“What do you think you’re going to do?” She kept a tight rein on his mind.
Castillo sweated, drops springing up on his lip and forehead, but his eyes remained calm. His essence felt skittish, but held firm. “I don’t honestly know.”
“Don’t even think about telling the Agrun Nam or Valmont about me.”
“That was never my intention.”
“You’ve spoken to Valmont. What did you say?”
Flash.
Whiskey suddenly was Castillo. She saw through his eyes as he walked down a sunlit street near the Youth Consortium. A feather touch of request crossed her mind, letting her know of the presence of another Sanguire, one who wanted something. She looked over her shoulder, scanning the sidewalks and street for the new arrival. A man lounged against the corner across the street, arms crossed as he stared at her. Valmont.
“Father James Castillo?” His voice had an odd accent, one she both recognized, and couldn’t place.
“Yes,” Castillo’s voice said. Whiskey shivered at the strangeness.
“My name is Valmont. The Agrun Nam sent me.”
Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, just as quickly rising to clog her throat.
Flash.
“When did you first see this woman?”
They were sitting in a bar, and she stared at Valmont across the table. “Nearly six months ago. She’s like those children to whom I was speaking, living on the streets.” The oddness of hearing the padre’s voice while she spoke almost upset her control. Is this normal?
“Originally, your only evidence was a likeness to Elisibet, correct?”
“At the time, yes. The images I have of her are copies of her official portraits. By all accounts, the only difference is the color of Whiskey’s eyes which are almost black.”
“Whiskey.” Valmont shook his head, face sour. “Have you discovered if she’s Sanguire or not?”
“Yes. She’s begun the Ñíri Kurám.” When Valmont cursed, she felt a stab of pleasure, knowing somehow that it was hers, and not Castillo’s.
Flash.
Back at the bus stop, she stared at Castillo. His white face inches away from hers, he trembled with the effort it took to close off her investigation of his memories. “Why is Valmont here, Padre? You must have said something to someone. The Agrun Nam’s known about me for months, you said. Why send him now?”
Despite his physical distress, he appeared chagrined. “My utmost apologies, Whiskey. I think my friend in Europe had something to do with that. Either he was compromised, or my phones are tapped.” He bared his neck for her. “It’s my fault.”
Unable to help herself, she listened to the rush of blood coursing through the large vein in his throat. The memory of that woman’s blood and sex on her tongue caused a sudden vicious cramp, and her control over the link faltered. Whiskey fought the sickness away for several precious seconds, returning to the present to find Castillo holding their bond open. Soft confusion grew in place of her uprooted anger. She stared at him. “Why are we still connected? You could have cut me off, defeated me.”
Castillo smiled kindly. “Would it have done any good? You’re stronger than I already. Besides, this way you can see the truth of my words as I answer your questions.” He chuckled. “Though I would advise against forcing bonds in the future; it’s considered the ultimate in bad manners.”
“Bad manners?” She snorted laughter, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. “You’re saying it’s impolite to force this...bond on others? Do you know how many times I’ve had someone attack me in just this way the last couple of days, Padre?”
His smile faded to a worried frown. “Whiskey, you must come with me. I can keep you safe.” Castillo leaned forward to take her upper arm.
Whiskey’s amusement disappeared, and she pulled violently away. She was getting really tired of hearing that from people. Scrambling to her feet, she sent a wave of anger along their link, pleased to see him wince, and grab his head. “Don’t ever touch me again, Padre.”
As he struggled against the pain, she walked backward toward the bus stop. The punks cleared out of her way, silent as they watched the drama. Alphonse and Zebediah drifted along with her, ready to assist.
“You don’t understand, Whiskey! I can protect you!”
The bus pulled up just as she reached the curb. “You two keep him from following me.”
Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “You need someone with you.”
“I’m going to my goddamned Baruñal, okay? I’ll be safe with him.” She prodded both of them with her mind, wondering what the limits were to her power. Surely I should be reaching the end point, right?
Zebediah raised his chin, and stepped away from the bus.
“C’mon! Either get on or get away from the door,” the bus driver ordered.
Alphonse gave her a curt nod. He followed his companion.
Keeping tight control on the bond between them, keeping Castillo off-kilter, Whiskey boarded. Only when the doors closed, and it pulled away from the stop, did she release him. She felt the combined essences of Alphonse and Zebediah take over, knowing they’d never be able to hold him long. But long enough.
Slumping onto a seat, she stared at passing scenery, unable to formulate a plan of action.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nowhere near her intended destination, Whiskey watched the bus pull away from the transit station without her. The bus she’d boarded in Seattle had brought her to the outskirts of Tacoma instead. A major neighboring town cum suburb, the area had long ago been stuck with the moniker “The Aroma of Tacoma” by the old paper factory. These days it held a decent sports stadium, and much work had been done to renovate it, but the seedier aspect of the area still remained.
