“It has been five months! Certainly by now the situation has become stable enough for us to demand Davis’s return.” Bertrada Nijmege thumped the heavy oak table to emphasize her point, rattling the water glasses set out for this meeting. Her hawk-like visage was even more pronounced as she glared down her sharp nose at her fellow counselors. “Or do we wait until our traitor decides it’s safe for another attack?”
“Bertrada is right.” Dark of hair and eye, the young man seated beside her had a solemn expression more reminiscent of an earnest high school student than a member of the Agrun Nam, the powerful ruling council of the European Sanguire. When Samuel McCall spoke, his demeanor wasn’t as aggressive as his compatriot, though no less stern. The black leather of his chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Whoever hired the assassin, whether it’s someone in our employ or one of us, hasn’t made another attempt. We’ve all taken great pains to stop information leaking from our offices, and I think this lack of action indicates our ‘traitor’ isn’t one of us at all.”
Lionel Bentoncourt smothered a sigh, repressing the desire to look up at the vaulted ceiling in private supplication. He and the other members of the Agrun Nam had heard the same tired outburst from her nigh onto every blasted moment of those five months of which she complained. It was becoming tedious. Rather than respond, he scanned the familiar walls of the council chamber as he considered his words. Framed images of all of the counselors hung on the ivory colored walls, each portrait stern and unyielding. Nijmege’s didn’t look much different than she did now though the photographer had taken the picture six decades ago. Bentoncourt focused on the largest frame directly across from him, an old painting of the former leader of the Agrun Nam, Nahib. He had been Nijmege’s lover and Bentoncourt’s friend, and his execution had ultimately created the hateful woman glaring at Bentoncourt from across the table. Those snapping eyes brought him back from his dithering. His dark eyebrows bristled beneath the shock of white atop his head, the contrast making it difficult to pinpoint his true age. “Perhaps so, Samuel. Regardless of who hired the Human to kill Davis, the fact remains that we cannot compel her to attend us. She’s not our servant; maybe not even European at all.”
Nijmege snorted, her aquiline features narrowing into a grimace. “So sayeth the great Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe O’Toole.” She snapped her fingers to indicate her opinion on that particular point.
Across from her, a man with pleasant demeanor leaned forward, his wavy brown hair brushing his shoulders. He wore a black three-piece suit, golden cufflinks and tie clip flashing in the overhead light. “You do not believe the Ki’an Gasan?”
The lone woman on the council glared down her nose. “Why should I, Aiden? I wouldn’t put it past Margaurethe to bend the truth to suit her agenda. We all know how unbalanced she became after Elisibet’s death.”
Aiden Cassadie frowned, his handsome features turning even that expression into an agreeable appearance. “What would be the purpose in deluding us?”
“Who can fathom?” Nijmege dismissed the question with a wave. “Perhaps to forestall our direct intervention. Perhaps she truly believes this tripe. Perhaps it’s a ruse to keep us at each others’ throats, unsettled, uncertain. I never understood what she ever saw in the Sweet Butcher to begin with.”
Bentoncourt, lips thinning, said, “I cannot believe Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe would be so crass as to play a charade such as this. She believes as she says—Ms. Davis is the Ninsumgal Elisibet Vasilla reborn.”
Beside Nijmege, McCall expressed disbelief with the narrowing of his eyes. The woman harrumphed, opening her mouth to rebut Bentoncourt.
Cassadie cocked his head. “Certainly you cannot also discount the reports obtained from Sublugal Sañar Valmont and indirectly from Father Castillo? We have three separate accounts from three separate people, two of whom are not willing to work together in any civil manner. If Davis was not who Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe insists she is, then Valmont would have happily denied the claim.”
“Not to mention Father Castillo’s independent corroboration. His was the initial report.” Despite his words, Bentoncourt wished he had never heard word of the hapless young expatriate who had first discovered Elisibet’s reincarnation in Seattle. He found it abhorrent to think so, but it would have been easier for Davis to have been found by someone with a grudge against Elisibet—someone who could have killed her before she could defend herself, saving everyone the trouble.
“Reported to you.” Nijmege arched an eyebrow.
