The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  For a moment, it seemed the two would overcome her with their abilities. Whiskey felt her consciousness fading, and had a fuzzy vision of crashing to her knees. A frenzied rage washed over her. “Fuck this!” Working on instinct, she fought her way through their combined attack, piercing through the cloud around her mind. Using the breach as her focal point, she shoved with all her might, exhilarated as the pinprick hole ripped and expanded. The men dropped to their knees. Whiskey might have released them to escape, but euphoria took over her common sense. She continued to work on them, gathering every little bit of the fugue she came in contact with into a little ball. Once she had it all, she squeezed with her mind.

  Her heart soared with joy at their screams of agony. She could listen to this music forever. To prove it, she jabbed again at the remaining wad of their natures, laughing as they voiced their pain. She wanted to do it again, but something stopped her, an emotion she wasn’t used to feeling in circumstances like this. Pausing in her mental torture, she cocked her head, trying to chase it down. There it is. What is that? She focused on the feeling, finding it both alien and familiar.

  Compassion.

  Whiskey staggered, the storm of madness disappearing. Repulsed, she released her victims, taking a step back. Alphonse and Zebediah collapsed to the sidewalk, panting and moaning. One of them had vomited during the attack, and they both writhed slowly as they lay there.

  She stood frozen in place, staring at the result of her handiwork. She didn’t know what to do, who to call for help. Digging in her pocket, she couldn’t find her cell phone, belatedly remembering that she’d dropped it on the stairs when Bronwyn came at her. Besides, if I call emergency services, can they do anything for Sanguire? Can Reynhard? A car drove slowly past. She glanced at the driver, nervous. The vehicle wasn’t one she knew, but the wide-eyed driver suddenly hit the accelerator. The police would be here soon regardless of her indecision.

  Zebediah pushed to his hand and knees with a groan. Whiskey went on the defensive, holding the knife in front of her. He cradled his broken arm, and looked up at her. “Damn.”

  “I am so fucking sorry,” Whiskey babbled. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.” Alphonse showed some measure of returning consciousness, and she stepped out of his reach, as well.

  Gingerly holding his arm, Zebediah rolled his head on his neck. “How old are you?”

  Whiskey felt a giggle rise in her throat at the inane conversation. “I just turned eighteen a couple of weeks ago.”

  Alphonse grunted and rolled over, swearing under his breath.

  Zebediah glanced at his companion, then peered at her. “How far have you gotten on the Strange Path?”

  She debated telling him, knowing he could use the information against her. “Third chant.”

  He blinked. “You’re fucking with me.”

  “No. I did it yesterday afternoon after Daniel and Cora left me here.”

  “Jesus.” Alphonse groaned, reaching up to rub his head. “No wonder it hurt so much. Never did that before?”

  Whiskey swallowed. This is stupid! You’re letting them get their shit together so they can go at you again. “No.”

  “We need to get out of here.” Zebediah staggered to his feet, raising his uninjured hand to show surrender to Whiskey. “I think I heard a car go past—?”

  “Yeah, a couple of minutes ago.”

  Zebediah helped Alphonse stand up. “You okay?”

  The blue mohawk dipped once. “I will be.” Alphonse looked over his friend’s broken arm. “You?”

  “It’ll heal.”

  Whiskey backed away, gathering the energy to defend herself once more, disgusted with the eagerness swelling in her chest. She now knew why Elisibet Vasilla had been so violent; it had been invigorating to toy with their minds. They both turned their attention to her, and she braced herself for round two.

  “We brought our bikes. They’re parked about three blocks from here. Where do you want to go?”

  She blinked at them. “What?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  Whiskey felt her jaw drop open. She’d just kicked these guys’ collective ass, her one to their two, and they acted as if it happened every day. She heard a siren in the distance, and realized there wasn’t much time to make a decision. “I want you two to go away, and leave me the hell alone.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  Alphonse nodded. “It’s not safe for you.”

  “Story of my life.”

  Zebediah chuckled. “Maybe so, but it’s twice as bad now. If any of our people find you, you’ll be mincemeat.”