Hers had been the last bus for the night. She had five hours or more before the morning routes began. At least no one searching for her would think to look here, not even someone who’d seen the bus she’d ridden. She needed to find something to eat and a place to hole up for a nap. Numb to her bones, she stepped off the platform, deciding to put as much distance between her and the station as possible. She didn’t think Castillo would attempt to follow this bus route to its end, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
She wasn’t sure where to go. What if Valmont decided to look up Castillo again? Very much a predator, her old friend could easily locate her the same way she’d seen his meeting with the priest. She froze, midstep. “My old friend?” Christ, I’m going crazy. Berating herself, she continued walking, aimless in her travels.
Her path took her toward habitation and activity. The lights of a twenty-four hour convenience store beckoned from a half block down the street, and she headed in its direction. Her stomach remained tender. So long as she didn’t think of—her mind automatically veered away from the term blood—that, she was fine. She wondered how long she’d be able to play these head games with herself before it would overwhelm her again. “Next time put the cell phone in your pocket when you’re attacked by vampires.” She snorted.
Some time later, she sat on the curb outside the store, eating a sandwich. Beside her were a large plastic cup of soda, and a bag of chips. The food tasted like plastic, leaving a vague burning sensation at the back of her throat. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. She washed the thing down with her drink. The chips were relatively better and she sighed, her stomach rumbling slightly in discontent.
What would Castillo do? Did he own a car to search for her? She’d taken his outward appearance, the simple priest slash social worker he portrayed, for granted. At four hundred years old, he probably lived as well as Fiona did, regardless of his standing in his church. Did the Church know he was Sanguire? She shook her head, not pursuing the thought. It’d be too easy to lose the focus of her predicament going that direction.
By now Alphonse had probably called Fiona. Or would he? He and Zebediah had said she led them now. Would that change if she wasn’t there to oversee them? Was that why they lived with Fiona
? It’d be a lot easier keeping tabs on everybody if they were under the same roof. While that made some sense, she had to wonder. They couldn’t all avoid older Sanguire, could they? How would anything get done if every time you met an elder, you’d be directed from your purpose? Damn, I wish I knew Reynhard’s number.
A car pulled into the parking lot, and a laughing couple clambered out. Whiskey ignored them as they entered the store, refusing to acknowledge their curious glances. Her meal finished, she crumpled the wrappers and stood to deposit them in the trash can by the glass doors. Looking inside, she saw the couple split up. The man headed for the beer cooler while the woman perused the snack foods. The woman’s dark hair caught the overhead fluorescent lights, illuminating a touch of reddish highlights.
Flash.
She crushed a younger Margaurethe against a wall, pinning the woman’s wrists above her head with one hand as she leisurely explored bared flesh with the other. The torch light caught the red tones of her dark hair, and Whiskey nuzzled it, smelling herbs, the spicy trace of her lover’s scent, and the musky odor of arousal from both of them. Margaurethe’s heart thumped fast and heavy. Whiskey saw the blood moving through the vein at her neck. She breathed into Margaurethe’s ear, pausing to suck a tender earlobe into her mouth to nibble, enjoying the lithe body squirming against hers.
“Please, Elisibet,” Margaurethe murmured, twisting her head to one side. “Please.”
Whiskey smiled, and licked her way to the pulse point. She felt an odd sensation in her mouth, like she had too many teeth. Gently kissing along the thick vein, she whispered, “I love you,” before biting down.
The intoxicating flow of Margaurethe’s blood in her mouth magnified her lust.
Flash.
Whiskey’s stomach rebelled at its most recent meal, and she vomited into the garbage can. She staggered away in defeat when she finished. The taste of blood in her memory ignited the need for more, and the cramps stormed through her with a vengeance. She stumbled, falling.
“Jesus! Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s strung out.”
“Hey! You’d better call an ambulance. This girl just collapsed out here!”
Whiskey heard the voices, but the roar of their heartbeats filling her ears muted them. Unable to respond, her eyes rolled up, and blissful darkness claimed her.
***
Whiskey blinked sleepily, wincing away from the dawn pouring through the window. She muttered, crisp sheets scraping across her sensitive skin as she turned over. Sheets? Freezing in place, eyes closed, she extended her senses. Someone’s heart beat close by, and she heard a muted paging system, muffled and echoing. The antiseptic smells held an undertone of sickness, an after-odor rich and repellent with disease. She grimaced, squinting one eye open. A thin ivory curtain met her gaze.
Fully awake, she struggled to sit up, ignoring the complaint of her sore abdomen. Chrome bars boxed her into the bed, and she found a cable with the controls near her pillow. A nightstand and phone sat beside her, and several electronic devices hung from the wall above her head. She found a medical shunt taped to the back of her right hand, embedded in the thick vein below her thumb.
A hospital?
Whiskey tried to remember what had happened. She recalled being in Tacoma, and eating something. Then came the memory, and severe cramps. Her mind veered away from the vision, glad to note her stomach merely rolled over. Someone must have called the paramedics. How’d she come to be here and not in the emergency room? She didn’t have any money. Certainly the admitting staff figured that out early on during the intake process.
