BlackWind (40 page)

Dawn came and with it a wetness that brought him out of slumber. A warm slickness passed over his chin, lips, and nose. He opened his eyes and looked into the soft brown stare of a large black dog, hunkered down beside him on the wet ground. Around them, rain continued to fall, and from the sponginess of the earth, he knew that rain had been falling all night.

“Humphf?” the dog inquired, its wet muzzle twitching as he showed yellowed fangs.

“Aye, I'll live,” Cree mumbled.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and winced as a car passed on the roadway above. The squelch of the vehicle's tires sent a spray of dirty water into the ditch where Cree lay hidden by cattails and brush.

Every muscle in his body ached as he managed to drag himself to a sitting position. He had a brutal headache and reached up to touch the spot where his head had encountered the pavement. Despite the Queen's intervention, he found a soft area beneath his questing fingers and sighed. It would be awhile before that injury healed completely. Absently, he wondered how badly he'd been hurt.

“Humphf,” the dog commented.

“I can't die. I wish I could, but I can't.”

Another car passed by in the opposite lane, then throttled down, its brakes squealing on the wet pavement. A change in the engine tone told Cree the vehicle was backing up.

“What'cha wanna bet it's Brian?” Cree grumbled.

The dog sneezed in answer, then pushed itself up to stand guard over Cree. Its ears twitched, searching for sound. Its muzzle twitched, searching for scent.

“Friend,” Cree said, catching the scent before the dog could.

“Do you know I've been searching for you all night?” Brian complained as he appeared on the shoulder of the road. He pointed at the bike. “Enjoy your ride, did you?”

Before Cree could answer, he caught another scent. His lips drew back from his teeth as he growled at Brian.

“Don't give me that,” Brian snapped. “I needed someone to watch the right side of the roadway while I searched the left.”

Sage Hesar came to stand beside Brian. “I told you he'd be an ungrateful S.O.B., Brian.”

Cree tried to stand but his legs were weak, his injured calf muscle screaming in protest. He looked down to see the flesh charred and groaned.

“You know that'll take awhile for Her to heal,” Brian said.

Sage looked at the motorcycle. “Will that thing run or do you reckon he now has an eight-thousand dollar paperweight?”

“Lay one hand on my bike and I'll gut you, Spice Boy,” Cree hissed.

“Humphf!” the dog agreed.

“Like you are fit to ride the damned thing,” Brian scoffed. He looked at Sage. “See if it'll turn over. If not, we'll send a trailer back for it.”

“I don't want him touching anything of mine!” Cree shouted.

“Can you get up or do I have to carry you?” Brian asked, ignoring the outburst.

Cree tried once more to get to his feet, but the pain was too much. He plopped down, the dog tight at his side, its massive head wedging under Cree's right arm.

“A new mate?” Sage threw over his shoulder as he struggled to jerk the motorcycle onto its wheels.

“It's a male dog, you spineless eel!” Cree declared and the dog barked in agreement.

“Touchy, touchy,” Sage said as he managed to right the bike. He threw a leg over the seat, grinning at Cree's enraged growl.

Brian sidestepped down into the ditch and extended his hand. Cree grabbed it and tried not to grimace as Brian pulled him to his feet. He couldn't put any weight on his calf without feeling it all the way to his hip.

“You did a number on that leg, son,” Brian said.

Before Cree could stop him, Brian scooped the Reaper into his arms and headed up the incline. He faltered once in the wet earth, then was finally able to gain the roadside.

“He's okay,” Brian called. “Just a little disagreement with that demon bike of his.”

Cree turned his head to see Bronwyn and her mother parked just behind Brian's car. He groaned again.

“Is he hurt?” Deirdre inquired.

Brian chuckled. “More bruised ego than battered flesh.”

“Eat shit and die,” Cree snarled under his breath.

The sound of the motorcycle revving up brought Bronwyn across the road. “Do you know how to drive that, Sage?”

“Wanna ride with me?” Sage asked.

“No!” Cree shouted.

Bronwyn looked at him as he lay in Brian's arms. “Who's going to stop me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Cree pushed against Brian's chest, striving to get down, but the older man tightened his grip.

