The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  The easiest thing to do would be to get downtown to Malice. With any luck, the Ducati still sat in their lot. She could take off for Oregon or California, maybe go to the east coast, and start fresh. In reality, her chances of getting away clean weren’t good. Fiona would have to put out a stolen vehicle report on the motorcycle. If there are ruling councils for the European and the Indian Sanguire, won’t there be some sort of justice system in place, too? Running with the bike would get her out of immediate danger with Fiona, but what new can of whup ass would it open? Whiskey had some ability at avoiding Human legal authority; she’d be flying blind in Sanguire society.

  She needed answers.

  Sliding her back down the wall of the building, she dug out her cigarettes and lighter. She needed money to get out of town. Dorst was her Baruñal, supposedly there to protect her from others and herself while she went through the Ñíri Kurám. If she called anybody, it would be him. The padre had sworn on his God that he wouldn’t lie to her, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t turn her in to the proper authorities. She swore, angry again at his perfidy. It didn’t help that she didn’t know why she felt so negatively about the Agrun Nam.

  She needed answers.

  Why had she dreamed of Elisibet Vasilla, of dying as Elisibet for weeks? How had she died? Was it a cut to the artery of her thigh? Was Margaurethe really there? What did that have to do with the meditation visions? She’d had this discussion with Dorst already, getting nowhere. Maybe the visions a youngling had were confidential, unable to be revealed. That could be why Castillo wouldn’t give her examples, but asked for hers to compare.

  Answers.

  Whiskey dug the cell phone out of her pocket. She’d turned it off before leaving Fiona’s house the day before, not wanting to lose the charge. Now she switched it on, listening to the musical tones as it connected to the phone service. There were three voice mails and two text messages. She didn’t have the password for the voice mail, so she skipped past them. Both texts were from Cora. The first held a lewd suggestion of what she wanted to do to Whiskey, sent not long after Whiskey had left the house; the second expressed concern, asking about her health. Whiskey deleted them. Running through the electronic menu, she found the call list. There were multiple calls from Fiona, and one from Dorst.

  She took a final drag from her cigarette, tossing the burning embers to the curb. Bracing herself, she activated the phone, and called her Baruñal.

  “Dearest Whiskey.”

  She bit her lip against the shiver of relief his voice aroused in her. “Reynhard.”

  “I’d begun to despair hearing from you today. Are you well?”

  Whiskey almost laughed. She swallowed against the returning lump in her throat. “Physically, yes.”

  “Ah, but not mentally.” In the background, she heard street noises that abruptly muffled after the sound of a closing car door. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Castillo’s disgust with Dorst’s methods came to mind. “Why have you let me run around town? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping me safe and sound until I’m through this shit?”

  “For most, that is the process, yes.”

  “But not me?”

  “You have had a more strenuous childhood than most our children enjoy. I adopted a less...repressive method in your case.” He chuckled. “You don’t strike me as needing to be coddled. Was I wrong?”

  She smiled, and wiped her nose with her free hand. “No. You were right.”

  “Then I have not insulted your integrity and ability. That is good.” He paused. “You have more questions for me?”

  “I do.”

  “Must we do this via the impersonal contraptions of the modern world? Is meeting with you out of the question?”

  Whiskey sniffed, blinking back tears. “I’d like to see you.”

  “Would you deign to visit me in my abode? It’s a simple apartment near the University, corner of Northeast 41st and 12th Avenue.”

  She’d already slept in the devil’s den, and found a viper at the Youth Consortium. Why think Dorst was any more of a danger than Fiona or Castillo? She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Yeah, okay. That’s not far from me. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I look forward to seeing you again, sweet Whiskey.”

  Not knowing what to say in response, she cut the connection. Staring at the phone, she nearly dropped it when it buzzed in her hand. Another text message. She accessed it, seeing Cora’s name again.

  Where r u? R u ok? I miss u Ninsumgal. F is frantic. Call. Please.