The growing sunlight pierced her eyes. She raised a hand to shade them. She fumbled for her sunglasses before she realized she wasn’t in street clothes. She wore a shapeless hospital gown of light blue. Whiskey pursed her lips. She had to find her clothes, and get out of here. Who knew what would be found by a thorough exam from a Human doctor? That had to be why Daniel had studied to be one. The world had Sanguire politicians and police, why not medical personnel to help keep the Great Secret?
It took a few moments before she figured out the railing mechanism. Her knees gave a perilous wobble when she slid out from beneath the covers. She swallowed a thrill of fear. God, I’m so weak. Can I make it out of here without fainting? Her bladder asserted its dominance. She shuffled across the room, wondering if she’d fall before making it to the can. Peering past the curtain, she saw an open door leading to a bathroom, and hobbled inside.
She left the bathroom with a bit less haste, pausing at the door to glance around. Another bed occupied the room, its occupant snoring softly. A green exit sign glowed above the other door. Moving gingerly back to her side of the room, Whiskey located a small closet, relieved to find her clothing inside. She tossed her things onto the bed, and prepared to dress.
“Here now, you can’t leave quite yet.”
Guiltily, Whiskey glanced over her shoulder to find a nurse bearing down upon her.
“Watch me.” She began to untie the flimsy hospital gown.
The nurse, obviously used to dealing with stubborn patients, scooped up Whiskey’s clothes. “Not yet.” She easily kept them out of reach. “You need more rest, and to eat some breakfast. The doctor will be by later in the morning.”
“Give me that!” Whiskey stumbled as she flailed for her belongings, disliking the helpless feeling. “I’m fucking leaving, you got it?”
“No, Jenna. You’ve got to let Dr. Mulligan do his job. He’ll no doubt release you this afternoon.”
She stopped, glaring at the woman. “How did you know my name?”
Taken aback, the nurse said, “Your brother called looking for you. He’s no doubt on his way here.”
Brother? Whiskey’s sluggish mind prodded at a sudden new relation. Reynhard? A rush of weakness washed over her at the thought of seeing him. The nurse barely caught her in time.
“There now. You see? You need to stay in bed for now, and regain your strength.” She helped an unresisting Whiskey back under the sheets. “I’ll have breakfast brought to you. The doctor makes his rounds at about seven. In the meanwhile, you sleep.” The nurse tucked Whiskey under the blanket, making sure the bed controls were within reach. “If you need anything, just push this button, and one of us will come to you. Okay?”
Whiskey fought the dizziness, barely nodding in response. Her eyelids felt so heavy. She found herself fighting to keep them open with no success. She watched the nurse gather up her belongings, and return them to the closet. She’d try to leave later. Until then, a nap wouldn’t be remiss.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Whiskey didn’t know how long she slept. She woke again to the sound of voices, her body feeling somewhat stronger. The sun had risen above the horizon. Fortunately, it now hid behind low-lying clouds, saving her from a potential headache. Not much time had passed. She wondered if Dorst had arrived.
The curtain drew aside, and a middle-aged man in white came into view. “Good morning, Ms. Davis. I’m Dr. Mulligan. How are you feeling?”
“Ready to get the hell out of here.” She scooted up in bed. She did feel stronger. Her stomach grumbled with real hunger.
Mulligan smiled, and glanced over her chart. “Well, let’s just see if that’s a possibility, shall we?”
Whiskey suffered through a round of poking, prodding and a cold stethoscope placed against her skin. Her blood pressure a little low, her skin still a bit sensitive, she still appeared to be in good health. The medical shunt was removed from her hand, leaving a bruise in its wake.
“Do you have any idea what happened last night?” The doctor made notations on her chart.
“Not really. I thought I had the flu. Vomiting, stomach cramps.”
He nodded and scribbled something down. “Jenna, did you have any drugs in your system last night?”
She pursed her lips. “No.”
“I have to ask. Your blood tests haven’t come back from the lab, yet. What about alco
hol?”
“No.”
Mulligan finished writing. “All right then. Breakfast will be served in a matter of minutes. I want you to eat all of it, if you can. Your lab results should come through in the next couple of hours. Once I’ve assessed them, I’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“I want to get out of here.”
He peered over his glasses at her. “If you’d like, you can get dressed after breakfast. From what I’ve seen so far, I’ll probably release you today.”
Relieved at the concession, she nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
“But after breakfast.” Mulligan’s expression brooked no argument.
He left her, pulling the curtain back in place. As he began his examination of her roommate, the nurse bustled through with a tray.
“Here’s the meal I promised you.” She placed it on a bedside table, and rolled it into place. She helped Whiskey with the controls until the bed supported her seated form. “Now eat every bit of it.”
Whiskey nodded, finding herself hungry for the first time since the meditation. The tray held scrambled eggs, a patty of what could laughably be called sausage, two tiny pieces of toast and a fruit cocktail cup. “Has...my brother come to see me? Do you know if he’s on his way?”
The nurse frowned. “Unfortunately, I don’t know. You were transferred to this ward after he called the emergency room, and identified you. It hasn’t been that long, though. I’m sure he’s on his way.” She fussed with the blankets, and gave her the television remote. “Visiting hours are at nine, and it’s just past seven thirty. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”
“Thank you.”
The Strange Path Page 22