The Strange Path (34 page)

Whiskey stood, and turned her back on Fiona. “Reynhard, swear to me that you’ll stay out of our little contest here and, should Fiona win, you’ll give her twenty-four hours head start.”

“And if I say no?”

The smile on her face contrasted with her lowered chin. He was putting on a show for Fiona.
Reynhard’s always about the drama.
She glared at him through her bangs. “I’m not asking.”

Dorst showed little emotional response to her demand. His dark eyes reflected unhappiness, but no rancor. He raised his chin in supplication. “I swear to stay out of your little contest. On the off chance she’s lucky enough to survive the encounter, I’ll give her twelve hours head start before I hunt her down, and eviscerate her.”

Whiskey smiled, and glanced over her shoulder. “Good enough?”

“You trust him?”

Her eyes met Dorst’s, and her next words were spoken very softly. “With my life.”

Fiona gauged their sincerity. “All right. It’s a deal.” 

“I want a vow from you, too. If you win, Cora and the others go free and you leave them alone.”

Standing, Fiona smirked at her. “I swear to let my people go free when this is over. They won’t want to, but I’ll give them the option.” She set her glass on the nearest table.

“All right, then.” At a loss, Whiskey put her hands on her hips, looking around the room. “So what are the protocols here? Are there rules for this sort of thing?”

“There are.” Dorst held out his hand. “All combatants must be physically disarmed.”

Whiskey felt a pang of regret as she handed over the plain-hilted knife. “Keep it safe. I want it back.”

He grinned, bowing low. “As you wish, my
Gasan
.” Pocketing the blade, he glided toward Fiona. “Weapons?”

Fiona smiled coyly at him. “Going to pat me down? At least I know you won’t get enjoyment from this. Eunuchs seldom do.”

Dorst wasn’t dissuaded. “You listen to far too many rumors,
Gasan
. Perhaps you should become more scholarly in your approach to knowledge.” He gave her a once-over, his palms barely touching her body. “The pistol in your bodice, please.”

Whiskey stared in surprise. “You’re kidding me.”

“A girl can’t be too careful these days.” Fiona fished a small gun from her cleavage, handing it over to Dorst.

“And the blade strapped to your thigh.”

Annoyance marred Fiona’s expression. “Of course,
Sañur Gasum
. You have only to ask.” She retrieved the weapon from beneath her graceful skirt. “That’s all I carry.”

Dorst stepped aside, pocketing the weapons. “Do you wish a second to attend you,
Gasan
Fiona? I can call Manuel down here to be your witness.”

Fiona appeared to give it some consideration. “No, it’s not necessary. I’ll tell him about it when we’re finished here.” She moved away from the seating section, circling wide to reach the open area where Daniel had been tortured. “Ready whenever you are, little
lamma
.”

Whiskey followed, her mind reaching out to meet with Fiona’s sickly flower essence. She attempted to access Elisibet’s memories as she poked and prodded along the mental wall between them. She’d been panic-stricken when Alphonse and Zebediah had come upon her the night before, and furious at Castillo. Willfully attempting an attack wasn’t as easy. She felt Fiona’s mind surge against hers, and met her push for push. It took very little effort to keep her at bay.
Am I really that strong? How is this possible? She’s at least a hundred years old.

Fiona attacked, piercing Whiskey’s mind. Pain lanced Whiskey’s temples, she barely heard her own grunt of pain. Despite the agony, her mind held Fiona’s away, keeping true damage to a minimum. The pain fueled her fear and anger. She physically made no move, but felt the definite vicious shove as she pushed Fiona’s essence away from her. Instantly, the stabbing in her temples lessened only to be replaced by another at the base of her neck with Fiona’s immediate return thrust. Almost as an afterthought she felt her knees wobble, her body weakening from the onslaught.

No! This can’t happen! She can’t beat me.
Whiskey had taken down both Alphonse and Zebediah, and held a four-hundred-year-old Castillo at bay. Her desperation triggered that which was Elisibet, the strength rising to the surface; memories of situations, feelings and furies mingled with training techniques and strategies with which Whiskey had no experience.

