BlackWind (23 page)

“If you know anything about wolves,” Dunne went on, “you know they mate for life. The male wolf will never mount another female after he has chosen his mate. Neither will you.”

“Not only a freakish monster, but a celibate freakish monster,” Sean hissed.

Dunne sighed. “Please don't consider yourself a monster. You are...”

Sean turned a hard glower to the doctor. “What am I if
not
a monster?”

“I'll tell you, if you'd let me,” Dunne snapped.

“By all means,” Sean grated. “Tell me just how bad it really is!”

Dunne let out an exasperated breath and clenched his teeth for a moment. “For centuries there have been legends in Ireland of the dearg duls. Do you know what they are?”

“No.”

“Celtic vampires. Every culture has its own version of the creature. The most written about are the ones from the Balkans region, from Transylvania, but Greece, China, Spain, even the Native Americans, have beasts that resemble the traditional vampire. Dearg duls are ours. Reapers are dearg duls, they—”

“Not only a werewolf, but a vampire.” Sean guffawed. “There's no end to my talent, is there? Next thing you'll tell me is that I'm part brain-eating zombie, too.”

“That's enough!” Brian shouted. “There is no reason to be disrespectful!”

“Did he respect
you
when he implanted that evil thing in you?” Sean countered, his voice equally strong.

Dunne put a calming hand on Brian's arm. “Let me handle this. Take a walk. Calm down. I'll send for you when we're through here.”

“But...” Brian began, but Dunne tightened his grip on his arm.

“Go,” Dunne insisted, then released his hold.

Brian cast Sean an angry look, then threw up his hands and left.

Dunne sighed heavily. “Brian accepted what I did long ago.”

“How? By having one of your goons program him into accepting it?” Sean scoffed.

“I've never had any Reaper programmed, and I won't start with you, if that's what concerns you.”

“What concerns me is the beast I'm going to turn into when the damned moon turns full!”

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you I am sorry I ever implanted the first revenant in a human?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn't believe it! I think you enjoyed the hell out of it. You knew precisely what you were doing. You might not have known what would happen to the men, but you knew it would be to your advantage!”

“How could it possibly be an advantage to me?” Dunne barked.

“I've yet to figure that out, but I will!”

“Well, whether you believe it or not, I do regret it. I've created beings that are hard to control and some that have gone rogue on me. I have three rogues locked up in the deep containment cells who would gladly tear me apart piece by bloody piece if they could. They are marked for execution at the end of this week.”

Sean stared at him. “Just like that?” he asked, snapping his finger. “You just say the word and a man's life is terminated in the blink of an eye because he opposes what you did to him?”

“Do you have any notion of what evil those three would do if they were let loose on civilization?” Dunne ground out. “They'd make your horror movie serial killers look like choir boys. We're talking mass slaughter here, and the violent impregnation of three innocent women whom those Reapers would keep filling with their contaminated sperm. There would be wholesale bloodshed until they could be stopped. Is that what you would unleash on society? Is that the kind of plague you would like to see replicating itself?”

Sean seethed. “You know it isn't.”

“Destroying the rogues is the only way to make sure that scenario doesn't happen.”

“Stop making Reapers and you won't have to worry about it.”

“We haven't ‘made’ a Reaper in eighteen years. You and nine others are the only second generation Reapers we have.” Dunne looked down at his hands. “When the three rogues are terminated, that will leave seven of you.”

“And how many first generation monsters?” Sean queried.

“Five, your father included. There were ten, but three died trying to escape Fuilghaoth and two were terminated when they turned rogue. I suspect a third will be eventually going to the deep containment cells. He is the bloodfather of one of the rogues and is showing signs of turning.”

“So no more Reapers, then?” Sean challenged.

Dunne shook his head. “No more Reapers.”

Sean narrowed his eyes. “You're a lying piece of shit, Dunne.”

The doctor blinked. For a few ticks of the clock, he said nothing, then got up from the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Sean. “You are going to be trouble, Cullen,” he said, his gaze flint-hard, “but you can be controlled.”

