BlackWind (45 page)

Bronwyn arched a brow. “I'm right, aren't I?”

“Aye, you are right,” he replied, his brogue thick as molasses on a cold day. “Brell
is
a can of worms.”

Bronwyn walked to him. “Are you afraid of worms, Captain? Are they a threat to you?”

They stared at one another—Cree's attention wandering freely over her upturned face, Bronwyn's gaze passing over, then locking on, his lips.

Why had she thought Koenen Brell so handsome? She wondered as she studied Cree's rugged features. The man before her was beyond compare in the physical department. There was authority stamped on his lean face, power in the steady regard that held her transfixed. He gave off an aura of raw sexuality that brought heat to her cheeks and juices to her loins. From the soft thickness of his sable hair to the piercing gleam in the amber eyes, Viraidan Cree was pure sensuality and the signals his powerful body gave off were playing hell with her control.

“What is it you want?’ he asked.

She looked at his lips and wanted nothing more than to feel that velvet hardness slanted across her mouth, claiming her. “What do you want?” she countered, holding her breath.

“Be careful what you wish for.” After a long pause, he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “You just might get it.”

Bronwyn stepped back, her heart thudding dangerously fast. She swallowed, trying to tamp down the growing desire making her body tingle. When she didn't reply, he stepped back—military-style—pivoted, then started walking down the corridor.

“Viraidan,” she said, hearing the rampant need in her voice, but not embarrassed by it as she might once have been.

He turned.

She lifted her chin as she drew near him. “I never wish for anything I don't truly want,” she surprised herself saying.

That wicked half-smile she had come to recognize lifted the right side of his mouth. “I'll keep that in mind, Bronwyn.”

Koenen Brell shrugged out of his lab coat and hooked it on the clothes rack beside the door. His face twisted with fury as he slammed himself down at his desk. With his anger so intense he could barely breathe, he reached for pencil after pencil and snapped them in two, dropping the wooden carcasses on the desktop.

“Interfering bastard,” he growled, wishing each pencil he broke was the backbone of the head of security forces.

For nine years he had been waiting to meet the woman responsible for his father's death. It had been he who had hinted to Neal Hesar that Hesar's whore should suggest the job to her daughter. He had also been the one to put the bug in Alistair Wynth's ear to hire Bronwyn McGregor. When news had reached him that the McGregor spawn would be coming to Baybridge, Koenen Brell had been beside himself with glee.

He had bided his time when she first arrived. Meeting too quickly would not have been to his advantage. Though it had irked him to prolong the confrontation, he had forced himself to take it slow, to let her come to him as he knew she eventually would.

“Vengeance is best served cold,” he muttered, and vengeance was what he intended to have. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the woman who had caused his father's death.

He had lied to Bronwyn when he told her he did not blame her. In truth, he had put the blame squarely on her slender shoulders. Had it not been for her, his father would still be alive. She had been the catalyst that had set that horrid sequence into motion, and for that she must be made to pay.

While it was true he had not spoken to his father in years, Koenen Brell had worshiped the man. Despite the fact his father had seldom written and had called only a few times after abandoning his family in Perth, Koenen blamed his mother and the stupid child she had conceived for pushing away his father. To him, his father was a hero and deserved to be avenged for his untimely death.

Koenen had maneuvered himself into the job at Baybridge simply to be near the place his father had worked. He had learned all he could about the McGregor family and had put the blame of his father's murder where it needed to be—on Bronwyn.

“If it is the last thing I do,” he snarled, “I will make you pay for taking my father from me!”

Grabbing several sheets of paper from his desk, Brell began to methodically shred them, his face twisted with rage.

“Does that really help, Koenen?”

Brell jumped, spinning around to confront whomever had spoken. He glared at a man he did not recognize. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

Danyon Hart sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. There was a tight smile on his face as he walked toward Brell. “You are I are going to become very close, Koenen,” Danyon replied, his eyes flashing crimson. “Very, very close, indeed. As a matter of fact, no one will know where you leave off and I begin!”

