The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “If she can’t have you, she wants you dead!”

  Moving away from the door would give Fiona an escape route. Whiskey remained where she stood. “That’s not going to happen, Cora. Trust me.” She reached for Cora’s mind, soothing her emotions. “You asked me to remember who assisted me. I do remember. Take Daniel and get out.”

  Unshed tears made Cora’s eyes glassy, but she complied. Dorst picked up Daniel again, who moaned at the jostling, and Cora led their way to the door. When she passed behind Whiskey, she reached out, and caressed her arm.

  Whiskey loosened up when the upper door closed softly behind them. Another obligation bites the dust. Turning her attention to Fiona, she saw she wasn’t the only one relaxing her guard.

  “Isn’t this cozy?” Fiona strolled to an end table, retrieving the glass of blood wine she’d been drinking when Whiskey arrived. Looking up at the ceiling, she traced the path of footsteps to the door. “It’s just as well. They were both far too weak to be here. Not like the others.” She sat on the loveseat with graceful ease. “So, tell me. Was Sañur Gasum at the hotel? Is that what happened to Alphonse and Zebediah?”

  Startled pleasure rolled through Whiskey. She doesn’t know! A slow grin crossed her face. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Certainly you must have had some kind of help then. A youngling such as yourself could not have taken on four adult Sanguire.”

  “I don’t know. I did well enough with Bronwyn and Manuel.” Whiskey came around the couch to perch easily on its arm.

  Fiona made a face. “Yes. They didn’t take into account your increased physical strength and flexibility. Neither is too happy with the outcome.”

  That set off warning bells. Whiskey didn’t care for either of them, but it didn’t mean she enjoyed the idea of them being tortured for fun and profit by Fiona. “What did you do?”

  She arched an eyebrow in response. “What any good matriarch should do. Manuel is still healing, but I made certain his paramour understood the result of her failure.”

  Whiskey shivered. Alphonse and Zebediah had done the smart thing by not coming back. Cora and Daniel had remained by Fiona’s side despite their differing opinions, and look what it had gotten them. If Fiona punished the people who were loyal to her, what would she do to those who were complete traitors? She forced herself to return to the conversation. “Alphonse and Zebediah won’t be back, I think.”

  Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know this?”

  “Because they helped me get away from you. Last time I saw them, they were pinning down another Sanguire so I could escape.”

  Whiskey savored the long moment of stunned silence. It almost counteracted the growing headache pulsing in her temples. The grin returned to her face as Fiona stared at her.

  “What...?”

  Whiskey laughed aloud. It didn’t help when Fiona’s pique showed, a thin line creasing the smooth skin between her eyes. Whiskey laughed harder, pointing at her. Her head throbbed vigorously, but seeing Fiona’s perplexed reaction made it worth the pain. “Oh, my God! This is hilarious! This is just totally fucking with your head.” She slid from the arm, and onto the couch, holding her abdomen as she let her mirth carry her away.

  Fiona held her chin to her chest, glaring at the amused response. “Alphonse and Zebediah would never follow your lead, child.”

  Still chuckling, Whiskey made a show of wiping her eyes. “They would if they’d been overpowered.”

  “By who? You said Sañur Gasum Dorst wasn’t there.”

  Whiskey stretched out, thumping first one boot, then the other onto the coffee table. She crossed her ankles. “By me.” She suppressed another round of chortles as Fiona stared at her.

  “By—”

  “Me.”

  The annoyance faded from Fiona’s face as she considered this information. She sipped lightly at her wine, staring at nothing.

  Whiskey wondered how long she needed to keep up the arrogant facade. Dorst had gotten Cora and Daniel out of the house. They waited for her to join them. Questing with her mind, she felt her Baruñal’s strong presence as he dissuaded Manuel from getting involved. Of Bronwyn, there was only the light sensation, still in another part of the house. Whiskey understood why she had a headache and saw strange things; they were the symptoms of the Ñíri Kurám going too long. She had to get the final meditation out of the way before long. She needed to get out of here. She had what she came for; no reason to make things worse.