“The rogues are like me, aren't they? They rebelled against what you did to them!”

“You want the truth? Okay, I'll take the gloves off. No more lies. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I'll give you the truth, boy.” He leaned over Sean's bed, bracing his hand on the headboard. His voice was hard as he spoke.

“His name was Viraidan Cree and he came from a place far beyond our own galaxy, from a planet we have learned is called ‘Rysalia.’ What we've learned of him has come from the revenant queen when she is psychically linked to the men we've implanted with her progeny.

“The Reaper's craft crashed somewhere near Clifden. You can imagine what the ancient Celts and Druids must have thought of this man falling from the sky in his chariot.

“Though hurt badly, burned hideously, he survived, his parasite working to heal him. He was dead, then alive, perfectly healed as though nothing had ever scarred him. That must have stunned the natives. They fell to their knees and began to worship him as a god. They brought him women to ease his needs, and from one of them, he chose a mate, a woman named Chandra.

“The natives feared him, were terrified of his ability to shapeshift. Though he sexually took no other women save Chandra, there were females whose blood he drank, draining them almost to the point of death. These women would walk dazed through the village, eyes glazed, pale as ghosts, and it was said they became undead creatures who feasted on the blood of small animals and babies to satisfy the alien urges Cree had instilled within them.

“We know now there is a venom in the bite of a Reaper, a venom that causes the victim to become psychically attached to the Reaper. Inject enough venom into the victim and it will become immune to illness, to injury, even to death. No doubt this is the basis of the legend of the dearg duls—creatures who feast on the blood of others and turn them into undead beings like themselves.”

Dunne leaned lower over Sean. “In time, Chandra bore Viraidan a son on whom he doted. He loved the boy dearly and began to teach him how to be a Reaper. When the boy Transitioned for the first time at puberty, the natives were horrified. They realized a whole race of savage beasts like Viraidan and his son could wipe them out. Their Druid priests began plotting a way to rid themselves of Cree and his bloodson. Chandra overheard what was planned and warned her menfolk to flee. The revenant queen does not know what happened to Chandra, but I suspect she was slain. The Druids could not risk her bearing another Reaper offspring.”

“Which one did you find in the bog?” Sean asked.

“Viraidan. His son had been set upon by a dozen warriors and hacked to pieces with stone axes. As they struck his back, splitting it open, his parasite was revealed. It tried to slither away, but they picked it up with a stick and threw it into the fire. What was left of the boy was also thrown into the fire. Another group of warriors, however, chased Viraidan into the bog where he drowned.”

“He drowned, but the parasite lived,” Sean mumbled.

“It went into extended hibernation.” Dunne straightened up. “Until I drew its host from the bog and allowed it to live again.”

Sean shuddered. “And began putting portions of it into humans.”

“To make them stronger, quicker, more powerful.” Dunne grinned sardonically. “And deadlier.”

A cold finger of fear scraped its talon down Sean's spine. His face crinkled with loathing. “But why would you do that? What purpose could you possibly see for turning men into monsters?”

Dunne cocked his head to one side. “Reapers are supreme warriors, Sean Cullen. Unlike anything this world had ever known. Their ability to shapeshift, to read minds, to hypnotize with a look, to kill without thought, makes them the perfect tool. They are worth their weight in gold bullion.”

“Tool?” Sean repeated. “Tool for what? For whom?”

“For governments in need of invincible soldiers. Governments desiring the ultimate warrior without conscience, without pity, without remorse. A relentless, nearly indestructible operative who will do his assigned job, do it well, then never ponder on what was done.” He grinned. “In other words, the perfect killing machine for governments and businesses with deep pockets and the willingness to pay for what they want.”

Sean stared at the man hovering over him. “You're talking about assassins. Terrorists.”

Dunne nodded. “The most unassailable and invulnerable being in this galaxy and several others. An elite warrior without peer. Show him once how to do something and he will do it the second time a hundred times better than your more proficient expert. He can assimilate knowledge faster, more thoroughly than any genius ever could.”

