The Strange Path Page 5

  “You are very like someone I once knew.” She strained to hear his words. “I have been searching for her for some time now. I wonder…”

  The emotion in his voice was so poignant, so filled with pain and loss, almost as much as Whiskey felt for her parents. She swallowed a lump in her throat, damning herself for the abrupt desire to be the person for whom this strange man searched.

  Several minutes passed and Dorst inhaled deeply, breaking the tableau. He swept to his feet, and bowed again to her. “Thank you so much for dining with me, my dear.”

  She blinked as he moved the chair to one side, and headed for the exit. “Wait. That’s it?”

  Dorst grinned at her. “We’ll meet again, dear Whiskey. I’m your Baruñal.”

  She watched him stalk out of the room into the club beyond. “Wait a minute!” She scrambled after him through the metal curtain. “I don’t understand.”

  He turned to face her. “You will, I think.” With a flourish and a sweep of his trench coat, he bowed once more. “I am ever your humble servant, my sweet Whiskey.” He spun about, and walked toward the stairs.

  Whiskey stared after him, feeling an unacceptable sense of loss. She clapped her hand to her forehead. What the hell is wrong with me? Looking around the club, she saw that it had closed. Fiona and her pack lounged at a table near the dance floor, the only patrons in the vast room. The wait staff counted money, and figured the night’s tips at the bar. Cora approached with a smile on her face. Whiskey looked up as Dorst arrived at the balcony above.

  He turned with a flourish, tipped an imaginary hat to her, and disappeared beyond her vision. She smelled the faint gust of fresh air that announced his departure.

  “Ninsumgal.” Cora slid into her arms. “Do you feel better now?”

  Whiskey resisted the urge to push her away. Cora was Fiona’s whore, the carrot at the end of the stick to keep Whiskey under control. Had Whiskey been interested in one of the men, she had no doubt it’d be one of them sucking up to her instead. It wasn’t Cora’s fault that Whiskey preferred women, and she didn’t deserve to be treated like trash because of circumstance. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Are you still hungry? The kitchen remains open. We can order anything you’d like.”

  Near the dance floor, Fiona watched them with golden flashing eyes. Can she hear what I say over the music? “What time is it?”

  “Nearly five in the morning.” Cora glanced back at her pack leader. “We were waiting for you to wake before going home.”

  Home. For years that word had meant nothing. She had no home, and didn’t want one. Somewhere in her distant past she’d had one, and it had been destroyed. It could never be replaced. Afterward home meant a place of pain and neglect, a place where beatings and starvation occurred with dreary regularity. Whiskey lowered her chin, still staring at Fiona across the room. “I’m not going with you.”

  Fiona raised her eyebrow, her mocking smile unchanging. With a slight nod, she turned to one of the colored mohawks, giving him an order. Zebediah clambered to his feet and went to the bar.

  “The Sañur Gasum said you might not want to,” Cora said.

  Like the word Sanguire, these words too had meaning for Whiskey, though she didn’t know why. “You mean Dorst?” Somehow the words fit him.

  “Yes.” Fiona had crossed the distance between them in seconds. “That’s his title.”

  Fast as well as strong. Whiskey swallowed in sudden dread, wondering if Fiona would put up a struggle. At least one member of the staff here had to be part of this, maybe all of them. She almost lifted her chin in defiance, but remembered Fiona using the same gesture to capitulate. “Thank you for everything, but it’s time I was on my way.”

  “I think you’re wrong, little lamma.”

  Zebediah walked up, and deposited Whiskey’s backpack at her feet.

  Whiskey blinked, glancing down and back up at Fiona. In her arms, Cora stiffened, her grip tightening around Whiskey’s waist. Fiona smiled, elongated canines shining in the strobe lights.

  “I had Daniel put it in the car just in case.”