  Something stopped her. Seattle was Fiona’s stomping grounds. She’d been here with her pack of sycophants when Dorst first arrived on an indirect tip from Castillo’s report to the Agrun Nam. Maybe Cora and the others would be free of Fiona, but she’d be here to collect more twisted Sanguire rebels. What if Valmont finds her? That wasn’t a pleasant idea. Someone several hundred years old working with Fiona to take care of old grudges? She can tell him I started on the streets here. He might be able to locate the people I hung out with. Considering what Whiskey “remembered” about Valmont, he’d ruthlessly use Gin as leverage if he ever found her. He’d been trained by the worst monster, Elisibet Vasilla. I have to put a stop to this before it starts. A chill washed through her. She had to deal with Fiona before she left this house. When Fiona spoke, it brought Whiskey back to the conversation with a jolt.

  “I don’t believe you.” Fiona waved vaguely with her glass. “Granted, you’re stronger than I expected considering your stage of development, but that means nothing. I exhibited abnormal strength when I went through the Ñíri Kurám. It’s no stretch of the imagination that others do, as well.”

  The words spilled out of Whiskey’s mouth before she realized what she said. “How about a little one-on-one, just for comparison’s sake?”

  Fiona froze, glass halfway to her lips, staring over the rim. “What do you mean?”

  What the hell am I doing?“You and me, no weapons, no holds barred.”

  “I do not grapple in the dirt like a common peasant, puru um.” Fiona’s words dripped with acid.

  It took a moment for the translation to work its way through Whiskey’s brain. Had she just called her a...hillbilly? She was going to have to ask Reynhard or the padre about that one. She put her feet on the floor, and scooted to the end of the couch. “No, idiot. This isn’t the WWF. I’m talking no holds barred here.” She tapped her temple for emphasis.

  “No.”

  Whiskey looked to see that Dorst had returned. Delaying the inevitable, she asked, “Are Cora and Daniel safe?”

  “Yes, my Gasan. Manuel has decided to remain in the living area, and Bronwyn is unable to leave her room. It’s time for us to vacate the premises.”

  Wondering why Bronwyn couldn’t leave her room, Whiskey shook her head. “Fiona and I aren’t finished. Go back to the car, and wait for me.”

  “I will not leave you here alone. You’re making a mistake.”

  Whiskey ignored him, and looked back at Fiona. Wouldn’t be the first time, pal. “If Reynhard swears to butt out, what do you say? Do you think you’re stronger than me?”

  Fiona studied her, her expression speculative. “I know I am. But would he stand by his word? He has a reputation for deviousness.”

  “I trust his vow. He has never gone back on his word, not in all the centuries he’s been alive.”

  “Ninsumgal—”

  “Shut up, Reynhard.” She stifled surprise when he did. A thrill of pleasure vied against a strange sadness. He’d sworn fealty to her, he’d do as she said, no matter what it entailed. As much as she wished he could be her friend and confidante, that would never, ever be. Dorst would forever remain a servant. What the fuck! I don’t have to go that route. I’m not the Sanguire Second Coming!

  After a long pause, Fiona spoke. “I’ll take you up on that.” She pointed at Dorst. “But he swears more than to stay out of it. He’d better swear to allow me to leave when I win.”

  Whiskey stood, and turned her back on Fiona. “Reynhard, swear to me that yo
u’ll stay out of our little contest here and, should Fiona win, you’ll give her twenty-four hours head start.”

  “And if I say no?”

  The smile on her face contrasted with her lowered chin. He was putting on a show for Fiona. Reynhard’s always about the drama. She glared at him through her bangs. “I’m not asking.”

  Dorst showed little emotional response to her demand. His dark eyes reflected unhappiness, but no rancor. He raised his chin in supplication. “I swear to stay out of your little contest. On the off chance she’s lucky enough to survive the encounter, I’ll give her twelve hours head start before I hunt her down, and eviscerate her.”

  Whiskey smiled, and glanced over her shoulder. “Good enough?”

  “You trust him?”

  Her eyes met Dorst’s, and her next words were spoken very softly. “With my life.”

  Fiona gauged their sincerity. “All right. It’s a deal.”

  “I want a vow from you, too. If you win, Cora and the others go free and you leave them alone.”