Bentoncourt fell to temptation and rolled his eyes. “Which brings us back to the conspiracy theory. It’s a never ending circle of deceit, corruption and power mongering brought on by too much control and the desire to keep it.” His voice sounded tired, even to him. “I’ll not explain how I came across his report again.”
Nijmege sniffed and tossed her thick black hair from her shoulders.
Cassadie chuckled. “Well, we can now discount Bertrada as the likely traitor.” At her dangerous glance, he winked. “If you don’t believe Davis is who she is, you wouldn’t need to hire an assassin to kill her.”
The final member of the Agrun Nam, Ernst Rosenberg, had remained silent until now. His blond hair closely cropped, his angelic features contrasted sharply with a thick and muscled body. Heavy lids sheltered the intelligent gray eyes that scanned his companions. “It cannot be both ways. Either Jenna Davis is who she claims to be, or she is not. We cannot yet order this youngling to attend us, yet we also cannot put the life of an innocent in jeopardy.”
McCall leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled together. “We’ve spent the last five months preparing for her arrival. I shan’t say ‘return’ as we don’t know the validity of her claim. We have a full contingent of guards waiting, a palace prepared, and servants thoroughly scrutinized in the hopes of keeping her safe. Regardless of ‘is she, isn’t she,’ Davis would be imminently safer here.”
“So, everything hinges on whether or not she is Elisibet reborn.”
“She’s not.” Nijmege’s jaw jutted low in physical denial of Bentoncourt’s words.
Bentoncourt grimaced. “Then we’ll put it to a vote. If this esteemed council concludes that Jenna Davis is Elisibet Vasilla, we accept the invitation to her Baruñal Ceremony, and send a representative. If, as some of us have announced, she is only a young Sanguire trapped within a web of deceit, we order her to report to us where we can keep her safe until we can decide what to do with her.” He scanned the others, noting their indications of approval.
“Those who believe Jenna Davis is Elisibet reborn?” He raised his hand. Cassadie followed his lead, an expression of surprise blossoming on his attractive face when no one else voted. Not pleased, Bentoncourt nevertheless forged onward. “Those who believe she is not?”
Nijmege and McCall provided a united front, both simultaneously raising their hands.
Everyone turned toward the fifth of their number. Rosenberg’s beatific gaze regarded his peers. “I abstain.”
Nijmege cursed roundly.
Bentoncourt relaxed. For now, Davis would remain in the colonies. “As we are no closer to a decision, might I suggest a recess?”
Nijmege snatched up her paperwork and stormed from the room, her footfalls echoing into the distance. Close on her heels, McCall gifted the others with an apologetic tilt of his head and followed, leaving open the conference room door.
Cassadie appeared amused at the woman’s outburst as he slowly gained his feet. “That was most entertaining.” He met Rosenberg at the door. “Are you busy for lunch? I’d like to pick your brains about your abstention.”
Grim but polite, Rosenberg bowed his head, gesturing for his companion to lead the way.
Alone, Bentoncourt stood and closed the door before returning to sink back into his chair. Small wonder they had difficulty arriving at anything conclusive with five different personalities and personal agendas in play. Such was the nature of a monarchal parliament without a monarch. The Agrun Nam’s decision to retain control over their people after Elisibet’s assassination had been a stopgap measure that had evolved into an institution.
Bentoncourt stared at the empty chairs of his comrades, settling on Nijmege’s. He had no illusions about her true aspirations. The youngling Davis in America was in danger of more than just a stray assassin hired for political causes. For all intents and purposes, Davis seemed to be the reincarnated tyrant responsible for Nahib’s death. Since that horrible execution so many centuries ago, Nijmege had become a shattered and bitter woman. Bentoncourt had rarely spoken with her prior to her appointment as a Sañar, making her grief and rage his only point of reference. As one who knew only the broken woman, he marveled at the ferocious vitality that she had exhibited since her discovery of Davis’s existence. If her passion had been this substantial when Nahib had known her, it was no wonder they had become lovers. Nahib had always surrounded himself with strong, lively people.