Brian looked up from his desk to find Cree leaning against the doorjamb. “How'd it go with Vance?” he inquired.

Cree shrugged. “As well as could be expected.”

“That bastard is as vile as they come.”

“I've seen worse.”

Throwing his pen to the desk blotter, Brian leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did she get through the interview okay?”

“She seemed to.”

Brian rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Is Vance still alive or has he joined Faulkner in the hereafter?”

“He was alive when I left him in his cell.”

“And functioning, was he?”

Cree rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe not functioning at peak efficiency.”

“Come in and shut the door.”

For a moment it seemed Cree would not obey the command. He looked down the corridor, then drew in a deep breath and came into the room, closing the door behind him. Without being asked, he took a seat. “You got a lecture prepared or are you going to wing it?” he grumbled and crossed his left ankle over his right knee.

“How close to Transition are you?”

“Three weeks,” was the stony reply.

“Tell me what happens if you Transition out of cycle,” Brian commanded.

“Ah for the love of Alel!” Cree snapped. “I—”

“Tell me what happens!”

Anger settled on Cree's handsome face. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he ground his teeth. He glared at Brian, refusing to answer.

Brian lowered his clasped hands to his desk and sat forward. “I went down to the morgue this afternoon and took a look at Jason Faulkner.”

Cree's left foot jiggled up and down, an indication of his annoyance. His breathing—rapid and heavy—was audible.

“That was sheer terror I saw engraved on that man's face. Whatever he saw put one helluva fierce strain on his heart and it killed him.”

They stared at one another for a long time, neither speaking. Finally Brian leaned back.

“If I go to Vance's cell and look in on him, am I going to see terror on his face, too, Viraidan?”

“That asshole doesn't look any different than he did when he woke up this morning,” Cree snarled, dusting unseen lint from his trouser leg.

“But his mind's not the same as when he crawled out of bed this morning, now, is it?”

The Reaper shot up from the chair and began pacing in front of Brian's desk. “Those two perverted excuses for human beings won't be missed and won't ever hurt another woman or child again! And Bronwyn won't have to hear their vile boasting of the evil they've done!”

“I don't give a rat's ass about Faulkner and Vance. I am worried about you!”

“You don't need to.”

“For every time you Transition out of cycle, another day or two is lopped off the day sequence. You know that, Viraidan!”

“It doesn't matter.”

“The hell is doesn't!” Brian shouted. He got to his feet and shook a finger at the Reaper. “How long did you maintain the Transition? Two minutes? Five? Ten? How long did you hold it?”

“How the hell should I know?” Cree yelled. “I wasn't counting!”

“You Transitioned twice in one day. And you didn't take Sustenance from either victim. You held the shift without venting the bloodlust. It would have been bad enough if you'd bled them, Viraidan, but you didn't. That puts more of a strain on the parasite and—”

“I can handle it!”

“Mark my words,” Brian grated, his lips skinned back from his teeth. “You are going to go into Transition well before you expect it, and by the gods, Viraidan, you'd better hope you're close enough to get to the Containment Cell before someone sees you!”

“I will handle it,” Cree said, stressing each word.

“You better hope you do.”

Cree stalked to the door, flung it open, and started out.

“And stay the hell away from Bronwyn McGregor!” Brian ordered.

Those the Captain of Security Services passed in the corridor stepped back from the infuriated look on his face. They pressed themselves against the wall or hastily entered rooms they'd had no intention of entering. The few employees who had decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator regretted doing so as Cree shoved past them. He knew his warning growl frightened more than one of them.

Once outside, the Iowa night air turning cooler as fall approached, the Reaper's long strides took him past the parking lot and out behind the main building as he headed for the gravel path to the lake.

A twinge in his back made him flex his shoulders. When it happened again, he stopped walking, the pain finally registering. He hung his head, doubled his fists, and pressed them to his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to blot out the burning sensation that had begun.

“I know,” he said, feeling the ripples of demand shifting across his kidneys.

