, she felt as before that the words tasted and smelled different. This time, they were spicy and wet like a woman in rut. Her body sang with answering desire as she started the fourth and final recitation. Again sparks of fire crossed her closed eyes, coalescing into shining images. Again she heard music, calling from a distance, urging her close. Again, she lost sense of time and place, tumbling into a vision.
Flash.
“Who is she?”
“One of the O’Toole clan.”
The music welled up around Whiskey as she watched a young version of the woman from her nightmare dance about a ballroom, emerald dress flowing gracefully behind her. She waltzed with a dapper young man who paid her very close attention as they whirled around. Others also watched them dance, mostly envious young men. Understandable since she was undoubtedly the most gorgeous woman in the room.
Scanning the crowd, Whiskey found herself inexplicably bored though she’d never attended a function such as this. She barely gave the odd clothing, all formal dress, a second glance. As the dancers moved closer to her position, she realized she sat on a stage of sorts, a long table stretching out to either side, detritus from a rich meal scattered on a plate in front of her. Before she could focus on her tablemates, the woman flowed past directly below.
“I want her.”
“Yes, my Ninsumgal,” a familiar yet strange voice said. “I’ll see to it.”
Flash.
Whiskey stood on a balcony, enjoying a cool spring evening. Peripherally she noted a city beyond the stone wall, her gaze remaining in the garden below. A handful of young women teased, and giggled among themselves as they played in a fountain. Their laughter rang off the walls, inviting her to smile in vicarious longing. She sensed that it had been some time since she’d felt as carefree as these women, despite the fact they were of an age with her. The women were either daughters of nobility or their handmaidens. At this point the determination of rank was impossible, as all manner of haughty decorum had been long abandoned in light of the water play.
Musicians played somewhere, their music less stuffy than in the previous vision. Torches flickered here and there, providing illumination as the sky turned gray and then a deep blue. Stars slowly spread across the darkening sky, jewels across the vast quilt of night. None of them sparkled as much as the jewel in the garden.
Whiskey remained in shadows, watching the intriguing woman from the dance floor as she stood dripping beside the fountain, her dark hair damp, wilted ringlets about her face, generous lips opened in laughter at the antics of someone else. Her dress, a simple affair of burgundy, hung tight against her body, showing off a delectable feminine form. Whiskey tested the air, searching, locating her scent, a spicy odor that promised fire and sweetness. As if aware of her audience, the woman paused in her play, looking up at the balcony. Several moments passed, Whiskey’s eyes meeting hers, knowing the woman detected her outline in the shadows.
The woman’s glance dropped away, decorous, a delicate blush coloring her skin. Another girl ran by, startling her and she automatically splashed her playmate, receiving a thorough drenching in response. When she looked up at the balcony again, she held an inviting shy smile.
Whiskey felt the full effect of arousal flood through her body.
“I want you,” she whispered.
Flash.
Whiskey sat at a small table in her room, fire blazing nearby, a light repast spread out before her. Across the table, brilliant green eyes regarded her in unskilled flirtation. Whiskey’s heart trilled as she remembered this scene; she’d seen this moment the night before when leaving the hotel.
The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she tasted something or other from the meal before them. “These are very good, Ninsumgal.” Her voice held a musical lilt, one Whiskey identified as Irish.
She didn’t answer, too intent on this vision licking her rich red lips, something she vowed to do herself before the morning dawned. She leaned back in her armchair, lazily swirling the contents of her glass as she watched with hooded eyes. Both of them knew it was a matter of time before Whiskey took her.
They had plenty of time.
Flash.
Those lips, swollen from many kisses, opened as the woman cried out. She leaned against the corner of a four-poster bed, one hand holding the carved wood, steadying herself. The other buried in Whiskey’s hair, the fingers digging into Whiskey’s scalp. The woman’s naked thighs spread wider, hips hitching as Whiskey expertly ton
gued her.
Whiskey breathed in the scent of spice, pleased at her catch. The woman writhed against her touch, the sight and sound setting Whiskey’s heart pounding uncontrollably. Unable to hold herself away, she dived back into the heady taste, slaking her thirst with the liquid fire of her lover’s arousal.
Flash.
Whiskey burst from the dream state, panting with uncontrollable lust. Her body on fire, she still tasted the woman on her lips, smelled her on her fingers. Gasping, she stumbled to her feet, the Book tumbling to the mulch below. She shook with the effort of calming herself, soothing the rampaging desire until she could think.
What the hell was that? Breathing deep, she banished more of the yearning, sinking weakly to the ground. Her traitorous body still cried out to be touched, and she forced her hands beneath her thighs, effectively pinning them. Catching her breath, she did her level best to not squirm.
It couldn’t have been a memory. Whiskey knew she’d never have forgotten bedding the woman, not with these emotions boiling so close to the surface. Another wave of need raced through her as she recalled those throaty cries. Growling, she closed her eyes and shook her head. The vision, the sounds, the smells would not be dispelled. Who the hell was that? Who are the O’Tooles?
She pushed her thoughts to the earlier part of her vision, the dinner and dancing. Now she recognized the clothing. She’d seen them in movies and television. The Middle Ages? Uncertain of the exact time period, she concentrated, remembering the tunics and trousers of the men, the gowns of the women.
The woman’s emerald gown flowing by the dinner table.
What had she said? ‘I want her.’ But who had answered? The man’s voice seemed familiar to her then, but not now. ‘I’ll see to it, my Ninsumgal.’
Scoffing, she released her hands from their prison, and crossed her arms. So now she was past life royalty? Who had she been, Henry the VIII or something? No, she felt as she did now, a woman. If it were a past life memory, would she have felt a difference being a man? Besides, her voice had been her own in the vision.
The Strange Path Page 11