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  Margaurethe tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Are you her confessor as well as her advisor?”

  “She’s not a member of my church, I can hardly be her confessor. Besides, I’m not currently active.” He smiled and relaxed in his chair. “But I do what I can.”

  He had certainly become cockier over time. The longer he worked as one of Whiskey’s advisors, the more he settled into the position. Margaurethe rather enjoyed their early days when she could browbeat him to keep him in line. It was obvious his time with Valmont had sullied him. Or perhaps it was all that time he’d spent with Whiskey’s pack of younglings before they’d come to live here. Shepherding that particular flock had to have influenced some attitude changes.

  He seemed aware he had displeased her for the smile left his face. “My apologies for being flippant, Ki’an Gasan. I realize you care deeply for Whiskey. We all do.”

  Somewhat mollified, she wiped the dour expression from her face. “Do you think she’s coping well? Is she in any danger?”

  Castillo’s gaze swept away as he considered the question. “I believe she’s coping as well as she can. Her mechanisms always veer toward stuffing it down and being alone. She’s spent years in foster care or on the streets. You don’t survive that with your heart on your sleeve.” He focused on Margaurethe once more. “But she’s grown considerably on an emotional level since her walk along the Strange Path. You didn’t know her before—I can see a radical difference in her behavior and thought patterns. I think as long as we’re all available for her, she’ll be fine.”

  She couldn’t help but notice his inflection. “All of us? Including Valmont, I suppose?”

  His face was unreadable. “Yes, Sublugal Sañar Valmont was included in that statement.”

  “Whatever did he do to impress you, Father?” Margaurethe shook her head. “He has done nothing but lie about his intentions for months, exposing Whiskey to risks for his entertainment, not arguing with her when she pulled that idiotic stunt to rescue me. Do you know he even swore noninterference with Andri so she could fight him herself?” she said, referring to the most recent incident involving an elusive assassin that had come very near to succeeding at killing Whiskey.

  “Yes, I’m aware of the situation. But he told the truth, Margaurethe. He confessed his traitorous activities to his ruler, and swore fealty a second time. He’s been nothing but the epitome of an advisor and friend since.” Castillo’s gaze reflected an odd haunting look. “He’s paid for his original sin a thousand times over. Isn’t it time to let him start anew?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you speaking of Valmont or yourself?”

  His brow cleared, a smile quirking his lips. “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “And I notice that you didn’t answer mine.” Before he could respond she waved the topic away, changing the subject. “So you’re of the opinion that Whiskey is doing fine as far as her emotional welfare is concerned?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances. It’s good that she’s had the time to work through her thoughts and feelings before the Agrun Nam arrives. Speaking of which,” he cocked his head, “what time should I be at the airport?”

  Margaurethe sighed. “Their plane should land at two thirty this afternoon.” She rolled her eyes. “Their assorted personnel began arriving three days ago and are in the process of setting up residence as we speak. They’ve had hundreds of deliveries, cases of documents, personal effects, and the like. Thank you for suggesting bomb dogs. While they haven’t found anything, the added assurance eases my mind.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  “You’ll be available to attend the soiree this evening?”

  He bowed his head in agreement. “Of course. I look forward to it.”

  “I’m glad someone is, Father. Other than Reynhard, the rest of us will be biting our nails to the quick.”

  * * *

  Whiskey watched the door close behind Margaurethe and Castillo with mixed emotions. I wish the Agrun Nam were already here and gone.

  “I believe that’s my cue to depart as well.”

  She looked at Valmont who had remained standing. “You’d better be here tonight. If I have to suffer through this, so do you.”

  Valmont affected injury as he held a hand to his chest. “I would never leave you to the tender mercies of the Agrun Nam alone. Besides, Aiden can be such a bore. You’ll need at least one person to talk to that isn’t interested in etiquette. How droll.” His lips quirked into a smile at her laugh. “I’ll be here with bells on. Five o’clock?”

  “Yes. Margaurethe says they’ll be here around three this afternoon. That should give them time to get settled before the reception.” She pushed to her feet and came around the desk. “What are the chances of you getting dressed up for the occasion?”

