The Strange Path (11 page)

No. The look in his eyes revealed the fault in her logic. He might have gotten through to her with such an expression, saved her from herself and her teenaged rebellion. Had she truly met him then, she would have fallen sway to the mysterious trust she already felt for him. They hadn’t met.

Then how the hell do I know him?

***

A couple of blocks shy of the hotel, Whiskey caught a whiff of grilling steak. Her stomach cramped in hunger, a sharp ache so strong it made her feet lurch. She licked her lips, eying the small diner from which the most delicious aroma came. She’d told Dorst she’d return to the hotel room to sleep off whatever effects occurred from the chant. It would be a small detour. “He wouldn’t want me to starve, right?”

Entering the restaurant, the scent of food made her belly cramp again. She sank into the first chair she came to, fumbling her pack to the floor.

“Are you okay?”

She quelled her rebellious stomach enough to look up at the server. “Yeah, just give me a minute.”

He gave her a long look, then glanced back at the counter for support from his co-workers. “You can’t stay here.”

Whiskey scowled at him. “I came here to eat, not loiter. I’ve got money.”

Holding up his hands in a calming gesture, he took a step back from her. “Okay. I just had to say it.”

She nodded, disliking his assumption. Not that he didn’t have every reason to be concerned about an obviously homeless person taking up residence at one of his tables. If she’d been in his place, she’d be suspicious, too. “You got a special today?”

“Steak and eggs, side of hash browns and toast or muffin.”

Her mouth watered at the mention of steak. “I’ll take it. And bring a pot of coffee.”

He hesitated.

Whiskey rolled her eyes. She pulled out the last of the money Fiona had given her, and tossed it onto the table. Glaring, she gave him a questioning look.

He swallowed, still nervous, but pulled out a pad and pen from his apron. “How do you want your eggs?”

They hassled through the specifics. Whiskey surprised herself by ordering her steak rare; she preferred her meat well done. When he left to get her coffee, she relaxed. Her stomach no longer flip-flopped as she became inured to the smells around her. She breathed a sigh.
What the hell is this about? Reynhard didn’t mention anything about getting sick.

Staring out the window, she watched cars and pedestrians pass by. The sun began to crawl down the sides of the tall buildings in the downtown area. Sunlight reflected from upper windows, casting slivers of brightness to the ground below. Whiskey dug out her sunglasses, already beginning to feel a headache coming on.
Unless it’s from the meditation, too?

The server arrived with a metal coffee urn. He poured her a cup, leaving the urn on the table. She muttered thanks at his back as he fled. She continued to stare out the window, turning the vision over in her mind. The more she went over it, the less vivid it became. Immediately after, she’d called it a memory, but now she couldn’t recall ever experiencing what she’d seen.
Was it a memory or a symbolic, idealized piece of crap from my subconscious?
Last week had been the anniversary of her parents’ deaths—yet another reason for her tearfulness lately. It made sense for something like this to come out during a meditation now. Wistful, she wondered if the faces she now held of her parents were truly theirs.

More people entered the diner, locals and regulars that came here often. They called to the server and the cook in the back with familiarity, taking their places along the counter and at the tables. They gave her a wide berth, leaving her to her melancholy thoughts. The waiter delivered her food and ticket.

She smelled bitter ambrosia from her plate. The contents of her stomach pitched to one side, but her mouth watered. She cut into her steak with trepidation, not sure she could keep anything down. Her heart raced at the pink blood running along her plate.  She took her first bite and, for a brief moment froze as the steak juices hit her tongue. A sensation of exquisite pleasure coupled with a sharp stab of pain hit her. Her stomach turned over once, and she automatically swallowed against the surge of bile. The blood hit her stomach, calming it. A sudden warmth rippled through her body.

“Don’t get steak much?”

Whiskey blinked, glancing at the old codger seated at another table. “Not like
this
!’’ She fell to her breakfast with-single minded purpose.

The old man chuckled, and returned to his paper.

Chapter Thirteen

Whiskey had every intention of returning to the hotel room after breakfast. Once outside, the sounds and sights of the wakening city distracted her, and she wandered along the street, watching and listening.