He knew he would have to kill for Her. She was reminding him as gently as She would that he needed to make good on his promise.

He also knew, in order to kill, he would have to Transition again.

The agony intensified in his back. He bent over with the force of it, his elbows on his flexed knees.

“Give me time.” He gasped when a sharp stab of pure torture went through his right kidney. “Please, Lady!” he begged.

She held the torment for another breath or two, then relented, reminding him who controlled him.

Cree's breathing was ragged as he straightened. He knew the reprieve would not last long. Before She could renew Her physical attack on him, he turned and staggered back down the path. He was sweating profusely by the time he reached his motorcycle, moaning in agony as he swung his leg over the machine.

He needed to hunt.

For Her.

He never slowed down as he reached the security huts. There was a tracking device on his bike and his men knew he was coming. The gate was barely open as he roared between the parted chain link sections, opening the throttle as he shot down the roadway.

It was dawn when he returned, his face haggard, his eyes glazed with the bloodlust that had turned him from man to beast in order to feed the parasitic mistress that rode him. He was not wearing the same clothing he had worn when he had left Baybridge. The tattered black uniform now lay buried in a shallow hole—near the splintered bones of the Reaper's latest kill.

Bronwyn had just come out of her condo, Brownie padding spryly beside her, when she noticed the big black dog lifting its leg on the corner of the building. She hesitated, pulling gently on Brownie's leash. The site of such a large canine—unleashed and roaming free—unsettled her. The beast could turn, snarl, and attack. Even though Brownie was a female, the animal could conceivably jump on her and clamp his massive jaws into her silky throat. The thought of that made Bronwyn stoop down to pick up her pet.

“He won't harm her.”

Bronwyn looked around, then straightened up, shocked by his pallor and the tremor in his hand as he threaded his fingers through his unbound hair. “Are you all right?”

“I've been better,” he replied, then hunkered down to pat Brownie. “Come here, gorgeous.”

Bronwyn smiled as Brownie lay down, turned up her stomach for a scratching, and wiggled with pleasure at the firm fingers that ran over her tight little gray tummy. Her smile flickered when the big black dog loped over.

“Bronnie,” Cree said. “Meet Ralph.”

Ralph sat, then lifted one giant paw in greeting, raking it up and down.

Bronwyn's smile returned. She shook the proffered paw. “Does he belong to you, Ralph?” she asked, using her other hand to smooth the sleek black fur on the dog's head.

“Humphf,” Ralph replied with an emphatic nod of his big head.

“It certainly isn't the other way around,” Cree joked.

Cree vigorously rubbed Brownie's stomach one last time, then got to his feet, jamming his hands into the pockets of his black jeans.

Brownie wiggled on her back a few more times, her little paws waving in the air.

Bronwyn laughed. “Get up, slut. He's lost interest in you.”

“She knows better,” Cree disagreed.

Sighing, Brownie got to her feet, shook herself, then turned to look at Ralph. For a moment, her pretty little brown eyes blinked, then she walked cautiously toward him.

Bronwyn dropped the leash, giving Brownie space to investigate this new acquaintance. When the canines touched noses, then gave each another the traditional nose-to-butt inspection, Bronwyn looked away with embarrassment.

“Are you off today?” she asked Cree.

“Aye. We were headed down to the lake.”

Brownie and Ralph were playfully nipping at one another, running in tight little circles around their master and mistress.

“Mind if we tag along?” Bronwyn inquired.

Cree shrugged. “It's a free country.”

The reply wasn't encouraging, but Bronwyn decided to ignore the standoffishness it implied. She called Brownie to her to take hold of the leash.

“Let her run free,” Cree said. “No animal should be tied up.”

“Stop reading my mind. I don't like it.”

Cree said nothing to her demand. Instead, he started down the gravel path, seemingly uncaring if she walked with him or not.

A frustrated sigh hissed from Bronwyn's mouth as she followed. She had to jog a little to catch up to him, slapping her leg for Brownie to follow, then became exasperated when her pet raced on ahead, the black dog plodding along beside her.