Margaurethe took Phineas’s hand as he helped her out of the vehicle. The rain had stopped, leaving a clean scent in the air. The seedy street held few cars, testament to the fact that it was a Sunday night. Apparently the club in question did not do much business on a day when one’s soul gained precedence over one’s baser instincts. A large oval of etched steel held the street number but no name, and every window was blacked out. The only indication she was in the correct location was the throbbing bass music rumbling under her feet.
“Doesn’t look like much, cuz, does it?”
Scanning up and down the street, Margaurethe noted two vagrants sleeping in a doorway across the way. The business next door had shoved two rolling bins of trash and recycling onto the curb, some of which had spilled over. A rat darted down the gutter, the presence of people interrupting its late night foraging. “No, it doesn’t.” She avoided a puddle on her way to the entrance, and Phineas opened the door for her.
A beefy Human filled the small alcove inside, low overhead lights reflecting dimly against his bald pate. His voice suited his size as he rumbled, “This is a private party.”
Margaurethe raised an eyebrow. “We’re invited. Please check with—” She slightly turned to Phineas, feigning ignorance. “What did that woman say his name was?”
“Father Castillo,” he supplied.
“Of course.” She returned her attention to the giant. “Father Castillo.”
The bouncer observed them with suspicion as he stepped back to the inner door. When he poked his head inside, the music swelled louder, the seductive beat rattling Margaurethe’s heart. He had to yell to be heard by whomever he spoke with, but she did not catch the words. The door widened, and a small, swarthy priest bustled toward them.
“Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe!” He bowed deeply, tilting his head to one side to expose his neck in the proper manner. He was young, maybe half Margaurethe’s age, with no lines gracing his face. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the house to receive you.”
She waved away his apology, urging him to rise. “Hardly necessary, Father. We did descend upon you without warning.” She gestured toward the now closed inner door. “Shall we?”
Castillo appeared taken aback at her abruptness, but nodded. “Of course. You must be anxious to meet Whiskey. Please come in.”
The bouncer held the door open for them, and they walked into a sea of sound. All told there were about two dozen guests and security here. A bar stood along one wall, and a number of people filled the dance floor and tables beyond. The establishment was small with stairs leading to a second level above. Halfway up the steps, a Sanguire man with a blue mohawk was partaking of a kizarus, the copper smell spiking over the aroma of alcohol and musk as he drew fresh blood from his Human’s throat. Margaurethe wrinkled her nose, and looked away. It was considered rude in modern society to feed in public, but that didn’t seem to be a problem here. She scanned the area with both eyes and mind, noting the sprinkling of both Sanguire and Humans, searching for light blond hair. A large sign at the top of the stairs discussed the rules for the “Mattress Room,” rules that included nudity as a requirement. On a hunch, she turned to Castillo. “What sort of club is this?”
He had the sense to blush. “During normal business hours, it’s an adult sex club, Ki’an Gasan.”
She did not quite grind her teeth. Leave it to Elisibet’s heir to find the most scandalous place in the city to have her little soiree. “And you could find no other place for your charge to enjoy herself? Exactly what religion do you profess to follow?”
Castillo raised his chin, a gesture of capitulation in Sanguire society. “It’s one of the few places that will allow private rentals that also include bartender and DJ services, Ki’an Gasan.” He glanced around the room at the servers. “And considering the nature of our people, it seemed best to be somewhere that the staff doesn’t ask questions.”
He had Margaurethe there, so she didn’t pursue the subject. She clicked her tongue at the number of Sanguire younglings in evidence. So much for discretion; it looked like half the youngsters in the Colonies had found their way here. She even noted what looked like a native Indian among the crowd. I’ll have to attempt contact with the We Wacipi Wakan sooner than planned it seems. “Have you informed her of my arrival?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you were coming here, or awaiting our return.”
Her next sound was a forcibly expelled grunt of surprise as the crowd on the dance floor parted.
Elisibet came into view, an Elisibet she had never before seen—young, vivacious, smiling as she danced enticingly with another young blond woman. She wore leather pants and a tight tank top, and was writhing against her partner, the slow beat a counterpoint to her seduction, oblivious to her spectator. The same height, the same build, the same light blond hair, the same mannerisms—the only visible differences were the burgundy dye coloring the last six inches of her hair, and the black dragon tattoo snaking up one arm. The song ended, melding into another with a faster beat. Elisibet initiated a searing kiss that ended the dance, an obvious familiarity burning between the two participants. Margaurethe felt a sharp pang of jealousy, the well-worn stab breaking through her reverie.
Without thought, she reached out with her mind. She easily dominated the young woman in Elisibet’s arms, blocking the cheeky girl from retaliating. Extending herself to Elisibet, her heart physically ached as the familiar essence washed over her. The scent of roses wafting through her soul after so long an absence made her swoon. She barely felt the firm grip of the priest at her elbow when she faltered, or heard his questioning voice.
Whiskey turned, startled black eyes meeting Margaurethe’s. The shock of not seeing Elisibet’s ice-blue gaze confused Margaurethe, the catalyst allowing her to examine the young woman’s mental touch. Margaurethe noted the scent of blood beneath the roses, the taste of water, neither of which Elisibet had ever held. She’s not Elisibet! She’s not! The impostor attempted to strengthen the connection, physically setting her dance partner aside and stepping closer. Margaurethe fought it off, turning away and into Phineas’s arms. My gods! She’s so powerful!
“Get me out of here!”