  Whiskey’s heart trembled in her chest. She didn’t need Fiona in her face.

  Pocketing the phone, she stood and picked up her backpack. Moments later she crossed the street at the corner, heading for Dorst’s apartment.

  ***

  Whiskey easily located the apartment building. She paused at the security door, finger poised over the button next to Dorst’s name. The fresh tape indicated he hadn’t lived there long. A college student shoved past her, arms full of books, and used his key to enter the door. She caught it before it closed. After a quick glance at the street, she followed him inside.

  She felt him as soon as she stepped off the old elevator onto the fourth floor. She even smelled him thick in the hall toward her right. His essence held the richness of amber cut with fine steel, a dichotomy of hot and cold, mellow and sharp. It seemed familiar in a way that Castillo’s hadn’t been. She felt Dorst’s attention focus on her, wondering what she felt like to him.

  When she arrived at his door, it opened. “Welcome to my humble abode, dear Whiskey.” Dorst stepped back with a deep bow, waving her inside.

  Unsettled, she skirted around him, and entered a small kitchenette. Beyond it, she looked into a studio apartment. The furniture consisted of a neatly made bed, mismatched nightstands and dresser, two empty bookshelves and a small table with chairs. Hearing the door close behind her, she turned. “Nice place. Comes furnished?”

  “Yes. Being so near the college, the tenants are rather transient in nature. It suits my purpose.”

  He looked different. A coatrack near the door held his leather trench. She’d never seen him without his accessories. Now he stood before her without the trench, spiked knee guards, or the training harness he usually wore. It surprised her to see well-defined muscles in his arms and chest beneath the T-shirt. For some reason she’d thought he was as emaciated beneath the garb as his facial structure indicated.

  “Please.” He gestured for her to enter the main room. “Set down your things, sit. Would you like some tea or hot chocolate?”

  Moving further into the room, she shucked off her backpack. “Hot chocolate would be good.” She moved across the room to the single window, setting the pack against the wall beside the table.

  While he bustled around his kitchen, she circled the room. The missing knee guards were on the dresser, along with a brush, a wad of money and two sheathed knives. One sheath appeared plain and functional. The other held a silver crest and several red gems. Whiskey frowned and looked closely at the more drab of the two blades. She’d seen it before.

  “You like weapons?”

  Whiskey started, pulling her fingers back from the aged hilt. “Kind of. It’s always good to have something on hand to defend yourself.”

  Dorst set two cups on the table. “Very true. You have a knife?”

  She shrugged, and stuck her hands in her pockets. This talk of weapons made her wary. She could almost feel the burn of a blade opening her thigh. “Not often. Fiona gave me one.”

  “That was sweet of her.”

  Whiskey couldn’t imagine a time or place where Fiona could be considered sweet. “Um, yeah.”

  Dorst gestured to a chair. “The chocolate’s ready.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Whiskey sat down with Dorst across from her.

  “Please pardon the presentation.” He waved a slender hand at the steaming mug. “I had no real time to prepare for your visit.”
r />   “No! It’s fine, thanks.” She sipped obediently at the chocolate. “It’s great.”

  His smile sarcastic, he bowed his head in acceptance of her words. “How have you fared since we last spoke? You seemed a bit...uncertain on the phone.”

  Whiskey stared into her chocolate, reviewing the last twenty-four hours. “It’s been— It hasn’t been easy.” She peered at him.

  “No?” He gave her his undivided attention. The concern radiating in his dark eyes offset the sardonic grin on his lips.

  “No.” Her gaze slid to the window, and she watched traffic go by on the street. “The visions are really tripping me out. I didn’t go sleep it off afterward, either.”

  “Really? Wherever did you go?”

  She bit her lip. “I went dancing at Malice.” Her words were met with silence, and she glanced quickly at him.

  His expression remained one of amused interest. No hint of disappointment marred his face. “And?”

  “You’re not mad?”

