“I don’t have to ask what you were doing.” Whiskey released her control over Margaurethe, watching the slender shoulders slump. Some days the strength and intensity of the growing bond between them frightened her, but today she was glad of it. Who knew how far Margaurethe’s actions would have taken her with Valmont if she hadn’t interceded? She hadn’t had time to wonder from where Dorst had appeared. She had only seen blood and Valmont in her mind’s eye as she had taken the emergency stairs to the lobby.
Margaurethe remained in place a moment before straightening. She turned to Whiskey, her expression sternly beautiful. “My apologies. I let my anger get away from me.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
Her expression altered, a faint sneer flickering across face. Calmness replaced it. “I’m more than happy to tender my apologies to Father Castillo and Chano for witnessing my lack of control, but don’t expect me to do the same with him.”
Whiskey lowered her guard as she realized the immediate danger was over. She stepped closer, brow furrowed in concern. “What will it take, minn’ast, for you to trust me?” The pet word Elisibet used for Margaurethe seemed to have an effect. She watched confusion cross her lover’s face.
Margaurethe narrowed her eyes, looking away. “I do trust you.”
I thought we cleared this up last night. “No. You don’t.” She moved closer, and took Margaurethe’s chin in her fingers. “You’re pissed off at Valmont for not trying to stop me from doing what I wanted to do. You’re convinced he either set me up and I fell for his manipulations, or he should have done more to keep me from my goal.” She relaxed her grip, gently tracing Margaurethe’s jawline with a thumb. “You don’t trust my ability to take care of myself.”
“I don’t trust Valmont or his intentions.” Margaurethe pulled away, lips pressed together. She marched to the chair she usually sat in during board meetings. “He’s a traitor and a murderer. You’ve let him into this company and into your heart. He will be your downfall.”
Whiskey frowned. “Even Judas had a logical reason for his actions.”
Margaurethe whirled around. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Having put her foot in it, Whiskey refrained from the temptation to retreat. She had done enough of that as a street kid, and had resolved months ago to stop running. The thought tickled her funny bone given the irony of her attempt to run away from Pacal only minutes ago. “You and I both know how monstrous Elisibet was. Her entire reign went from bad to worse. She was a terror as a child, incapable of understanding how her actions destroyed hundreds of people, Human and Sanguire alike.” She moved closer. “The circumstances of her death were engineered by her.”
“You’re saying she planned to be assassinated by her best friend?” Margaurethe was livid, her skin flushed, hands balled into fists at her side.
“Of course not. But her lack of compassionate insight blinded her to reality—her people wouldn’t stand still for much more of her abuse. She painted her ass into a corner. There was no way out.”
“You are wrong!”
Whiskey expected it; Margaurethe’s essence was a jumbled quagmire of emotion, but she caught the raw fury seconds before Margaurethe struck. When it came, Whiskey felt the stinging slap on one cheek. Unlike Valmont, she didn’t allow Margaurethe to continue. She grabbed the flailing wrists, pressing close to give Margaurethe less advantage. “I was there, Margaurethe. I remember! Elisibet wasn’t surprised when Valmont showed up in her quarters with a sword. Don’t you think she could have stopped him with her very will if she had wanted to? Just like I stopped you a few moments ago?”
The baldly stated truth broke through Margaurethe’s attack. Her actions were no less frantic as she struggled, but her intentions had changed. She no longer fought Whiskey. Instead she struggled against the niggling doubt that had rested in her heart since Elisibet’s assassination. Sensing the difference, Whiskey released her. Margaurethe clutched at Whiskey, buried her head in her shoulder, and cried loudly against the pain she had held for centuries. Automatically, Whiskey’s mind sought the guards just outside the door, sending a soothing sensation to ease their alarm. She didn’t want anyone bursting into the room to witness Margaurethe’s breakdown.
“How could she have been so stupid?” Margaurethe gripped Whiskey’s shirt, shaking her. “She was the strongest of us! The best. She could have blasted that bastard’s mind into ashes if she’d given it half a thought.”