His gaze shifted to the seat beside Nijmege’s. Odd. He had never considered McCall one of her prospective allies. He had always assumed Rosenberg would support Nijmege’s desire for vengeance, having at least had the benefit of experience with the Sweet Butcher. Yet the longer this debate went on, the stronger the bond grew between McCall and Nijmege. McCall had missed Elisibet’s reign by several hundred years. Historical documents and past Agrun Nam meeting minutes shored up his lack of firsthand knowledge, and perhaps a healthy dose of prejudice. His family had come to power after the Purge, one of several clans that had gained political clout as Elisibet’s hardliners were destroyed. He had always seemed levelheaded, though, austere and analytical, rarely jumping to decisions without a thorough understanding of the situation and repercussions. Bentoncourt wouldn’t have thought him set on vengeance even if there was some historical background for it.
Certainly Bertrada isn’t compelling him? Bentoncourt fiddled with a pen on the table, a frown creasing his face as he decided this was not the case. Compelling another required constant attention, and the two sanari could most often be found in separate offices involved in different activities. Had she been responsible for directing McCall’s decisions, he would know it the minute her control wavered.
Rosenberg’s abstention was the astonishment of the day. Bentoncourt could count on one hand the times the man had declined to vote on an issue. Stacked up against several hundred years of experience, Rosenberg’s refusal to choose was inexplicable. Rosenberg knew the truth of Davis’s existence—Nijmege argued the finer point only to get Davis within reach of her talons, not because she denied the woman’s claim. Hopefully, at lunch Cassadie would get to the bottom of Rosenberg’s refusal. Bentoncourt needed to bypass Nijmege’s murderous intent, and soon.
As Nijmege had said, it had been five months. Five months since Valmont had thwarted the Human assassin, Rufus Barrett—the man who had said Bentoncourt had hired him. No one who knew Bentoncourt believed it, but Davis didn’t know him, did she? His disgust at the slander nearly rivaled his dismay at hearing Valmont had been named her advisor, and had sworn fealty not long after the foiled attempt. Bentoncourt had expected Davis to be a political innocent, but his opinion of Margaurethe had taken a slide; certainly she was aware that Valmont and Nijmege remained in contact with one another. Margaurethe had always struck Bentoncourt as a shrewd young woman, not given to stupidity. How could she have allowed the murderer of her lover back into the fold, knowing he often spoke with the one European Sanguire who most hated Elisibet?
The questions followed a well-worn path in his mind, pacing through the topics and connections with no urging as he continued manipulating the pen in his hands. The assassination attempt still clouded the Agrun Nam with distrust as they all wondered who had set it in motion. At the time of the endeavor, no one but the Agrun Nam and a handful of aides had known of Davis’s presence. Only Rosenberg seemed to have little need for her death. Nijmege and McCall, bound tight as lovers, wanted Davis to pay for the Sweet Butcher’s sins. Cassadie, next in line as Nam Lugal, would benefit the most by Bentoncourt’s implication in the assassination attempt, giving him the edge to take over the council.
Bentoncourt himself had no fear of losing the authority given him upon Nahib’s death. Since Elisibet’s assassination the Agrun Nam had ruled in her stead. He had found the job a migraine producer. He remembered the way of things immediately after Nahib’s execution. Everyone had dreaded Elisibet’s next foul mood or bloody desire. Her inability to feel compassion had crippled her as a decent and just ruler, and it had been Bentoncourt’s fault. He had given the primary argument to start her on the Ñíri Kurám before the age of majority after her father had died in a hunting accident. The rite of passage had warped her preadolescent psyche for all time, creating the monster she had become. Should Davis have a modicum of Elisibet’s feelings of betrayal along with those memories she was touted to having, Bentoncourt would gladly suffer the same fate as his predecessor for his mistake.
He tossed the pen down and sat back with a frustrated sigh. Would Davis see how these last months had been spent in keeping her safe from harm? Or would she decide the Agrun Nam refused to assist her because of guilt and fear, hiding behind the banner of genealogy to thwart her claim to a crown she had no proof of owning? How much of Elisibet did Davis possess? Only memories, or something more?
Having no answers, he rose and gathered his belongings. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”