  Standing, Fiona smirked at her. “I swear to let my people go free when this is over. They won’t want to, but I’ll give them the option.” She set her glass on the nearest table.

  “All right, then.” At a loss, Whiskey put her hands on her hips, looking around the room. “So what are the protocols here? Are there rules for this sort of thing?”

  “There are.” Dorst held out his hand. “All combatants must be physically disarmed.”

  Whiskey felt a pang of regret as she handed over the plain-hilted knife. “Keep it safe. I want it back.”

  He grinned, bowing low. “As you wish, my Gasan.” Pocketing the blade, he glided toward Fiona. “Weapons?”

  Fiona smiled coyly at him. “Going to pat me down? At least I know you won’t get enjoyment from this. Eunuchs seldom do.”

  Dorst wasn’t dissuaded. “You listen to far too many rumors, Gasan. Perhaps you should become more scholarly in your approach to knowledge.” He gave her a once-over, his palms barely touching her body. “The pistol in your bodice, please.”

  Whiskey stared in surprise. “You’re kidding me.”

  “A girl can’t be too careful these days.” Fiona fished a small gun from her cleavage, handing it over to Dorst.

  “And the blade strapped to your thigh.”

  Annoyance marred Fiona’s expression. “Of course, Sañur Gasum. You have only to ask.” She retrieved the weapon from beneath her graceful skirt. “That’s all I carry.”

  Dorst stepped aside, pocketing the weapons. “Do you wish a second to attend you, Gasan Fiona? I can call Manuel down here to be your witness.”

  Fiona appeared to give it some consideration. “No, it’s not necessary. I’ll tell him about it when we’re finished here.” She moved away from the seating section, circling wide to reach the open area where Daniel had been tortured. “Ready whenever you are, little lamma.”

  Whiskey followed, her mind reaching out to meet with Fiona’s sickly flower essence. She attempted to access Elisibet’s memories as she poked and prodded along the mental wall between them. She’d been panic-stricken when Alphonse and Zebediah had come upon her the night before, and furious at Castillo. Willfully attempting an attack wasn’t as easy. She felt Fiona’s mind surge against hers, and met her push for push. It took very little effort to keep her at bay. Am I really that strong? How is this possible? She’s at least a hundred years old.

  Fiona attacked, piercing Whiskey’s mind. Pain lanced Whiskey’s temples, she barely heard her own grunt of pain. Despite the agony, her mind held Fiona’s away, keeping true damage to a minimum. The pain fueled her fear and anger. She physically made no move, but felt the definite vicious shove as she pushed Fiona’s essence away from her. Instantly, the stabbing in her temples lessened only to be replaced by another at the base of her neck with Fiona’s immediate return thrust. Almost as an afterthought she felt her knees wobble, her body weakening from the onslaught.

  No! This can’t happen! She can’t beat me. Whiskey had taken down both Alphonse and Zebediah, and held a four-hundred-year-old Castillo at bay. Her desperation triggered that which was Elisibet, the strength rising to the surface; memories of situations, feelings and furies mingled with training techniques and strategies with which Whiskey had no experience.

  Snarling, she set up blocks, contravening the worst of Fiona’s attack, keeping her opponent’s mind at bay. As Fiona struggled to find another access, Whiskey felt along her guards, stabbing and prodding where she thought there might be cracks or crevices. One area felt particularly vulnerable, and she concentrated upon it, putting as much as she could spare into opening Fiona’s skull like a melon. The horrific visualization helped her focus. Fiona’s attack lessened as she attempted to shore up the point Whiskey drove toward. Whiskey found it odd, seeing things from three different angles. She saw the melon in her mind, the rind distorting as she pressed against it, penetrating the skin, the juice dribbling. She saw Fiona standing before her in the small room through a reddish haze, her eyes bulging, her smug face drawn into a grimace as she fought. And she saw a memory, Margaurethe looming above her as she died, cold and dark and so very anguished at the thought of leaving her lover.

