“You always keep your promises.”
She laughed, and followed Dorst.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Are you certain that confrontation is the proper course of action, my Gasan?”
Whiskey looked away from the passing scenery to study Dorst’s profile. “What else is there? If I am who you think I am, I can’t tuck tail and run every time there’s trouble, especially in the beginning.” God, I am crazy. I have to be tranked out of my mind, and in a straitjacket somewhere. That’s all there is to it. Bring on the happy drugs!
He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Yet we are going into a potentially volatile situation. I’m assuming you’ll wish me to stand aside. Fiona is well over a hundred years old; she may overpower you, could possibly kill you.”
Over a hundred years old? Crap! “The padre’s almost four hundred. I held him off pretty well.” She returned her gaze to the passenger window, analyzing her encounter with Castillo the night before. I did, didn’t I? At least until I got sick.
“Father Castillo is a self-proclaimed scholar, not used to such tactics. He lives alone among Humans rather than with his own kind. He has little experience in holding his own with an adult Sanguire, let alone a fledgling such as yourself.”
“I can’t leave it like this, Reynhard!” Whiskey scowled at him. She didn’t need him chipping away at her already questionable self-confidence. “Two-thirds of her pack have put themselves in danger for my benefit. I can’t repay that by leaving them to their fate. Fiona won’t let them be; she’s got a vindictive streak that rivals Elisibet’s. She’ll hunt them down and, if she doesn’t kill them, she’ll make them wish they were dead.”
“They did so because of your unexpected power, not because they owed you anything or felt the need to act on Human principles and ideals.”
“Daniel and Cora did it before my power became the issue.”
He continued to drive calmly down the highway, her words having no effect. Her mood worsened as the miles passed. She had no plan except to barge into the house, and demand to see Cora and Daniel. Once she verified they were okay, she’d give them the choice to leave with her or remain. Considering some of the memories she’d acquired from Elisibet, she doubted either of them would be in good enough shape to walk out with her.
“You’ve shown some aptitude for knives.” Dorst reached into his coat pocket, extracting a plain blade, the one that had belonged to his previous mistress. “Take this one. It will keep you well.”
She reached out, the hilt fitting neatly in her hand. She knew if she pulled it from the sheath, she would see ancient Damascus steel.
Flash.
A younger Dorst knelt before her, long brown hair surrounding his face, the same image she’d had of him before though much clearer. He wore black clothing, and a burgundy sash, with her sigil stitched in silver thread across his chest.
Looking down, she saw the old dagger in her hand, plain and brown, but recognizable—her father’s knife, the one he had always worn. She carefully unsheathed it, staring at the random squiggled designs of a Damascus blade.
“I believe he would have wanted you to have it, my Gasan. It was his favorite.”
Flash.
“You gave this to Elisibet. That’s where I’ve seen you before.”
A slow smile grew on his face. “I did. It wasn’t long after her Ñíri Kurám. Her father hadn’t been buried for more than a month. In the rush of preparing her to lead, and keeping up with matters of state, everyone forgot she was a child mourning the loss of her father.”
Whiskey swallowed against a lump in her throat. “How old was she when he died?”
“Twelve. Her mother passed the veil when Elisibet was four. She’d been traveling the province, and been discovered by a pack of Humans.” He paused a moment. “They tortured, and killed her.”
She couldn’t help but see the correlation between Elisibet’s childhood and her own. Both parents dead, suddenly thrust into the middle of a situation over which she had no control. At least she was eighteen. She couldn’t imagine the mess she’d have made of things if this had happened when she was twelve. “I guess that could be why she hated Humans so much.”
“After the attack on his wife, Ki’an Gasan Solveig, Usumgal Maximal would allow no non-allied Humans on our lands. Ninsumgal Elisibet carried on what her father had begun. She widened our territory, and set up treaties with other Sanguire in the world. I think she hoped to create a permanent homeland for us.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really. Humans outstrip us when it comes to reproduction. For every one of us, there are hundreds of them. We may not be easy to kill, but it can be done.” He took the upcoming off-ramp. The car slowed down as he continued. “That was part of the reason the Agrun Nam began agitating against her policies. In response to our expansion, the Humans became more organized in their resistance. Many of us died in what could be termed as guerrilla attacks.”
