Tucked into a dark corner, the man watched the lazy dance of patrons wandering through the private club. The establishment radiated the ambiance of a small public house from the 19th century; no dance area marred its floor plan, wooden kegs and casks shared space with dusty bottles of liquor behind the bar, and musicians in the corner played a song popular in the late 1800s. A prevailing odor of absinthe and opium resisted attempts to be smothered by cigarette smoke and beer. His eyes remained on the door. Had his potential employer gotten cold feet? It was past time for their appointment. He frowned and nursed his scotch.
The bouncer, a whip thin man whose bare arms bulged with ludicrous muscle, responded to a tap at the door. He eased off his stool and peered through the peephole. Satisfied with whatever credentials were presented, he slid the bolt and opened the thick oak door to allow a newcomer inside.
In the corner, the man scanned the new arrival with a practiced eye as the doorman closed and bolted the entry. He nodded to himself, watching the cloaked and hooded person pause to inspect the crowd. When the unseen gaze met his table, he raised a chin in supplication.
His invitation accepted, the stranger approached the table, stopping in a swirl of dark cloth. “Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant.”
Glad to hear the phrase and end this interminable waiting, the businessman nodded. “Let the dead Past bury its dead.” His guest satisfied, he waved at the chair across from him. “Won’t you sit down?” He watched the man sit—if man it was—amused to see every inch of skin hidden beneath black cloth. Dark gauze masked the stranger’s face, distorting the lamplight reflecting from Sanguire eyes. Even the stranger’s essence was tightly wrapped; his own mother sampling the pub’s patrons would be hard put to identify him.
“Would you like something to drink?”
The stranger shook his head. “I’d much rather get these proceedings over with.”
Feeling safe in the knowledge that the one across from him couldn’t retaliate for fear of revealing himself, he chuckled and raised his glass in salute. “It’s not easy rolling in the gutter with the rest of us, is it?” He swallowed his scotch, setting the empty glass on the table between them. “Who do you want dead?”
Shifting, the head turning to ensure their privacy, the stranger appeared nervous.
“No worries, guv. No one here gives a tinker’s fart about our business.”
Affronted, the stranger stiffly brought his attention back to the table. From the folds of his cloak, he produced two manila envelopes and set them on the scarred surface. “Half your payment, and information on the target and her location.”
He collected the envelopes, and peeked into each one. One held a single sheet of paper, a bank statement showing the transfer of a large amount of money to his offshore accounts. The other contained several sheets of paper—a name and address, a thorough biography and background check, and two small photographs. He recognized both women, and glanced sharply at his visitor. “The target is one of these?”
“Yes, the blonde. The other will be most likely to interfere.”
“She’s much younger than portraits I’ve seen.” The bio seemed extensive enough.
The stranger refused to be drawn into small talk. “All the information is there.”
Studying the photo, he considered his position. The difficulty would not lie in infiltration. Unquestionably, the problem would be his unveiling by someone who knew either the person he imitated or he himself. Still, he enjoyed a challenge, and the amount of money being offered signified this would be quite the lark. “So, is she who she appears to be?”
“A pretender. Do you agree to the terms?”
He smiled at the stranger’s impatience. He was someone influential then, someone whose control was threatened, for power was far more important to the Sanguire than anything. Power lasted throughout the ages, an intriguing game for people who lived hundreds of years. Money only greased the wheels and made the long life comfortable. And knowledge, knowledge is the ultimate in strength, isn’t it? Discovering the secrets of this woman outweighed the contract for her death.
“I agree.”
***
Only when he was well away from the squalid club did he remove his coverings. He pulled the stolen car into a parking lot crowded with vehicles, quickly doffing the cloak and mask. Wrapping them into a bundle, he scanned the lot for unwanted company before exiting the vehicle, and striding away. He walked briskly down a narrow sidewalk with the clothing tucked under one arm. A few hundred meters farther, he deposited the now-useless disguise into a trash bin. Half a kilometer beyond that, he arrived at his waiting limousine. The driver jumped to open the door.
