Whiskey stood a moment, at a loss. Dorst said she could use his apartment for the meditation, but she didn’t want any of Fiona’s people knowing where it was. She doubted she’d be able to get rid of Daniel so easily if she asked him to drop her in a public place. “Can you get me a hotel room somewhere? Maybe in Queen Anne?”
“Of course.” He bowed, and gestured to the car.
Soon they were on their way. Whiskey stared out the passenger window, ignoring Cora who cuddled against her side. They pulled to a stoplight, and her gaze wandered over the pedestrians moving through the crosswalk.
Something tickled her senses. She focused on a man standing on the opposite corner. Dusty brown from head to toe, his clothes and boots and trench coat matched various hues of the color. Dreadlocked hair fell to his shoulders, ragged and wild, and black sunglasses perched on his nose. Without seeing his eyes, she knew they held an aura of devil-may-care. He stood there, statue-still, a vague grin on his face as he stared at her.
Whiskey had the oddest sensation that she knew him.
Fear and distaste fluttered in her belly. She knew him to be dangerous, but couldn’t place him. She watched him warily as the stoplight changed color.
As soon as the car pulled beside him he moved, a startling blur of motion. She gasped at the speed, grasping at the armrest of the door. One moment he stood, arms loosely at his side, grinning. The next he had turned toward her, one hand at his sunglasses, holding them down as he peered at her over the rims, his amusement still evident. At this distance, she saw his eyes were hazel, as dusty brown as everything else about him. They were full of sardonic humor, grim sadness and something else.
Betrayal.
An answer echoed in Whiskey’s heart. She felt a combination of pleasure and rage fill her, the anger by far the stronger of the two. She opened her mouth, and hissed at him through the glass.
“Whiskey?” Cora tugged on her arm, peering out the window. “What is it?”
They were already past. There was nothing for Cora to see. Whiskey, blood pumping, looked out the back window. The man stood in the same spot, now facing the back of the moving car. His glasses returned to cover his eyes, a lone sentinel among a mass of humanity shuffling past him.
“Whiskey?”
“Ninsumgal? Shall I turn around?” Daniel asked.
She watched until the man vanished. “No.” Adrenaline made her shaky as she settled back into her seat. “No. Keep going. Let’s get to that hotel.”
“Yes, my Gasan.”
Did Elisibet know him? If so, then her “coming out” party among the Sanguire approached too quickly. Whiskey blew out a breath. This day’s just getting better and better.
There were no further complications on their trip to a hotel. Cora was the more presentable of the two Sanguire adults, having the benefit of at least being fully dressed. She escorted Whiskey inside to pay for the room while Daniel remained in the car. Once the transaction was complete, Cora handed over the key, and took Whiskey back outside.
While Daniel retrieved Whiskey’s pack, Cora wrapped her arms about Whiskey’s waist. “Are you sure I can’t entice you, aga ninna?”
Whiskey’s desires were split between wanting to lose herself in the soft curves of the agile woman, and running to the hills to become a hermit. “I’m sure, lúkal.” She wasn’t sure where the Sanguire endearment came from, but Cora’s amorous intentions were bypassed as she blushed at the word. “I have to get through this alone.”
Cora gave her a squeeze. “I know. We all do.”
“Do you wish us to remain nearby?” Daniel set her backpack beside her feet.
Whiskey shook her head. “No. You’ve done way too much already. Fiona’s going to skin you alive when you get back.”
“She can try.” Daniel studied the hotel. “You should be safe here. That’s paramount when conducting a Ñíri Kurám meditation. You have my phone number in your list of contacts.” He turned to Whiskey, an earnest expression on his normally stoic face. “Call me if there are any problems. I swear to you that I will not willingly give Fiona your location.”
Whiskey wondered about his motivations. “I will.”
Satisfied, Daniel bowed, and returned to the car.
Cora gave her another hug. “Don’t forget me.”
Whiskey saw Cora hand her a knife in a dark alley, heard her sweet laughter at a vicious punch, and her voice urging her to stab a boy. She barely controlled the urge to shiver as her empty stomach flip-flopped. “I could never forget you, Cora.” She received a pleased embrace.
