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  Castillo gestured for them to exit first.

  Bentoncourt climbed out of the limousine, taking his wife’s hand and assisting her. “Thank you.”

  The others had disembarked their limo and were herded toward the front entrance by the stark black-and-white apparition of Reynhard Dorst. He had on the same type of clothes he’d worn months ago when he’d delivered Davis’s “invitation”—black leather from head to toe with various archaic spikes and studs and zippers in the strangest of places. His pale head was bald save for three jet-black mohawks that spiked over it.

  Aiden Cassadie appeared amused, his brown eyes dancing on his handsome face. As ever, he was elegantly dressed—this time in a three-piece business suit of black, a royal blue handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket. Bentoncourt was surprised Cassadie hadn’t worn a tuxedo the way he’d been on about the trip. As ever, Ernst Rosenberg was implacable, no indication of his feelings about their travel companion evident on his angelic face. The youngest member of the Agrun Nam, Samuel McCall, had a disgruntled expression. Since Dorst had turned up alive and well, McCall had been most interested in the Sweet Butcher’s spy. A thirty-minute trip had been apparently more than enough time for young McCall to get his fill of Dorst’s brand of humor.

  Dorst gave an obsequious bow, his leather trench coat swirling about him. “Please accept my utmost apologies that I cannot spend more time in such an august gathering,” he intoned, the delight in his black eyes and a slight mocking lilt in his voice belying his words. “But I’m called away to business forthwith.”

  “Off to crawl among your webs, are you?” Nijmege muttered.

  Bentoncourt gave her a sharp look.

  Dorst’s visage shifted into sorrow, an expression that didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m wounded, Aga Maskim Sañar. Surely you don’t believe I’d wish to be anywhere else but in your extraordinary presence?”

  Considering Nijmege was the most discernible threat to Davis, Bentoncourt was certain Dorst wanted to keep constant tabs on her. Regardless of her feelings about Davis, however, they all needed to remember this was a fact-finding and diplomatic mission, not a bar brawl. Before she could respond to Dorst’s jibe, he stepped forward. “My apologies, Reynhard. We’re all tired from our trip.” He mentally reached out to touch Nijmege’s mind, the sensation and smell of autumn leaves filling his mind.

  She accepted his correction, lips twisting into a barely passable smile. “Yes, of course.”

  The expression on Dorst’s face indicated he was aware Nijmege hadn’t truly apologized. His grin was infectious as he bowed once more. “I’ll see you all this evening at the reception.” With that he turned, his coat whirling at his ankles, and stalked off toward a ramp presumably leading down to the parking garage.

  “And how was your ride?” Cassadie asked Bentoncourt, eyes twinkling. “Not nearly as interesting as mine, I’d wager.”

  “No doubt.” Bentoncourt affected a mild tone.

  “If the esteemed Agrun Nam will follow me.” Castillo led them toward a pair of doormen who opened the double glass doors.

  Bentoncourt took his wife’s arm and followed Castillo inside, the rest of the council trailing behind.

  The lobby of the office complex was elegant. Buttery Italian marble spanned the floor, accented with strips of malachite and gold. An octagonal mosaic in the entry held a stylized motif. He ruminated over it a moment before realizing it was a scorpion, stinger poised to strike the person entering. Interesting. He noted inviting couches and chairs of yellows and greens perched upon burgundy rugs. Overhead, a dome of opaque glass hung from golden chains, the soft glow it gave off not noticeable in the light of day. To the right of the doors, a teak desk with a marble counter spanned that side of the lobby. On the left was what appeared to be a coffee kiosk, currently closed. And hanging above the attentive security posted across from the doors was a portrait.

  Nijmege cursed in Bulgarian.

