BlackWind (60 page)

“Do something!” Ski'Ah demanded.

Danyon was bone-tired and experiencing a grief he had not expected at the loss of Aoife, the woman who had been his mistress for more than eighty years. He had prolonged his departure from the old woman's gravesite near Belfast, mourning her in his own way for three days past the moment of her burial. Now he was deeply depressed, unable to understand why, and annoyed that the Blackwind was making demands of him.

“She took his seed within her last night!” Ski'Ah hissed. “He claimed her as his mate!”

“She was already his mate,” Danyon mumbled.

“What if she has conceived?” the Amazeen warrioress snapped.

He rubbed at an unaccustomed ache in his temple that should not be there. “If she has, I will see that the fetus does not survive.”

Somewhat mollified, Ski'Ah commenced pacing in front of the stable. She was furious, decidedly so, because she had not been able to prevent the Reaper from taking the human woman the night before. The black dog's presence had been an effective deterrent.

“This changes things,” she grated.

“In what way?” Danyon asked, not really caring. He had fallen into a strange lassitude that alarmed him and his inability to get incensed about Cree lying with Bronwyn surprised him even more than his unexpected grief.

“He can not be executed once I get him back to Amazeen. He belongs to a Sister—human and inferior, though she is—and as such, he is protected under ancient Chattel Laws. He can not be made to atone for the crimes he committed against my ancestor!”

“So don't tell them he belongs to Bronwyn. Who will know the difference?” Danyon asked with a yawn. He longed to find a warm bed.

Ski'Ah drew herself up. “When I take him back, I am obligated to tell the Council of Elders. I could lose my head for omitting the fact the Reaper has been claimed by another woman!”

“Not that it matters to me, but what will become of him, then?” Danyon asked, intrigued despite his weariness.

The Amazeen threw out a dismissive hand. “He will be imprisoned in the public square for all to see and taunt. To a Reaper, being caged is the ultimate torture. Pain is nothing to them, but confinement is an agony they do not tolerate well. He will be punished in a way he will find hard to endure.”

Danyon shrugged. “Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

“I would have preferred watching him roast in the Auto da fé! His screams would have been music to my ears and my ancestor would have been avenged!”

“Well, we don't always get what we want.” Danyon chuckled.

“I want this over with, Nightwind! I am ready to return to Amazeen. The cybot on my ship awaits my order to transport us on board. This has gone on long enough. When—”

“I am curious. Where does one hide an alien space craft?”

“Behind the Terran moon, fool! No more useless prattle. When will I be able to capture him?”

Danyon sobered. “Soon, beautiful Ski'Ah. Very soon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This you promise?”

He raised his left hand to the heavens. “As surely as I pledged my undying love for Bronwyn McGregor, I promise you soon you will be in possession of the Reaper and on your way across the megaverse.”

“You will rid me of the beast that interferes?”

“Ah, yes, the black beast.” Danyon thought of the entity he had befriended. The Bugul Noz would have to be dealt with, for Ordin Gver had developed a strong affection for the Reaper. “I will see to him. Have no fear on that account, Lady.”

Content that the one obstacle to capturing the Reaper would be removed, Ski'Ah seemed to relax. She batted her long lashes at Danyon and moved closer, her hand going toward his chest.

“Ah, no,” he said, stepping back. The thought of her laying hands on him turned his stomach. “I am in need of a bath and a warm pallet.”

Ski'Ah frowned. “Some other time, then?”

He nodded, taking another step back. His olfactory senses were being bombarded by the stench that seemed to roll off the Blackwind when she was irritated.

“You will call me when it is time?” she inquired.

“Aye. Within the next day or two you should be on your way to Amazeen with Cree in chains at your feet.”