“She was tired. She had nowhere else to go, no place to be safe. She wanted it over.”
“She had me, damn it!” Her fist thumped Whiskey’s chest. “She had me. I would have kept her safe.”
Whiskey sighed and closed her eyes. Hugging Margaurethe close, she felt as weary as Elisibet had so long ago. Her throat was thick with unshed tears. “You couldn’t keep her safe, Margaurethe. You knew that then. Just like you can’t keep me safe now. Don’t blame Valmont for being Elisibet’s tool.”
The truth was hard, and it sank slowly through the layers of Margaurethe’s essence. She no longer fought against her demons. Her tears were hot against Whiskey’s neck, her hands firm as they held her close. Whiskey tentatively brushed her mind along Margaurethe’s, easing past the acrid self-hatred, and projecting her love and acceptance. They slipped into a bond so deep, Whiskey had no point of reference. She not only felt Margaurethe’s emotions but saw her memories as she relived them. A sense of shock whispered through Margaurethe, indicating her awareness of this fundamental change: What is this?
An answer came, not a sound but a feeling rising from the well of their joined minds. I don’t know. The bitter edge of regret and sorrow burned the edge of the thought, indicating it was Margaurethe’s answer to Whiskey’s question.
Neither knew how long the fugue lasted. Eventually, Margaurethe’s recriminations faded as she accepted Elisibet’s state of mind. For the first time, Whiskey was able to show the emotions and memories she lived with, the ultimate weariness that permeated Elisibet’s soul as events spiraled out of control. Margaurethe shed tears of sorrow and regret for her lover as she had been and as she was now. Whiskey wept as well, releasing some of her self-doubts as she truly saw Elisibet for the first time through Margaurethe’s eyes—not the horror and barbarism that forever haunted her, but the thousands of tender moments that had occurred between them, moments to which she hadn’t yet become privy.
When they broke from their mutual reverie, the room had considerably darkened with the threat of summer rain. “Are you all right?” Whiskey wiped the tears from Margaurethe’s face.
“Aye. I am.” Margaurethe took a deep breath. “What was that?”
Whiskey blinked. “You don’t know?” As soon as the words were out, she shook her head. “No, you don’t. I remember.”
“I’ve never felt that before, not even with Elisibet.”
“Maybe it’s part of whatever makes me so much stronger than others my age.” Whiskey didn’t want to hurt Margaurethe’s feelings with the idea that perhaps Elisibet’s inability to feel compassion and empathy had blocked something like this from happening before. That has to be it, right? I’m as strong as she was; everybody says so. It’s a good thing she couldn’t get into her victims’ heads like this. Is it even possible for me to do this with someone else?
“Maybe so.” Margaurethe’s gaze flickered to the door. “I still won’t apologize to him,” she said with a trace of her former stubbornness.
Whiskey chuckled. “You don’t have to.”
“Good.” She drew a shaky breath and stepped away, straightening her clothes.
Following Margaurethe’s cue, Whiskey rearranged herself and wiped her face. Nothing could hurt her, not with Margaurethe by her side. They had weathered a storm worse than the one building outside, and they were so much stronger because of it. She took Margaurethe in her arms and kissed her soundly. “I love you.”
“I love you, m’cara.” They held the stance for a fraction of time before she pulled away. “I suggest we locate the rest of your advisors.”
“I can go find them. Shall we meet back here?”
Margaurethe looked about the room. Other than a cup of coffee going cold on the table and a spot of blood by the door, nothing indicated the violence that had so recently taken place. “No. You shouldn’t be fetching your advisors. Perhaps we should repair to the Executive Dining Room.”
Whiskey sent a questing tendril out to Castillo, locating the others upstairs. “They’re already there. Shall we?” She held out her arm to Margaurethe. As her lover’s hand nestled in the crook of her elbow, she remembered the comforting sensation of this same action over the centuries, and smiled.