The Strange Path (35 page)

“Certainly, Your Highness,” a man said. “But he’s newly born. He’ll die if you take him now. You must wait a few weeks before he’ll survive without his mother.”

“I don’t care!” She stamped her foot. “I want him
now
.” Glaring at the man in the servant’s livery, she narrowed her eyes as she’d seen her father do upon occasion. “Do not vex me, Andri. I’ll have him now, or you’ll answer to the
Usumgal
.”

Andri cast a resigned glance at the dog handler, and nodded stiffly. “Yes, my
Gasan
. The black one you said?”

As he pulled the hungry pup from the litter, Whiskey felt a split, a schism within her soul. She felt Elisibet’s immature glee at getting her way, uncaring about the consequences of her actions, and how they affected others around her. But for the first time
she
responded to what she witnessed, a sense of loathing filling her heart. Somehow she knew that the pup would last mere hours away from its mother, that Elisibet would become bored with its constant whining, and leave it in a drawer of her room to die a lonely death, starved and suffocated among cast off bedclothes.

Whiskey’s gorge rose.

Flash.

She stared at the Book in distaste, its cover worn and dirty. At the very least, she should have been afforded a more presentable copy, one that befitted her status as the new
Ninsumgal
. Primly, she opened it with thumb and forefinger, easily reading the Sanguire writing inside. She’d have to throw this gown away when she finished. Her handmaiden would never be able to get the dirt stains out of the fine linen. At least she would be
Ninsumgal
now. And the first Sanguire to ever follow the Strange Path at twelve. With a haughty toss of her hair, she prepared to begin the first meditation.

Whiskey knew
Usumgal
Maximal had only been laid to rest in the catacombs three days earlier. She searched Elisibet’s thoughts and heart for any indication of mourning for the loss of her father, and found nothing. She recoiled from the lack, its absence conflicting sharply with feelings of grief for her own parents, dead a dozen years. How could Elisibet not feel such a thing? What kind of monster was she?

Flash.

Nahib the Traitor’s body had been strewn about the
Agrun Nam
public chambers in bloody strips. Witnesses, courtesans and the remainder of the
Agrun Nam
stood in the gallery, all of whom required a reminder of who held power here. Their eyes wide and fearful, she reveled in their terror. This was as it should be.

Searching the room, she found one person who didn’t share the feeling. Bertrada Nijmege’s hawk face flushed with fury and anguish, her lip curled into a sneer, murder in her heart. With a smile, Elisibet kept the gaze of Nahib’s lover, pausing long enough to lick his blood from her fingers. Her only dismay was Valmont’s absence. She’d asked him to be here. Where was he?

Whiskey tasted the Sanguire blood, her stomach turning.
Nam Lugal
Nahib had done what he thought right, speaking against the atrocities for which Elisibet was responsible. Considering the time and circumstances, he had been a hero to the Sanguire. Yet, Elisibet’s nature blinded her. Mulling over this apparent stupidity, Whiskey realized a very important thing about Elisibet. The
Ninsumgal
was terrified of losing control, and used any means to keep it.

Flash.

She happily got into the backseat of the car, her stuffed bear tight in her grip. Carefully working on her seat belt, she managed to buckle it all by herself. Sometimes it didn’t work, and Mama had to do it for her.

The change of time disoriented Whiskey, and it took a moment to understand the switch. No longer Elisibet, she witnessed her own past, a memory she hadn’t seen before. The separation, the dichotomy wasn’t there anymore. Taking off her hat and sunglasses, she watched her parents climb into the car, and sit in front.

“That waterfall was really big, wasn’t it?” Mama asked, looking back to check on Whiskey’s seat belt.

“Uh-huh! Upsy Downsy was scared.”

Daddy laughed, and started the car. “No reason for him to be scared. He had you to protect him, Jenna.”

Whiskey nodded vigorously. “And I had you to protect me!”

Her parents laughed in agreement as they drove through the parking area. Mama talked about the market in Seattle, and the shops she wanted to see there as Daddy prepared to pull onto the busy interstate.