  Cora’s response to Fiona’s toothy smile and Whiskey’s instincts suggested a less than congenial send-off. The vision of Fiona using those teeth to tear out her throat flashed across her mind. Never show weakness. “Thanks. I guess I’ll see you around.” She disengaged from Cora, and reached for her pack, refusing to take the bait. As Whiskey shouldered her pack, Fiona stepped back to give her room, fangs still showing. What had she read once? If a wolf stalked you, walk away, don’t run or it’ll give chase. With her pack settled, and the hip strap secure, Whiskey paused. She also recalled what Cora had said earlier in the evening. All we ask is that you remember who assisted you when you needed it most, my Ninsumgal. Whiskey turned back. “Thank you. I owe you.”

  The gesture did what Whiskey expected. Fiona’s eyes darted to Whiskey’s outstretched hand, her feral smile fading to something a little less dangerous. “You’re most welcome, Whiskey.” She took the offered hand.

  Whiskey shook Fiona’s hand. Turning to Cora, she leaned forward and whispered, “And thank you.” She received a deep kiss in reward.

  “If you should have need of us, little lamma.” Fiona held out a cell phone. “All our numbers are there. Don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I won’t,” Whiskey lied, taking the phone.

  When she reached the top of the steps, she glanced back. Manuel, Bronwyn and Alphonse danced to the music still blaring from the speakers. Zebediah nursed a beer at the bar, and Daniel’s feet were atop the table where he slouched. Most of the employees appeared to have left, leaving the bartender, the bouncer and the DJ in the booth.

  “You’ll find Reynhard’s number on the phone as well,” Fiona said, raising her voice to be heard.

  Whiskey gave her a sharp nod. Moments later, she stood on the street, inhaling lungfuls of cool, moist Seattle air. Not wanting to hang around and be discovered by Fiona’s crew as they left, she settled her pack on her shoulders, and strode away.

  Chapter Seven

  Whiskey walked ten blocks before slowing, zigzagging through early morning downtown Seattle to throw off any pursuit should Fiona change her mind. The sky grew lighter, wisps of clouds drifting across an otherwise blue sky. It promised to be a day with plenty of sunshine. Whiskey scowled. She’d never been able to tolerate too much sun; it gave her migraines.

  Easing down a steep hill, she looked out at the bay spread out before her. Ferries and fishing boats had already motored to their destinations. Someday she’d ride a ferry. She’d always wanted to, but just hadn’t gotten around to it. It would be fun to go to Canada on a ferry, leave the States altogether. No birth certificate meant no state identification, however, let alone the passport required to get across the border these days. She didn’t know where she’d been born. The fatal accident that had orphaned her at five years old had effectively erased her past. All she knew for certain was that her parents had hailed from North Carolina, and died on a road trip in Oregon. As a ward of the state, she knew that Oregon had to have located her birth certificate, but she’d have to tell someone here in authority her real name to get it. One of the first lessons she’d learned in the social welfare system was that the people in charge of her fate didn’t give a rat’s ass about her. She couldn’t trust anyone in authority with her real name. Times were changing, though. Sooner or later she’d need real ID to get along in the world.

  The ground before her leveled out onto a small park overlooking the piers. Across the bay sunlight hit the top of the hills. Along the sidewalk, between her and the Pike’s Street Market, vendors had already set up tables and goods in preparation for the weekend tourists and local regulars. Whiskey stopped to get her sunglasses out of her pack, and debate what to do next.

  She couldn’t panhandle without being set upon by the old-timers who called downtown Seattle home. The youth club, Tallulah’s, closed at six. She’d never get there in time to meet Gin, even if she h
ad change for the bus. Which brought up another issue—she had thirteen cents to her name. Despite her early morning burger, courtesy of Dorst, her stomach informed her it needed breakfast.

  Whiskey laughed aloud, rousting a nearby pigeon. “Got cool clothes and a tat worth hundreds, but didn’t catch any cash. Just my luck,” she told the bird. Deciding she wasn’t a danger, it returned to pecking grit from the sidewalk.

  It looked like she’d have to walk back to the U District. Maybe she could bum some money there this morning and grab a latte. She still had several hours before meeting with Castillo at the Youth Consortium. Slipping on her sunglasses, she vowed to ask him for bus tickets and food vouchers. Maybe after that, she’d check the University branch of the public library for that book she’d been reading two days ago. And check the Internet for those words.