As his chauffeur pulled into traffic, he pondered the day’s events. Last month’s vote with the Agrun Nam had gone poorly, and didn’t look to change any time soon. The abstention had stalemated the entire proceeding. Despite intelligence reports that Davis had approached several Sanguire governments to begin diplomatic proceedings, Bentoncourt remained on the fence. The Agrun Nam had been split in half with one balancing between both sides of the argument. Nijmege had been livid at being thwarted yet again from bringing Davis to Europe. None of the Sañar believed she wanted Davis returned to the defunct throne. Davis had to die before she could officially be “returned” to her people.
Planting evidence against Bentoncourt would be dead simple. The Nam Lugal’s adamant opinion that Davis remain in the Americas seemed good enough cause. Bentoncourt’s politicking indicated he believed Davis was Elisibet reborn. The naive bastard protected her by taking his current stance, but he also had the most to lose upon Davis’s ascension. Why wouldn’t he want to keep her far away until someone could remove her from the picture? Once the goal was met, all fingers would point to their intrepid leader. O’Toole and her people would stop at nothing to slake their bloodthirsty fury, and this Nam Lugal would meet the same fate as the last.
Chewing his lower lip, he stared out the tinted window at passing countryside. The Human idiot he had hired had gloriously failed. Now on her guard, Davis was constantly flanked by O’Toole and Valmont, surrounded by her revitalized personal guard, the Aga’gída. Hopefully this time of peace would pave the way for his new attack dog. That and growing rumor of Elisibet’s return would simplify matters. The European Sanguire whispered among themselves these days, their jaded attentions having turned to an incongruous piece of gossip from friends in the colonies, news of the Sweet Butcher’s return. Their talk had not grown so loud that the Agrun Nam needed to make an official statement, but that time was fast approaching. Through the tangled network of families and houses, certain individuals had been put on notice, searched for, and asked to take a trip to the New Country. Rumors came from other countries, filtering through the Europeans, of invitations to discuss a new corporate foundation, one begun independently of any nation.
Time was running short. If his plans were to succeed, the Sanguire assassin must finish the job Rufus Barrett had begun.
***
Whiskey drifted toward the balcony of her apartment. She spent the majority of her free time there. It was the only place she could go outside to enjoy the day without a hundred Aga’usi, building security, and three hours of logistics planning. Of everything about her new lifestyle, the lack of freedom and spontaneity were the hardest to endure. It was high summer here after a too-long spring. Past the summer solstice, the nights were longer. At nine o’clock in the evening, twilight lay a blanket of gray across the river below.
So many things had changed. Early last year she had lived wild on the streets, never knowing where her next meal would come from, always in danger of police intervention or attacks from homeless predators. Now, here she stood—clean, well fed, and rich beyond her comprehension. She had gained her high school equivalency diploma, and had started college business courses last month. After years of living anonymously on the streets, so many people now knew her true name. It was a rags-to-riches tale like one seen in a Disney movie.
She chuckled. She doubted Disney would approach her for movie rights even if they knew about the Sanguire. Translating blood-sucking parasites to a Human-loving G-rated flick would be extremely difficult. Though they’d done it with a lot of Grimm’s tales, hadn’t they?
Whiskey saw something dark flicker across her peripheral vision and looked up. Her superior sight found one of the Aga’gída on the roof, placed there for the duration of her Baruñal Ceremony and feast. Waving, she saw him return the greeting. Building security was made up of an equal mix of both races, though all of Whiskey’s personal guard were Sanguire. The other staff kept their distance, whether from ignorance of her political position or knowledge of it, she didn’t know.
