The Strange Path (16 page)

She pushed away from the wall, and walked briskly away, strapping her backpack around her waist. Her thoughts and emotions swirled into a muddy cloud, making it impossible to think. She sped up, instinctively trying to outrun the miasma of confusion only to have it keep pace with her. Soon she trotted, then ran, lungs and legs and shoulders burning with the exertion. She ran until she could run no more. Legs heavy, knees and hips automatically pumping despite hot iron pokers probing the joints with every movement, she lurched into an intersection. A loud horn and a curse barely alerted her in time as a car screeched to a halt. Her forward motion pushed her to fall across the hood.

“God damn it! What’s the matter with you!” the driver yelled out his window. “Get the fuck off my car and pay attention, idiot! The light’s green!”

Rage washed over her. She opened her mouth, and hissed at the driver, baring her teeth. His face blanched in response, and she heard his heart sputter in fear. She smelled the terror coming from him. Her mouth watered, the bizarre response causing her to shake her head in befuddlement.

He laid on his horn. “Fucking psycho! Go on! Get outta here! Jesus!”

She tottered around the vehicle, stumbling onto the curb as the driver pulled away with a screech. Leaning against a signpost, she noted her location. She’d run toward light and human occupation, coming to a halt on University Way. She gasped, trying to catch her breath. It wasn’t as late as she’d thought. Several bars were still open, and the traffic fairly heavy. Pedestrians wandered the sidewalk; couples leaving late dinners, barhoppers roaming to the next establishment, a rare handful of street walkers showing off their wares to passing vehicles.

Finally able to breathe, she wiped an arm across her forehead, feeling the heat from the exertion. She refused to think about what happened, focusing her mind on getting back to the flop she’d chosen for herself. The motorcycle was still at Malice. It would be easier for her to catch a bus, and pick up the bike tomorrow. As if in answer to her thought, a bus blew by, stopping a block away before continuing on. She forced herself forward, her legs rubber, cursing her luck. It’d be at least a half hour before another came by.

Maybe I should call Reynhard.

Abrupt relief weakened her knees again, and for that reason she rejected the idea. Dorst might have the answers, but she’d go to him on her own terms, not because she’d freaked out. Besides, she was two for two—he’d told her to retire immediately after each meditation, which she hadn’t yet done. She couldn’t expect him to clean up her messes, especially when she willfully defied his instructions.

Whiskey made it to the bus stop, and sank onto a bench. Traffic whizzed past, all lights and noise. Her oversensitive eyes ached, and she closed them, grimacing at the oncoming headache. Her stomach gurgled, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to repeat her error from last time by getting something to eat. While she waited, she wondered why it had taken so long for the illness to catch up to her. After the first chant, she’d come down with the migraine within the hour. It’d been three hours or more tonight.

Still puzzling over the question when the bus arrived, Whiskey boarded the transport and paid her fare. Normally she’d head for the rear seats, but the lights were too bright back there. Instead, she dropped onto the bench behind the driver. She curled up there, sunglasses on, staring at the passing city.

***

“What’s done is done,” a man said.

“Stay with me, ’
m’cara
! We will get you to a healer and soon you will be fine.”

Whiskey shook her head, her laugh a wasted echo of what it should be. “Nay, Margaurethe. It is beyond that; we both know it.” She coughed, the spasms causing her blood to flow a little faster from the deep wound in her thigh.

“No! You cannot die, Elisibet.”

“Apparently so,
minn
’
ast
. Will you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

She shivered. “It is so cold, Margaurethe. Hold me.”

The world went dark.

***

Whiskey sat upright, breathing rapidly. Late afternoon sunlight slid through the warped plywood nailed across the window, illuminating the lazy dance of dust motes. Beyond the flimsy divider, she heard rush hour traffic passing the flophouse. After a futile search for the mortal wound on her thigh, she slumped with a sigh, cradling her face in her hands. That stupid nightmare would not go away.
Weird how I suddenly know what they’re saying.
Last night’s meditation must have had something to do with that. Somehow, the dream and the vision had crossed wires in her mind. That didn’t mean either of them were real, just that her subconscious picked up pieces of both and mixed them together. The woman—
Margaurethe O’Toole
—had an Irish accent in the dream this time.