  Whiskey opened the main compartment of her pack. The smell of detergent and bleach tickled her nose. Her clothes had been laundered while she’d slept, to include the ones she’d worn when she’d been attacked. Brow furrowed, Whiskey closely examined the rest of her things, not liking that someone had gone through them. From the looks of it, her worn sleeping bag had been replaced with a similar brand, and the thin blanket she kept inside it cleaned. The exterior compartments held the usual amount of clutter—hairbrush, toiletry items picked up from various shelters and services, her journal, lighters, a pocketknife, and other detritus she’d collected over the years. There were other things, too—a slim leather-bound book with strange writing, a fresh carton of cigarettes in her brand, an aluminum travel bottle filled with water, a four-inch sheathed knife, a silver flask that sloshed when she shook it, and an ivory envelope. Whiskey opened the flask and took a sniff, the smell of alcohol burning her nostrils. Of course, whiskey. Sealing it, she put it back, and took out the envelope.

  The elegant handwriting on the front merely stated her name. An old-fashioned wax seal with a stylized F graced the back flap. Whiskey cracked the seal. She held it open only an instant, glimpsing the contents before shutting the envelope with a crackle of paper. Looking around, she verified no one stood within thirty feet of her, and peeked inside again. A stack of twenty-dollar bills, and a folded paper met her gaze.

  “Holy shit.” She clumsily thumbed through the bills, not pulling them out of the envelope. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like four hundred dollars or more inside, more money than she’d ever had in her hands in her life. “Jesus!” Her mind immediately went to the things she could purchase without worry—cigarettes, lighter fluid for her empty Zippo, socks. She could get a good pair of boots, some more pens, a portable CD player, and still have money left over for a couple of days of food. Her fingers met with parchment, undermining her elation. This money came from Fiona. Another in the long list of favors she’d use to call Whiskey back to her.

  Whiskey pulled the paper out, stuffing the envelope back into her pack. Unfolding the note, she braced herself for what it might contain.

  Dearest Whiskey,

  If you’re reading this, you’ve decided to go it alone rather than accept our hospitality. You’ll never know how much this saddens my heart.

  Whiskey snorted. “Saddened, my ass.”

  I hope this surprise finds you well. Considering your lack of a stable domicile, I took the liberty of doing what I could to assist you. You’re a proud and noble woman, little lamma, much like your predecessor. Please accept the gifts in the spirit they were given.

  Again, I reiterate—you have a cellular phone with our numbers. Call for any reason, no matter how slight. At the very least, I urge you to contact your Baruñal, Reynhard Dorst, at the soonest opportunity. He can assist you with the Ñíri Kurám you are about to undergo.

  With Heavy Heart,

  Fiona

  Whiskey reread the note. Who’s my predecessor? Who do these people think I am? She turned the paper over, as if expecting answers there. Folding it, she returned it to her pack. She glanced around her, seeing sunlight crawling down the trees across the bay. It was just a matter of time before it breached the cityscape behind her, filling the day with sunshine. More vendors had appeared on the sidewalk. A few hardy customers already dickered over vegetables just inside the covered market area. Her stomach reminded her that she’d been drinking, and a burger and fries didn’t do much with her metabolism.

  Keeping the envelope hidden inside her pack, she pulled out two twenties, and pocketed them. The rest remained inside. She secured the pack, and hefted it onto her shoulders. La Panier, a restaurant here at the market, remained open twenty-four hours. She’d have some breakfast, and try to make some sense of what had happened to her.

  Chapter Eight

  Whiskey stepped off the bus near the U District Youth Consortium. Her stomach comfortably full of baguettes and coffee, she’d changed back into her ragged cargo pants in the market restroom, carefully tucking the latex ones away. No need to advertise her sudden good fortune, and invite an attack by her peers. The tattoo publicized it enough. The sun beat down upon her, and she readjusted her sunglasses with a grimace. In another hour, the shoe place downtown would open. She’d already spent the better part of an hour staring into the window at the boots on display there. She’d promised Castillo she’d check in with him, else she’d have blown him off to make her purchase. Too many people broke promises these days; she didn’t.