“Behave!” Brian ground out.

“Get in the car, Bronwyn,” Deirdre ordered. When Bronwyn turned to look at her, Deirdre shook her head. “I mean it. Come get in the car.”

“Do what your mother says,” Cree ordered between clenched teeth.

Sage drove the motorcycle up on the roadway and revved the engines, watching the Reaper's face. Bronwyn started toward the bike, but simultaneous roars of denial from Cree, Brian, and Deirdre made her stop. She grinned, spun on her heel, and started back to her car.

Cree said nothing until Bronwyn was behind the wheel and pulling away, Sage riding right behind her.

“One of these days I'm going to tear that bastard apart piece by bloody piece.”

Brian sighed, shifted Cree's weight, and headed for the car. “You aren't going to do any such thing.”

It took some doing but Brian managed to get Cree in the backseat without causing too much discomfort.

“Humphf?”

Brian turned. “You coming?”

The black dog shook itself, looked both ways before crossing the roadway, then trotted to Brian's car. He hopped in the passenger side when Brian opened the door for him, then perched there, staring out the window.

“I might have a pretty lady for you,” Cree said.

“Humphffff?”

“Aye, a pretty little brown bitch.”

“Humphf.”

“Beware of dearg duls bearing gifts, boy.” Brian laughed as he patted the the dog's head.

Cree tried to will away the throbbing pain in his calf as he stretched out on the backseat.

“It's Her way of reminding you who's boss,” Brian said, obviously reacting to the pain he sensed. “Burns are hard for Her to heal.”

“I know.”

“Stupid thing you did last night.”

“I didn't think so at the time.”

Brian looked at him through the rearview mirror. “And now?”

“It was stupid and it didn't solve anything. The baby is dead and I am responsible.”

“Do you hear what you are saying?”

Cree didn't answer, but closed his eyes.

“Viraidan?”

“I've got to work it out, Brian. In my own way.”

They were silent the rest of the way back to the prison. Once there, Cree refused to be seen being carried to his apartment, so hobbled beside Brian, within reaching distance should he start to fall. To Cree's left, the black dog kept pace, his massive head swinging right to left as he surveyed his new surroundings.

“What are you going to call him?” Brian inquired.

When they got into the elevator, Cree leaned heavily against the stainless steel wall and looked at the dog. “What's your name, boy?”

“Humphf,” the dog answered.

Brian laughed, putting a hand to his mouth.

Cree blushed. “I'm not going to call you Love Muffin,” he snarled.

“Humphf?”

“I don't know,” Cree replied. “Let me think about it.”

“Humphf.”

“How ‘bout Ralph?” Brian inquired.

“Humphf!”

“You like that, do you?” Cree asked as the doors slid open.

“Humphf.”

“Ralph, it is, then.”

When Cree tried to walk, after having stood still for a few minutes in the elevator, the pain came to life in his calf and he sucked in a breath. Grabbing at the crash bar, he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to disappear.

“No one's looking,” Brian said quietly.

Cree thought about it, then sighed. “Open my door first.”

Ralph stood sentinel while Brian unlocked Cree's door. When the older man returned and picked Cree up into his brawny arms, the dog stood aside, allowing them to leave the elevator first.

“I don't think Ralphie cares for elevators,” Brian said in his thickest brogue.

“Why?”

“He pissed on it when he got out.”

As night fell, Cree no longer suffered from the burn, as it had completely healed. He was able to walk Ralph down the stairs—neither of them enamored with elevators—and stand outside while Ralph attended to business. Happy to see his motorcycle parked in the lot, Cree breathed a sigh of relief that Hesar had not wrecked it.

“Humphf?” Ralph queried.

“It's the only thing I own I care about,” Cree explained.

“Humphf,” Ralph protested.

“Well, I don't own a car. You can ride with Brian if you need to.”

Ralph sneezed, his disdain evident, and lifted his leg for the last time that evening.

“You piss on my floor and I'll give you to Spice Boy,” Cree threatened as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.

Ralph ran ahead, stopping at the turn that led up to the fourth floor.

“Aye, she lives up there.”

Ralph lay down, his feet stretched in front of him.

“No, you can meet her tomorrow.”

