BlackWind (53 page)

“W...what? Punish you?”

“Where's the Tenerse?”

Bronwyn looked at him as though he were talking in a foreign language. She wasn't prepared when he grabbed her arm none too gently. “Where is my gods-be-damned Tenerse?”

Bronwyn shook herself, trying to block the image of him naked from her mind. “Tenerse—”

“I need it, woman!” he thundered. “I'm nearly out of my mind!”

“I didn't bring it.” Her eyes widened when the look on his face became lethal.

He turned, dragging her to the elevator. “Where is Brian?”

For a moment she couldn't remember. “I...I...”

“Just shut up! I'll deal with that bastard later!”

The ride up in the elevator was the longest fifteen seconds of Bronwyn's life. Her arm ached where Cree's hand gripped the flesh. She knew there would be one hell of a bruise before the day was out. She could hear him gnashing his teeth, and the heavy breathing and rigid posture that had claimed his body was enough to make the faint of heart lose hope they'd survive the ride with him. He jerked her out of the elevator on Brian's floor even before the doors were all the way open.

As he pulled her down the hall, they passed people who leapt out of their way. No doubt those who saw them would have rumors floating about the head of security and his captive, Dr. McGregor.

Not bothering to knock on Brian's door, Cree lifted his bare foot and slammed it against the panel, splintering the frame. He pulled her into the apartment, through the living room, and into the kitchen, then sent her careening across the room.

“Get me the med, woman!”

Bronwyn crashed into the counter, crying out as her hip hit the edge. She turned to give him a furious look, but his face bore the unmistakable stamp of a man who was fast reaching the limit of his endurance. She couldn't get the fridge door open fast enough.

Her hand shaking, she took one of the prepared syringes of Tenerse from the Plexiglas box in which it was stored. Turning around, she was almost afraid to get near him. He was breathing so hard he was heaving, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands were fisted at his side and his jaw was clenched so tightly, a muscle bunched in his cheek.

She looked around, groaning when she didn't see what she needed.

“What are you looking for?”

“Alcohol swab—”

“Give me the shot. Now!”

He was taller than her and she knew the injection had to go in his jugular vein. She was about to tell him to sit at the table when he dropped to his knees and yanked the collar of the jumpsuit out of her way.

“Do it before I go insane!”

She put the index finger of her left hand on his neck, found the spot Brian told her should be used, and plunged the needle into his flesh. She felt him flinch, heard his in-drawn breath as the liquid spread through his vein, and saw him squeeze his eyes closed to the agony traveling through him.

Bronwyn put the disposable syringe on the counter. Cree was still on his knees, his head bowed, his breathing somewhat slower, but his eyes still held firmly closed. His hands were bunched on his knees, pressing into the flesh.

She didn't think; she simply reacted. She put her left hand on the back of his head and pulled his forehead against her belly. Her right hand she used to gently rub the spot where she had given him the injection. When his arms went around her hips, she held him closer.

“Where is Brian?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Brian's face passed through her mind, then Dorrie's. As Sean's mother's visage drifted out of sight, Cree looked up at her.

“She's dead?” he whispered.

“She died this morning.”

A strange expression passed over Cree's handsome face. “How?”

“A stroke. Brian was with her when she passed away. He'd been there since the day he took you to the containment cell.”

Cree lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her. His arms tightened.

“I told Brian I would go there,” she said, stroking Cree's thick black hair. “The jet is waiting for me.”

“I have to go,” he said, releasing her. He got to his feet and looked at her.

Brian and Cree were close, and she understood that. “I'll let them know you'll be coming, too. Do you need to pack something?”

He shook his head.

“You can't go like that.”

He glanced down at what he was wearing. “I guess I can't.”

“Go change. We can get you a suit down there.”

He nodded and turned away.

“Aidan?” she called.

He looked back.

“You might want to take a shower first,” she suggested with a gentle smile.

He winced, as if just now realizing how he must smell. “I'll be as quick as I can,” he said before walking from the room. Almost immediately he was back.

“What?” she asked.

“Bring what we need, Bronwyn. Brian will have taken his supply, but we might need a few days more of each.”

How strange, she thought, as she rummaged in Brian's closet, to be looking for a suitable carryall for bags of blood and an alien substance that could turn a ravaging beast back into a human male.