Without a question, Phineas wrapped his arms around her, bustling her back out the door. In mere seconds she was hunched over in the backseat of the car, fingers at her temples as she fought off the joining of souls that she had begun. Phineas pulled away with some speed, and distance finally accomplished what she could not. Panting, she slumped in the backseat, staring at the ceiling.
“Are you all right, cuz?”
Margaurethe lifted her head, seeing Phineas’s worried scrutiny in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be…fine.”
He nodded, but did not appear convinced. “It was her, wasn’t it?”
Her throat tightened, and she clamped down on the sob that wanted to express itself. “Yes.” She laid her head back on the seat, turning it to stare out the window. “Yes, it was.”
***
Cora hissed in Whiskey’s arms, sagging.
Alarmed, Whiskey tightened her grip. “What’s wrong?” She ducked her head to look at Cora, seeing the not-quite-beautiful face twisted in pain. “What is it?”
The answer came from elsewhere before Cora could speak. A sensation of heat washed over Whiskey, the faint smell of woodsmoke and mulled wine made her breathe deep though she knew the aroma was in her mind. An acute pain stabbed once within her chest. She recognized it as the yearning she’d had all her life finally meeting what it had been missing. Mouth dropping open, she spun around.
Margaurethe O’Toole. She stood near the door with Castillo. She’s real.
Cora was forgotten. Whiskey’s stare locked with Margaurethe’s as she reveled in the remembered sensations. Elisibet’s memories did them no justice, the reality so much more satisfying than the secondhand versions to which Whiskey had had access. All the flashes of memory, the sudden insights into Elisibet’s thoughts and the nightmare of Elisibet’s death that had plagued Whiskey for months were nothing compared to the smell of woodsmoke and mulled wine that now filled Whiskey’s soul. Accepting the connection, she extended her own senses in an effort to strengthen it. Margaurethe sagged into a man’s arms. She said something to him, and he turned and escorted her out of the club.
“Wait!” Whiskey moved forward with mind and body. “Don’t leave!” The crowd ebbed around her as she pushed through them, swearing in frustration. By the time she made it to the outer door, Margaurethe was in a car rapidly speeding away, the connection fading with the growing distance. “Wait!”
Curious bystanders spilled onto the street behind her— Castillo, her current crowd of sycophants, and the ever-present security guards hired by Dorst. Those not there in an official capacity whispered among themselves, their words easy to overhear with her heightened senses. It reminded her of her memory of Elisibet sitting in the throne room, and the buzzing gossips of court discussing her latest activities. She felt a petulant anger race quicksilver through her blood, a reminder that Elisibet was always close by in her head and heart.
“Where is she going, Padre?”
Castillo held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down. She’s probably going back to the house.”
Of course. Whiskey shook her head, looking around at the people gathered out in the cold. Cora had remained inside. The rain had begun again, sprinkles of chill ice bringing her to her senses. Get a grip, Whiskey. She ran a hand through her hair, turning back toward the club.
“Show’s over, folks,” Castillo called. “The party’s not finished yet, so let’s get back to it, shall we?”
The crowd accepted the priest’s words, and began to migrate back inside. When only the security guards remained with them, he turned to her. “Are you okay?”
Whiskey swallowed and nodded, once more running her hand through her hair. “Yeah. I just—I wasn’t expecting—”
Castillo chuckled. “I don’t think she was, either.”
It eased her mind knowing she wasn’t the only one surprised. “It was her, wasn’t it, Padre? She was here, right?” she asked in a small voice.
“It was her, Whiskey.” He put an arm around her shoulder, and squeezed. “That was Margaurethe O’Toole.”
With confirmation that she was not going crazy, she glanced down the now empty street. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Whiskey rolled her eyes at his non answer. “She forged a connection with me.” She bit her lower lip, holding the memory of Margaurethe’s essence to her as she stared down the empty street. “It was—It was just like I remembered, like she remembered,” she added, not saying Elisibet’s name. Despite having a firm grasp on what had driven the former ninsumgal’s actions, Whiskey was disgusted by the atrocities her predecessor had instigated. She rarely spoke the name.
“I recall you telling me that Sañur Gasum Dorst had felt the same when you first met him, as well.”
“Yeah.” She took a deep breath, wanting to re-experience the woodsmoke and mulled wine that had so quickly fled her mind. Turning to him, she gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I guess it was to be expected, huh?”
He mirrored her grin, bowing once. “Maybe. But neither of you were prepared for what you’d meet.”
“No,” she whispered.
Castillo moved away, and held the club’s door open. “Let’s get back inside.”
Whiskey frowned, the urge to get out and have a good time no longer imperative. “I think I’ll go back to the house.”
He allowed the door to close. Stepping closer, he lowered his voice so the Human spectators would not catch his words. “She’s had a frightful shock, Whiskey. She fled because she needs time alone. I’m not a gambling man, but I’d wager she wasn’t expecting you to be so much like the Elisibet she remembers. Let’s give her a little time to collect herself.”
She considered his words, not wanting to concede. The yearning for Margaurethe superseded everything. What if she leaves before I get there?
Sensing she was on the edge of acceptance, Castillo added, “She came at your summons. She won’t leave now with so much undone. She’ll be there when we return.”
Whiskey grimaced as he named her fear. Reluctant, she looked at the doors of the club, feeling the music beneath her feet. Whether she liked it or not, she had guests. It would not be polite to bail on them. As she took the first grudging step back inside, she realized she had not once thought of Cora. A wash of distaste flowed through her for being so callous. I’m not her.