“What do you mean she’s not here?” Margaurethe O’Toole glared at the Human woman who’d had the misfortune of answering the door. Around the two of them stood Margaurethe’s personal guard, a half dozen tense Sanguire in dark suits, bristling with potential danger.
The young security guard swallowed, the sound audible to the visitors’ advanced senses. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We weren’t informed of your arrival today, so she and her friends went out for the evening.”
Margaurethe had to give the woman credit. Despite the number of menacing Sanguire and the obvious anger directed at her, the hapless Human displayed no fear though the small foyer reeked of the scent. But a Human security company? Whatever is Dorst thinking? How can he possibly believe that a Human can protect the future Ninsumgal? “Where has she gone?”
Another swallow. “For security reasons I’m not allowed to say.”
Margaurethe loomed closer to the woman. “You very much can say,” she advised in a voice rich with threat. “And if you do not, I’ll see you terminated.” She left open for speculation whether she meant the security officer’s job or life.
They locked stares for a moment before the woman broke away. “Excuse me. I need to contact my supervisor.”
Smiling, Margaurethe became the epitome of grace. “Of course.” She watched the woman move into the living area, and pull a cell phone from her pocket. Turning slightly, Margaurethe ordered one of her guards to have her belongings brought in from the car. As he relayed the order via a discreet radio, she glanced around the foyer, finding nothing to attract her interest. When the Human returned, she gave the woman her polite attention.
“Father Castillo wishes to convey his regret that he wasn’t here to greet you, ma’am. He and Whiskey are at Club Express downtown. I’m to give you directions.”
Margaurethe dipped her head, refusing to display her distaste for the young woman’s use of Ms. Davis’s nickname. “Thank you.”
A commotion at the door distracted her. She turned to see her driver setting several pieces of luggage on the floor. “Give the directions to Phineas, and see that my things are taken to my room.” She left the woman no avenue to naysay her commands. Something Margaurethe had learned early in her days as Ki’an Gasan was how imperative it was to act like one expected all servants to follow one’s orders. Confidence was key to political power.
As proof, the woman opened her mouth, and then snapped it closed. No doubt, she had decided to call this Castillo person back once they were away. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll take care of it.”
While Phineas received instructions, Margaurethe pulled aside the captain of her guard. “I want you to remain here. See that my things are settled, and have a look around. Do you want anyone to remain with you?”
“I’ll keep one, Ki’an Gasan,” he said, indicating a burly guard. “Do you want me to call in reinforcements?”
“Not yet, I think. Let’s see the lay of the land first.”
He nodded, and stepped away to speak to his lieutenant.
Phineas, a lanky young man who looked barely seventeen, came to her side. “Begging your ladyship’s pardon,” he said, a puckish grin on his face. “If you’re ready to go, I’ve got the way to our destination.”
Despite her concern, Margaurethe grinned at him. “When are you going to move past your backcountry upbringing, and address me with my proper title?”
He held the door open for her, and two guards slipped out first. “Aw, cuz, what would be the fun in that? You’ll get airs, you will. This way you’ll forever be reminded of your lowborn roots.”
Margaurethe shook her head at his impertinent tone, and preceded him out of the house.
***
It had been four months since the secretive assassin, Reynhard Dorst, had shown up in Margaurethe’s private office with news of Elisibet’s return, four months of cautious logistical and financial planning on Margaurethe’s part. He’d reported that the traitorous Valmont had been sniffing around in Seattle, so the Agrun Nam must have heard rumors. This Jenna Davis needed to be protected at all costs until her position was secured. To that end, Margaurethe had demanded Dorst remove Ms. Davis to a safer location. Valmont had been the cause of Elisibet’s demise; history could not repeat itself. She’d been sorely disappointed. Rather than cart Davis across country, Dorst had settled her a mere four hours away in Portland, Oregon. Since then, he’d refused to answer Margaurethe’s missives demanding explanation, frustrating her no end.
Margaurethe had used her vexation to create several dummy corporations, and funneled money into their coffers. That money then created a trust fund for one Jenna Davis, the reins of which were in Margaurethe’s capable hands. After the distributing corporations had been dismantled, several limited liability companies had been created, each one “owning” various pieces of property—the house Margaurethe had just left, for one, and several vehicles of assorted makes and models. Those companies belonged to a single holding company under the control of the trust fund. Margaurethe felt certain that the convoluted business path would keep the Agrun Nam and their lackeys from discovering anything of vital importance for a long while yet.
Margaurethe stared out the water-streaked window of the Town Car as Phineas traversed the rainy Portland streets. A lump of nerves churned her stomach, almost making her regret the kizarus she had refused to feed from on board the private jet. She had been too agitated then, she recalled ruefully. Had she partaken of a little fresh blood, she would not be out of sorts now.
In an attempt to keep her mind off the pending meeting, she ticked off the tasks that needed doing over the coming days. The first was to sack the security company Dorst had hired. She had brought enough of her personal guard to take over that particular duty, and more personnel would be arriving from Europe within the week. Once she had the chance to assess the household staff here, she would know who else to bring over the pond. Additionally, she wanted to begin scouring the city for a likely building. The Pacific Northwest of the United States was as good an area as any to set up a permanent base for the fledgling ninsumgal, despite the dangers, international politics be damned.
In that instant, Margaurethe saw Elisibet in her mind. The sight brought her a mixture of emotion that threatened to drown her—love and adoration, deep regret, and the long familiar sorrow that had colored her world for almost four centuries.
They had been together for over two hundred years when Elisibet had been murdered by her closest friend and confidant, Valmont. Two hundred tumultuous years of bloody war with those Humans who had tried to stamp the Sanguire race out of existence, two hundred years of barbarisms on both sides. Elisibet had been known as a tyrant by her own people, her merciless rule equaling that of Vlad Dracule, and lasting five times as long.
Most could not fathom the root of Margaurethe’s love for Elisibet. It was assumed Margaurethe’s naiveté was the sole cause. She had been a mere twenty years old to Elisibet’s two centuries when they had met. Perhaps naiveté had been the initial case. Sanguire rarely left the confines of their homes until they were in their fifties. Margaurethe had pestered her parents incessantly to be brought to court for the Harvest Ball to celebrate her newfound adulthood. They eventually succumbed to her wheedling, suffering eternal horror when their supreme ruler debauched their daughter. The O’Tooles had demanded satisfaction for Elisibet’s scurrilous actions, possibly assuming they would receive lands or monetary value in return for ruining the poor girl. No one was more surprised than Margaurethe when Elisibet offered her a place in court, lands, and the title Ki’an Gasan.
Naiveté could not explain the deepening emotion Margaurethe had held for her lover. She had been drawn to Elisibet from the beginning, yes. Beautiful, cold, powerful—the woman was the epitome of magnetism, appearing casual and calm even as she ordered others to their deaths. Once past the first blush of romance, Elisibet had shown a vulnerable side of herself to Margaurethe that she had revealed to no one else. In conversations with others who had graced the tyrant’s bed over the years, Margaurethe discovered she had been the only one who had experienced such trust. It was an astounding gift that Margaurethe vowed never to abuse, even if it meant turning her back on a multitude of reprehensible activities in which Elisibet was involved. With the clarity of hindsight four centuries past, Margaurethe knew that this had been her fatal error.
One she was not going to repeat.