One of Bronwyn's greatest pleasures was the feel of a jet taking off beneath her. The strain of the g-force, then the weightlessness, made her sigh. She always wished the feeling would last longer.

“You'd like space travel,” Cree mumbled.

She turned her head to glance at him across the aisle. He wasn't looking at her. “What's takeoff like in a space craft?”

“More prolonged and more intense,” he replied, then shut his eyes.

“Gotta try that one day,” she said wistfully.

Cree grunted, then turned his head to stare out the starboard window.

“This must be tame for you,” she said.

When he didn't reply, she tried again.

“What was it like when you landed on Earth?”

When he still didn't answer, she gave up and turned toward her window to look at the patchwork of fields, stitched together by silver-colored roads, moving slowly beneath the wings of the jet.

The man is an enigma, she thought. She doubted anyone had ever understood him or ever would. He had a way of closing himself off to gentle probing and locking out others to insistent inquiry. His silence challenged her. His brooding posture intrigued her. She wanted to know more about him, to get to know the man beneath the stern exterior. There had been glimpses of a more human side to him and it was that persona to which she had tried reaching out, only to be rebuffed when she got too close.

What are you hiding, Viraidan Cree? she wondered. What terrible secret are you trying to keep the world from knowing?

“The idjuts couldn't communicate.”

Bronwyn jumped at the sudden interruption. “I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged. “When I crashed in Ireland, I taught the natives a thing or two of my culture,” he said, his eyes glowing with mischief. “They didn't have a spoken or written language as yet. All they knew how to do was grunt. Because they were so gods-be-damned backward, I taught them the Low Chalean dialect and gave them a rudimentary alphabet.” He grinned. “And I taught them how to fight.”

“Not one of your more intelligent moments there, Aidan,” she said dryly.

He chuckled. “How was I to know they'd embrace the concept so readily?”

“It's thought the Gaels taught the Irish to speak somewhere around 300 B.C.”

“It's thought wrong. And it wasn't ogham script they learned to write, either. It was Chalean High Runic form and it was around a lot longer than they originally thought. Only the Holy Men, the ones you call Druids, could write it, though.”

“Is Chalean your native tongue, then?”

“No. Rysalian would have been, had I stayed on the planet long enough to learn it. There are similarities between Rysalian High Speech and Chalean just as there are similarities between French and Spanish.”

“You were, what? Two years old when you were sold to the Amazeen?”

“Aye.”

“Then Chalean is their dialect.”

“By Alel's beard, no!” he said, his face turning hard. “Those bitches speak a language all their own. It's a compilation of the languages of many worlds, mostly Diabolusian.”

“Who taught you Chalean?”

Cree raised his leg and crossed his right ankle over his knee. “A slave assigned to take care of me.”

“Like a nanny?”

Humor tugged at Cree's full lips. “I doubt Daithi Tarnes would have liked being called a nanny. The man was six feet tall and, despite the cutting, was rock-hard and twice as strong.”

“The cutting?”

Cree held up his hand and used his index and middle finger like a pair of scissors. “They took away his goodie.”

Bronwyn blushed. “Oh...”

“All the men of the harems were neutered,” Cree said in a matter-of-fact tone. “All those except the ones the Amazeen intended to breed by.”

“This Daithi had been captured by them?”

“He had been in the Chalean Guard and was taken prisoner during a skirmish near the capital of Meiraman when the Amazeen went after one of the royal sons.”

“How was it you learned to be a Reaper, then, if you were cared for by an outsider? Someone not of your kind?”

“I learned what I needed from the computer on the ship I commandeered,” he said, pride in his voice. “There was an extensive amount of data on Reapers. Some of what I read surprised me, but most I'd already begun to feel by the time I came into puberty. The urges I experienced made sense after I finished assimilating the information. I knew I had been created to kill, and then I knew how I should go about it.”

Bronwyn smoothed her skirt, wanting to change the subject. “What was it like to wake up in Fuilgaoth after spending all that time in the bog?”

The knuckles of Cree's right hand traced an arc across the jet's window glass. “I wasn't happy to find myself imprisoned at Fuilgaoth, if that's what you mean.”

“It must have been like going from one prison to another.”