  Whiskey scowled. “Why now, and not before?”

  “Because you hadn’t started the Ñíri Kurám. No one knew for sure you were Sanguire.” Alphonse shrugged, then twisted his head with his hands until his spine crackled. “Now they’ll know.”

  She couldn’t argue with their logic. Still, if they wouldn’t let her leave alone, she couldn’t go to Dorst’s apartment. With a lot of mileage between here and the U District, she could try to lose them. Where can I be safe with a street hit out on me, a future murder rap in the works, and Sanguire hunting me? After Fiona, her next immediate threat was Ghost. There was one part of town close enough that she could hide for the night from street kid vigilantes. That’d give her time to think of a way to ditch these two without compromising Dorst’s location.

  “No bikes. We’re going on foot.”

  Neither of them disagreed with her order. Zebediah carefully twisted his arm until the bones grated back into place. “Where to?”

  “Downtown.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Whiskey sat on the sidewalk, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. She leaned against a brick wall, watching people pass. Her foot rocked in restless agitation. At one o’clock in the morning, the cool breeze felt wonderful against her still overheated skin. Foot traffic had faded to a trickle. There might be another rush of pedestrians when the bars closed, but by then the city transit would be stopped. A bus stop to her left saw people arriving and departing regularly, more going than coming at this hour. The transit area held a handful of Humans waiting for their next transport.

  Beside her were the empty wrappings of her most recent meal—a microwaveable container of chicken and noodles, a plastic spoon and a half finished box of crackers. Not quite what her stomach ordered, but it would have to do. At least the food had remained in her stomach to strengthen her. She could almost pretend everything was normal, that she just had a touch of the flu.

  Except for the company.

  A dozen or so hardened punks, resplendent in leather and chains and violent hairstyles, hung out nearby. They left her to her own devices as they discussed who recently pounded whom and which band had the best music. Most of them were homeless, and had probably heard of the hit out on her. None of them cared much for the skater kids whom Ghost and Gin hung with, so she felt a measure of safety in their midst. When Alphonse and Zebediah greeted these people like friends, Whiskey thought it would be a fine place to park it for the time being. While surrounded by anarchist punks, even the old-timer street people wouldn’t mess with her. Besides, she’d been on the fringes of their cliques for years, and several recognized her. Regardless, she kept a close eye on her self-appointed guardians.

  It had taken an hour to get here from the Queen Anne suburb. She’d confiscated their cell phones when they’d begun ringing. Both men easily turned them over without a fight. She’d thrown them as far as she could into someone’s backyard. Neither of her companions put up a fight at the loss, either. Considering their lack of response, she knew she was missing some vital piece of information, but was too tired and messed up to try and make sense of things. On the way here, they’d stopped at a convenience store to stock up on beer and food. Most of the beer had been consumed by the punks, doing much to appease their volatile nature.

  Shrouded in silence, Whiskey listened to the conversations of those around her, a distant
voyeur. Occasionally, the group would become sullen as police drove through the area. Discussion would then turn to the latest round of busts and stories of juvenile detention or county jail. Eyes would slide in her direction, but no one brought up rumors of slain street kids.

  Bored with the posturing and boasts, she directed her hearing elsewhere. She concentrated on a couple she saw walking a block away—he whined about his job and she bitched at him for getting fired again. Sighing, she tried another conversation, her mind drifting with her senses. The longer the night became, the more she wanted to be up and moving. But she couldn’t go anywhere until she ditched her unwanted companions. She felt a yearning, but didn’t understand what she needed.

  Hooting and teasing interrupted her rumination, the punks rudely talking about a man wearing a dress. Blinking in surprise, she looked up, seeing Castillo smiling and jesting in response. He glanced at her, and his grin widened. The urge to run into his arms disconcerted her, conflicting with an equally strong desire to flee. She almost stood, but didn’t know which way she’d jump if she did. With nowhere to go and no time to work through the confusion, she swallowed and forced herself to remain in place.