  A sullen and gaunt Elisibet slouched on a stool. Her light blond hair, streaked with black, flowed loosely about her shoulders. She wore mirrored sunglasses, blocking the vision of her eyes. Her lips held a familiar sardonic twist, and Bentoncourt’s heart thumped in dread. This had to be a portrait of Jenna Davis, not a reconstruction of the Sweet Butcher. Was this the image of Mahar’s prophecy? Was this young woman truly as hard as the painting indicated? She wore a black camisole, the baggy pants ripped and torn to reveal black cloth beneath. One dirty boot, laces dangling, sat cocked on a rung of the stool. Her hands rested easily between her widespread legs. Here the artist had gone a step further than a simple portrait. A tattoo ran up her right arm, twin dragons of green and red slithering along her skin. Taking poetic license, the artist had painted them sliding from her flesh, as if escaping the bonds of skin and ink, to twine about each other and her.

  “Interesting work, isn’t it?” a humorous voice asked.

  “Illuminating.” Bentoncourt dropped his gaze from the unsettling scene. “Sublugal Sañar Valmont, it’s good to see you again.”

  If anything, Valmont’s grin widened. He bowed graciously, a hand over his breast. “And you, of course, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt.” His gaze swept past Bentoncourt. “Bertrada! I’ve so missed you these last three months.”

  Behind him, Bentoncourt felt Nijmege bristle. Here was something of interest. Valmont had apparently been in contact with her since Davis had appeared in Seattle. Valmont’s arrival on the scene made much more sense in light of that fact. Nijmege had brought him in to further her goals. That certainly hadn’t worked in her favor, had it? Apparently unable to find something to say that wouldn’t bring up incriminating questions, Nijmege remained silent. Bentoncourt let the painting draw his attention. “It holds an eerie likeness to Elisibet. Who’s the artist?”

  Feigning somberness, Valmont regarded the artwork. “Unfortunately, the artist is dead. Perhaps you knew him?” He turned back to the newcomers. “Rufus Barrett, the Human assassin who attempted to kill my liege before she made it through the Ñíri Kurám.” He seemed to be trying to surprise some sort of response out of them.

  Bentoncourt gazed calmly into questioning brown eyes. “I’ve not had the misfortune.”

  Valmont winked and let the moment go. “My dear Agrun Nam.” His voice rose to address them all. “I have been charged to welcome you to your new home.” He bowed low, making the mannerism more an insult than respect for their status.

  Bentoncourt almost heard Nijmege’s teeth grinding together. “Thank you, Valmont. It’s been a long journey. Perhaps you could direct us to our rooms so that we may refresh ourselves.”

  “Certainly.”

  Castillo, who had been speaking to the security at the desk, returned. His smile was a bit more open, and he carried a handful of folders. He handed one to each councilor. “The location of your suites and offices are inside, as well as rooming assignments for the staff you’ve brought along. Any last-minute additions will need to speak to our security here to arrange lodging. You’ll find layouts for both buildings, a security procedural standard and emergency response instructions.”

  “Security procedural standards?” Francesca echoed, peering past her husband’s shoulder at the paperwork inside.

  “Yes.” Valmont interrupted Castillo before he could respond. “It’s primarily a list of areas to be avoided if you wish to remain in the Ninsumgal’s good graces.”

  A fleeting expression of irritation crossed Castillo’s face. “As well as the location of security desks, how to get your keys replaced if necessary, who to call for questions and repairs, and who is allowed in the more secure areas of your residences.”

  “How thoughtful,” Francesca murmured.

  “The doors are electronically locked. You’ll see a key card in your packet. That will get you into most areas. Your residence and personal offices also have a keypad. Reynhard has included the current combination and suggests you change it immediately. Instructions are in the green envelope.” Castillo looked past the
Agrun Nam to the other people drifting in with luggage and boxes. “Your people will find their keys and information packets inside their rooms.”

  “And when will we meet our most humble host?” Nijmege asked, a feral smile on her face.

  Valmont opened his mouth to respond, but Castillo took a quick step forward and inserted himself between the verbal combatants. “Your presence is requested this evening at five, Aga Maskim Sañar. Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe has arranged an informal gathering to be located in the ballroom downstairs in the lower levels of this building. Ninsumgal Davis requests you, your spouses and consorts, and personal aides in attendance.”

  Bentoncourt looked over his companions. Rosenberg remained solemn. McCall seemed put out, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should be offended for Nijmege’s sake or irritated with the professionalism being shown.

