The Strange Path (28 page)

Whiskey gnawed fiercely on his words, digesting them, drawing as much information as she could from them. “What are you saying?”

“If you can overcome two joined adult Sanguire before coming to adulthood yourself…” He trailed off. “It’s almost unprecedented.”

She picked up one word. “Almost?”

Castillo shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s happened once before. It was thought to be a fluke due to the nature of the
Ñíri Kurám
involved. The individual was given the Book much too young, before attaining adolescence. She completed the Strange Path as one of the strongest Sanguire in history.”

Whiskey braced herself, knowing what he’d say next. She spoke the name with him. “Elisibet Vasilla.”

He stared at her with a concerned expression. “What’s happening, Whiskey? You look like her. You’re exhibiting power like her. Is there anything else?”

She wanted to tell him the truth, felt the words at the back of her throat as they yearned to be spoken.
He told the
Agrun Nam
about you.
Her eyes narrowed, remembering the brown man on the side of the street by the tattoo shop. “Valmont.”

Castillo shook his head as if he didn’t hear her correctly. “What?”

“Valmont is here in Seattle. I’ve seen him.”

The priest’s face drained of color, and her barely formed suspicions were confirmed.

“You’ve seen him, too, haven’t you?”

“You know
Sañar
Valmont?” He rocked back, eyes widening. “He hasn’t mentioned...officially meeting you.”

“We haven’t been formally introduced.”

Castillo’s composure returned. He cocked his head. “Then how do you know he’s here? You say you saw him; do one of these people know him, too?”

Whiskey looked away, watching the punks posture and boast in blissful ignorance. Her next words would tip her hand. Either Castillo would run once more to the
Agrun Nam
, or he’d keep her secret. How else would Valmont know to come here unless the padre went back to the council, and told them more about her. She needed so badly to trust in him, watching as everything that connected her to her old life crumbled into ash. He’d said he’d keep her confidence as best he could. What if the decision had been taken out of his hands? Valmont was at least three or four hundred years older than him.

When she didn’t answer, he reached forward to touch her forearm. “Jenna?”

She decided to take the plunge, her tender stomach swooping as if she’d leapt from a tall building to the street below. “No. No one needed to point him out. I remember him from when he was presented to Elisibet at court.”

Silence.

Whiskey risked a glance at him. She thought he’d turned pale earlier, but his swarthy skin had whitened enough to rival Ghost’s. Mouth open, he gaped at her. His friendly demeanor had whisked away, leaving behind a man stumbling through the dark, unable to find his God for solace. She regretted causing his distress, though a small, vicious part of her wanted to drive the knife deeper just to watch him squirm.

“You—” He choked and cleared his throat. “You saw him? At Elisibet’s court?”

Gathering her wits about her, she shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “Yeah. I saw Margaurethe O’Toole, too.”

“Dear God.” He swallowed convulsively, pulling away from her. “I’ve got to do something.”

Anger surged through Whiskey. Deep inside, a tiny voice of reason tried to dissuade her, to take a logical approach to what Castillo probably felt. But rationality had gone out the window—these visions, these people, these sensations. She was done being played with, and damned if she’d let him rat her out to Valmont. What had Castillo said? “
He hasn’t mentioned...officially meeting you.”
Which meant Valmont and Castillo had been in contact, spoken recently.

Instinctively, she forged a link with him, just as Alphonse had done with her, fighting through the warm, dark chocolate. On the periphery of their struggle, she felt Alphonse and Zebediah offer their assistance. She refused them, curious to see just how much power she had. She and Castillo scuffled for control between them, a more difficult struggle than her previous encounter. Castillo had the benefit of experience, and nearly gained equal footing a number of times. Whiskey’s rage and natural talent gave her enough of an edge to retain control.

“What do you think you’re going to do?” She kept a tight rein on his mind.

Castillo sweated, drops springing up on his lip and forehead, but his eyes remained calm. His essence felt skittish, but held firm. “I don’t honestly know.”

“Don’t even think about telling the
Agrun Nam
or Valmont about me.”