  Dorst’s smile widened. “No, Whiskey. You’re perfectly capable of making your own decisions in life; you’ve been doing so for years. If you follow my instructions, the transition will go easier on you, but you’re responsible enough to deal with the repercussions of your choices.”

  She felt a little light-headed, surprised at how much she’d been worried over his reaction. “Oh.”

  “So.Dancing at Malice. What next?”

  Whiskey braced herself, and told him of her encounter with the woman who’d picked her up. “I— I bit her! Is that normal?”

  “Perfectly. Your body is making essential changes, and its instincts are for the nourishment Human blood can give you. It is rather unfortunate that it happened in the heat of the moment, as it were, but rest assured your control will improve.”

  “That’s good to know.” She blushed at his chuckle, a simmering irritation bubbling in her abdomen.

  Dorst waved at her, still amused. “My apologies, Gasan. I mean no disrespect.”

  She conceded the point, taking a longer drink of chocolate to mask her annoyance.

  “I assume you were able to locate a haven to sleep off the effects of the meditation?”

  “Yeah, about a mile from here.” She stared out the window, wondering how to steer the conversation to what she wanted to know.

  “You said on the phone you have questions?”

  Leave it to Reynhard to cut right to the heart of the matter. “Yeah, I do. I met someone who’s not too impressed with your technique as Baruñal.”

  The amused atmosphere evaporated in an instant. Dorst’s essence expanded to fill the room and, Whiskey suspected, the building. Her mouth dropped open, and she sat back, seeing the dangerous Sanguire man hidden beneath the foppish behavior he affected.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  Whiskey swallowed. “The padre at the Youth Consortium.” After the automatic response left her mouth, she regretted speaking. What’s going on here? Is this because of Elisibet?

  “The padre.” He stared out the window. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him. Dark hair, beard, wears a cassock. What’s his name? You say he works at the Youth Consortium? How long have you known him?”

  “His name’s Castillo.” She leaned her elbows on the table, and studied him. “He’s been my social worker for three or four months. Why?”

  “Three or four months. That makes sense.” Dorst deflated, his essence fading to a more manageable level.

  “What makes sense? Tell me what’s going on.”

  “What did you tell him, Whiskey? It’s very important.”

  She scowled at him, not falling sway to his perilous demeanor. “He wanted to know who gave me that Book, but I didn’t say.”

  “Then there may still be time.” Dorst stood and went to the dresser, collecting his things. “Where is he now? Do you know?” He picked up the decorative blade, pulling it out to check the edge against his thumb.

  Heart in her throat, Whiskey leaped to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Your friend is not your friend, Gasan. Now that he knows you’re on the Strange Path, he must be stopped before he can spread the news.” He resheathed, and pocketed the knife.

  “To who?The Agrun Nam? He’s promised he won’t inform them, and I know he’ll keep his word.”

  Dorst froze in the act of walking away from her, turning to stare. “You know of the Agrun Nam?”

  Adrenaline still rushed through her body, and she swallowed. “I know they’re dangerous and not to be trusted.”

  “Yet, you trust this priest who told them of your existence?”

  She blinked. “How do you know he did that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Whiskey narrowed her eyes. The feelings of betrayal and anger she’d experienced with Castillo were fresh, easily resurrected for this new indication of treachery. She swelled with fury, watching Dorst pull back from her. “Have you been in contact with the Agrun Nam?”

  He studied her a moment, not acting intimidated, though she distinctly felt it from him. “That would depend on your definition of ‘contact,’ my Gasan.”

  She ground her teeth. “What’s yours?”

  A small smile graced his lips. “If you mean direct face-to-face meetings with the members of the Agrun Nam, telephone conversations to them or any of their multitude of aides and assistants, or written missives discussing the current political state of affairs among the European Sanguire…” He drifted off, pausing for dramatic effect. “Then, no. I have not. At least not in the last four hundred years. A full half of them have been replaced since the time I was a regular visitor in their halls.”

  Whiskey breathed a little easier, the anger fading once more to mere irritation. He’s always been a drama queen. How she knew this briefly crossed her mind, a question she quashed. “Then how do you know the padre told them about me?”