  He snorted at her, taking her offered hand. “Slim to none, I’d say. My days as a dandy have long passed, My Gasan.”

  Her smile was a sad one, the melancholy brought on by memories of political receptions past when a much younger Valmont had delighted in the color and splendor of a new outfit. The recollections weren’t hers; they belonged to Elisibet Vasillas, the Sweet Butcher of the European Sanguire. Most of those memories were brutal and unwanted, but occasionally Whiskey uncovered gems of pleasure. It was odd how she missed the Valmont of old though she’d never met him. She shook his hand. “Maybe so, but does it really take you seven hours to prepare?”

  Valmont laughed, releasing her. “I’ve been discovered!” He glanced past Whiskey at the woman posted behind the desk. “Jake, help me out here.”

  Whiskey turned to regard the bodyguard who had been her constant companion for almost three months. She had the same height and coloring as Whiskey, though her hair was prematurely graying and her eyes were hazel. She appeared to be in her late twenties, but Whiskey knew her to be over five hundred thirty years old.

  Jake raised an elegant eyebrow at Valmont. “That’s not in my job description, Sublugal Sañar Valmont.”

  Valmont grumbled with little heat, a grin still teasing the corners of his mouth. “Since I’ve been thrown under the bus by your protector, I’ll take my leave. I may come early to welcome your guests.” He stepped backward, bowing low as he went. The obeisance usually annoyed Whiskey, which is why he did it. “Until this afternoon or evening, My Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey pointed at him, warning in her tone. “Count on it.” Once he was gone, her humor melted away. She drifted toward the window, staring out at the park across the street and the river beyond.

  Soon the person responsible for the two assassination attempts against her would arrive. She’d demanded that the Agrun Nam send three representatives to her and had no doubt that the man would be among them. At least she knew it was a man—the only woman on the council was Bertrada Nijmege, and her goal was to kill Whiskey herself. Whiskey blew out a breath, knowing that Nijmege would probably be one of the representatives too. The Agrun Nam had spent months attempting to retrieve Whiskey and bring her to Europe. That had failed, which left Nijmege no other choice but to come to her. Arms crossed, Whiskey leaned one shoulder against the window frame. Her stomach twisted, a light reminder of the forthcoming emotional turmoil she’d have to endure as she met people who actively wanted her death. Why did I ask them here again? Oh, yeah. To make things right. That was a laugh.

  “You should move away from the window, Ninsumgal. You’re making a target of yourself.”

  Whiskey looked at her bodyguard. Jake’s skin was of a lighter hue than hers, but from far enough away that detail wasn’t noticeable. Reynhard Dorst, Whiskey’s security advisor, had recommended Susan “Jake” Jacobsen for this position just after Margaurethe’s kidnapping and rescue, citing that at the very least Jake could double for Whiskey from a passable distance. To that end, Jake had moved forward to mimic Whiskey’s stance, facing her. She did that a lot. It was almost annoying in a younger sibling sort of way. “Are you ready for tonight?”


  “Of course, Ninsumgal. I’ve read all the dossiers that Sañur Gasum Dorst has given me. I also receive updated reports regarding the movements of Agrun Nam personnel in this and the neighboring building.” She tapped the tiny wireless radio bud in her ear.

  Leaning her temple against the frame, Whiskey studied Jake. “Does Reynhard foresee any trouble?”

  “At this sort of function? Doubtful.” Jake stared out the window beside her, eyes scanning every pedestrian, every vehicle passing on the street below. “Whomever has threatened you works alone until he contracts an assassin. He’ll use the reception tonight to gauge the situation—check security, judge the general feel of the people in attendance. He’ll be looking for potential allies and connections. So far he’s been meticulous in his planning, so it’s doubtful he’ll suddenly decide to throw caution to the winds and personally attack you, especially in a public place. He remains secretive to capitalize on your demise; he needs to be officially disassociated from your death.”

  Whiskey grinned, turning so her back was against the window frame. “Good. Then you can take the night off.”