Snarling, she set up blocks, contravening the worst of Fiona’s attack, keeping her opponent’s mind at bay. As Fiona struggled to find another access, Whiskey felt along her guards, stabbing and prodding where she thought there might be cracks or crevices. One area felt particularly vulnerable, and she concentrated upon it, putting as much as she could spare into opening Fiona’s skull like a melon. The horrific visualization helped her focus. Fiona’s attack lessened as she attempted to shore up the point Whiskey drove toward. Whiskey found it odd, seeing things from three different angles. She saw the melon in her mind, the rind distorting as she pressed against it, penetrating the skin, the juice dribbling. She saw Fiona standing before her in the small room through a reddish haze, her eyes bulging, her smug face drawn into a grimace as she fought. And she saw a memory, Margaurethe looming above her as she died, cold and dark and so very anguished at the thought of leaving her lover.

The memory gave Whiskey added strength. Her anger blossomed into fury, her mouth watering as she stepped forward, closing the short distance between them. In her mind’s eye, the melon burst open as Fiona’s defenses failed. Whiskey plunged her essence into Fiona’s, shredding everything within her grasp, Fiona convulsed, her body straightening and spasming before beginning to fall. She never made it to the ground. Whiskey stepped forward and caught her compulsively, burying her fangs into the jugular vein. No gentle feeding this; her hunting instincts took over, and she ripped Fiona’s throat open, gleefully bathing in the hot splash of blood that spilled over her face, chest and hands.

When she had had her fill of the liquid still pumping sluggishly from Fiona’s neck, she dropped the body. Her mind still holding Fiona’s fading thoughts, she looked at the pulp with vague curiosity. Something dark grew at the center, spreading as she watched. She pushed her essence closer. A hand on her shoulder pulled her away. Whiskey turned, crouching in preparation for another attack, her mind instantly grabbing the other.

Dorst, gasping, doubled over. “My
Ninsumgal
! You must let her go.”

“Reynhard?” She swallowed, tasting the blood still in her mouth. Licking her lips, she felt a rush of power flow through her. Looking around the small room, she saw Fiona on the floor, blood splattered liberally about her corpse.

Still bent over, Dorst quickly recovered from her reflexive attack. “It’s all right, my
Gasan
. It’s over now.”

Not wanting to think, to acknowledge her first Sanguire kill, Whiskey stumbled toward the couch. Her full stomach rumbled with displeasure when she focused on its contents. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, and collapsed into the plush leather.

“Come. We need to get out of here. You must step off the Strange Path.”

Whiskey allowed herself to forget for now. She didn’t complain when Dorst scooped her up, and carried her out of the basement. Relaxing in his arms, she started to cry.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Whiskey stared out the window, unseeing, at the small courtyard below. The moon had set some time before she’d woken from her exhausted slumber. Castillo had come through for her again, relocating her and her fledgling entourage to a penthouse apartment in downtown Seattle. If she reached out with her mind, she’d feel Cora, Zebediah and Alphonse, as well as Dorst and Castillo. Only Daniel remained silent to her search; he’d regained consciousness at some point during the drive here, but had lost it again not long after she had.

Her headache almost blinded her. Any intelligent person would have begun the final meditation to stop the pain, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. It seemed fitting she suffer at least
something
for the things she’d done over the last few days. She could deny responsibility, but the fact remained that two people were dead—one Human and one Sanguire—and four Sanguire were injured because of her.

Dominick had been a jerk, but he hadn’t deserved to die. If he’d had one bit of sense, run when she’d told him to, he might still be alive. Regardless, the final blow had been hers. She rated a lot more agony than she currently suffered for that particular punch.

Cora and Daniel had sacrificed themselves for her. She owed them so much more than she ever thought she’d owe to Fiona, it boggled her mind. What little relief she’d felt releasing her obligation toward Fiona was negated when it came to the torture these two had gone through for their choice to defend her. She didn’t know how to repay either of them, but she’d do her damnedest. From what Fiona had said in Whiskey’s presence, she assumed that both Cora and Daniel came from lower-ranking families among the European Sanguire. Maybe she could find a way to get them home to their families. Everybody needed a family.