Eventually, she extricated herself from Cora’s hold, and got her into the car. She gathered her belongings, and headed for the main door of the hotel, waving at them as she entered. Remaining several feet back from the glass, she waited and watched.
As the Lexus pulled out of the lot and into traffic, Whiskey felt an overwhelming urge to leave. If she weren’t in a world of shit after last night’s— She trembled, a wave of revulsion forcing her to swallow against the bile in her throat. It didn’t matter that two of Fiona’s pack mates knew where she was. She had nowhere else to go, no flop house would be safe with Ghost’s family searching for her. By now, the word would have been broadcast on the streets. Any other street families out there with political ties to Ghost’s would be looking for her, too.
Whiskey marched to the elevator, ignoring the expression of distaste from the front desk clerk.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Whiskey finished her meal, a ham sandwich and french fries from room service. Wadding up her napkin, she tossed it onto the plate. She washed down her last swallow with a swig of bottled water. Her stomach felt better with something in it. As long as she didn’t think about last night, it remained settled. Rising from the desk, she went to the armchair in the corner and sat down. Late afternoon sunlight trickled through the window. Despite being a few blocks from the major thoroughfares, she heard a steady stream of traffic from rush hour.
Unable to put off any longer what she needed to do, Whiskey picked up the Book sitting on the end table. An electrical surge from the leather surface jolted her fingers. If she were one to personify inanimate objects, she’d have to say that it was enthusiastic. That’s ridiculous. Pushing the thought away, she opened it at Dorst’s bookmark, flipping the black ribbon aside to look at the next chant.
Curious at what she’d soon see, and intrigued with how she might change, she felt a combination of eagerness and trepidation. The last two meditations had been done with little thought, little focus. Tonight she planned on concentrating on a single person while she chanted—the brown man on the street. She needed to know if he had some connection to Elisibet, if that explained why she felt she knew him. She didn’t know if it would work; nothing Castillo or Dorst had said gave her the impression she controlled the visions she experienced. They’d never suggested she’d be picking up past life memories, either. She had a fifty-fifty shot at this experiment working.
After going over the words for the meditation, Whiskey breathed deeply a number of times in an attempt to relax. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. Licking her lips, she closed her eyes, and spoke the words aloud.
Before the second word left her mouth, the well-known sensations rushed through her, a wave of intensity accompanying them that she both desired and loathed. Her mouth dry, she nearly faltered at the onslaught, barely keeping up with the chant until she gained some equilibrium. As with her previous experiences, she became lost in the words, a hallucinogenic fog covering her, pulling her, leading her somewhere else in time.
Flash.
She looked away from Margaurethe seated beside her, heart full of indulgent pride for her young lover as she returned her attention to the two men on the floor beneath her throne. Both knelt in her presence, one far older than herself, and the other a mere stripling. The younger man’s skin reflected dusty brown, as did his hair and clothing.
“Ninsumgal, I’d like to present to you Valmont, my protég�
�,” the older man said.
“So, this is the youngling you’ve had sequestered away, Nahib.” Her voice sounded both familiar and not. A distant part of her recognized and hated the indulgent tone she’d heard Fiona use much of the time. “I’ve wondered whether you’d present him at court, or keep him locked away in your library until he died of old age.” Others laughed politely at her jibe though she knew it wasn’t humorous. She felt annoyance at their artificiality, and satisfaction that her people wished to keep her appeased.
Nahib, however, did not respond as the others. Whiskey cocked her head at him, wondering whether she should take offense at his refusal, or respect his level of integrity. Deciding on the latter, she listened to his response.
“Nay, my Gasan. Valmont is of a mind to serve his Ninsumgal to the best of his ability.”
“And you, Valmont. What abilities do you have?”
Again a round of decadent chuckles from her court, all assuming she made a vulgar jest. She felt Margaurethe’s hand on her arm, and relaxed. Let them chatter and gossip as they would. It meant nothing to her.
Valmont raised golden cinnamon eyes to look at his liege. “I have a strong sword, Ninsumgal, and a willingness to follow you to the ends of this earth and beyond.”