Cree looked away. “Aye.”

“Were you and Sean...?”

He turned, his eyes narrowed. “I don't want to talk about Cullen. Is that clear?”

She raised her chin. “Why not?”

“Leave it alone, woman!” He looked away, dismissing her.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. Somewhere over Kentucky, Bronwyn accepted a soda pop from the stewardess and a bag of salted nuts, but Cree refused to even acknowledge the stewardess’ presence. He stared out the window, his hands doubled into fists on the luxury chair arms. At one point, he got up, retrieved the satchel into which Bronwyn had placed the extra plastibags of Sustenance, and took it to the restroom. When he came back, he sat down, avoiding Bronwyn's look, and resumed his contemplation of the clouds.

When the plane landed in Milledgeville, a light rain was falling. The tarmac was slick with silvery shadows as the plane settled on the runway. The sudden drag upon landing was not as exhilarating to Bronwyn as a takeoff, but it was nevertheless a slight thrill that always made her smile.

A representative from the local funeral home was waiting with a limousine to take Bronwyn and her companion to Mason and Sons’ Funeral Home. He got out of the limo, opened an umbrella, and stood waiting for the plane to taxi to a stop.

“He looks like a bloody vulture,” Cree snarled when they approached the waiting man.

Bronwyn had to agree. The man was tall and thin, and dressed in black as he was, he did resemble a wiry bird of prey. His neck was crooked forward, adding to the vulture image, along with dark, beady eyes that seemed devoid of animation.

“Dr. McGregor?” he inquired, coming forward to hold the umbrella over Bronwyn. “I am Richard Ludlum from Mason and Sons'. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Is Dr. O'Shea at the funeral parlor?” she asked.

The lanky man winced. “We prefer to call it ‘the home,’ Dr. McGregor. It implies an abode from which we will take our final excursion.”

“Bloody idjut.” Cree mumbled as he jerked upon the back door of the limousine. He glared at Bronwyn. “Will you get in or do you plan on catching your death of cold?”

Mr. Ludlum tsked, obviously dismayed by Cree's behavior, but too polite to say anything. The gaunt man looked at Bronwyn with sympathy.

“He's been cooped up too long,” she explained and heard Cree snort as she ducked into the back of the limo. “He's a bit out of sorts.”

“He's a bit out of sorts,” Cree mimicked as Ludlum shut the door.

“Better than me telling him you're a blooming ass,” she quipped and was surprised to see shock pass momentarily over Cree's face before he squinted and turned away.

Ludlum kept up a continuous chatter about the places they passed on the way into town. Waving his thin hands like semaphores, he pointed out local attractions as though he had personally been responsible for their conception and building.

At one point Cree leaned over and whispered in Bronwyn's ear. “If you don't shut that fool up, I am going to leap over the seat and pull out his throat!”

Bronwyn turned to him, her gaze going automatically to the full lips that had sent a shiver straight through her ear to her belly. When she raised her eyes to his, she saw the lethality of his warning.

“I mean it, Bronwyn. Either shut him up or I will.”

“Mr. Ludlum?” Bronwyn asked, tearing her attention from Cree's steady look. She sat forward, her hand on the seat between herself and Cree.

“Yes, Ma'am?”

“Mr. Cree and I would like a few minutes of silence to pray. Would you be so kind as to accommodate us until we get to the home?”

Ludlum looked at her in the rear view mirror, then shifted his beady eyes to Cree, who was glaring back at him with murderous intent.

“Of course, Dr. McGregor,” Ludlum sniffed. He tightened his birdlike hands around the steering wheel. “I would be most happy to oblige.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ludlum,” Bronwyn said, breathing a sigh of relief as she sat back. She was unprepared as Cree reached over and covered her hand with his.

“Good girl,” he said, giving her fingers a light squeeze before removing his hand.

“Don't mention it,” she mumbled, feeling like a pet that had had its head patted.

Brian was on the wide veranda of the funeral home when they arrived. He was smoking, something Bronwyn wasn't aware he did. When the limo pulled to a stop in the circular driveway, Brian flicked his cigarette into the nearby azalea bushes and came down the steps to meet them. He opened the limo door and reached for Bronwyn's hand, then helped her from the car, barely glancing at Cree, who climbed out of the other door.