Her emotional and physical response to the steak overwhelmed her. It fed a craving she hadn’t known she’d had. A surge of vitality came with each bite, a physical rush better than anything she’d experienced before. She’d been up all night. By rights, she should be ready for sleep, but felt restless and jittery. In contrast to the steak, the eggs and toast didn’t sit well, her stomach twisting with vague nausea at their inclusion. Why did she still feel hungry? Her stomach full beyond measure, her brain still insisted it needed nourishment.

As she walked down the street, the smells assaulting her nostrils strengthened—dust, vehicle exhaust, overpowering cologne or sweat from passing pedestrians, acrid tar from roadwork, concrete and treated wood from nearby construction sites. Sound, too, bothered her. Everyone around her yelled rather than spoke, the cars and buses all rode without mufflers, and the canned music from a store across the way blared full blast. Her ears rang. The sun, always an irritant, burrowed into her skull despite her sunglasses.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

The synaesthesia continued assaulting her senses. She crossed the street, awed to see wisps of orange haze coming from the engine block of a stopped car. Half the time she didn’t know if what she smelled was an actual odor or a sudden sound. Her head pounded, fit to burst open. Her stomach pulsed with heaviness. She needed to get off the street, away from the constant barrage of sensation. Against her better judgment but needing the escape, she entered a coffee shop. She found no refuge in the relative quiet. The walls pressed in, and people drank and talked and rustled newspapers in volumes loud enough to split her skull. Fighting the sensation, she ordered a latte. The change hitting the cash drawer stabbed through her eardrums. When the drink arrived, she grabbed it and fled the confining atmosphere for outside.

The establishment had a small courtyard, off the street and somewhat private. She gratefully sank into one of the seats, setting her pack on the ground. Scrubbing at her aching temples, she wondered what to do. The idea of leaving this semi-secluded area to stagger the two blocks necessary to reach her hotel room daunted her. She didn’t know if she could make it on her own.
Maybe staying here for a bit will allow things to settle enough so I can move on.

She sat there, latte untouched before her, for the better part of an hour. Every time she considered getting up to leave, a wave of dread washed over her, the sounds from outside rising in volume. She didn’t know if she should take aspirin for the pounding in her head, considering the solid lump of eggs and acid in her stomach. If she imbibed anything, she’d probably throw up.

Slouched in her chair, she found herself staring at her pack at her feet. Thoughts sluggish, she once again evaluated the contents of her belongings. Nothing there to help her.
Unless that flask of whiskey will do the job.
The thought of the fiery alcohol going down her throat made her stomach clench. The flask. The Book. The dagger and water bottle. All gifts from Fiona. The envelope with only the note inside, most of the money spent.

The cell phone.

Whiskey groaned at her stupidity. She had a cell phone! She could call someone.

She rummaged in a side pocket, finding the phone. She considered calling Gin, but wasn’t sure enough of her location for Gin to find her. Ghost wouldn’t be pleased at sending Gin on a scavenger hunt, either. Squinting against the light of the tiny screen, she tried to focus her blurring vision on the list of contacts. Dorst’s name sat at the top. Swallowing against another wave of queasiness, she activated the phone.

“Hello?”

A wave of relief made her feel faint. “Reynhard?” Her voice cracked.
Damn it.

“Sweet Whiskey. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” She fought a lump in her throat, her eyes stinging with developing tears. “A coffee shop near the hotel.” She gave him the company name on her cup. “But there are at least three or four of these places around here.”

“I’ll be there momentarily. Remain there.”

She snorted, a watery sound of amusement. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” He hung up.

Whiskey struggled with tears and sickness. When she got herself under control, she put away the phone.

Only a few minutes passed before Dorst entered the outdoor seating area from the street. He knelt beside her, taking her hands in his.

“Jesus, that was fast.” Whiskey clutched at his hand, ignoring a handful of patrons staring at them.

“I awaited your return at the hotel.” His hand brushed her hair aside, his cool palm resting lightly against her fevered forehead. “You ate?”

“Yeah. How did—?”