  Cassadie winked at Bentoncourt and stepped forward. “Please tender our gracious thanks to Ms. Davis.” He nodded to Castillo. “Speaking for myself, I’ll be overjoyed to finally meet her.”

  The others remembered their manners and mumbled some sort of acceptance. Valmont’s lopsided grin indicated exactly what he thought of their graciousness.

  “If you’ll follow me.” Castillo waved his hand to the right. “Elevators are over here, and I have aides waiting on the third floor to escort you to your quarters.”

  Bentoncourt trailed the priest, his wife taking over the packet of paperwork. She extracted the rooming list. “I’ll give this to Baltje,” she said, referring to his chief aide. “He can get everyone situated.”

  She disappeared from his side as he entered the elevator and admired the warm teak-paneled interior. Once his companions joined him the doors closed, revealing a mirrored surface. As his gaze traveled over the other sanari, he wondered exactly what they were in for.

  * * *

  Samuel McCall studied downtown Portland from his open living room window. Unlike his peers he’d been to America, but it had been over a hundred fifty years ago. He had never been this far west before. Green hills loomed close, dark pine trees giving way to cleared areas where homes and businesses had been built into the hillside.

  Behind him, he listened to the intense search conducted by his assistant and a handful of Agrun Nam guard. They had the latest in snoop detection devices with them, sweeping his quarters for any nasty little surprises left behind by Dorst. So far, the hunt had turned up nothing. Either Davis had held Dorst back from his natural inclination, or the spy had found some toy that was far more sophisticated than that which anyone else had experienced. Considering the scanty reports on Davis, he felt his chances were actually good for the former. She didn’t appear to be cutthroat, unlike her predecessor. Dorst seemed completely infatuated with her too. Would he disobey her honorable yet ridiculous order to not bug private dwellings?

  “Nothing, Sañar.”

  Apparently, he wouldn’t. He looked at his assistant. “Check my offices. Follow that up with everyone else’s quarters.”

  “Yes, Sañar.” The woman spun around, gathering up the security team with a gesture, an economy of movement more suited to a covert operations team leader than a mere aide.

  “I’ll see you in the audience hall at the proper time.”

  “Yes, Sañar.”

  Returning his gaze to the city, he barely heard the gentle snick of the door closing behind them.

  The inevitable had happened. He was trapped in the house that Davis built. His plans to overtake the Agrun Nam and assume the throne were in shambles. What to do? What to do? Hiring another assassin would be redundant. The Human had failed because he’d been Human, the Sanguire because he’d held a bizarre sense of honor. Would McCall have time to locate anyone at this late stage? Word of the Sweet Butcher’s return had flown far and wide. The rumors facilitated his opportunity to locate some disaffected person willing to kill her, but getting an assassin through the strict security would be another matter. It was too late for such measures. He shouldn’t have waited so long to make the second attempt. That decision hobbled him now.

  He let out a frustrated breath. The air was cool but nowhere near as chill as back home. There, the first snows were on the horizon, the mountainous landscape around the palace soon to be in keeping with one of those silly holiday cards of which Humans were so fond. This climate was akin to his birthplace on the Scottish coast. All he needed were cliffs and the ocean churning in the dark to feel at home.

  Only one option remained open: to fully support Nijmege in deed as well as word. He knew the Agrun Nam would sign a treaty with Davis, regardless of Nijmege’s arguments. A larger, more powerful ruler than the Sweet Butcher had ever dreamed of being would dilute their control over the European Sanguire. Losing that control wouldn’t cripple the Agrun Nam, but it would put to waste the plans he’d set in motion a century ago. Disbanding the Agrun Nam and taking the European throne would be three times as difficult if they had the global resources of The Davis Group from which to draw. Nijmege, though fanatical in her desire to kill Davis, was too emotional. He hated to back her, knowing that the wrong statement or action from any quarter could send her into a fit of fury. Any thought of revenge would filter through a red haze of emotion, no doubt rendering her all but useless in the ultimate goal. But what other choice did he have?

  He closed the window of his temporary home, turning his back on the city. A clock on the wall indicated the hour with a soft chime. The clock was ticking, faster and faster; soon there would be no time left to plan, to achieve his goal.

