The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “No, Elisibet. They instill fear, not common sense.” He pulled away from her, stepping back and out of reach. “You sicken me.”

  A wave of fury rolled over her, smothering her. She felt her teeth unsheathing in her mouth, heard his heart pumping in his chest. “Guards!” Six burly soldiers immediately stepped into the room. “You’d do well to look in a mirror, Sublugal Sañar Valmont. What sickens you is that you’re just like me.”

  “Never!”

  “Guards, see this man out before I lose my temper.”

  Flash.

  Searing pain along her thigh, the familiar taste of blood, sweaty, weak, stumbling as a sword blocked her attack, knocking her weapon away to clatter against the marble floor. Looking up, Whiskey saw Valmont stumbling toward her. Unable to move, she watched as he stood over her prone figure, a sword reversed in his hands as he prepared to skewer her.

  “Get away from her!”

  Valmont, distracted by the voice, turned and spoke. Not waiting to listen to his words, Whiskey grunted as she rolled over, attempting to crawl away. She heard a flurry of movement, a crash of bodies hitting the floor, the sound of Valmont’s sword skittering away. Swallowing against the nausea and pain, she felt her life’s blood seeping away as she concentrated on her escape.

  Familiar hands stopped her progress, gently turning her over. Above her, Margaurethe’s green eyes scanned her injuries, filling with tears. Valmont’s voice drifted over them.

  “What’s done is done.”

  Margaurethe hissed at him, protecting her. “Stay with me, ’m ’cara! We will get you to a healer and soon you will be fine.”

  Whiskey knew her lover lied. She’d always been able to tell when someone spoke dishonesty. She found herself chuckling at the irony of her death occurring in her lover’s arms. “Nay, Margaurethe. It’s beyond that, and we both know it.” The words were hard to speak, her breath coming in gasps as her body shut down. She coughed, gripping at the woman’s arm as she tried to hang on for just a little while longer.

  “No! You cannot die, Elisibet.”

  “Apparently so, minn ’ast. Will you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  Whiskey’s one regret was leaving Margaurethe. Nothing else mattered but this beautiful woman’s love. Odd she should come to the realization now when she’d lost everything. She shivered. “It’s cold, Margaurethe. Hold me.”

  The world went dark.

  Flash.

  Whiskey came to herself slowly. The darkness of an ancient death dissipated as sunlight from outside the window brightened. Her vision blurry, several minutes crawled past before she realized tears coursed down her cheeks. Her awareness of them spurred them on, and she held herself, rocking where she sat, salty drops hitting the cover of the leather Book in her lap. It hurts. God, it hurt though she knew it was just a dream, and nothing had really happened. It must have killed Margaurethe to hold her as she lay dying. How long did she suffer? Did she ever heal, or find another lover?

  As she gained control of the sadness, Whiskey’s anger began to burn. The more visions she had, the more real they became, as if she had experienced them herself. Whoever Elisibet had been, Whiskey felt closer to her now than ever before.

  And Elisibet yearned for Valmont’s blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hours later, Whiskey groaned and rolled over in the darkness. Similar to the first chant, she had become ill not long after the visions had ended. This time it wasn’t brought on by a result of incongruent sensory simulation, however. A fever rushed through her body. Her skin burned, and her head pounded. She’d long ago lost her impromptu lunch, barely having the strength to drag herself into the bathroom. Her stomach cramped in avid displeasure as it rumbled with deep hunger. Immense pain in her belly rolled over her, wave after wave crashing down, threatening her consciousness. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she took those few minutes between cramps to decide what to do. Call Reynhard. Her Baruñal would understand what was happening. Maybe he’d be able to stop the pain.

  Though comforted by the thought, Whiskey didn’t think Dorst had any control over the issue. She’d yet to go through the aftermath of a meditation without dealing with the physical repercussions; why would this time be any different? Dorst would come and collect her, and she’d suffer just as much in his apartment as she did here. At least here she had some sense of privacy and dignity. She already knew that the one thing that would stop the pain would be to go through the final chant. That wasn’t possible for at least another twenty-four hours. Whiskey gritted her teeth, feeling another swelling need to vomit wash over her.

