Chapter Sixteen

Unable to sit and worry at the house, Margaurethe visited the construction zone of her new headquarters. A former hotel, the building that now housed The Davis Group had the luxury of a glass and marble lobby, an entire city block of meeting space, two levels of garage, and a dozen floors of guest rooms. Multiple kitchens on two floors sweetened the deal, allowing Margaurethe to host lavish state dinners while simultaneously maintaining a cafeteria for future employees and an executive dining room. A hand holding her bright orange construction helmet for fear of it tipping to her nose, she leaned over the latest diagrams with the floor foreman as he pointed out specific details.

“You wanted to expand the health club facilities, but there ain’t a lot else we can do. We can’t get the pool any deeper without taking out part of the second floor beneath it.” He stabbed a gnarly finger at one area, and then thumbed up the next page to reveal the floor below. “That would mean moving the waterworks down another level, which would put it there.” He turned, gesturing toward what had been meeting rooms in one corner of the lobby. “You’ll lose the locker rooms and that conference space.”

Margaurethe pursed her lips. She had wanted to keep the meeting area here for impromptu gatherings, a place where her people could come to meet with the unanointed at a moment’s notice. And the locker rooms were a vital employee perk. The majority of her workforce would be Human, and much inclined toward loyalty for a company that gave them such benefits as secure storage for their personal belongings and free meals. “I can deal with a four-foot pool if I have to.” She thought a moment, taking the pages from him, and once more exposed the third floor. “Perhaps if we lengthened it? If we moved the spa here,” she poked the paper, “and turned the pool this way,” she twirled her finger in a circle to indicate a one-hundred-eighty- degree turn, “we could afford to have a longer pool with a higher lap distance.”

The foreman thought a moment. “Actually, I remember seeing something in a magazine once. A pool that had its own current to swim against.” He traced the current pool location. “I’d have to look into it, but this area would be big enough for two or three, side by side.”

“Really?” Margaurethe pulled out her phone, and entered a note to check on the idea.

“Yeah. You’ll be able to use the existing plumbing. Wouldn’t have to worry about length for laps since you swim in place.” He glanced at her with a grin. “I’d need updated blueprints to work from if you go that route.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He nodded. “In that case, we’ll stay focused on the residences and offices upstairs, and keep the crew renovating the lower levels. Until we have something solid, we’ll avoid the second and third floors.”

“Thank you. You’re continuing to work twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just like you wanted. We’ll have this place done in record time.”

“Excellent. Are the elevators working? I’ve a mind to check out the penthouse.”

“Not these.” He waved at the bank of four elevators in what would remain the public area. “The elevator company finished their renovations last week, and I had ’em locked off. Didn’t want anybody messing up the work.” He escorted her away from the worktable, around the corner, and through the framework of a future wall. “Use these in the service area. And watch your step up there!”

Margaurethe smiled. “Thank you, I will.” Her smile faded as the elevator doors closed. She fished out her cell phone to see that no one had called. The adage “No news is good news” ran through her mind, though it didn’t decrease her worry.

The elevator opened to a barrage of hammering and sawing. She exited into a small service area on the sixteenth floor. Two doors had been propped open, one to the corridor, and one into what had been the hotel’s Presidential Suite. Considering some of the quality hotels Margaurethe had enjoyed in the past, she had found the title somewhat misleading. This one had not even had a proper bed in it, relying on a pullout couch for sleeping, or the rental of connecting suites.

She stepped into the suite, aiming for its claim to fame— a magnificent view of the Willamette River. This was the only balcony on this floor, and ran the length of the room. The doors had been opened to combat the smell of sawdust and wallpaper glue. She went outside. A chill breeze swept over her, and she leaned into the freshness. It had not rained since the night before, but the air still smelled so clean. She marveled at the scent.

Margaurethe went to the banister, checking it for stability before leaning upon it. Far below, traffic on Naito Parkway was brisk. The corner pedestrian crossing light chirped for the vision impaired, audible at this distance even without her sharp hearing. Across the street sat Tom McCall Waterfront Park, a concave expanse of green grass marred only by a dirt walkway along the river’s edge leading from the running path on the left to the marina on the right. Though the air was still cold, the park held a number of people seeking to reacquaint themselves with sunlight.

This would be Whiskey’s view every day, the foyer to her residence would take up the room behind Margaurethe. Her dwelling itself would utilize half the floor. In the corner across from the main elevators would be a security station monitoring access, and the remaining space would be Margaurethe’s residence. Elisibet would have loved the view.

Her cell phone rang, and she hastily answered it.

“Margaurethe?”

Glad of the banister, Margaurethe sagged against it at the sound of the familiar voice she had not heard in over three weeks. A thousand questions flooded her thoughts, clogging her throat with their sheer number. “Whiskey.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Pause. “Is everything okay? What’s all that noise?”