  Shaking off annoyance, he headed for his bedchamber to dress for the evening’s function.

  Chapter Three

  Unbeknownst to her new guests, Whiskey watched their entrance from the primary security complex on the lobby level, mere meters from where they’d walked into the lobby. Racks of video monitors adorned one side of the room, one of which she’d taken over for her voyeurism. Four security personnel sat along the bank of displays, monitoring the comings and goings of this and the adjoining buildings in a constant hum of radio chatter. As the Agrun Nam passed the guard post en route to their temporary homes, Whiskey paused to study a three-ring binder for instructions. Entering two keystrokes on the computer keyboard changed the view, and she observed them enter an elevator. Castillo remained behind until the doors closed, letting the Agrun Nam continue with their assigned escorts. Entering another keyboard command, she switched to the camera inside the elevator.

  A number of office chairs had been rolled into the surveillance room, though most remained empty. Chano, an elderly American Indian occupied one, his aged hand clutching his fetish-bestrewed walking stick as he peered at the monitor with avid curiosity. He wore what passed for business casual for his people—loose-fitting jeans, hand-made leather boots laced over the calves, and a long-sleeved wool shirt of grass green. His hair held the wispiness associated with advanced age, his sharp eyes contrasting the perception.

  Beside him sat the newest addition to The Davis Group’s board of directors. In stark contrast, Dikeledi, the African Sanguire ambassador, was young and strong. Her back was ramrod straight. When she stood, she towered over everyone else on the board, even Dorst. She wore a simple dress of bright yellows and reds, a matching kerchief holding her hair. Though still a relative unknown, Whiskey had been impressed with her abilities to negotiate an agreement between the corporation and her countrymen. Dikeledi seemed as fierce as her daughter, Chaniya, something that Whiskey respected.

  Margaurethe stood behind Whiskey, a delicate hand upon her shoulder. Ever in the background was Jake, silently watching even when allies and security surrounded Whiskey.

  Valmont strolled into the room with Dorst. “That would have been much more entertaining if the priest hadn’t intervened.” Valmont tossed himself carelessly into a chair, winking at Dikeledi. He craned his neck to see the monitor. “I had hopes of Bertrada saying something snide.”

  Whiskey smirked but gave him a slight disapproving glance. “Blood
shed in the lobby on their first day doesn’t give me warm snugglies. It’s probably just as well.”

  “Whatever.” Valmont shrugged away her words.

  “How was the trip from the airport?” Chano asked, his voice the sound of gravel.

  Dorst, who had remained standing by the door, swept forward. “It was most enjoyable, sir, though Sa’kan Sañar Rosenberg was his usual stoic self. Most of the conversation was between Sabra Sañar Cassadie and myself.” He paused, pursing his lips in a thoughtful frown. “Maskim Sañar McCall hardly spoke a word, though his sour expressions served to illuminate much.”

  “Like what?” Whiskey turned her attention to Dorst. McCall was a wild card, having been appointed to the Agrun Nam after Elisibet’s death. She had no ancient memories of him or his family to draw upon. All she knew was what his dossier held and that he’d sided with Nijmege in her plans to deal with Whiskey.

  “He’s not a happy man.”

  Valmont snorted. “I should hope not. I doubt any of them are pleased with this turn of events.”

  Dorst shook his head, mohawks waving with the motion. “It’s more than that. Yet he keeps his counsel, cards close to the chest. I wouldn’t want to play poker with him.”

  Margaurethe frowned. “Ernst has always done the same.”

  “True. Yet, Rosenberg has a known history, a well-documented one regarding his voting. He has always seemed an honorable and thoughtful man.”

  “And this Samuel McCall doesn’t?” Dikeledi asked, arching an elegant eyebrow. She’d only been on the board for two months, but was fully informed regarding the threats against Whiskey’s life. While she’d yet to develop real loyalty toward Whiskey, she at least understood the political ramifications should The Davis Group president be murdered before her people saw any benefit to the agreements they’d signed.

  Dorst waggled his hand in a seesaw motion. “His voting record indicates he’s willing to do the proper thing, however, most of his decisions indirectly benefit him by increasing his power.”