Sean thought back to a lifetime of never opening a book yet getting higher marks than any child in his classes. Of how easily learning came to him—almost without effort. He'd had to work at failing his last year of school so he could be with Bronwyn.

“I can see the gears turning in your head.” Dunne chuckled. “You knew you were different from other kids. You just didn't know how different.”

Sean winced and turned on to his side. “Go away.”

“Once you go through Transition the first time, you will be amazed at how much you will assimilate. I could put a book of Egyptian hieroglyphics in front of you and in a matter of seconds you would be able to decipher and read them. I could—”

“I'm not going to do anything for you.”

“Do you believe you actually have a choice, Sean?”

“I won't become one of your puppet monsters!”

“Oh, but you will,” Dunne said silkily.

“No!” The one word was a harsh explosion of sound.

“Look at me,” Dunne commanded. When Sean did not obey, the doctor grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on to his back. Sean glared at the man. The doctor's jaw was tight, his gaze hot. “I have three Stalcaires, three elite warriors, who are perfectly loyal to me. They will do anything I tell them to do without question. If I send one of them to Galrath, how long do you think it will take him to drain every last drop of blood from Bronwyn McGregor's luscious little body?”

Sean drew in a hard breath. Blood pounded through his veins; sweat popped up on his brow.

“How long?” Dunne repeated.

“Don't,” Sean whispered.

“Ten minutes? Five?”

“Please, don't.”

“Less than five?” Dunne pressed. “What if I told the Stalcaire to make her suffer before he drank her blood? To rip her apart while she's still living.”

“No!” Sean tried to cover his ears with his hands, to shut out the loathsome words, but Dunne grabbed his wrists.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe I'll do what I say.”

He studied the doctor's brutal glower and knew a defeat so complete, so merciless, it was like a living death. No doubt the man would carry out his threat without the first twinge of regret.

“Well?” Dunne queried. “What's it to be? Do you go forth with your destiny or do you want the death of that precious little girl on your hands?”

Trapped, Sean thought. With no recourse. As entangled as a dragonfly caught in the web of a spider. He could see no exit from the snare into which he'd been plunged, no escape from Dunne's savage clutches.

“Do as I say and the girl lives, none the wiser about the young man she fancied who fell off the face of the earth,” Dunne vowed. “Fight me, oppose my will even once, and I will send a Reaper to Galrath. I assure you, your lady will feel the brunt of my anger. Balk at an order, fail to carry out a mission, and I'll have Bronwyn McGregor hurt in a way she will never recover. Challenge my authority by trying to escape and I will have her torn apart.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”

Sean closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said on a breath.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes...sir.”

Dunne released his hold on Sean and straightened. “Good boy. I think we understand each other perfectly, don't you?”

Bronwyn sat in the pew and stared at the statue of the Blessed Mother. She was not listening to Father O'Malley, had turned out his thick brogue and singsong homily. Now and again, her gaze would stray to the coffin sitting in the aisle and facing the altar. No feelings of guilt plagued her at the death of Sister Mauveen.

She had expected something to happen to the vicious old biddy, and had not been surprised that it happened so soon after the Nightwind promised to see to the matter.

“The nun will be punished,” he had vowed.

And she had—falling down the stairs, breaking every bone in her fragile body.

“Let us pray.” Father O'Malley's voice rose and fell with the sending off of Sister Mauveen's malevolent spirit.

Bronwyn looked down at her hand and stared at the stitches that ran parallel to her lifeline. The cut left by the broken ruler hurt, for it was right where she flexed her palm.

Those around her came to their feet. Bronwyn followed suit as though someone else plied the strings that worked her.

“The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” Bronwyn mumbled.

She felt nothing as the recessional began, the coffin being rolled down the aisle toward the narthex. She caught Father O'Malley's eye as he passed. He frowned at her.

She didn't care; she detested the old man.

It was difficult for her to genuflect as she left the pew, but she did out of respect for her beliefs. God had nothing to do with her being imprisoned in this vile place. Unlike the phantom voice that visited her nightly, He was a source of comfort. It wasn't right to take her anger out on Him.