  Her hearing had zeroed in on the heartbeats in neighboring rooms. Try as she might, she couldn’t stifle her awareness of them. Between bouts of cramps, she daydreamed of soft skin and pulsing blood. Her mouth watered. She remembered the taste of blood and sex from her abortive pick-up on Tuesday night, and her stomach rumbled dangerously, sending a wave of pain through her. Clutching at her belly, she folded over with a groan.

  Maybe food would help. Didn’t people eat crackers or something when they had the flu? This wasn’t the flu, but it might work. She looked at the only illumination in the room, the bright red numerals of the bedside clock making her squint. Nearly five in the morning. The sun would rise soon. With room service closed, perhaps she could do a little begging with the front desk.

  A half hour later, Whiskey nibbled crackers in bed. The night clerk was a lot nicer than the asshole who’d checked her in yesterday afternoon. He’d also brought up a bottle of soda and some Pepto-Bismol from the gift shop. Had she felt well enough she might have tipped him, but she couldn’t take her eyes from his throat, almost tasting the blood flowing beneath the skin. Her stomach had cramped hard, ending the whispered hallway conversation.

  The caffeine-free soda felt cool and pleasurable against her tongue, yet simultaneously unwelcome as it reached her throat. Her body craved something thick and warm. She nearly choked on the liquid, her stomach making an abortive attempt at rejection before accepting her offer. The next expected wave of cramps arrived. She fought the pain, pleased to note it had lightened in intensity. Maybe the carbonation was settling her stomach. Whiskey didn’t know if the aches lessened, or she had become inured to them. She sincerely hoped the former.

  As the pain subsided, she had an overwhelming urge to see Margaurethe O’Toole. The thought of her gentle touch and soothing voice made Whiskey feel better. That is so fucked up. She’d never even met the woman. Any feelings or history she thought she had were Elisibet’s. Quit thinking of her as your cut buddy. That reminded her of Gin, and the look of disgust she’d given Whiskey. Tears of frustration, fear and loneliness spilled over. She clutched a pillow over her face, allowing herself to mourn the deaths of Dominick, her innocence and her friendship.

  ***

  The sun had risen when Whiskey staggered to the bathroom. She’d dozed between stomach spasms, getting at least a little rest through the morning. The pain had tapered off. It stabbed at her when she focused on blood or hunger, so she kept her thoughts away from such things, enjoying what little peace and quiet she could get. The mirror showed her haggard visage, wild hair and deep shadows beneath her eyes. Red and green splashed across her light skin, her dragon the only bright thing in the reflection. Rubbing the tattoo, she realized it had healed twelve hours after completion. The initial line work had taken three days to mend. There were definite benefits to being Sanguire. But will they outweigh the crap you’ll have to deal with? She frowned at herself, wishing she had a picture of Elisibet Vasilla for comparison. Is plastic surgery an option? How fast will I heal when the Ñíri Kurám is finished?

  Another cramp assailed her, its intensity much more manageable. She leaned against the bathroom counter until it left her, forcing herself to think of something else.

  Valmont.

  Flash.

  She stood in what could only be termed a dungeon. Flickering torches illuminated
stone walls, and several ominous instruments on a wood table. Dirty straw littered the stone floor, soaking up body fluids. Chains hung from the ceilings and walls. A large brazier burned merrily in the center of the room, several blades and brands glowing cherry red in the coals. A naked Human hung before her, his golden skin slick with sweat and blood. She circled his dangling form, pleased to note he remained conscious as he panted from the exertion of his torture. His body showed signs of his interrogation, patches of missing flesh and hair, welts along his thighs and belly, her brand angrily blistering on his left buttock.

  “Again.”

  “As you wish, Elisibet.” A young Valmont stepped forward, grinning. In his hands he held a knife, liberally stained crimson. He used it to peel away a thin strip of skin from the prisoner’s back, dropping the flesh to a small pile nearby. The smell of fresh blood sharpened in the smoky room, and she licked her lips in anticipation, watching her quarry as he struggled to keep from screaming.

  Flash.