Bronwyn and Manuel had stuck with Fiona to the end. Dorst had gone back inside after depositing Whiskey in the car. After several minutes that felt like hours, he’d returned, simply stating that neither wanted anything to do with her, or their former companions. If anyone would cause her future trouble besides Valmont, it would be these two. She knew Manuel would hold a grudge. He’d never leave things as they were. According to Dorst, they were the eldest of Fiona’s pack, and had been with her for decades. That was a long time to ignore, even considering Fiona’s ideas of friendship. Perhaps they’d decide to lick their wounds somewhere else; she could hope.

Whiskey sighed. She wasn’t holding her breath. Her life hadn’t been easy so far. Why change now?

She heard the bedroom door close behind her, knowing that Castillo had entered. Every footfall on the carpet pounded into her overly sensitive ears. She took the pain as her due, forcing herself not to grimace. “How are you doing?”

Castillo stopped beside her. His answer came in a faint whisper. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? You’re the one who’s had your life turned upside down in a week.”

“Yeah. But it hasn’t been easy for you either.”

He looked out the window. “Perhaps not. But I’ve grown accustomed.”

Whiskey smiled, turning to him. “I don’t blame you, you know. You did what you thought was right when you notified the
Agrun Nam
.”

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “At the time, I thought so. Now I’m pretty sure I screwed things up.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the fabric of his black shirt. “Reynhard wouldn’t have found me if you hadn’t, Padre. I count that as a benefit.”

“Nor Fiona, nor
Sublugal Sañar
Valmont, I suspect.”

Her head hurt too much to argue with him. She promised herself she’d do so when she got over this.

Castillo must have read her mind. He opened his eyes, and gestured toward the bed. “It’s time for you to complete the
Ñíri Kurám
, Whiskey.
Sañar Gasum
Dorst said you were experiencing pain. I can see it in your eyes. You have to complete this before any more damage is done.”

She allowed herself to be guided to the bed. After sinking onto it, she realized how shaky her knees had become while she’d stood at the window.

The Book pulsed in her hands, having been thrust there by Castillo, the Book she’d originally begun with. Reynhard must have picked up her things from Fiona’s.

The inner vision of Fiona’s mind as it split asunder made her shiver.

“Do you wish to be alone?”

Whiskey shook her head. “I’ve been alone too long, Padre.”
Margaurethe.Gin. Mama and Daddy.
Her thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed. It would be easier to just let it happen. Then it would be over. She watched Castillo close the curtains, cloaking the room in darkness. Out in the living area, she heard Alphonse and Zebediah bickering over a video game console they’d installed. Dorst’s amber and steel essence mixed easily with his voice as he spoke with Cora over inconsequential matters.

I can’t. Not until I set things right.

She opened the Book, and found the next meditation. The ink hovered above the page, flickering with red-gold light. She needed no light to scan them. When she finished, she set the Book aside. “You’ll stay?”

Castillo came forward, and cupped Whiskey’s cheek. “I’d be honored, though I cannot participate.”

“I understand.”

They held the pose for a moment before Castillo dropped his hand. He settled in a nearby armchair, a silent sentinel to her rebirth.

Whiskey steeled herself. Her insides shook, her hands trembling as she plucked at the quilt on the bed. She’d never had a witness to the meditation, and fought a case of nerves along with the physical agony. What would the padre see? She looked into his eyes, and her fears melted away. What he saw made no difference. Castillo would be there to support her regardless of the circumstances, despite the visions of blood and mayhem that always accompanied Elisibet’s memories. It occurred to her that she’d done Castillo a disservice. He cared for her over and above any connections to Elisibet Vasilla. After their first meeting, he may have gone to the
Agrun Nam
, but that had been a knee-jerk reaction. She believed him when he said he wouldn’t contact them again.

Whiskey made a vow to herself. She would remain true to Castillo, true to herself, and never allow Elisibet’s anger and cruelty to control her.

Sensing the seriousness in Whiskey’s demeanor, Castillo tilted his head, a gentle question on his face.

With a smile, Whiskey shook her head. “I’m ready now.”

“I’m with you.”

She closed her eyes, and began the chant.

Flash.

“I want him.” Her voice held a higher pitch, the tone petulant and childish. She stared greedily at a litter of puppies suckling at a bitch. The squirming mass of canine life held one solid black pup upon which she focused.