Cree explained to Bronwyn what had happened at Fuilgaoth on the day the Queen revenant worm had brought both Sean and him back from the dead. He refrained from touching her, wiping at the tears falling down her pale cheeks, taking her trembling body into his arms to comfort her. He held her gaze captive as he told her how he had felt upon awakening from his centuries-long imprisonment and revealed how odd it was to be sharing a portion of his soul, his memories, his feelings with a stranger. He allowed her to see into his deepest emotions and opened his heart to her before turning over the rest of the explanation to that part of him he both loathed and pitied.

“I was horrified to find myself in the body of Viraidan Cree,” the Sean part of him explained. “This man looked nothing like me, talked nothing like me. He was older, more powerful. I felt a terror I could not explain the first time I looked into a mirror and I was shocked when I opened my mouth and a thick brogue came out!”

“I had a hard time dealing with Sean Cullen's love for you,” the Viraidan part of him stressed. “Love was something I had never experienced. I didn't know how to love. I fought him every step of the way because he wanted to go to Florida to keep watch over you. We compromised and made one trip there. One look at you and I knew I wanted to be with you, too. I would have moved heaven and hell to have you as my mate, but the both of us knew that would be dangerous.”

For more than an hour, the two beings inside the Reaper's body revealed to Bronwyn their innermost thoughts, desires, hopes, and fears. When the last defense was shed and the last secret told, they grew silent, each in his own way, dreading the response he would garner.

Bronwyn felt lightheaded, her pounding heart loud in her ears. Her palms were slick with perspiration while her mouth was dry as desert sand. A part of her wanted to throw back her head and scream mindlessly to the heavens. Another part wanted to run, to put as much distance as humanly possible between her and the two entities staring at her through the eyes of the Reaper. Still another side of her wanted to throw her arms around the two men she loved with her entire being and tell them everything would be all right, that everything would work itself out.

“Do you hate me, now?” Cree whispered, his heart in his eyes. “Do you hate us both?” Sean asked.

“I don't hate either of you, but I need time to deal with this, to adjust. This is too much to get my head around in so short a time.”

“I understand.” The Reaper moved away from her and went to stand by his horse. He stroked the animal's withers. “Take all the time you need, Milady.”

Bronwyn walked to the little mare, wondering how she was going to mount the animal. She was numb, her legs weak, her arms without strength.

“Here,” Cree said, coming to her.

He lifted her into his strong arms and swung her up on the mare's back, then gathered the reins and handed them to her. He stood looking up at her for a moment, then moved back, giving her room to put the horse in motion.

Returning his steady gaze, Bronwyn could see the effect their conversation had had on him. His shoulders were rigid as though he expected a blow, was preparing himself for her rejection. Though his face was carefully blank, there was keen misery in his amber gaze. The tautness of his clenched jaw could not hide the slight tremor in his lips.

Her heart went out to him, but she was not ready to blithely accept the explanation he had given. An errant part of her was angry beyond words, hurt—perhaps beyond healing—and unable to respond to the sadness darkening his golden eyes.

“Forgive us,” he said.

Bronwyn bent toward him, placing her palm on his cheek. He reached up to cover her hand as she caressed him.

“Time, Aidan. I just need time.”

He brought her hand to his lips, placed a gentle kiss in her palm, then released her.

She straightened in the saddle. Before the tears gathering in her eyes could fall, she lightly kicked her mount into action. Never turning to look at the man she left standing at the water's edge, she let the tears flow.

From the canopy of trees beside the stables, Ski'Ah watched the one who had captured Viraidan Cree's heart remove the borrowed horse's reins and lead it back into the paddock. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the Terran stop, cover her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking beneath her sobs.

“What did he do to you, Sister?” she mumbled. “Did he hurt you as he did my ancestor?”

Wondering if she should confront the Terran, challenge her for the ownership of the Reaper, Ski'Ah lost her chance when she heard a vehicle coming down the roadway. Cursing, she moved back further in the trees but continued to watch her rival, who was hastily swiping at her tears.

Bronwyn glanced at the jeep heading her way, but dismissed it. She walked to her car and had her hand on the door handle when a blast from the jeep's horn made her pause.