They drove through a familiar suburb. As much as Whiskey wanted to continue her history lesson, now wasn’t the time. They’d arrive soon. Having both Dorst and Castillo at her disposal would be intriguing, providing she survived this. One man firmly believed the party line, and the other held a more liberal inclination. She’d get a chance to see issues from two sides, be able to sort through the propaganda, to understand the bigger picture and how it related to her.
“How do you wish to do this, my Gasan?” They were a few blocks away.
As quickly and safely as possible. “We’ll go in together, but you hang back. I don’t want Fiona thinking you’re running the show here. She needs to deal with me.”
“As you wish, Ninsumgal. I will not promise to remain completely aloof, however. If she attacks, I will defend you.”
The house loomed in the windshield. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that.” She reached out with her mind, locating the sickly sweet flowers. Beneath it, a vague sense of ashes fluttered. At least Cora’s still breathing. Of Daniel she found nothing, but the sensation of sulfur and pepper told her Manuel and Bronwyn were both in attendance.
Dorst pulled into the driveway. “Let’s do this,” she stated. She slid the knife into her pocket. They climbed out of the car, and walked to the front door. Considering the reason for their visit, Whiskey thought it ridiculous to ring the bell. Instead, she opened the unlocked door and entered, Dorst at her heels.
She’d never stood in the entryway before. The living room looked odd from this angle, but still recognizable. Manuel sprawled on the couch, playing one of the video games on the large screen television. He gave Whiskey a look of utter hatred. Shirtless, a white bandage covered his abdomen. She saw no one else. A quick scan with her mind showed Bronwyn somewhere on the second floor.
Stepping forward, she heard Dorst quietly close the door behind them. “Where’s Fiona?”
Manuel ignored her.
“Fine, I’ll find her myself.” Whiskey opened her mind, detecting Fiona’s presence beneath her feet. Great. Didn’t realize this place had a basement. She had a stab of memory from her last meditation; Elisibet and Valmont in a dungeon working over some poor Human. Faint surprise washed over her as the expected stomach cramps didn’t recur. Of course they wouldn’t. She’d fed today. She was starving yesterday. That’s what the sickness was. “You know where the basement entry is?”
“Possibly through the kitchen?” Dorst suggested. “That is the American architectural standard.”
She nodded, and led the way. The dishwasher hummed along, the counters freshly wiped down. If she didn’t know better, this was any normal suburban household. She wondered if the pack did the cleaning, or if Fiona hired a maid service. Duh. She’s rich. Shaking off the mundane distraction, she glanced around to see a door in the corner. Cracking it open, her superior vision saw stairs going down. “Here.”
Dorst pulled the door open further, and slipped past her. “May I, my Gasan?”
While she didn’t think Fiona wou
ld set up a literal ambush down there, better to placate Dorst. He hadn’t yet become difficult, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He’d be far less likely to roll over than Castillo. “Go ahead.”
He slid into the darkness, his leather jacket sucking in the little available light.
Whiskey kept her attention split between the rooms below, and the rest of the house. Manuel and Bronwyn would be part of a trap, coming up from behind to block their escape. Manuel hadn’t moved from the couch, continuing to play the video game. Bronwyn also remained in place. Whiskey felt no reassurance. Seething anger rolled off Bronwyn, dark and pungent with her peppery essence. Whiskey felt a mental urge to sneeze at the nonexistent aroma.
Dorst opened a door at the bottom of the stairs. A sound of rubber on rubber, and the strong smell of blood wafting up indicated a good insulation seal had been installed around the frame. Now bathed in a warm, yellow glow, he asked, “Would you care to join us, Whiskey?”
She followed him down into the darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dorst waited for her to reach him before stepping into the basement. His form partially blocked her view until she moved to one side.