Among the Humans working in the building, she had become a local celebrity. Father Castillo insisted on treating her as royalty whenever they met, invariably in front of some employee or other. Dorst had gleefully informed Whiskey that current rumor among the unwashed masses was that she was the by-blow of royalty, though no one had been able to pin down who had fathered her. As time went on, more and more people referred to her by her royal title, Ninsumgal, rather than as president of the company. Gareth Davis’s family had yet to be located, so even the Sanguire on the payroll had cause to wonder about Whiskey’s parentage. At least she no longer had to explain her nickname; it had taken several weeks of constant explanation of the connection between her initials—J.D.—and the Jack Daniels brand of whiskey.
The only European Sanguire who didn’t treat her as if she wore an unwieldy crown were Margaurethe and Valmont. Margaurethe, of course, had very good reasons—friend, confidante, and potential lover. Whiskey couldn’t stand the thought of her bowing and scraping in deference. Margaurethe only did so when it was required for form’s sake. Valmont’s reasons were unknown. He kept his secrets well and Whiskey didn’t pry. They both knew she could overpower his will in an instant; they flirted back and forth with words and gestures, he never quite giving cause for her to do so, and she searching for where she stood with him. At first Whiskey had felt relief at his lack of royal acknowledgement, though not at all comfortable with the emotion. Now, she held a grudging respect. The Valmont Elisibet remembered—teasing and profane—remained beneath a thick shell of sarcasm and self-deprecation. Despite having assassinated Elisibet, and regardless of Whiskey’s native mistrust and anger at that betrayal, Valmont’s presence among her advisors...completed things. Nothing felt right without both he and Margaurethe at her side.
She still didn’t trust him.
Behind her, she heard the soft snick of the door. Without turning, she smiled, knowing who approached.
“Father Castillo says you’ve done him justice.”
Whiskey turned toward Margaurethe, reaching for her hand. “I have a good teacher.”
They balanced and complemented each other well. Where one was dark, the other was light. Margaurethe stood a little taller than Whiskey, her dark hair reflecting red highlights from the interior lamps as she stepped closer. Olive skin and high cheekbones suggested a Mediterranean descent though she insisted her blood sang for Eire and nowhere else. Emerald eyes, alight with pleasure, twinkled.
Raising the hand she held to her lips, Whiskey kissed the palm, lingering a bit longer than politeness dictated. “Is everyone still partying?”
“A good number of them.” Margaurethe moved closer, sliding an arm around Whiskey’s waist. She peered down the building at the busy front drive below. “The bulk of the major players have taken their leave.”
Whiskey followed her gaze, watching as the valet staff hustled back and forth to deliver cars to the delegates. Only the Wi Wacipi Wakan had taken up the offer of rooms. “I hadn’t expected to see Saggina Bescoe,” she said, referring to the leader of the local European Sanguire embassy.
“He called at the last minute, asking if he could attend. I think his desire to not offend you outweighed his duty to the Agrun Nam.”
Grimacing, Whiskey returned her attention to the woman in her arms. “In other words, he wasn’t here in an official capacity.”
“Politics isn’t all wine and roses.”
Whiskey smiled at the musical lilt of Margaurethe’s accent. “Remind me to order all the wine and roses in the city for you.”
“I shall.”
She laughed at the matter-of-fact tone.
With a sigh, Margaurethe leaned against her. They stood, heads together, as they stared out at the river. “Rather a nasty day for you today, hasn’t it been?”
Whiskey almost nodded but stopped, not wanting to upset their stance. Moments of quiet between them were few and far between, and she wanted to enjoy this for as long as possible. “It wasn’t too bad, even that change of challenge,” she allowed. “I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to all the—” She stopped, unable to come up with the right word.
“Pageantry.”
“Yeah, that.” She closed her eyes, recalling the momentary terror that had engulfed her when the doors had opened, and again when Dorst had brought her forward. “I’m just glad I didn’t make a mess of things.”
Margaurethe tightened their embrace. “You were marvelous, love. I don’t think anyone knew how nervous you truly were.”
A bark of laughter escaped Whiskey. “Sithathor did. She had a huge dinner waiting for me.”