  Castillo approached with obvious pleasure. “Whiskey!”

  Before he got close, Alphonse and Zebediah blocked his way. The Human punks looked on with interest, some beginning to eye the priest with fresh suspicion. “Maybe she doesn’t want to see you,” Alphonse suggested. Beside him, Zebediah’s red mohawk dipped in an agreeable nod.

  No one moved. Whiskey sensed a struggle between them. Similar to the one she’d witnessed between Fiona, Cora and Daniel, this one seemed more refined than her initial foray into such a battle. The tableau broke when Alphonse sagged, reaching out to stabilize himself against Zebediah’s shoulder.

  “Are we finished?”

  Zebediah stared at Castillo, his eyes dark hollows within a milky complexion. When he made no move to intercede, Castillo bypassed them and approached Whiskey, sitting beside her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Really?” She attempted to sound casual. The rest of the punks resumed their conversations, their curiosity evident as they kept an eye on their visitor. Zebediah and Alphonse conferred and then took up positions to watch both the Humans and the priest.

  “Yes.” Castillo leaned forward, and dropped his voice. “I heard about what happened at Tallulah’s. Are you all right?”

  Whiskey chuckled. “As well as can be, considering. What’s the word?”

  He stroked his beard, watching her. “You know how it is on the streets. There are rumors all over the place. The most predominant is that ‘someone’ lured a poor street kid into the alley, and beat him to death.”

  “Bullshit!” Her anger flared, and she felt her lip curl. “Ghost got jealous, and put out a hit on me. Dominick and two others pinned me in that alley to beat me.”

  “But that’s not what happened.”

  A wave of regret flowed through her, dampening her hostility. “No. Those Sanguire found me, the ones I’ve been hanging with. They took out the other two kids. Dominick wouldn’t back down. So they beat him instead.”

  Castillo glanced over his shoulder at their silent audience. “Were these two involved?”

  She looked at Alphonse and Zebediah. “Would it matter if they were?”

  He returned his gaze to her. “It would to me.”

  Whiskey flushed under his kind scrutiny. I don’t deserve that kind of look. I’m the most guilty. “They weren’t. Their friends were, though.”

  “The police are still gathering evidence and testimony. It’s just a matter of time before your name comes up.” A sudden frown transformed his features, and he looked at the punk Sanguire again. “Don’t tell me one of these is your Baruñal.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, neither of them. I don’t know why they’re here. An hour ago I took them out in some sort of mental fight, and they’ve been sticking to me like glue ever since.”

  “A mental fight?” Castillo’s brow furrowed further, and he stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Great. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who can do that. She immediately negated the thought. That’s stupid. I’ve seen others do it. Hell, Alphonse and Zeb just attacked the padre that way. “You know what I mean.” She pitched her voice low, so that only he could hear her. “That mental thing they just pulled on you? They tried it on me, too.”

  “And you bested them?”

  She blinked at his intensity. “Well, yeah. It took some work, but I kicked their asses.” His behavior spooked her, so she didn’t bring up knifing Manuel in the hotel, or putting Bronwyn into a concrete wall.

  Castillo sat back, mouth open, eyebrows raised. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? Why is it impossible?” Everyone knew things, had basic information that she lacked. These things were happening to her. She leaned forward, the frustration of not knowing feeding her annoyance. “Why are they protecting me from the person who leads them? I don’t understand.”

  “You haven’t completed the Ñíri Kurám. You don’t have the power to defend yourself from a joint attack.”

  She scoffed. “Yes, I do. Ask them.” She waved an arm in the direction of her guardians.

  “It was like a battering ram,” Zebediah informed Castillo, rubbing his temple with one hand.

  Alphonse nodded. “What she lacks in finesse she makes up for in brute strength.”

  Whiskey scowled at the pair of them. “Why are you following me?”

  Zebediah shrugged. “You lead.”

  “That’s the shit I get when I ask,” Whiskey said to Castillo. “I don’t get it. Up until an hour ago, they were trying to kidnap me and bring me to their home base and pack leader. Now they act like I’m the fucking president, and they’re the Secret Service.”