  Whiskey swallowed thickly, half-disgusted and half-swooning from the rich aroma of blood. She suffered another cramp before pushing away from the counter, and left the bathroom. At the very least, the soda and crackers had remained in her stomach. That gave her some sense of relief. Perhaps this would pass as quickly as the last time. If that were the case, she’d be clear of it by evening.

  Chapter Thirty

  Her stomach had stopped cramping. She didn’t know if it was because of the Pepto-Bismol and food, or the passage of time. It helped that she forcibly kept her mind on other things besides blood when awake. Every time she thought of blood it triggered another round of pain. She felt bruised and delicate around her abdomen, but none the worse for wear. She’d slept most the day before finally rousing enough for a shower. Clean, warm and feeling much better than earlier, she perused the room service menu for dinner. Despite the gastrointestinal upsets, she still felt normal hunger. Crackers just didn’t cut it anymore.

  Once she had eaten, she planned on calling Dorst. They could go over the next meditation after he picked her up here. She hated the thought of putting him out of his bed again. Maybe she could con him into springing for another hotel room.

  The sickly sweet essence of flowers washed over her.

  Whiskey slammed the guest directory closed. She swiftly turned off the lamp, and moved to the window. Peering outside, she saw a Lexus across the street, a familiar redhead leaning against its side, watching the hotel with flashing golden eyes.

  “Dammit!” She let the curtain fall back in place. Fiona had gotten her whereabouts from Cora or Daniel. Neither of them were strong enough to defy her on their own. Fiona merely needed to get one of them alone, and compel that person to give up Whiskey’s location.

  She looked wildly around. Her belongings were scattered about the room. No time to pack; she’d have to abandon everything she owned to get out of here. Fiona wouldn’t tip her hand unless there were others of her pack in place to grab Whiskey. She stopped, questing toward the door with her mind, finding the pungent essences of sulfur and pepper. Manuel, with Bronwyn not far behind. God knew where Alphonse or Zebediah were; she wouldn’t even know what their natures felt like, having never felt them before.

  Whiskey snatched the knife and cell phone from her pack, and went to the door. Cracking it, she peeked into an empty hallway. Wherever Manuel was, he wasn’t on this floor yet. She bet one came up the stairs, and the other on the elevator. Not wanting to get cornered so early in the chase, she took her chances on the stairs. The pepper taste on her tongue grew stronger, leaving her no doubt who thundered up the stairwell. She heard the thud of booted feet and, for a moment, wondered if Alphonse and Zebediah were behind Bronwyn. She hesitated, positive she couldn’t get through three Sanguire on her own. Reaching out with her mind, she found no others in the vicinity. Is it possible to hide your essence from another?

  Ding. The elevator doors opened. Whiskey barely noted shadowy movement down the hall. She rushed into the stairwell.

  Bronwyn rounded the corner at the next landing down. She grinned at Whiskey, pointed teeth sparkling in the fluorescent light, and dashed up the last steps.

  Whiskey dropped the cell phone, using that hand to stabilize herself on the steel banister. In sheer desperation, she launched herself, feet first, into Bronwyn. Her actions were inhumanly fast, and more controlled than she’d expected. Her opponent hadn’t anticipated the attack, either. Bronwyn took the brunt of Whiskey’s weight in the chest, and fell backward with a yelp.

  Stumbling to her feet, Whiskey hauled herself back to the main landing by one hand. She glanced down at Bronwyn, piled in a heap on the next landing, trying to stand. Before Whiskey could chance going upstairs, the door behind her flew open. Sulfur filled her nostrils, though she knew the smell wasn’t really there. Arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning hers to her side.

  “Gotcha!”

  The anger from her visions, that which she associated with Elisibet Vasilla, roared to the surface. “I don’t fucking think so, bitch.” She elbowed him hard in the ribs, and stomped on his instep, causing one side of his grip to weaken. Her free hand went to the knife sheath. She turned in his lightened grip, unsheathing the blade, and rammed the knife into his stomach. His essence immediately dissipated, and his hold on her disappeared. Now their hands interlocked about the hilt of the blade, he trying to pull it out, she forcing it in as deep as it could go.

