Senses on full alert, Margaurethe walked through the gallery, searching for Rufus. She hadn’t stretched out her mind, not wanting to tip Valmont off that she knew he was here. To one side, she caught a glimpse of Dorst bypassing a knot of art patrons. It eased her mind to know he was along. Soon Whiskey’s personal guard would be in place, and they could find and remove her from danger. It had been quite fortuitous that Dorst had known Valmont’s location—as soon as Margaurethe had heard it was Rufus’s gallery opening, she knew that Whiskey had left the safety of The Davis Group to attend.
Margaurethe circled the large room, passing an office where two Humans negotiated the sale of a painting. Further on stood two more doors, one a public restroom for the guests. She paused, listening. She heard grunts of pain and a hissing sound from the other. On full alert, she slipped into a storeroom, careful to close the door behind her. The storeroom smelled of oil paint, dust and blood, the latter a thick, cloying odor that caused her teeth to extend.
“You really are a stubborn sort, aren’t you?”
Recognizing the voice, Margaurethe didn’t bother to hide her approach, bursting into the center of the room.
Valmont held a very large and very limp rag doll in one hand. The black suit shredded, Rufus’s once white shirt was now a crimson tatter. His eyes rolled in a bloody face, pleading silently with Margaurethe as Valmont gently raked a knife tip across the artist’s already lacerated belly.
She breathed a sigh of relief that it was Rufus and not Whiskey in Valmont’s clutches. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Where’s Whiskey?”
“Ah, Margaurethe,” Valmont said by way of greeting, his pleasant tone belying the viciousness of the scene. “Whiskey’s gone for a walk while Van Helsing and I had a discussion. Did you know he had a wooden stake?”
Much as she wanted to immediately search for Whiskey, Valmont’s words stopped her. She focused on Rufus. “A wooden stake?” She stepped closer. “Aren’t you two working together?”
“Like I’d work with a deluded Human like this one,” Valmont snorted. “I mean, honestly, a stake through the heart? How do Humans come up with these things?” He shook his head. “I stopped him before he could use it on her, and told her to leave.” He gently shook Rufus, ignoring the whimper of pain as the man kept an obviously broken wrist clamped about his bleeding belly.
Margaurethe carefully scanned Rufus, noting Valmont’s neat work. The deep slice along his abdomen revealed a mass of entrails. Only the pressure of the organs against the cut and Rufus’s attempt to keep them contained had stopped him from bleeding to death before now. Despite her dislike of the man, she had to give Valmont credit. “As usual, a very nice job.”
“I learned from the best.”
Wrinkling her nose, she flashed on a memory of a similar torture scene with Elisibet giving her young friend a lesson in proper technique. It was one of the few Margaurethe had ever attended before finding excuses to be elsewhere while they enjoyed what they had termed their “entertainment.” “Yes, you did.”
“Unfortunately, he seems to be very reticent on the subjects of why and who. I’m not certain I have the time or tools to get a proper confession from him. It was all a rather unexpected surprise.”
The door opened, closed, and Dorst slid into the room. “Oh! I must say, is this party open for anyone?”
For a wonder, Valmont didn’t become defensive, or attempt to flee. “No, it’s not. Lock the door behind you.”
Dorst paused, gauging the situation. When Margaurethe didn’t argue the point, he proceeded to do as told. “Rather flimsy. A Human with a coat hanger should be able to pop it in a thrice.”
Valmont smirked at his victim. “I doubt we’ll be here that much longer, will we?”
Margaurethe looked around the room, finding the wooden stake near an ancient elevator door. She retrieved it and returned, holding it up to Rufus’s view. He knew Whiskey as a mythical vampire. He had pestered the pack multiple times in Margaurethe’s presence to be given the “final kiss.” There was no reason he would turn on Whiskey now unless someone else had played upon his desire for immortality. Someone had filled him to the brim with all sorts of promises about living forever. Valmont would never have resorted to such fiction to gain assistance from Rufus. It wasn’t his style.
She handed the weapon to Dorst, who tittered behind his hand in response. Returning to Valmont’s side, she stared into Rufus’s eyes, pouring all of her intensity into the gaze. “You know what we are, you know I can help you.”
Valmont sniggered, realizing her ploy, but Rufus was hooked. He swallowed and nodded, face pale beneath smears of blood.
Margaurethe mirrored his nod. “Tell us who gave you your information on Whiskey. I’ll grant you the final kiss.”
Rufus glanced from her to Valmont, uncertain.
“Surely you must know that she’s older than he,” Dorst played along. “Valmont is her minion.”
“I used him to force Whiskey back to my side.” Margaurethe was not sure if she wanted to giggle or slap Rufus for believing this tripe. “You’ll live forever, Mr. Barrett. Or you’ll die now.”
It didn’t take long for Rufus to make a decision. Opening his mouth, he took several tries before the word finally came out. “Lionel.”
“Most interesting.” Dorst crossed an arm over his chest, and stroked his chin in thought.