  Castillo visibly floundered a moment before gaining control. “With age comes strength among Sanguire. A youngling, one having not finished the Ñíri Kurám, is the weakest of all. Anyone a year or so older can overpower their minds.”

  Whiskey gnawed fiercely on his words, digesting them, drawing as much information as she could from them. “What are you saying?”

  “If you can overcome two joined adult Sanguire before coming to adulthood yourself…” He trailed off. “It’s almost unprecedented.”

  She picked up one word. “Almost?”

  Castillo shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s happened once before. It was thought to be a fluke due to the nature of the Ñíri Kurám involved. The individual was given the Book much too young, before attaining adolescence. She completed the Strange Path as one of the strongest Sanguire in history.”

  Whiskey braced herself, knowing what he’d say next. She spoke the name with him. “Elisibet Vasilla.”

  He stared at her with a concerned expression. “What’s happening, Whiskey? You look like her. You’re exhibiting power like her. Is there anything else?”

  She wanted to tell him the truth, felt the words at the back of her throat as they yearned to be spoken. He told the Agrun Nam about you. Her eyes narrowed, remembering the brown man on the side of the street by the tattoo shop. “Valmont.”

  Castillo shook his head as if he didn’t hear her correctly. “What?”

  “Valmont is here in Seattle. I’ve seen him.”

  The priest’s face drained of color, and her barely formed suspicions were confirmed.

  “You’ve seen him, too, haven’t you?”

  “You know Sañar Valmont?” He rocked back, eyes widening. “He hasn’t mentioned...officially meeting you.”

  “We haven’t been formally introduced.”

  Castillo’s composure returned. He cocked his head. “Then how do you know he’s here? You say you saw him; do one of these people know him, too?”

  Whiskey looked away, watching the punks posture and boast in blissful ignorance. Her next words would tip her hand. Either Castillo would run once more to the Agrun Nam, or he’d keep her secret. How else w
ould Valmont know to come here unless the padre went back to the council, and told them more about her. She needed so badly to trust in him, watching as everything that connected her to her old life crumbled into ash. He’d said he’d keep her confidence as best he could. What if the decision had been taken out of his hands? Valmont was at least three or four hundred years older than him.

  When she didn’t answer, he reached forward to touch her forearm. “Jenna?”

  She decided to take the plunge, her tender stomach swooping as if she’d leapt from a tall building to the street below. “No. No one needed to point him out. I remember him from when he was presented to Elisibet at court.”

  Silence.

  Whiskey risked a glance at him. She thought he’d turned pale earlier, but his swarthy skin had whitened enough to rival Ghost’s. Mouth open, he gaped at her. His friendly demeanor had whisked away, leaving behind a man stumbling through the dark, unable to find his God for solace. She regretted causing his distress, though a small, vicious part of her wanted to drive the knife deeper just to watch him squirm.

  “You—” He choked and cleared his throat. “You saw him? At Elisibet’s court?”

  Gathering her wits about her, she shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “Yeah. I saw Margaurethe O’Toole, too.”

  “Dear God.” He swallowed convulsively, pulling away from her. “I’ve got to do something.”

  Anger surged through Whiskey. Deep inside, a tiny voice of reason tried to dissuade her, to take a logical approach to what Castillo probably felt. But rationality had gone out the window—these visions, these people, these sensations. She was done being played with, and damned if she’d let him rat her out to Valmont. What had Castillo said? “He hasn’t mentioned...officially meeting you.” Which meant Valmont and Castillo had been in contact, spoken recently.

  Instinctively, she forged a link with him, just as Alphonse had done with her, fighting through the warm, dark chocolate. On the periphery of their struggle, she felt Alphonse and Zebediah offer their assistance. She refused them, curious to see just how much power she had. She and Castillo scuffled for control between them, a more difficult struggle than her previous encounter. Castillo had the benefit of experience, and nearly gained equal footing a number of times. Whiskey’s rage and natural talent gave her enough of an edge to retain control.