The right half of the basement resembled a family room. Thick granite tiles covered the floor, decorated by a sectional throw rug of burgundy and gold. In the far corner a fireplace crackled, warm and inviting behind a glass screen. An over-stuffed black leather couch and loveseat pinned the rug down, both angled toward an oak entertainment center with a large screen television. The accent tables were of the same granite as the floor, polished and gleaming in the golden light of two lamps.
The smell came from the other side of the room. Burgundy velvet curtains had been hung to section off the two halves, but the heavy material had been gathered aside, and tied back to the walls. The granite tile abruptly cut off, revealing coarse concrete beneath. The cement floor sloped ever so slightly toward a drain, rusty and stained with what was clearly both old and fresh blood.
Daniel hung here, unconscious, his naked torso streaked with crimson gore. It looked so much like Whiskey’s vision of Valmont and Elisibet in the dungeon, she automatically glanced at the floor for a grisly pile of skin. She swallowed in relief upon seeing none. Could Fiona go that far without getting into trouble with Sanguire law?
Beyond him stood four steel-barred detention cells. Each no more than five feet square, they held no available facilities beyond a plastic bucket in a corner. Two stood empty, silent sentinels to the macabre activities taking place here. One door stood open, presumably the cell within which Daniel had been imprisoned. The other held an occupant. Cora knelt with her forehead on the floor. A false ceiling of metal bars had been lowered from above. Locked in place, it forced her to remain crouched with three feet of headroom. Strong rope bound her forearms to her body, and metal shackles encircled her bloody wrists. Her clothes were the same she wore two days ago.
Disgusted, Whiskey slipped past Dorst, intent on freeing them both. Swift movement from the seating area caught her attention, and she paused.
“Sañur Gasum Dorst, what a pleasure to see you again.” Fiona glided from where she’d been seated on the couch to stand between the new arrivals, and her prisoners. “And you brought my wayward child home, too.”
Whiskey stepped closer with a growl. “I’m not your child.” Her blood pulsed with anger, throbbing in time with a dull pressure at her temples.
Fiona made a show of looking around the room. “Do you see anyone else with a better claim?” When Whiskey didn’t answer, she continued. “You are still a child, my little lamma. A headstrong, recalcitrant one, but a child all the same. You need strong adult guidance, and an education before you can...take your proper place among our people. I’m the best choice for that.”
“Bullshit.”
“My point exactly.” Fiona dismissed her, turning her attention to Dorst. “Unless you take prior claim? You did call me when you arrived here in search of her.”
The last bit of the puzzle fell into place. Fiona and her pack had been actively hunting for Whiskey on Dorst’s request. They hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon her when they did. They may have been following her for some time before they decided to intercede on her behalf against the boys who’d kidnapped her. Whiskey felt a lightening in her soul, her supposed obligation to Fiona not weighing quite as much as it had.
Dorst lifted his chin. “I have no claim here.”
Fiona smiled, and made a welcoming gesture toward the seating area. “Please, sit and relax. I’ll have Bronwyn bring down a snack. Unless you’d prefer—” She glanced innocently behind her at Daniel’s hanging form.
“That is entirely up to my Gasan; I’m here at her disposal.”
A flash of confusion crossed Fiona’s face.
Whiskey enjoyed the expression, a grim smile on her lips. “Get Daniel down from there.”
Dorst paused no more than a second, before moving to comply with Whiskey’s order.
“No!”
Fiona raced forward, and cut him off. The smell of sweet flowers filled Whiskey’s mind, counteracted by amber and steel. Whiskey almost saw the vapors of power emanating from each of them. Fiona glared at Dorst for half a minute before going white. The flowery essence faded, and Dorst stood there with a gentle golden glow about him.
That’s a first. What the hell is that?
“Do not mistake my position as weakness, child.” He moved around Fiona, reaching Daniel’s side with no more opposition.
The kindness in his voice caused Fiona to flush to the roots of her red hair. She snarled and strode forward, stopping just out of Whiskey’s reach. “Who are you to give him orders?”
“Who do you think I am?”