  Jake smiled, a glint of humor sparking in her eyes as she continued to search for danger. When in a room full of people, she portrayed studious attention or bristled with danger. Only when Whiskey was alone with her did she loosen up, though she never forgot her duty. “Not likely, Ninsumgal.”

  “Don’t you get tired of it? Following me around, day in and day out? Never getting to cut loose?”

  “No, My Gasan, I don’t. This is what I enjoy doing.” Her smile widened at Whiskey’s scoff of disbelief. “Besides, where else can I get an opportunity to practice my Setswana?”

  Whiskey laughed at the reference to the language spoken by Chaniya, the African youngling who had attached herself to Whiskey’s entourage. Whiskey’s pack had become a conglomeration as racially mixed as her board of directors. Whiskey was the youngest of them, the oldest being Daniel at a venerable fifty years of age, and members represented a cross-section of American, European, African and American Indian peoples. Chaniya had come aboard months ago when her mother had been sent to negotiate with The Davis Group. She’d stayed because her mother, Dikeledi, had joined the corporate board. Chaniya had tutored both Whiskey and Jake in Setswana slang, teaching them vulgar words that Whiskey could never use in her business conversations with Dikeledi.

  Using her shoulders, she pushed away from the window frame and returned to her desk. A current photo of Betrada Nijmege looked back at her from the computer monitor. The years hadn’t been kind. Two deep lines bisected her brow, lines that were mere hints in Elisibet’s memories. Coupled with a sharp beak of a nose, the effect was one of a bird of prey, ever vigilant, ever seeking some hapless rodent upon which to dine. And Whiskey was the rat.

  Whiskey leaned across the desk, propping her chin on one hand as the other played across the leather texture of the blotter. As she studied the image, her fingers tingled. It took a moment before she realized that she no longer caressed the blotter, instead reaching through the paper and leather with her gift, touching the wood beneath. After months of disappointment, not knowing what psychic talent would manifest once she reached maturity, it had come as a shock to discover she was Gidimam Kissane Lá, a fabled Ghost Walker. That gift had saved her life more than once, and she’d become skilled in its use. These days it was as common as breathing. She jerked her fingers away from the surface of the desk and the tingling sensation stopped.

  A glance over her shoulder showed Jake back in position behind her, staring out the window. That was the good thing about Jake; despite being constantly underfoot, her presence rarely impinged on Whiskey’s senses. It wasn’t that she was invisible, or that Whiskey had simply become accustomed to her constant attendance. Something about Jake made her blend into the background until she was needed. So far she hadn’t been.

  Whiskey knew that was going to change very soon.

  Chapter Two

  The cavalcade consisted of several nondescript sedans full of security personnel and adjutants conspicuously surrounding two limousines. Lionel Bentoncourt looked out the tinted limo window as they neared downtown Portland, examining the cityscape. Beside him, his wife, Francesca, held his hand. Father Castillo shared the seat across from the Bentoncourts with Bertrada Nijmege.

  For a mere thirty minutes, it had been a long and tedious trip, brimming with Nijmege’s fuming and fury. Bentoncourt had no illusions regarding her opinion of this summons; hard put to be oblivious when all Nijmege had done for weeks was to complain in any ear, sympathetic or not. Even her ally on the Agrun Nam had gotten tired of the rants. That was probably why Samuel McCall had chosen the second limousine for this trip from the airport. Whether or not he had received a better deal remained to be seen. Dorst was in that car, and there was little doubt that the conversation would be flippantly outrageous.

  Bentoncourt’s gaze flickered to the man across from him. Castillo’s expression was pleasant and neutral despite the cloud of anger surrounding his seating companion. He had a level head and a professional demeanor, both excellent qualities for an advisor to a young ninsumgal. Jenna Davis had enjoyed very good fortune since her discovery. Bentoncourt was certain Castillo was rabidly devoted, as Ki’an Gasan O’Toole and Reynhard Dorst no doubt were. He made note to have someone double-check Castillo’s file. Perhaps there was something more at work than an ambitious youngling making himself indispensable to a new ruler. It wouldn’t be the first time the Human church had scrabbled for wealth and power and this priest followed their religion. Still, Castillo didn’t set off any of Bentoncourt’s alarm bells. Whatever he was drawn to didn’t seem to be money. It wouldn’t hurt to have more information on all of Ninsumgal Davis’s advisors, however.