“That was never my intention.”

“You’ve spoken to Valmont. What did you say?”

Flash.

Whiskey suddenly
was
Castillo. She saw through his eyes as he walked down a sunlit street near the Youth Consortium. A feather touch of request crossed her mind, letting her know of the presence of another Sanguire, one who wanted something. She looked over her shoulder, scanning the sidewalks and street for the new arrival. A man lounged against the corner across the street, arms crossed as he stared at her.
Valmont.

“Father James Castillo?” His voice had an odd accent, one she both recognized, and couldn’t place.

“Yes,” Castillo’s voice said. Whiskey shivered at the strangeness.

“My name is Valmont. The
Agrun Nam
sent me.”

Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, just as quickly rising to clog her throat.

Flash.

“When did you first see this woman?”

They were sitting in a bar, and she stared at Valmont across the table. “Nearly six months ago. She’s like those children to whom I was speaking, living on the streets.” The oddness of hearing the padre’s voice while she spoke almost upset her control.
Is this normal?

“Originally, your only evidence was a likeness to Elisibet, correct?”

“At the time, yes. The images I have of her are copies of her official portraits. By all accounts, the only difference is the color of Whiskey’s eyes which are almost black.”

“Whiskey.” Valmont shook his head, face sour. “Have you discovered if she’s Sanguire or not?”

“Yes. She’s begun the
Ñíri Kurám.
” When Valmont cursed, she felt a stab of pleasure, knowing somehow that it was hers, and not Castillo’s.

Flash.

Back at the bus stop, she stared at Castillo. His white face inches away from hers, he trembled with the effort it took to close off her investigation of his memories. “Why is Valmont here, Padre? You must have said something to someone. The
Agrun Nam’s
known about me for months, you said. Why send him now?”

Despite his physical distress, he appeared chagrined. “My utmost apologies, Whiskey. I think my friend in Europe had something to do with that. Either he was compromised, or my phones are tapped.” He bared his neck for her. “It’s my fault.”

Unable to help herself, she listened to the rush of blood coursing through the large vein in his throat. The memory of that woman’s blood and sex on her tongue caused a sudden vicious cramp, and her control over the link faltered. Whiskey fought the sickness away for several precious seconds, returning to the present to find Castillo holding their bond open. Soft confusion grew in place of her uprooted anger. She stared at him. “Why are we still connected? You could have cut me off, defeated me.”

Castillo smiled kindly. “Would it have done any good? You’re stronger than I already. Besides, this way you can see the truth of my words as I answer your questions.” He chuckled. “Though I would advise against forcing bonds in the future; it’s considered the ultimate in bad manners.”

“Bad manners?” She snorted laughter, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. “You’re saying it’s impolite to force this...bond on others? Do you know how many times I’ve had someone attack me in just this way the last couple of days, Padre?”

His smile faded to a worried frown. “Whiskey, you must come with me. I can keep you safe.” Castillo leaned forward to take her upper arm.

Whiskey’s amusement disappeared, and she pulled violently away. She was getting really tired of hearing that from people. Scrambling to her feet, she sent a wave of anger along their link, pleased to see him wince, and grab his head. “Don’t ever touch me again, Padre.”

As he struggled against the pain, she walked backward toward the bus stop. The punks cleared out of her way, silent as they watched the drama. Alphonse and Zebediah drifted along with her, ready to assist.

“You don’t understand, Whiskey! I can protect you!”

The bus pulled up just as she reached the curb. “You two keep him from following me.”

Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “You need someone with you.”

“I’m going to my goddamned
Baruñal
, okay? I’ll be safe with him.” She prodded both of them with her mind, wondering what the limits were to her power.
Surely I should be reaching the end point, right?

Zebediah raised his chin, and stepped away from the bus.

“C’mon! Either get on or get away from the door,” the bus driver ordered.

Alphonse gave her a curt nod. He followed his companion.

Keeping tight control on the bond between them, keeping Castillo off-kilter, Whiskey boarded. Only when the doors closed, and it pulled away from the stop, did she release him. She felt the combined essences of Alphonse and Zebediah take over, knowing they’d never be able to hold him long. But long enough.