Whiskey felt herself tighten inside, knowing what was coming, and not able to stop it. Her attention distracted by her teddy bear, her father’s sudden frightened curse brought her head up. Her mother screamed, automatically reaching back toward her. Confused, Whiskey looked out the window to the left, and saw the grill of an eighteen-wheeler bearing down on the little car. Terrified, she hugged Upsy Downsy to her chest, and screwed her eyes closed, gritting her teeth as she waited for the truck to hit them. Her ears filled with an airhorn blowing long and loud, a deafening crash and the screaming of her parents. Oddly, she felt no impact; only a jarring thump as she landed on the ground.

When the noise died away, she cautiously opened her eyes. She sat on the highway with her bear, cars screeching to a halt just feet away. Bewildered, she winced from the pain of sunlight, wondering how she got out of the car with her seat belt on. Where were Mama and Daddy?

She stood, and looked up the road, finding two thick black lines on either side of her. Horrified, she saw the back of a semi truck, the cab turned at an angle, smoke rising from the front. The driver, a grizzled man in a plaid shirt, stumbled out of the vehicle, and raced around to the other side.

“Mama?”

Flash.

Whiskey gasped, falling forward onto the bed. Arms wrapped around her, strong and familiar. Tears streaked down her face, making vision difficult as she tried to see who it was. She stared into dark eyes.

“Mama?” she whispered.

“Whiskey?”

The male voice brought her out of her confusion. Those weren’t the midnight color of her mother’s eyes, but those of Castillo. “Padre?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Castillo stayed with Whiskey until she cried herself out. She drowsed for a while, hugging a pillow to herself. Eventually she slept, though not much. Awake, her body complained from remaining in one place too long. She forced herself to sit up. The headache had disappeared, as had all other irritants. She had to actively focus on her hearing or smell to locate what had earlier assaulted her. Her body still felt precarious, probably a result of the hell she’d inflicted upon herself. For the first time in hours she felt hungry.

She pushed to her feet, holding out one hand to grab the nightstand as she swayed. Her balance restored itself, and she headed for the door. Somewhere out there, someone fried up eggs and bacon. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. By the time she arrived in the living room, she almost felt Human again. She snorted to herself, getting her first real look at the place.

The colorful mohawks had brought in a large flat-screen television and surround sound system to go with their multiple gaming consoles. Alphonse sprawled on the couch with one controller, and Zebediah sat on the coffee table with the other. The screen showed them beating the snot out of a horrific creature with red eyes and tusks. Whiskey scanned the men with her mind. She easily saw that they were the youngest Sanguire in the apartment. They couldn’t be much older than they physically appeared, not much older than her. She wondered why she hadn’t realized it before.

The demonic figure on the screen met a messy end, and Alphonse looked back at her. “Morning.”

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Kicking ass.You?”

Whiskey considered the question. “Better, thanks.”

Zebediah cut into the conversation. “C’mon, man. Through here is the armory. We can stock up.”

She raised her chin at the game, indicating he should continue. Alphonse grinned, and did so. Leaving them to their digital mayhem, she followed the delicious scent of food into the kitchen.

A multitude of paper bags littered the breakfast nook table, evidence of a hasty shopping trip. Several items cluttered the counter. Castillo shoved eggs around the pan with a spatula. Cora stood at another counter, slathering butter on toast, and piling it on a plate.

“You picked up jam?”

Castillo nodded, concentrated on his task. “Yes. Three kinds, just as you requested.”

Cora appeared pleased. “Good. Whiskey likes peach, but Daniel prefers strawberry over everything.”

At the mention of Daniel, Whiskey glanced back at the living room. Where was he? Was he okay? “How is Daniel?”

Cora whirled about, dropping the butter knife. “
Aga ninna
!” She rushed forward into Whiskey’s arms. She buried her face in the curve of Whiskey’s shoulder, muffling her words. “I missed you.”

Whiskey clutched at Cora more to keep from falling off her unsteady feet. She blushed at Castillo’s raised eyebrow. Cora left nothing to the imagination, clinging to Whiskey in barely restrained lust. Having a priest as witness didn’t bother her in the least. “I missed you, too.” Whiskey carefully extricated herself from the hug. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

Castillo turned away from the intimacy, digging in a cabinet for a stack of plates. “Daniel is well. He’s sleeping.” Castillo piled eggs and bacon on a plate, holding it out to Cora. “Can you take this to his room, child? It’s past time he’s eaten.”

