BlackWind (52 page)

“Ah, hell, I forgot about Ralph.”

“I'll feed him and walk him, don't worry. That's the least of our problems!”

“Here's the key to Cree's apartment,” Brian said.

As they hurried down the corridor toward his condo, Brian watched Bronwyn out of the corner of his eye. Her willingness—some might even say eagerness—to help, to be a part of Viraidan's life, was all the proof Brian needed to understand there would be no keeping them apart. He sighed, his mind going to Dorrie.

Perhaps the gods had made the decision for them all.

“Sometimes the Transition lasts an hour or so, sometimes several days,” Brian explained. “It depends on whether the Reaper gets fresh warm blood or Sustenance from the refrigeration unit.”

“Understood,” Bronwyn said.

“Since he can't go out to hunt for fresh blood, the Transition will take longer.”

They had stopped at Brian's apartment long enough to take a plastibag of blood from the refrigerator and to call Dr. Wynth to request the use of the jet. Wynth had said the jet would be ready in twenty minutes.

“I can't believe they're letting me use the Raven Jet,” Brian muttered.

“How will I know when the Transition is over?” Bronwyn asked as they left the apartment.

“I'm guessing three, maybe four days. To be on the safe side, let's say five. It's certainly not going to hurt him to stay in there longer than usual.”

“I don't want to keep him in any longer than necessary. I'm guessing Viraidan is claustrophobic.”

“Aye, that he is. In spades!”

They rode the elevator to the lowest level. Bronwyn leaned against the stainless steel wall of the cage. “How do I feed him?”

“There is a security hatch through which you can pass the bags of Sustenance. You push a red button beside the cell door and a long titanium tray will slide toward you. Place the bag on the tray, then press the green button to send it into the cell. You will need to feed him every four hours. That will keep the bloodlust at its lowest level. If you don't get to him within that time, if you take longer than five or six hours to feed him again, he's going to be mad with hunger, and that's not a pretty sight.”

“Where do you get the Sustenance?” she asked as the elevator doors opened.

“It's outdated blood,” Brian answered, stepping aside for her to exit the cage. “I stockpile it for us.”

“And no one questions that?”

“We keep blood on hand in case of medical emergencies here and I also get it from the local blood bank. They think I'm conducting experiments. No one has questioned me so far.”

“And the Tenerse?”

“I distill that myself from the protocols given to us by the Queen.”

The corridor was dimly lit and there was a strange smell in the air.

“Reaper scent,” Brian told her. “Our urine during Transition is potent.”

Bronwyn covered her nose with her hand. “Yes, it is.”

They came to a row of three gray doors, each ten feet apart. The doors had a solid surface except for a small peephole like that on Bronwyn's own front door.

“The peephole was specially built to encompass the entire cell,” Brian said. “I don't know how they designed it, but there's no distortion like you get with a fish-lens apparatus.”

They reached the farthest door.

“He's in there.”

No sooner had the words left Brian's mouth than the door began to vibrate. The violent thuds against it shook the walls.

“No need to be worried,” Brian said, sensing Bronwyn's disquiet. “He can't get out.”

Bronwyn watched Brian activate the tray and place the bag of Sustenance on it. He sent the bag into the cell. Almost immediately there was a howl of rage and the pounding on the door began again.

“I forgot you held the bag for me while I got the Tenerse out of the fridge,” Brian groaned. “He smells your scent and is so gods-be-damned mad he's ignoring the Sustenance.”

“You think he knows I'm out here?”

“Aye, but it doesn't matter. The next time he gets the Sustenance he'll catch the scent again and know for sure.” He looked at his watch. “You've got the key to my apartment?”

Bronwyn patted her pocket. “Yes, sir.”

“And you know where everything is?”

“Go, Brian. I've got everything covered.”

“He's naked in there. As soon as the full Transition occurs, his clothes get shredded like so much confetti. There is a closet at the end of the hall. We keep jumpsuits in there. Just fold one up and put it on the tray.”

“I'm sure he'll remind me if I don't.”

Brian hesitated, his loyalty to Cree vying with his need to go to Dorrie, the woman he loved.