Slumping onto a seat, she stared at passing scenery, unable to formulate a plan of action.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Nowhere near her intended destination, Whiskey watched the bus pull away from the transit station without her. The bus she’d boarded in Seattle had brought her to the outskirts of Tacoma instead. A major neighboring town
cum
suburb, the area had long ago been stuck with the moniker “The Aroma of Tacoma” by the old paper factory. These days it held a decent sports stadium, and much work had been done to renovate it, but the seedier aspect of the area still remained.

Hers had been the last bus for the night. She had five hours or more before the morning routes began. At least no one searching for her would think to look here, not even someone who’d seen the bus she’d ridden. She needed to find something to eat and a place to hole up for a nap. Numb to her bones, she stepped off the platform, deciding to put as much distance between her and the station as possible. She didn’t think Castillo would attempt to follow this bus route to its end, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

She wasn’t sure where to go. What if Valmont decided to look up Castillo again? Very much a predator, her old friend could easily locate her the same way she’d seen his meeting with the priest. She froze, midstep.
“My old friend?” Christ, I’m going crazy.
Berating herself, she continued walking, aimless in her travels.

Her path took her toward habitation and activity. The lights of a twenty-four hour convenience store beckoned from a half block down the street, and she headed in its direction. Her stomach remained tender. So long as she didn’t think of—her mind automatically veered away from the term blood—that, she was fine. She wondered how long she’d be able to play these head games with herself before it would overwhelm her again. “Next time put the cell phone in your pocket when you’re attacked by vampires.” She snorted.

Some time later, she sat on the curb outside the store, eating a sandwich. Beside her were a large plastic cup of soda, and a bag of chips. The food tasted like plastic, leaving a vague burning sensation at the back of her throat. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. She washed the thing down with her drink. The chips were relatively better and she sighed, her stomach rumbling slightly in discontent.

What would Castillo do? Did he own a car to search for her? She’d taken his outward appearance, the simple priest slash social worker he portrayed, for granted. At four hundred years old, he probably lived as well as Fiona did, regardless of his standing in his church. Did the Church know he was Sanguire? She shook her head, not pursuing the thought. It’d be too easy to lose the focus of her predicament going that direction.

By now Alphonse had probably called Fiona. Or would he?
He and Zebediah had said she led them now. Would that change if she wasn’t there to oversee them? Was that why they lived with Fiona? It’d be a lot easier keeping tabs on everybody if they were under the same roof. While that made some sense, she had to wonder. They couldn’t all avoid older Sanguire, could they? How would anything get done if every time you met an elder, you’d be directed from your purpose?
Damn, I wish I knew Reynhard’s number.

A car pulled into the parking lot, and a laughing couple clambered out. Whiskey ignored them as they entered the store, refusing to acknowledge their curious glances. Her meal finished, she crumpled the wrappers and stood to deposit them in the trash can by the glass doors. Looking inside, she saw the couple split up. The man headed for the beer cooler while the woman perused the snack foods. The woman’s dark hair caught the overhead fluorescent lights, illuminating a touch of reddish highlights.

Flash.

She crushed a younger Margaurethe against a wall, pinning the woman’s wrists above her head with one hand as she leisurely explored bared flesh with the other. The torch light caught the red tones of her dark hair, and Whiskey nuzzled it, smelling herbs, the spicy trace of her lover’s scent, and the musky odor of arousal from both of them. Margaurethe’s heart thumped fast and heavy. Whiskey saw the blood moving through the vein at her neck. She breathed into Margaurethe’s ear, pausing to suck a tender earlobe into her mouth to nibble, enjoying the lithe body squirming against hers.

“Please, Elisibet,” Margaurethe murmured, twisting her head to one side. “Please.”

Whiskey smiled, and licked her way to the pulse point. She felt an odd sensation in her mouth, like she had too many teeth. Gently kissing along the thick vein, she whispered, “I love you,” before biting down.