Cora appeared reluctant to leave Whiskey after so long an absence. A gentle swell of warm dark chocolate changed her mind. “I’d be happy to, Father.” Slow to extricate herself from Whiskey’s arms, she took the proffered plate, pausing long enough to grab toast and the jar of strawberry jam. “See you soon, my
ninna
.”

Having turned back to the stove, Castillo waited until Cora left. “
Aga ninna
?”

Whiskey sighed. “Yeah. I ordered her to stop calling me
Ninsumgal
. That’s the result.”

He grunted in response. “Better than
ñalga súp
, I suppose.”

Her mind easily translated, and she chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m a nitwit.”

“Most definitely not.” He served up another plate, handing it to her. “You need to eat, and you need more blood to finish healing.”

Whiskey leaned against the counter, ravenous. She didn’t bother to sit at the small table as she shoveled food in her mouth. Several minutes passed before she could speak. “Aleya again?”

“No, it’s too soon for her. I’ll have someone else come over.”

She ate a piece of bacon in two bites. “That gives a whole new meaning to ‘ordering in,’ Padre.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t it?” He broke more eggs into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and whisked them together. “How are you holding up?”

She shrugged, slowing down her pace of eating. “Still kind of numb, I guess. I don’t really want to think about it.”

“That’s understandable. The first kill is never easy.” He poured the egg mixture into the fry pan, causing a loud hiss as it hit hot metal.

Whiskey wasn’t sure if she recoiled because of the angry sound, or his words. No longer hungry, she dropped her fork onto her plate, and went to the sink. She ran hot water over the remains of her breakfast, washing them down the drain, and into the disposal. Behind her, Castillo continued cooking, not interrupting her thoughts.

The padre didn’t know that Fiona wasn’t her first kill. She hadn’t wanted to incriminate herself in his eyes with Dominick. His opinion of her had still mattered when she’d entrusted him the day before. It mattered more now.
What will he say when he finds out I’ve killed a Human, too?
A part of her wanted to keep that forever hidden. So much easier to avoid the messy result of confession for as long as possible. Cora and Daniel were both here, though. They’d witnessed the killing blow; Cora had reveled in it. Sooner or later one of them would say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Which was worse? Telling Castillo, or having him realize she’d lied to him by omission? She shivered, holding the edge of the sink for support.
The sooner the better. Get it over with now.
“That wasn’t my first kill.” The busy sound of the spatula froze with her heartbeat.

“Really?” The spatula resumed its motion.

Castillo’s voice seemed too casual. She refused to turn, to face him. “Yeah.” Her voice disappeared. She cleared her throat, ignoring the lump developing there.

“Dominick Filardo?”

Whiskey couldn’t speak. She nodded, hot tears spilling from her eyes. The pan slid to another burner, the click of the stove turning off loud in the silence. She imagined his face, knowing how disgusted he must be with her. Any minute now, he’d leave the room, leave the apartment, and never come back. He was her last friend from her old life; odd that she would realize it now when the friendship ended.
What a waste. I’m such a fuckup.

A hand took her shoulder, turning her. She gave half-hearted resistance, knowing Castillo’s stubborn nature. He wanted to face her, to tell her exactly how repulsed he was with her actions. Giving the devil his due, she allowed him to pull her around, let him guide her face up with his fingers at her chin. Flinching away from his fingers, she met his gaze.

Warm chocolate enveloped her. Sympathy and kindness emanated from his eyes.

“Padre.” She choked, unable to speak. He wrapped her in his arms and his essence, cradling her, protecting her from her fanciful terrors, accepting her and her past actions. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh. I know you are. Let it go, Jenna.”

It took time before she cried herself out again. Eventually the tears stopped, and she realized they both sat on the kitchen floor, leaning against the lower cupboards. “This is getting to be a bad habit,” she muttered, her voice cracking.

“You’ve had a lot to deal with. This kind of stress has to go somewhere.” Castillo produced a handkerchief. “Can you talk about it now?”