Margaurethe hurried to close the sliding glass doors, muffling the majority of the construction noise. “I’m at the new building. They’re doing some work.”

“Oh.”

Margaurethe could almost see the blond head dip in acceptance, her expression uncertain. She smiled at the vision. “Are you well?”

“Oh! Yeah, I’m fine. That’s why I called, to let you know I’m okay.”

Her heart thumped, and she felt a lump forming in her throat. “Thank you for the consideration. I was quite worried when I heard the news.”

“You heard? About Valmont?”

Margaurethe smiled, walking back to the banister to stare out over the water. “Yes. Father Castillo called, all atwitter. He thought I should know what happened.” She did not bother to mention her altercation with him, not wanting to break this tenuous connection between her and Whiskey.

“Ah, the padre. Right.”

She heard the disgruntlement in Whiskey’s tone. Apparently Margaurethe wasn’t the only one who’d had her fill of the priest these days. “He assured me your pack is safe. Have you had time to contact him?”

After a few moments pause, Whiskey said, “Not yet. I wanted to call you first.”

Tears sprang into Margaurethe’s eyes, and she brought one hand up to her mouth. At least I haven’t completely alienated her. “Then thank you again. I know how important your friends are to you. I’m honored that you would notify me before finding them.”

Noises on the other end almost made Margaurethe smile. Again she saw Whiskey in her memory, bashful and blushing at the praise. She opened her mouth, wanting to ask when Whiskey would come home, but pressed her fingers to her lips to prevent the words. Despite the incredible danger Whiskey was in because of Valmont, this was a conclusion she needed to arrive at on her own. Castillo had been right; Margaurethe would throttle the very spirit out of Whiskey by holding on as tightly as she had. Though it hurt to her soul, she had to relax her grip.

“I should call the padre.”

As hard as it was, Margaurethe denied the urge to beg otherwise. “Yes, you probably should. He’s quite concerned for you, too. I assume the younglings will also need reassurance.”

“Yeah, probably.”

She stood, listening to Whiskey’s gentle breathing. Margaurethe wasn’t the only one loathe to disconnect. “Do you need anything?” she finally asked. “Money? Transportation?”

“No, I’m good. Rufus has a car. Once I find out where the others are, I’ll have him drive me there.” After another long interval of silence, she said, “I’ll…I’ll see you later then?”

“Of course, Whiskey. My door is always open to you. Never forget.”

“I won’t.” There was a suspicious sniffle. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, lúkal,” Margaurethe murmured, ending the conversation before she started crying.

She turned toward the river, both elbows on the balcony as she filled her lungs with the crisp, clean air. It bolstered her, forestalled the desire to weep with relief—not just the easing of her immediate concerns, but also the bone-deep alleviation of worry that she had irreparably damaged her budding relationship with Whiskey. The phone call told Margaurethe that the obstacles were not insurmountable, that she still had a chance to sway Whiskey, to work with her and keep her protected from all those that would have her dead.

All was not lost.

Margaurethe stared across the water, not truly seeing the highway traffic on the bridges, the green hump of Mt. Tabor, the white peak of Mt. Hood in the distance beyond.

Dorst had yet to call. She assumed it was because Whiskey remained on the loose from even his hunting talents. He was probably frantic in his search—or at least as frantic as an assassin could get. Margaurethe chastised herself for the light chuckle escaping her lips. Dorst, the dangerous broken man, followed Whiskey around like a puppy. He had followed Elisibet around in the same manner until Margaurethe had told her lover how uncomfortable she felt in his presence. After that, Margaurethe rarely saw him.

She had sometimes wondered what would have happened if she had not driven him away from his precious mistress’s side. Would he have been in the palace when Valmont came to destroy Elisibet? Would he have saved her from certain death, defended her against the traitorous man whom she had called friend? Unlike Margaurethe, would he have been there on time?

Did he feel shame, like she did, for not being there to save Elisibet?

Margaurethe swallowed against the bile in her throat. This sudden emotional connection between her and Dorst tasted much too bitter. She had always wondered why he had come to save her before the Purge swept through the capitol city and palace, though she had never given it deep thought over the years. Far easier to assume he had done so out of loyalty to Elisibet than that they shared a common life-changing mistake. Besides, that time and those feelings would engulf her as they had done then if she examined them too closely.

She heard the banging and power tools once more as she forced herself to the present. Turning away from the spectacular view, she made her way back inside, the sound magnifying as she opened the sliding doors. There was nothing she could do here, and a number of things she could work on elsewhere.

Making a to-do list in her head, she picked her way through Whiskey’s entry foyer, and headed for the elevator.