  The memory gave Whiskey added strength. Her anger blossomed into fury, her mouth watering as she stepped forward, closing the short distance between them. In her mind’s eye, the melon burst open as Fiona’s defenses failed. Whiskey plunged her essence into Fiona’s, shredding everything within her grasp, Fiona convulsed, her body straightening and spasming before beginning to fall. She never made it to the ground. Whiskey stepped forward and caught her compulsively, burying her fangs into the jugular vein. No gentle feeding this; her hunting instincts took over, and she ripped Fiona’s throat open, gleefully bathing in the hot splash of blood that spilled over her face, chest and hands.

  When she had had her fill of the liquid still pumping sluggishly from Fiona’s neck, she dropped the body. Her mind still holding Fiona’s fading thoughts, she looked at the pulp with vague curiosity. Something dark grew at the center, spreading as she watched. She pushed her essence closer. A hand on her shoulder pulled her away. Whiskey turned, crouching in preparation for another attack, her mind instantly grabbing the other.

  Dorst, gasping, doubled over. “My Ninsumgal! You must let her go.”

  “Reynhard?” She swallowed, tasting the blood still in her mouth. Licking her lips, she felt a rush of power flow through her. Looking around the small room, she saw Fiona on the floor, blood splattered liberally about her corpse.

  Still bent over, Dorst quickly recovered from her reflexive attack. “It’s all right, my Gasan. It’s over now.”

  Not wanting to think, to acknowledge her first Sanguire kill, Whiskey stumbled toward the couch. Her full stomach rumbled with displeasure when she focused on its contents. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, and collapsed into the plush leather.

  “Come. We need to get out of here. You must step off the Strange Path.”

  Whiskey allowed herself to forget for now. She didn’t complain when Dorst scooped her up, and carried her out of the basement. Relaxing in his arms, she started to cry.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Whiskey stared out the window, unseeing, at the small courtyard below. The moon had set some time before she’d woken from her exhausted slumber. Castillo had come through for her again, relocating her and her fledgling entourage to a penthouse apartment in downtown Seattle. If she reached out with her mind, she’d feel Cora, Zebediah and Alphonse, as well as Dorst and Castillo. Only Daniel remained silent to her search; he’d regained consciousness at some point during the drive here, but had lost it again not long after she had.

  Her headache almost blinded her. Any intelligent person would have begun the final meditation to stop the pain, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. It seemed fitting she suffer at least something for the things she’d done over the last few days. She could deny responsibility, but the f
act remained that two people were dead—one Human and one Sanguire—and four Sanguire were injured because of her.

  Dominick had been a jerk, but he hadn’t deserved to die. If he’d had one bit of sense, run when she’d told him to, he might still be alive. Regardless, the final blow had been hers. She rated a lot more agony than she currently suffered for that particular punch.

  Cora and Daniel had sacrificed themselves for her. She owed them so much more than she ever thought she’d owe to Fiona, it boggled her mind. What little relief she’d felt releasing her obligation toward Fiona was negated when it came to the torture these two had gone through for their choice to defend her. She didn’t know how to repay either of them, but she’d do her damnedest. From what Fiona had said in Whiskey’s presence, she assumed that both Cora and Daniel came from lower-ranking families among the European Sanguire. Maybe she could find a way to get them home to their families. Everybody needed a family.

  Bronwyn and Manuel had stuck with Fiona to the end. Dorst had gone back inside after depositing Whiskey in the car. After several minutes that felt like hours, he’d returned, simply stating that neither wanted anything to do with her, or their former companions. If anyone would cause her future trouble besides Valmont, it would be these two. She knew Manuel would hold a grudge. He’d never leave things as they were. According to Dorst, they were the eldest of Fiona’s pack, and had been with her for decades. That was a long time to ignore, even considering Fiona’s ideas of friendship. Perhaps they’d decide to lick their wounds somewhere else; she could hope.

  Whiskey sighed. She wasn’t holding her breath. Her life hadn’t been easy so far. Why change now?

  She heard the bedroom door close behind her, knowing that Castillo had entered. Every footfall on the carpet pounded into her overly sensitive ears. She took the pain as her due, forcing herself not to grimace. “How are you doing?”

  Castillo stopped beside her. His answer came in a faint whisper. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? You’re the one who’s had your life turned upside down in a week.”