Whiskey raised an eyebrow at his sincerity, flicking a glance at Nahib who smiled in return. Around them, the courtesans laughed over his words, expecting their ruler to make lewd jest of his “strong sword.” Eyes narrowing, she glanced about the room. “Be silent!”
In the abrupt hush, she returned her gaze on this youngling kneeling before her. “Beyond the ends of this earth?” she asked. “That would be a long way indeed, would it not?”
“Perhaps so, my Gasan. But it would be a trip well worth taking.”
He spoke true; her senses picked up no ulterior motives, no falsehood, no deceptions. She found this young Sanguire rather refreshing in the scheme of things, still unsullied by the intrigues of her court. “Rise and be welcome, Valmont. Tonight you shall dine with myself and Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe.”
Valmont flushed, and bowed his head. “Thank you, Ninsumgal Elisibet! I am most honored.”
“As am I, Valmont. As am I.”
Flash.
A clatter of metal on metal where there should be none drew Whiskey around the corner. The three guards with her had their weapons drawn. She waved them to remain behind her.
Valmont traded blows with another dark-skinned man in the wide corridor leading to her private quarters. His skill was evident though his opponent couldn’t claim the same. Bleeding from many injuries, the man he fought had slowed, weakening. Whiskey wondered if he’d ever been on the attack, or could only defend himself from Valmont’s dancing sword.
“Hold!”
Her young friend stepped backward, but did not let down his guard. “My Gasan.”
The other swordsman’s eyes widened at her voice. He panted heavily as he put his back to the wall, holding his blade out to dissuade an attack from any of them.
“Valmont, perhaps you can explain why you’re playing with one of my people?” Whiskey said, idly stepping forward.
“Is he one of yours?” Valmont asked, pointing the tip of his weapon at the man. At her faint grin, he bowed low. “My apologies, Ninsumgal. From the words pouring out of his mouth, I thought he was a lying sack of shite rather than Sanguire.”
“Really?” Her gaze pinned the other fighter. “Ghedi, isn’t it?”
The other man barely nodded, swallowing hard as he kept his sword before him.
“Ghedi, why would Valmont accuse you of such a thing? I, for one, have never heard you speak a word of dishonesty. What did you say?” The man remained silent, and Whiskey looked at Valmont. “It seems Ghedi doesn’t wish to defile my ears with any lies. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to repeat his words?”
“I’d be most happy to, Ninsumgal.” Valmont grinned. “He said—”
Ghedi, dripping with both sweat and blood, yelled and attacked Whiskey. His movements fast, he could not hope to match her. Far older than he, she had many decades of experience upon which to draw. Compelling him would be too easy, making the task droll and unpleasant. Instead, she slipped sideways, grabbing at his arm as he passed. He screamed as his forearm broke with a loud snap before he stumbled against the far wall. Physical confrontations were always so much more satisfying.
Again Whiskey waved the guards back. She dusted her hands. “I can assume by Ghedi’s response that it was less than flattering, these words he’s reputed to have said?”
“He is of the opinion that you are an evil blight upon the Sanguire, Ninsumgal. When he refused to recant his statement, I offered to remove his tongue for him.” Valmont smiled ferally. “As a gift for you, of course.”
Whiskey could feel her teeth elongate as she regarded the wounded man cradling his arm. Her voice low and dangerous, she growled, “Then by all means continue, Valmont. Far be it for me to interfere in the offering of gifts to your liege.”
Her young friend eagerly stepped forward, hefting his sword.
Flash.
Whiskey watched her best friend and her lover chase each other across the garden. She sat beneath a towering oak on a marble bench, laughing as Margaurethe drew Valmont along. The game ended when her lover came too close, and Whiskey reached out to grab her, pulling her into her lap.
Valmont dropped to the ground at their feet, panting and happy. “Let that be a lesson to you, Ki’an Gasan.” He waggled a finger at Margaurethe.
Giggling, she stuck her tongue out. “There’s been no lesson, sir. You’ve yet to catch me.”
“Ah, but I’ve caught you.” Whiskey tickled the woman in her arms until she begged for mercy.