  “As I said, I have my sources.”

  She considered this new information from all sides while he stood before her, not moving. Castillo had claimed to be under four hundred years of age, and Dorst hadn’t officially been to the Agrun Nam “halls” for over that amount of time. Dorst spoke with smooth familiarity of them, and had a capability to disappear at will from both Humans and Sanguire. She recalled Cora calling him by his title, Sañur Gasum, and the words suddenly made sense to her.

  The second she understood their meaning, she saw a memory of the long-haired Dorst, bowing as he backed away from her. She recognized the same room as her dream, the room where Elisibet died. He wore tunic and trousers in black and burgundy. “You’re an assassin,” she whispered. “A spy. I remember.”

  The world went dark.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sharp pain in her thigh woke her.

  Whiskey sat bolt upright with a hiss, grabbing her leg. Immediately, the pain receded. “Damn it!” She saw she’d been laid on Dorst’s bed. He sat alert on a chair beside it, watching her. “How long have I been out?”

  “Not long, Gasan. No more than twenty minutes.”

  She rubbed her face, and scooted to the edge to swing her feet over. “I’m surprised you didn’t leave me here to find the padre.”

  “Your last words before losing consciousness were somewhat enigmatic. I decided to remain here for clarification. Have you been learning our language from Fiona or Cora?”

  Brow furrowed, she tried to remember what she’d said before passing out. “No.”

  “You spoke Sanguire in your sleep.”

  She gaped at him. “Was I repeating a chant?” What kind of damage would it do if she repeated a meditation? Had anyone ever done it before? The thought both intrigued and terrified her.

  Dorst slowly shook his head. “No. You were carrying on a conversation with someone.” He leaned on his elbows, coming within inches of her. “Who was it?”

  Whiskey debated with herself. What if he was the one who had killed Elisibet in the first place? She s
hivered. Again she heard the voice in her dream, the man saying, “What is done is done.” That wasn’t Reynhard’s voice. Why would he be her Baruñal if he meant her harm? Why would she instinctively trust him without knowing him if he’d been responsible for her past death? Her mind reeled from that. When the hell did I accept what I’ve been dreaming is real?

  “Whiskey, you are safe with me. I will not betray you.”

  She examined him, letting his image blur slightly in her vision. He told the truth. “It’s a nightmare I’ve been having for months. I’m in a study of some sort, and I’ve been wounded. I hear a man’s voice, then a woman leans over me, crying. We talk to one another, and I get really cold. Then I wake up.”

  “Where is the wound?”

  “My right thigh.” She ran her hand along her uninjured leg. “I think the artery is nicked. There’s lots of blood, but I don’t die quickly.”

  “You’ve been having this dream for months you say?”

  Whiskey nodded.

  “And they speak Sanguire?”

  “I guess so.” She shrugged. “I didn’t understand a word of it until last night. That was the first time I heard it in English.”

  He raised a hairless eyebrow. “I don’t believe you heard it in English, Gasan. While you were unconscious, you spoke our words fluently. Somehow, you’ve subconsciously picked up the language. I’m uncertain how that could happen.”

  She nibbled at her lip. “There’s more.”

  Dorst leaned back in his chair, a slightly amused air about him as he regained his equilibrium. “Do tell.”

  “This is going to sound stupid.”

  “Considering the revelations I’ve received from you over the past few minutes, I highly doubt that. Please continue.”

  “I have visions during the meditations. My first one was from my childhood. I saw my parents.” Gareth and Nahimana Davis. Glancing at Dorst, she saw his attention appeared politely interested. His eyes intent on hers, however, revealed the lie of his demeanor. She sensed his fascination. His interest bolstered her flagging confidence, and she continued. “The second one—I saw…” She trailed off with a groan. Thinking she’d had visions from a past life was crazy enough. Announcing them aloud sounded even more insane. He’s going to lock you up in a Sanguire nuthouse.