Ralph lowered his head between his paws, his eyes shifting back and forth.

Cree ground his teeth. “I said tomorrow!”

Ralph scrambled to his feet, took one last look up the stairs, then hung his head.

“You're a piece of work,” Cree grumbled as he jerked open the door.

Ralph snorted and scooted out into the corridor. He was waiting at the apartment door when Cree got there and opened it.

The light was blinking on the answering machine. Cree looked at it for a moment, then turned his back. He had showered earlier, but he still felt grungy from a night spent in a waterlogged ditch. After going into the bathroom, he shrugged out of his clothes and climbed into the shower.

Ralph padded to the bathroom door and stuck his muzzle through the crack, widening it until he could get his head through. Satisfied the Reaper was safe, he pulled his head back out and lay down across the threshold.

As steam rose in the room behind him, Ralph caught a whiff of scent he did not recognize. He raised his head and sniffed. The odor irritated him and brought the hackles up on his back. He got to his feet and turned, but before he could push his way into the room where his master was, the door closed. There was a soft click as the lock engaged.

Ralph whimpered and scratched at the portal. He cocked his head to one side, listening for the Reaper's voice, but there was only silence. He pawed the door again, more forcefully this time. He barked, but still the Reaper did not answer. He double-scratched the door, leaving three shallow gouges in the wood.

Something cold touched his front left paw and he looked down as mist came from under the door. He barked at the mist and backed away, not liking the cold or the stench that accompanied it.

“Humphf?” he questioned, calling out to his master, but there was no reply.

Alarmed, Ralph began to bark excitedly. The mist was advancing toward him, backing him into a corner. He looked from right to left, but could find no way past the circling mist. It was nearly upon him, and when its sliminess touched his muzzle, he yelped and brought up a paw to swipe at the feel. When the mist sucked him into its belly, Ralph collapsed into a deep sleep.

Inside the shower, Cree stood with his hands against the wall, his forehead pressed to the ceramic tile, allowing the water to beat on his shoulders. His long black hair was plastered to his shoulders and chest. His eyes were closed, his mind on the tragedy that had occurred in Ireland. He was lost to everything around him and felt nothing save the terrible guilt in his heart.

He did not sense the encroaching mist as it mixed with the steam of the shower. He did not pick up the telltale odor of that creeping evil, for it had camouflaged itself to smell like the soap he had used. He was completely unaware of the questing fingers that roamed lightly over his body or the eager eyes that inspected every inch of his anatomy. As he stood there spread-eagle, he unknowingly submitted to that vile inspection, and he grew hard and tumescent at its touch.

Standing beneath the onslaught of the soothing water and the caressing phantom fingers, Cree felt sensations he had not experienced in thousands of years. As guilt-ridden as his mind was over the death of the baby, his body was sending a message he could not ignore. He groaned, reveling in the tug on his privates, the moistness that sucked him deep into its maw and lathed him. His breathing grew quicker, shallow, and his blood began to pound in his brain and in his shaft.

It was the change in the water temperature that brought his eyes open. The chill bearing down on his head and shoulders, running over his chest, made him back away from the stream. He looked down at his erection as the cooling water struck it, frowned at the strange feel on his flesh. For a moment, the nature of the sensation did not register. He lifted his hands and ran them through his hair, pushing the heavy mass from his shoulder to cascade down his back.

As he had many times, he waited for the erection to subside. He willed the need to ejaculate, to give in to the delicious feel of release, to pass him by. It was part his own self-imposed punishment and the Queen's desire to control him that had denied him sexual pleasure since emerging from the prison of Daniel Dunne.

When the pleasure in his loins increased and his shaft grew harder still, he realized it was more than memory and his bodily needs bringing about the erection. He felt the tugging on his shaft, the slick moistness sliding up and down its length, felt phantom teeth nipping at his scrotum.

“No!” he bellowed.

Before him the mist rose up, solidified, and she was there, grinning, her long black hair like a cloak about her naked body. She held her heavy, full breasts in her hands, caressing them, inviting him to taste the milky fluid oozing from her nipples.

He backed up until his flesh was plastered to the slick shower wall and stared at the apparition in absolute horror.