“I'll take care of him,” Bronwyn said, touching Brian's cheek. “You know I will.”

“I know, lass.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Tell Dorrie hello for me,” she said, her voice breaking.

Brian started to say something, but turned and rushed down the corridor.

Bronwyn was tempted to go to the peephole and look in on Cree, but as soon as the thought entered her mind, the pounding grew harder.

“It's all right, Aidan,” she said softly. “I'm not going to look.”

The pounding stopped abruptly.

She laid her hand on the door's slick surface. “I'll be back later.”

Bronwyn walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks—tears for Dorrie, for Brian, for the man whose tortured soul was revealed once more in the inhuman howl of misery that penetrated the thick concrete walls.

Twice more she came down to the containment cells that afternoon, but all was quiet behind the titanium doors. She sent the plastibag through, then stood at the door.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

There was no sound from behind the door.

She laid her head against the door. “You're angry. You don't understand why Brian sent me down here. It wasn't to hurt you.”

The silence beyond the door continued.

She moved away. “I was supposed to have an appointment with Rose Ann Danvers this afternoon, but—”

The walls thundered with powerful hits against them.

Bronwyn smiled. She knew that would get a reaction.

“I said I was
supposed
to have an appointment with her, Aidan. But since you won't be able to go with me, I've postponed it until next week.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then a single slap against the door.

Bronwyn laughed. “Temper, temper.” She walked back to the door and touched it. “I hope you're happy that I'm going to be up all night trotting down here every four hours to feed you. Now I know how new mother's feel.”

Silence.

Bronwyn drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. She touched the door once more and left.

For the next three days, every four hours like clockwork, Bronwyn made her trek to the containment cell. No matter what she had been doing, she dropped it to take care of Cree. But no matter what she said or how she provoked him, he remained silent, uncommunicative. There were no more hits on the door, no more howls. She was tempted several times to look in on him to make sure he was all right, but knew he wouldn't appreciate it. She would wait the five days, then risk a glance through the peephole.

On the morning of the fourth day, she was getting dressed when the phone rang. She glanced at the wall clock in the bathroom—it was a quarter to five—and wondered who could be calling that early. Normally she didn't get up until seven, but since she'd been feeding the Reaper, her schedule had been vastly altered. Her 1-5-9 treks to the containment cell would not be missed, she thought as she picked up the phone.

“Dr. McGregor,” she answered.

There was no reply.

“Hello. This is Dr. McGregor.”

Then a lost, forlorn voice said, “She's gone.”

Bronwyn pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Brian?”

“My Dorrie's gone, Bronnie,” he said in a cracked voice.

“Oh, Brian.” Tears filled Bronwyn's eyes. “Sweetie, I'm so sorry.”

“They want me to...they said I had to...” He broke down, sobbing loudly.

“Where are you, Brian?”

“Hospital...”

“Is there someone there with you?”

“Aye.”

“Can you put them on the phone?”

There was a rustling sound, a few low words, then a woman's voice came on the line. “Four East, Mrs. Wilton.”

“Mrs. Wilton, I'm Dr. McGregor. I'm a friend of Dr. O'Shea's. Were you Mrs. Cullen's nurse?”

The woman acknowledged she had been, then reported the particulars of Dorrie's death. Ignoring her own tears, Bronwyn could hear Brian's quiet sobbing in the background.

“He's not dealing with this well,” Mrs. Wilton said with no little annoyance.

“I take it you need someone to handle the funeral arrangements.”

“Well, someone needs to.”

Bronwyn ground her teeth and grabbed a pen to write down the number of the local funeral home the nurse provided. When she had the information, she told the nurse to put Brian on the line.

“I have to know where you want her buried,” Bronwyn said softly.

“Bronnie, I can't...”

“It's being taken care of. Don't worry. I just need to know where you want her laid to rest.”

“Can you...will you...”

“I'd think Georgia, but it's up to you.”

After a long silence, Brian agreed Georgia would have been Dorrie's choice. “She loved Albany. Despite everything, she loved that town.”