Whiskey frowned.
We weren’t speaking English. How would I know an Irish accent from a Chinese one in a language I’ve never heard?
Trying to reason that shit out made her head throb, and she put it aside. Neither the nightmare nor those visions were real. Dorst had said the chants were created to restructure the Sanguire mind to adulthood; these fancies were just her brain’s attempt at making sense of the crap going on inside her head.

Pleased with her deduction, she took stock of her body. Starving, but that wasn’t anything new. No headache, no sickness. She didn’t have any obvious new abilities. Her hearing and sight were just as acute as they were the day before, maybe more so. She heard conversations spoken a block away inside an office building, regardless of the rumble of vehicles on the street outside. Her eyesight allowed her to zero in on a tiny fly in the uppermost corners of the room. Concentrating, she heard the soft burr of it rubbing its legs together.

“Wow.” She pulled back her attention, a smile on her face. “Wicked.”

Her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten. A quick check of her pockets netted a grand total of three dollars and forty-six cents. Enough for a burger at a fast-food joint. Not enough for the rest of the night, though. She could always head downtown to Malice, pick up the Ducati, and head over to Fiona’s. Frowning, she nixed the idea. She couldn’t treat Fiona as an easy resource, something that would always be there. Her experience argued otherwise. There might always be social services in some form or other to access for assistance, but depending on private individuals was too dangerous.

Besides, she still didn’t know about Fiona’s motives.

She decided to go to the Youth Consortium a few blocks away. Not only could she pick up some food vouchers, and maybe a leftover boxed lunch, she could see how far the padre had gotten on her birth certificate. She folded and rolled her sleeping bag.

Chapter Nineteen

The sidewalk outside the consortium building looked vacant. Whiskey, who didn’t own a watch, swore to herself as she neared. Her suspicions proved correct when she saw the Closed sign on the glass door. “Damn it!” Grabbing the handle, she gave the door a rattle, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “Fuck.”

She used her hand to block the glare of sunlight, and peered inside. Beyond the entry alcove with its free newspaper stands and cluttered community bulletin board, she saw the darkened waiting room. She squinted, focusing on the wall clock at the far wall. Her new visual acuity kicked in, zooming her vision until the numbers blurred from the extreme magnification. She wavered on her feet, grabbing at the handle to remain standing against the vertigo. “Whoa!”

Whiskey removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes before trying again. This time she managed it with less abruptness. The clock confirmed the consortium had been closed for over a half hour. Disgusted, she pushed away, and continued down the street. She admitted to herself that she’d wanted to see the priest again more than anything. Her life had taken such a weird turn, the idea of chatting with someone safe and separate from the madness had been alluring. Getting food vouchers had been secondary to seeing a familiar face.

At the corner, she looked down the east side of the consortium building, seeing the high office windows. A smile quirked her lips.
I wonder if he’s still in there?
She rounded the corner, and peered at the windows, pleased to see ceiling lights on in some offices.
If I can just narrow down which one is his...
Centering her attention on the windows, she allowed her hearing to sharpen.

Several of the offices still held people. She heard papers rustle, file cabinets opening and closing, phone conversations, and the muted clicking of keyboards. Everyone still in the building was intent on getting their work completed to go home, rather than chat with each other. There was no way she could tell who was who of the silent ones. Maybe if she focused more. Dropping her pack on the sidewalk, she leaned against a light pole and closed her eyes. 

Questing like this seemed different somehow, almost as if she wasn’t only using her ears in the process, but a part of her mind. She couldn’t exactly “see,” but she began to create a mental picture in her head. Here someone sat at a desk in a small room—she knew the size because the paper sounded different here than that in the waiting area, more muted. A file cabinet closed, and steps led away, an office chair gently whooshed when sat upon, a steady heartbeat. A bigger office, with more space. A copy machine hummed and clicked as it worked, another heartbeat and flipping papers indicating the operator remained there to go over the print job.