“Ah, I’d hoped so.”
A fond smile for her chambermaid remained on Whiskey’s lips. As time passed, Sithathor’s maternal instincts had wormed their way into her heart, forging a connection between them that Margaurethe seemed to find distressing upon occasion. Small wonder considering the constant threat of danger. It was anyone’s guess where the next attack would come from, and paranoia had become Margaurethe’s watchword.
“Where would you be right now if everything had remained the same?”
Used to the sudden change of subject when Sithathor was discussed, Whiskey considered her response. “It’s Tuesday, right?” After an answering nod, she continued. “Well, I would have spent all night at Tallulah’s, and grabbed breakfast at Mickey D’s. I’d probably hang out at the library to keep busy. If I didn’t have much money, I’d spange downtown.”
“Spange?”
Whiskey smiled. “Spare change. Beg for cash.”
“A sad life.”
Pulling away, Whiskey looked at Margaurethe. “Not unless you make it one. There are lots of kids out there who become family for one another. Street moms and street dads help the younger ones learn the ropes of survival.”
“Did you have a street mom?”
A grin tugged at her lips. “For the first year, yeah. Her name was Shadow. She was a couple of years older than Gin and I, found us about a week after we met each other. We were both scared to death and nearly starving. Never would have survived without Shad.”
“I’m glad someone was there for you. Where is she now?”
“Don’t know. We left Portland for Seattle about five years ago. Haven’t heard from her since.” Whiskey felt her smile fading as she lost herself to the memories. “I guess it is a sad life, isn’t it?”
“Not unless you make it one.”
Chuckling, Whiskey pulled Margaurethe close once again. “Have I told you that you looked ravishing tonight?”
Margaurethe feigned preening, using one hand to brush at her hair. “Not today.”
“You. Look. Ravishing. Tonight.” Whiskey cupped her cheek, caressing with a thumb.
“As do you.”
Whiskey’s thumb slid along Margaurethe’s cheekbone, her fingers brushing the golden earring dangling from an earlobe. She leaned closer, glad that though Margaurethe was taller the difference between them wasn’t awkward. Her lips brushed Margaurethe’s, her mind caressing the mulled wine and wood smoke of Margaurethe’s Sanguire essence. Whiskey felt a deep, abiding love, a wordless welcome, and a sense of joy she’d never known she’d missed until this woman had arrived at her side. As they languished within each other’s souls, Whiskey could only liken this feeling to a homecoming.
Eventually the kiss ended, though the mental connection between them remained strong. Margaurethe cocked an eyebrow at her, a smile on her lips. “I’ll have to wear this dress more often.”
Chuckling, Whiskey brushed her knuckles across Margaurethe’s temple. “No complaints here.”
Margaurethe caught Whiskey’s hand, stepping back to put some space between them. She retreated within their bond, as well. Her expression remained one of love, though Whiskey saw and felt a sense of closure between them. Margaurethe kissed the back of Whiskey’s hand and released her. “It’s been a long night.”
Whiskey accepted the reticence for the uncertainty it was, pulling mentally away from Margaurethe as she nodded. They both had hurdles to cross. Margaurethe needed to reconcile the woman she loved centuries ago with the woman who stood before her now. Whiskey’s baggage came in the form of memories and assumptions gleaned from Elisibet Vasilla’s memories, and the fear that Margaurethe saw more of Elisibet than Whiskey when they were together. She and Margaurethe had been dancing back and forth for months, ever on the edge of consummating a relationship only for one or the other to retreat at the last moment.
They strolled back into her suite, not touching. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Margaurethe turned and smiled. “Of course, m’cara. Another busy day in the international world of business.” She reached out and recaptured Whiskey’s hand, tugging her close for a final kiss. “Good night.”
“Good night, Margaurethe.” Whiskey watched until the door closed quietly. Spinning around, she brought both her hands to her head, running fingers through the golden strands. “Argh!”