  Whiskey twisted the knife, causing Manuel to grunt. Hot blood spilled over their joined hands. Whiskey inhaled deeply to catch the heavenly aroma. Her fury abruptly failed as a devastating cramp clenched her stomach. Rather than release the knife to Manuel’s tender mercies, she pulled it free. He let go, and fell backward to the floor, grunting.

  There came a wordless cry of anger behind her. Whiskey spun around. Bronwyn careened up the steps toward her. Whiskey sidestepped, and grabbed one outstretched arm. She tugged hard, her bloody grip slipping a little, pulling Bronwyn past her to crash into the wall beside the door. Bronwyn dropped to the floor beside her lover.

  Panting, Whiskey stood over them, bloody knife in one hand. Bronwyn’s eyes were glassy; she’d put a fairly decent dent in the wall with her head. Manuel kept his hands on his wound, holding it closed while it healed. Whiskey considered how fast her tattoo had healed. She didn’t think it’d be long before they’d be able to come after her again. By now security had been called by other guests. Their struggle hadn’t been a quiet one.

  Whiskey half ran, half stumbled down the stairs, leaving bloody prints on the banister and walls as she went. Four floors down, the steps ended. She looked left and right. Two doors led out of the stairwell. The one with a window in it showed the darkness of night. Bolted at eye level, a bright red sign stated an alarm would go off if opened. The other probably led into the lobby. She looked down at her bloodstained hands, the blade glistening with crimson wetness. Somehow, she’d lost the sheath. Running into a public place like this would do her less good than just blowing through the outer door, and setting off the alarms.

  She heard noises upstairs and looked up; footsteps, a door, unfamiliar voices, static from a radio. Security had found Bronwyn and Manuel. She saw a smear of blood she’d left on the wall at the next landing up, and cursed. Nothing like leaving a fucking trail. Cops will be here soon. She barged out the exterior door, a loud hooting alarm resounding in the concrete and metal stairwell behind her.

  The fire exit let out onto a side street. The front of the hotel and Fiona were to Whiskey’s left. She turned right, and ran across the street, hoping to lose herself in an alley or courtyard along the way. Her eyes scanned for Alphonse or Zebediah, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. She skirted a large sidewalk fountain, aiming for the shadows of a small parking lot. Using her mind, she sought any others of her kind, especially Bronwyn or Fiona. None were close.

  Whiskey almost made it to the darkness when a sense of being smothered swept over her. What the fuck? She stumbled,
tripping over the curb, and crashed to the ground. The knife skittered under one of the decorative bushes encircling the lot. It took her several moments to realize she breathed freely despite the sensation of a pillow over her face. She heard footsteps behind her, and groped for the lost weapon.

  Alphonse came to a stop before her, his blue mohawk stiffly upright. He held his hands out in a calming gesture. “We’re only here to take you back home. We’re not here to hurt you.”

  As Whiskey stood, she realized that what she felt was Alphonse’s Sanguire nature. She fought against it, pleased to see him wince. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Tell Fiona to back off.”

  Another set of footsteps neared, and she whirled to see Zebediah arrive. “Cops and paramedics are on their way. Fiona took the car for a spin until it clears up.” He nodded his head at Whiskey. “She really messed up Manuel.”

  Whiskey waved the knife. “Same’s going to happen to you if you don’t leave me alone.”

  “We can’t.” Alphonse took a step closer, prudently keeping out of reach. “Fiona wants you home, and that’s where we’re taking you. You can stab us if you want, but it’s not going to kill us. We’ll just keep coming for you.”

  “What? Are you fucking zombies?” The anger in her heart exploded, and she reached for Alphonse’s mind. “I know how to kill a Sanguire.” She forged a connection with him, overcoming the smothering sensation with little discomfort. It felt good to let the fury have its head, and she smiled as she watched him bend over with his head in his hands.

  Zebediah swore, and reached out with both his fists and his mind. Whiskey felt herself immersed in cool water, a questing liquid that searched for and linked with the smothering sensation. On automatic, she intercepted Zebediah’s physical attack, grabbing and twisting his forearm until she heard the snap of the bones. The water receded, but grew stronger as it joined forces with the suffocation.