Dorst smiled. “I smell breakfast on your breath.”

Whiskey scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re not smelling something else.”

His hand moved to cup her cheek. “That I am. Can you make it outside? My car is on the corner.”

She took stock of herself, and nodded. “I think so.”

“Come then. I’ll get your things.” He stood and picked up her backpack, settling it on his shoulders after an adjustment to the straps. Reaching for her, he helped her stand. They exited the tiny courtyard into the raucous noise of the street.

The sounds beat down upon Whiskey. Her knees buckled, and Dorst quickly scooped her into his arms. Before she had time to protest at being carried like a baby, they were beside his vehicle. He didn’t set her down until he had the door open, and deposited her directly on the passenger seat. He carefully closed the door.

For the first time in over an hour, Whiskey relaxed as the barrage of sounds and smells dissipated. Dorst opened the driver’s door, causing a sharp moment of distress. She bent forward with a groan, holding her head. She felt strong fingers massaging the base of her neck. After a moment, the headache backed off a little, the sickness following suit with the interior silence of the car. She still heard smothered street noises through closed windows, but they lacked the power to hurt her. Sitting up, she squinted at Dorst. “Thanks.”

His dark eyes studied her. “You’re welcome. We’ll remain here for a few minutes to allow you to collect yourself.”

Despite the fact that he’d spoken in a barely breathed whisper, she clearly heard him. It reminded her of Cora’s words being heard by Fiona’s pack at Malice. “Is it—” She winced against the sound of her own voice, rubbing one temple. Trying again, she spoke in a similar manner. “Is it supposed to happen like this?”

“Yes. The chant has opened neural pathways in your brain that awaited opening. Your brain is attempting to make sense of the data overload, causing you pain, sickness and a certain level of...crossover between senses.”

She remembered the odor of the truck engine earlier. “So you don’t smell sound?”

Dorst smiled. “Some do, I suppose, but as a whole Sanguire do not.”

Whiskey didn’t know whether or not to be disappointed. It’d been cool to see the orange mist of an overheated engine block. “How long will I be like this?”

“Once you’ve slept, your brain should settle into its new pathways. You’ll have moments of illness and overload, but as time goes by, you’ll adapt.” He peered closely at her. “Are you ready to proceed?”

She took stock of herself. The lump of food still sat in her stomach, and her whole body ached along with her head, but it was manageable. Nodding, she carefully reached for her seat belt.

“Close your eyes, dear Whiskey. They need the rest, and you may suffer motion sickness as a result of the mixed signals you’re receiving.”

Again she nodded, and did as he said.

At the hotel, Whiskey made it to her room by leaning on Dorst’s arm. As soon as she sank onto the bed, he left to retrieve her pack from his car. The linens had been replaced, the fresh smell doing much to dispel her nausea. A thick candle burned on the desk, surrounded by a bowl of water, a sprig of pine, and a spray of jasmine. The aromatic collection canceled out the mildew odor emanating from the bathroom, relaxing her further.

She closed her eyes. The aroma of jasmine reminded her of the memory/vision she’d had during the meditation. She heard the music that played as her parents had danced, though she couldn’t see more than the fine haze that had surrounded them.
Why did he pick that flower? Why not something else?

The door opened, as did her eyes. Dorst entered with her pack, closing the door behind him.  He set the pack on the floor by the nightstand, and turned to her. “Are you feeling better?”

She recalled the memory of him with long brown hair. “Yeah, thank you.”

Dorst bowed. “Do you wish me to stay?”

“I want to know what happened to me.”

He cocked his head in thought, and straightened. “I believe we’ve already covered the pertinent data.” Taking the desk chair, he proceeded to sit with his patented flourish. “You have more questions?”

“What was I supposed to see during the meditation?”

He crossed his legs at the knee, gesturing with one hand. “What you were meant to see.”

She pursed her lips, not having the energy to pick a fight with him. “What do others see?”

A sly grin crossed his face. “What they were meant to see.”

“Damn it, you know what I mean.” Dull anger caused her headache to spike. She grunted, and massaged her temples. “What did
you
see?”