  “How much longer?”

  Castillo glanced out the window to get his bearings, ignoring Nijmege’s rude tone. “No more than fifteen minutes, Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege. If you look west, you can see our buildings—the white ones to the left of the tall brick.”

  Bentoncourt allowed himself to be distracted by the view, finding the building in question as the driver took them over one of many bridges spanning the Willamette River. The Davis Group sat near the edge of the water that cut through the center of Portland. A large expanse of grass, apparently a public park, ran along the river’s length, forming a natural amphitheater of greenery before it.

  “It’s rather oddly shaped,” Francesca observed from beside him.

  “It used to be a hotel, Gasan Bentoncourt. The majority of the business offices are there, but the upper floors have been rebuilt as a series of residences. The building to the left has been renovated for your residences and offices, and behind the brick on the other side is another building that’s being refurbished to provide production and shipping facilities.”

  “And where does Jenna Davis reside?” Nijmege’s muddy-brown eyes sharply studied the structure.

  “Our Ninsumgal lives in the penthouse of the main building.”

  Bentoncourt smothered a grin at the priest’s inflection. Leave it to him to remind all of them why they were here and who was truly in charge.

  Nijmege grumped but didn’t rise to the bait, surprising him. She’d been less than subtle about her opinions of Davis. Bentoncourt considered Castillo’s status, realizing why she didn’t seek to disavow the Ninsumgal’s place to the priest. He was an underling and beneath her notice. If Nijmege made her beliefs known it would be to her peers or Davis herself.

  The limousine pulled into downtown traffic. The streets were busy as the residents enjoyed their Sunday afternoon. It seemed the city had an extensive transit system, evidenced by the number of people loitering around partially enclosed bus shelters. The sun hadn’t gone down, but buildings towering above blocked off direct sunlight. There seemed to be trees everywhere and a full half of them were lit up. “It’s still some time until Christmas.”

  Castillo gave him a quizzical look and followed his gesture.
He smiled. “Ah, yes. Several downtown businesses leave the lights up year round. It makes the area easier on the eye.”

  “I’ve heard there are some wonderful old churches located downtown. Aren’t there, Father?” Francesca said.

  “Yes, there are, Gasan.” Castillo listed some locations. “As a matter of fact, there’s one about six blocks up that street. If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to give you a tour once you’ve settled in.”

  Francesca squeezed her husband’s hand. “That would be splendid, Father. Perhaps you could fill me in on the history here, as well? I’m woefully ignorant of doings here in the New Country.”

  Bentoncourt’s wife scented and gathered facts by second nature. He knew she was beginning the hunt. Before the night was complete, she’d be able to tell him everything she’d gleaned from the individuals she so politely pumped for information. “It’s hardly the ‘New Country’ anymore, my dear.” His voice was fond as he raised her hand to his lips.

  She blushed, letting him cast her as the not-too-bright wife of a high official. They both knew different, as did anyone familiar with them.

  “I’d be honored to answer any questions you might have, Gasan Bentoncourt.”

  Beside the priest, Nijmege gave a discourteous snort. Bentoncourt felt a trickle of pleasure as Castillo ignored the insult. Yes, this young Sanguire made a wonderful advisor to Ninsumgal Davis.

  The limousine changed direction, turning into a driveway and drawing his attention back outside. They pulled onto a wide front apron, the sedans before them moving to the right lane so the limos would stop directly before the main doors on the left. Leaving the engine running, the driver exited. He did not yet open the door, however, waiting for the other vehicles to release the main force of Agrun Nam security. Once guards were in place and given the go-ahead, the driver opened the door.

  “Welcome to The Davis Group, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt, Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege, Gasan Bentoncourt,” the driver said, a cheerful Irish lilt to his voice as he bowed.