“I'll call Crown Hill, then. My parents had a plot there, but mom says she wants to be buried out here. I'm sure there won't be a problem if I tell them I want Dorrie buried there.”

“Oh, God!” Brian keened. “I need you, Bronnie!”

“I'll be there,” she said without hesitation. “Let me get hold of the funeral director first. Okay?”

Brian told her where to come and how long it should take the corporate jet to get her there. She knew Dr. Wynth would never balk at flying her to Georgia.

“I'll see you in a few hours. Try to get some rest,” Bronwyn advised.

“I'm going to stay with her. I have to, Bronnie.”

“I know. I understand. I'll be there as quick as I can.”

“I love you, Bronnie,” Brian sobbed.

“I love you, too,” she replied and realized it was true. She cared deeply for the older man just as she had cared deeply for Sean's mother.

When she hung up, she called to inform Dr. Wynth of the death and to have the jet stand by. It took more than an hour for calls to the Albany funeral home to have the body transported there, to discuss details with the funeral director, and to order a simple mahogany casket. Another hour to make arrangements for the plot, to call the florist to order a spray of flowers, to speak with the priest at St. Teresa's, and to reserve the church. Thirty minutes more to pack a bag and to find someone to cover for her with her patients. Ten minutes to take Brownie to Carol Mason's apartment. Carol was already looking after DeeDee's little dog.

When she was ready to leave, Bronwyn looked about her living room, wondering what she had forgotten. She tried once more to contact Cedric and Danyon but neither answered her call. She was almost out of her apartment when she remembered Ralph.

Another fifteen minutes were taken up as she called around and finally found someone to take the big dog. Another ten minutes to fetch Ralph and take him—protesting the entire way—to Vince Cartelli's apartment.

“Behave, Ralph,” she warned the dog that growled menacingly at the gardener.

It wasn't until the jet was in sight on the runway that she remembered.

“Oh, dear God, Cree!”

She dropped her bag, yelled at one of the ground crew members to put it on the plane, and starting running as fast as she could.

He was pounding on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs when she finally made her way to the containment cell. Having had to stop for the Sustenance added another ten minutes to the timeframe.

“Get me out of here, Bronwyn!”

She skidded to a stop at the door. She doubted Cree would be shouting at her in his thick brogue if he were still in Transition. Not giving herself time to consider if what she was about to do was wise, she hit the lock release and the pneumatic hinge hissed open.

He was standing in the doorway, his face livid with rage and something else she didn't recognize until he snatched the plastibag from her hand and tore it open with his teeth.

Normally, she might well have been sickened by the sight of Cree slurping the thick red liquid, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed, a slender thread of the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and onto his chest. She might even have been frightened of the intense power that came off him in waves had she not been so captured by the sight of his nakedness.

Of their own accord, her eyes traveled the length of him, from his thrown-back head as he guzzled, past his brawny, heaving chest with the thick pelt of wiry hair, to the lean waist with its washboard abs, flat belly, past that part of him that made her blush hotter than the fires under a crucible, along the sturdy legs that ended in perfectly-shaped feet, then up again, lingering once more on that powerful shaft that had her swallowing.

“Stop that!” he thundered, slapping his hand across his chest to cover the golden medallion nestled among the curling thatch. His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “Get me some gods-be-damned clothes, woman!”

His tone thrust Bronwyn into immediate action. She sprinted down the hall, snatched open the closet, and grabbed a black jumpsuit. Before she could turn to rush back to him, he was behind her, jerking the jumpsuit out of her hands.

Avidly her gaze locked on the firm buttocks shifting in movement as he walked away from her. His long legs had just the right amount of hair on them, she thought, as he stopped with his back to her and thrust one limb into the pant leg. His naked feet were beautiful and she longed to stroke their sturdy length. As that part of him that had so greatly distracted her dangled in view as he lifted his other leg to jam it into the jumpsuit leg, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep her whimper of desire from escaping.

“Brazen hussy,” he accused as he turned, zipping the jumpsuit up to his neck. “What the hell's the matter with you? Where were you? Did you forget I was locked up or was that your little way of punishing me?”