Margaurethe blinked in surprise, pulling back. Beside her, Valmont cursed, and his prisoner whimpered in sudden pain as he was shaken.
“Barrett, is it?” Valmont’s face was grim. “There’s something you should know, Barrett. You were doomed to die the moment you accepted Lionel’s offer.”
Rufus struggled weakly against his grip, looking at Margaurethe for confirmation.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrett. The Sanguire who hired you lied. We have no ability to confer immortality on Humans. It’s a myth.”
Despair filled Rufus’s countenance for a single moment before Valmont’s knife found his heart.
Margaurethe turned away, barely hearing the corpse hit the floor.
“Well, that was entertaining,” Dorst said after a moment. “Waste of artistic talent, though. Did you notice the painting of my Gasan? Exquisite!”
“We need to leave before his disappearance is discovered.” Margaurethe turned to watch Valmont clean his knife on a patch of Rufus’s pants that had escaped soaking. “This is his showing.”
“What a pity.” Valmont rose, the knife disappearing into the folds of his long jacket. “I noted some of the work. He was good.”
Dorst liberated a wooden chair from behind an old metal desk, and jammed it under the doorknob to delay any entrance from the gallery proper. “That should hold them for a bit.”
Margaurethe looked around the room. “Which way did she go?”
“The fire exit. Next to the elevator there.” Valmont remained in place.
“Let’s go.” Margaurethe pushed at the metal bar, but the door remained closed. “What? Is it locked?” She applied more force, unable to make it budge. She turned to give Valmont a suspicious look, pleased to see he was equally confused. “Are you sure she went this way?”
“That’s the only other exit.” He pointed at the corpse on the floor. “He had her pinned against the frame when I came in.”
Dorst came to check the door. “Most odd. Most odd.” As Margaurethe got out of his way, he examined it closely, applying his force along one place, then another. “Perhaps she’s Dilída Ru’oníñ á Sud]e, and blindly locked it when she left.”
Valmont frowned, coming closer. “You don’t know what her talent is, yet? She should have manifested it by now.”
Margaurethe fought the urge to hit Dorst for revealing a weakness. Instead, she turned, hands on her hips, and glared at Valmont. “Well we know that you’re one, so unlock the damned door.”
He acted pleased at her vexation. Coming forward, he placed his hand on the lock, closed his eyes and concentrated. The gentle snick of a bolt being drawn announced his success. Opening his eyes, Valmont pushed open the door, revealing concrete steps leading to street level.
Margaurethe led the way, with Dorst on her heels. “Can you lock it behind us? Give them a right puzzle to deal with.”
Valmont gave her a sardonic bow, and proceeded to do so.
They had barely made it to the street when several Sanguire emerged out of the darkness. There was little time to talk as the group left the immediate area on foot.
Once at a safe distance, Valmont interrupted the silent march. “Did you give her my card?”
Dorst acted shocked, one long-fingered hand patting his chest over his heart. “But, of course, I did, Sublugal Sañar! Do you doubt my word after going through such trouble to get it?”
Valmont rolled his eyes. “I thought the role of the fop would have gotten old by now, Reynhard.”
“It will never get that old, Valmont.” Dorst’s smile was all teeth.
Margaurethe interrupted their camaraderie. “How did you get here?”
“I followed Whiskey from your building. I’ve an auto parked just over there.” He pointed toward a parking structure. “I have to say, I was surprised to see her on the streets alone after the discussions you and I have had.”
Margaurethe ground her teeth. Now was not the time to argue with him. They needed to get away before Rufus was discovered, and find Whiskey before anyone else did. “We must locate Whiskey. You must go away and leave her alone.”
“Well, that’s hardly sporting.” Valmont crossed his arms over his chest, showing confidence despite being surrounded by a half-dozen Sanguire sworn to Margaurethe. “I did just save her life. Don’t I get some type of reward for my selfless act?”
Growling, Margaurethe almost told him what she would reward him with, and that it was quite similar to what Rufus Barrett had received. But Dorst answered for her.
“I believe your reward will be an audience with Whiskey.” Dorst peered at Valmont. “That is what you most wanted, is it not?”
Valmont dropped his arms, his arrogance slipping slightly. “It is.”
Dorst bowed. “She has expressed an interest in meeting with you. I expect she’ll be even more intrigued now that you’ve rescued her from the clutches of certain death.”
Margaurethe gave an explosive sigh. “Just go, Valmont. I’ll call you and arrange an appointment.” When he did not move, she put both hands on her hips. “I swear it.”
Valmont studied her. He accepted her word despite her stance, and bowed ludicrously low as he backed away. “As you wish, dear lady. I am your faithful minion; my life has little joy but to obey your every whim.”
A flicker of the old friendship between them flared in Margaurethe’s heart. A ghost of a smile crossed her face at his teasing and she shook her head. It was with some difficulty that she forced the humor away. Valmont had killed Elisibet. She had no guarantee he wouldn’t do the same with Whiskey, regardless of Zica’s opinion.
Face once more stern, she turned and marched away, knowing he was already gone.