Free The Strange Path by D Jordan Redhawk Page A

know the word Sanguire? She knew she’d heard it before Fiona had said it, but she still couldn’t pin down from where. Why did the sound of the word strike such feeling if she’d only read it in a book or on a website? And where was the joke last night? Fiona had given Whiskey well over a grand with the gifts, the tattoo and the entertainment. Whiskey had suffered nothing more than Fiona’s malicious teasing, receiving a small fortune for the aggravation. 
    A door slammed somewhere below her. Moments later she saw a businessman climb into a sedan. He left alone. A couple of minutes later, another slam, and a woman appeared. She wore a skimpy skirt and high-heel shoes that showed off long legs. Strutting, she walked across the parking lot, and back to the street where she wiggled her ass for traffic. Streetlights had already come on, giving the woman a garish look under the yellow bulbs.
    Whiskey studied the street, the traffic, searching. Where’s Fiona now? What are they doing? Have they targeted someone else tonight? Is this a nightly ritual for them, to find some unsuspecting idiot to fill with lies? She rubbed the healed dragon tattoo.
    What if they told it true?
    Another door slammed, and she jumped. Scowling, she turned back to the crappy little room.
     
    ***
     
    After a bento dinner, Whiskey hopped a bus back to the U District. Feeling foolish, she watched for Fiona or one of her people, even here. They ain’t gonna ride the fucking bus, idiot. Regardless, she slumped in her seat at the back, warily watching every individual come aboard. She remained on guard after she reached her stop, eyeing traffic for the Lexus, Porsche or motorcycles.
    Her mood lightened as she neared Tallulah’s, the heavy bass beat thumping louder and louder. No way would anyone from Fiona’s crew be found here. They partied at Malice or Crucible, upscale clubs more suited to their cash flow. Nothing more than a hole in the wall youth club, Tallulah’s operated without a liquor license, and had little in the way of flashy decor. Arriving late, she paid a two dollar cover charge to a grizzled old man. She ignored his leer as he stamped her hand.
    As she pushed inside the all ages club, the music hit her with physical force. She saw the usual crowd—street kids looking for a nighttime haven, local teenagers in search of risk and adventure, and adults either trying to relive their misspent youth or trolling for entertainment. She bypassed the pool tables and snack counter, passing the posturing youths smoking clove cigarettes. Whiskey breathed in through her mouth until she passed the noxious sweet smoke. Entering the bar proper, she looked around for her friend. Strobe lights flashed, illuminating the otherwise dark room. Tables sprouted here and there around a dance floor packed with people.
    A handful of teenagers and young adults she recognized lounged in one corner. Most of them wore baggy pants and shirts in the typical skater street style, a striking difference to Whiskey’s punk dress. She easily spotted Ghost among them, a twenty-something albino man sprawled in a chair with Gin in his lap. The fluorescent spotlights made his hair and skin glow like the specter for which he called himself. Gin spotted her. She waved, and then leaned over to say something into Ghost’s ear. Whiskey saw him glance her way, a sour expression on his face. He didn’t argue with Gin, though, just nodded and released her to stand. Gin gave him a kiss, and left his company.
    “Hey, Gin. How goes it?”
    Gin gave her a welcome hug. “ Hola , amiga ! I missed you last night.”
    Whiskey saw Ghost scowl at the intimacy, and quickly pulled away. “I know, but something came up. Forgive me?”
    “Always, chica .” Gin led her to the outskirts of her street family. She sat on a recently vacated chair. “Sit down.”
    Grinning, Whiskey dropped her pack, and did so. “So how was the party? Get anything good?”
    “Ghost got me some really cool