Hearing a small refrigerator open, Whiskey pulled back her attention to focus on the sound. She heard the slight hiss of carbonated air escaping a bottle. Grinning, her nose delivered the fresh smell of root beer.
There he is!
Amused with the game, she continued to scan his office with her senses, comparing her newfound abilities with what she knew from firsthand account. She remained riveted upon Castillo, feeling something ethereal grow between them.
What the hell?
The more she concentrated, the more it grew. Somehow she sensed him, not just the sounds or smells he created. He felt like warm dark chocolate, not overly sweet, the edge of aged cocoa bitterness counteracting the saccharin. She explored this sensation with avid curiosity.
Maybe
this
is what changed this time. I wonder if everyone feels like that.

She pulled away from the priest to find someone else with whom to experiment. Before she located anyone, the sensation she equated with Castillo intensified, seeming to surround her. It held a questioning essence, though she couldn’t register how she knew. Confused, uncertain what to do, she stood there agape.
Is
he
doing this?
How did he know she spied upon him? After a moment, Whiskey zeroed in on his office with her hearing again. He’d left it, though the chocolate perception remained strong. A door opened, and Whiskey’s eyelids flew up.

Castillo stood at the fire exit door, staring at her. “Whiskey?” Incredulity colored his voice.

Nervous, Whiskey picked up her pack, preparing to run. “Padre.”

He held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Can we talk?”

She glanced at the building, suddenly feeling more trapped than safe. “I guess.”

“Not here.” He looked up, and down the busy street. “I’ll buy you dinner at the Mitchell Café, okay?”

Nodding, Whiskey nibbled her lower lip.
It’s the padre, for Christ’s sake, idiot! He’s safe enough.
“Okay.”

He took a step toward the still open fire exit, and paused. “You’ll wait for me here?”

A faint smile crossed her lips.
At least he’s not the only one freaked out here.
“I’ll wait.”

“Promise me.”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You know me too damned well.” When he didn’t respond, she threw up her hands. “I promise! I’ll wait here for you.”

Satisfied, he gave her a nod, and slipped back inside.

Whiskey sighed, adjusting her pack strap. The padre hadn’t acted weirded out about the sensation, but about her presence.
Are there Sanguire hunters?
The sudden thought disconcerted her. Castillo was a priest, and the Church always fought vampires in the movies and books. Would he want to kill her? She knew better than to rely on popular media for the answers. This had to be just as ridiculous.
Daniel would say so. I could call Reynhard and ask.
Before she got the cell phone from her pocket, Castillo came around the corner from the front of the building. Still uneasy, she joined him.

The café enjoyed a lull as neighborhood workers fled the area for their homes, and students headed for their dorms to drop books and assignments. Castillo chose an outdoor table, causing Whiskey to smile.
He does know me well.
They didn’t conduct much small talk, preferring to study the menus and order dinner.

Once the waitress left them to their table with their drinks, Whiskey braced herself. She knew what she’d felt, but still didn’t know how he knew what had happened. He would have to start the ball rolling before she’d volunteer anything. She leaned casually back in her chair. “Thanks for this. I didn’t realize the time. I was hoping to pick up some vouchers or a leftover boxed lunch.”

His elbows on the table, he rested his chin on clasped hands, and studied her.

Whiskey swallowed at the intent gaze, but didn’t react until the dark chocolate essence of Castillo washed over her. Heart pumping, she felt a flush crawl up her face, unable to stop its progress. She almost lifted her chin in defiance, but remembered Fiona’s capitulation. Instead, she lowered her head, and stared back at him.

Castillo blinked.

The warm sensation faded a little, stuttered. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Padre?”

“Do you know what’s happening to you?”

Whiskey stared in surprise. He spoke the question as if he knew, and she didn’t. She looked away from him, watching the cars pulling up to the streetlight. “You’re buying me dinner. You wanted to talk.”