Fiona stared at Whiskey. “You can’t be serious!” She glanced over at Dorst who now had Daniel in a fireman’s carry, bringing his unconscious form to the couch. “This is ridiculous! She’s a child, a cheap imitation. The prophecy is nothing but the codswallop of an ancient witch who should have done us the favor of dying a thousand years ago.”
Dorst laid Daniel down. Ignoring Fiona, he awaited another order from Whiskey.
“Get Cora out of that cage.” He bowed his head, and proceeded to cross the room. “Do you need the key?”
He chuckled. “Even if I did, I doubt you’d get it from her without a fight.”
Fiona tucked her chin, glaring at Whiskey.
“I think you’re right.” Had she known it’d be this easy, she’d have been here hours ago. She silently swore, wondering how much grief she could have spared Cora and Daniel if she’d arrived earlier. Fiona’s arrogant voice brought Whiskey out of her self-castigation.
“You are not Elisibet Vasilla reborn.”
Whiskey shrugged, noting for the first time how bright the lamps were in the room. Her skin burned from the exposure, almost as bad as being outside in sunlight. “Maybe not. We’ll see what happens. We both know I look like her, though. That’s why you wanted me as part of your sick little family.” A squeal of metal caused her to wince. Dorst had the cell door open. The pressure behind her eyes grew, not quite becoming an ache.
“I see. You wish to play the game on your own.” Fiona smiled, baring her teeth. “Tell me, little lamma, how do you plan to do that? With him?” She indicated Dorst with a sharp nod of her head. “He is the master of manipulation, sweet Whiskey. How do you know he’s not going to use you in a similar manner?”
Dorst ignored her jibes, though he clearly heard them. He had Cora out of the tiny cell, and untied. She lay on her side, whimpering as she unfurled from her forced fetal shape. He produced a lock pick for the manacles at her wrist.
Whiskey couldn’t deny Fiona’s suspicions. She’d had them herself, needed them to survive in a world that didn’t give a shit about a throwaway orphan kid. She’d given up trying to explain the depth of her confidence. She shrugged. “I don’t. I trust him not to, that’s all.”
Fiona burst into laughter. “My good
ness! How naive for such a street-hardened youngling.” She turned to Dorst, attempting to bring him into the conversation. “You’ll have an excellent time with this one, Sañur Gasum. Perhaps, when you’re finished with her, you will allow me the privilege of killing her for you.”
The manacles popped off Cora’s wrists, clattering to the concrete floor. Dorst helped her stand, offering a solicitous arm, ignoring Fiona’s words.
“Get them out of here, Reynhard,” Whiskey said. “Take them upstairs.”
“That will not be possible, my Gasan. I cannot leave you here alone.” He escorted Cora to the loveseat.
Whiskey’s stomach soured. Honeymoon’s over. “That was an order,” she said with a growl. “Get them to the car so we can leave.”
Dorst gave her a deep bow. “Perhaps you could escort our new friends to the vehicle. I’ll remain here with dear Fiona. We have so much catching up to do.”
Fiona’s already pale complexion blanched at his veiled threat. The wicked smile on her face disappeared, and her eyes flitted around the room. She backed away from Whiskey, teeth bared.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Whiskey tried not to let her anger take hold of her. “Did you or did you not swear fealty to me?” She ignored the strangled sound from Fiona.
“I did.” Dorst’s voice held both a defeated, and regretful tone.
Whiskey raised her head to glare at him. “Then you will take Cora and Daniel out of here, put them in the car, and make certain Bronwyn and Manuel don’t get any wild ideas. Understood?”
He studied her for a long moment, before lifting his chin. “As you wish, my liege.”
“No.” Cora’s whispered word was clearly audible as Dorst helped her to stand. Able to keep her feet without faltering, she’d need blood and time to heal.
“Do as you’re told,” Fiona snapped. The panicked expression had left her face.
Whiskey smiled at Cora, taking in the fearful look. “I’ll be fine. Go with Reynhard; help him with Daniel.”
The Strange Path Page 25