The laughter soon died, and they sat in contented silence. Overhead, the full moon well illuminated the garden, causing white lilies to glow.
Whiskey basked in the simple contentment surrounding her, an alien but intoxicating sensation. This was as it should be—trusted friends, loved ones, and peace among her people. That the peace came from her iron grip mattered not at all. Some things had to be sacrificed to keep her people safe.
“Valmont, what are your plans for the day after tomorrow?”
He looked up from the twig he shredded, a grin on his handsome face. “That’s the night of Ostara, yes? I’ll be at the ball, dancing with many eligible and not-so-eligible women.”
Margaurethe snickered. “It’s the not-so-eligible you should be worried about, Valmont. Soon or late, someone’s husband will get the upper hand with your philandering ways.”
“Ah, they’ll have to catch me first,” Valmont said, grinning. “And then they’ll catch my blade.”
Whiskey smiled. “I’ll send my tailors on the morrow. I want you to wear the finest of outfits.”
“Thank you, Elisibet. But why? I’ve clothes enough, and if I had my druthers, I’ll be out of them and in some vixen’s bed while the night is young.”
“Because I plan on elevating you, Valmont. How does Sublugal Sañar sound? I’ve an eye on some land that will be bestowed upon you as well as the title.” Whiskey paused, feigning deep thought as she tapped her chin. “Defender of the Crown.”
“I like that.” Margaurethe hugged her. “It’s quite fitting.”
“What say you, Valmont?” She forced herself not to laugh aloud at the expression on his face as he tried to find his tongue.
Sputtering, Valmont finally said, “I’d be honored, my Ninsumgal.”
“Good. Consider it done.”
Flash.
“Oh, come now, Valmont! The man spoke out against me. I had no choice but to silence him.” A combination of confusion, and regret washed through Whiskey as she tried to fathom the nature of the problem.
He fumed as he stood before her, eyes cold. Valmont appeared older now by a few years, past the blush of youth, and into early manhood. “He was your Nam Lugal, and my friend.” His voice shook with emotion.
Whiskey rolled her
eyes at him. “His position as senior on the Agrun Nam was the primary reason for his public execution. Certainly you must know that.” She turned her back to him, wondering if he’d control his anger, or attempt an attack. Pouring a goblet of wine, she continued. “If Nahib hadn’t been fool enough to flap his gums, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Fool enough...?” Valmont took a step forward. “He only spoke sense, Elisibet! You no longer care for your people. Your only desire is blood and chaos.”
Whirling around, Whiskey pointed at him. “Watch yourself, Valmont. You may be a friend this moment, but I’ll not listen to rabble rousing from you, the Agrun Nam, or anyone else.” She drank half her wine in one swallow, and thumped the goblet onto a table. “Don’t think our friendship will save you any more than Nahib’s position saved him.”
“He was a good man. He did nothing to deserve the gory end you sentenced him to.”
Whiskey’s eyes narrowed at his hypocrisy. “Really?” she asked, her voice sweet with anger. “I seem to recall many gory ends to which you’ve sentenced people. Remember just a month or so ago? That beautiful young man in the dungeons? We had an enjoyable time with him, didn’t we? And he said much the same things as Nahib, if I recall. Do you remember what you did to him?” She circled Valmont, appreciating the tense shoulders, the smell of his fury. “I believe Nahib got off rather lucky in comparison.”
“It’s not the same—”
“Why?” Whiskey asked sharply, coming back around to face him. “Because he led the Agrun Nam? Or because he was your mentor?”
Valmont snarled, face red. “Yes!”
“No one is allowed to speak against the Crown,” she said. “You helped me enact that particular law decades ago. And in case you’ve forgotten, that means all Sanguire, to include you.”
He lowered his chin, refusing to concede as he glared at her. “You threaten me? Your Defender?”
Whiskey sighed, and relaxed her aggressive stance. Her hand went to his upper arm, grasping the trembling muscle firmly. “You’re my best friend and greatest ally, Valmont. I do not wish to lose you over something so inane. We make laws to perpetuate peace among our people. Some are sacrificed because of these laws, but overall they work to instill common sense.”
The Strange Path Page 19