  Whenever her mind wandered to the night before, she chastised herself for gullibility. Vampires only existed in books, movies and video games. Whiskey ridiculed the whole concept of a completely different race of beings living off human blood. These vampire wannabes said that to justify their lifestyle. She’d done some reading, heard some things; she must have come across the word Sanguire somewhere else before.

  Hefting her pack, she walked the two blocks to the shelter. The sidewalks were crowded with people enjoying the early spring sunshine. Seattle skies were cloudy more often than not—a plus in Whiskey’s book—so people always came out to catch rays on days like today. Her exposed skin stung with sunburn, though she hadn’t been out in it for long. Her body always felt like that to her on sunny days, even as a child. When she arrived at the shelter, she gratefully pushed inside.

  She nodded to the two street kids lounging in the day shelter, neither of whom she knew well. The rest of the regulars were probably at the nearest park or the campus, like everyone else. At the registration desk, she slouched out of her pack, and set it on the floor. “I have an appointment with Father Castillo.”

  The chunky little woman peered up at her through her bifocals. “Whiskey! How are you?” Her expression belied the welcome tone in her voice. She looked like she stared at a particularly ugly bug in a microscope.

  Not put off, Whiskey spoke evenly. “Pretty good, Sister. You?” She mentally recited the nun’s next words, doing her best not to roll her eyes.

  “God blesses me in every way.” The nun peered at a clipboard with the same loathing.

  Whiskey wondered if she’d always had that look on her face. Maybe there’s truth to that saying, “Don’t make faces or yours will freeze that way.”

  The nun stared at Whiskey’s right arm. “That’s new, isn’t it?”

  Whiskey held her arm forward and turned it, showing off the artwork. “Yeah, it is. You like it?” She rubbed the light scabs with one hand, reminding herself to use the ointment again before heading out.

  “I’ll let Father know you’re here.”

  She chuckled at the nonanswer. “Thanks, Sister.” She moved her pack to a nearby couch. The woman hoisted her bulk out of her chair and waddled down a hall.

  “Big score?” one of the other kids asked.

  “Kind of.” Whiskey flopped next to her pack. “Got this out of the deal.” She breathed a sigh as the teenager quickly lost interest, glad he’d accepted she had nothing else. She relaxed, her eyes drifted closed of their own volition. She’d use some of the money for a motel room today. With Gin’s boyfriend, Ghost, back in town, she had a fifty-fi
fty shot whether she’d be allowed to bunk down with his street family. The longer she avoided him, the less jealous he’d act when she did show her face.

  “Whiskey?”

  She opened her eyes, and grinned. “Hey, Padre, how goes it?” She stood as he approached.

  A handsome man with brown skin and black hair and eyes smiled at her. His shoulder length curls extended past his crisp white collar to brush his shoulder blades. A haphazardly trimmed beard adorned his narrow face. Whiskey bet if she ever saw him in civilian clothes, he’d pass easily among the street kids. She’d only ever seen him in the black cassock of his order, with a heavy silver cross at his neck.

  He held out his arms for an embrace. “I’m doing well, Whiskey. How about you?”

  She stiffened in his arms, unaccustomed to casual displays of affection. Her demeanor remained pleasant, however, as she extricated herself from his arms. “Not bad. Beautiful day out there. Why are you in here instead?”

  “And miss seeing my favorite client? Never.” His eyes scanned her, noting the ink on her arm. “Shall we head back to my office?”

  “Sure.”

  Before she could pick up her belongings, Castillo had her pack in his hands, easily swinging it to one shoulder. A small man, no taller than she, he had a fine bone structure. It amazed her how easily he hoisted her laden pack. “You been working out?” she teased, trailing him through a door past the reception area.

  He grinned, and winked at her. “Can’t keep up with you young’uns otherwise.”

  She snorted. “You’re not that old, Padre.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  A frisson of suspicion whispered through her. Oh, get over it! You’ll be seeing vampires all over the place at this rate. They entered his office, the best room in the building. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling on two sides. A large secretary desk sat adjacent to the high windows along the third wall, and four beat-up file cabinets flanked the door.