“Oh, hell,” she sighed, recognizing Koenen Brell through the jeep's windshield.

Brell got out of his vehicle and came to her. “I've been looking for you,” he said, smiling.

“I'm not working today,” she said, opening her car door.

“You might have to whether you want to or not.”

“Why?”

“One of your patients died this morning.”

“Who?” Bronwyn asked, her concern immediate.

“Aston Pounder. The one who tortured and murdered those kids in Tennessee.”

“I know what he did,” Bronwyn snapped. “How did he die?”

“Aneurysm. Scrambled his brain like a whisk.” Brell cocked his head. “Has it hit you yet that every time you interview one of those perverted bastards, they end up either dying or in a vegetative state?”

Bronwyn gritted her teeth. “What are you inferring, Dr. Brell?”

“He's always there with you, isn't he?” When Bronwyn didn't reply, he stepped closer. “Cree's always there.”

“So what? He's there to protect me.”

“Now that's the key word, isn't it? Protect?” He smiled nastily. “And neither Faulkner, Vance, or Pounder will ever pose a threat to you again.”

A sliver of suspicion pricked at Bronwyn's belly. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Faulkner had a massive coronary,” Brell said, tapping his bottom lip with his right index finger. “He looked as though he'd seen something that literally scared him to death. I wonder what that could have been?”

“I don't have time for this—”

“Vance has been catatonic since the day you interviewed him. What could have caused that? Perhaps he also saw something that scared him senseless?”

Annoyed at the smug look on Brell's handsome face, she slid into her car and tried to slam the door, but he grabbed the edge.

“Just yesterday, Pounder was telling his nurse that he wanted to do to you what he had done to those children. He went into great detail. Can you guess what happened next? The nurse told Cree this morning, and now Pounder's lying on a slab in my morgue.”

“Are you accusing Captain Cree of causing Pounder's aneurysm? That is absurd!”

Brell chuckled. “I wouldn't put anything lethal past our Captain Cree.”

“You'd say anything to get back at him for taking me home that night,” she sneered, jerking the door out of his grasp. She slapped down the lock.

“Think about it, Dr. McGregor,” he shouted over the roar of her car engine. “Cree is protecting you, all right. He's eliminating those who would harm you, given the chance. I bid you think about what I've said.”

Bronwyn threw the car into reverse and backed away. She was trembling as she spun the wheel and raced from the stable.

Brell looked about, sniffed the air, frowned, and turned his gaze toward the forest. He stared at the shadowy figure of the woman lurking there, then dismissed her from his mind. He shed the loathsome appearance of a dead man and resumed his natural state. Walking back to the jeep, it was Danyon Hart who swung himself into the driver's seat.

“Think about it a while, Bronwyn,” he whispered, sending out the command. “Think about it, then go looking for Brell to confront him.”

Ski'Ah left the concealment of the trees as the Nightwind drove away. Puzzled by his disguise, she watched until his vehicle was out of sight, then turned her attention to the area of the forest where she knew Cree was.

The black dog was with the Reaper, so Ski-Ah made no attempt to intercept Cree. Instead, she tapped the Vid-Com link on the bracelet she wore and, within a matter of seconds, was transported to her runabout.

There were plans to be set into play.

Cree stared at the sunlight reflecting on the waters of Rock Creek Lake. He was sitting on the ground, his legs drawn up, and his arms resting on his knees. Ralph was stretched out beside him, his massive black head cradled on his outstretched paws. The dog was keeping watch on the forest behind them, his dark eyes never straying from the trees. Nearby, the horse nickered softly, then lowered its head to nibble at the grass.

“I know she was here,” Cree said, his sense of smell irritated by the stench of the Blackwind. “He was, too.”

Ralph looked up at his master. “Humphf?”

“The gods-be-damned Nightwind. I smelled the bastard.”

“Humphf.” Ralph lowered his head.

“He came looking for my Bronwyn. One of these days, he and I are going to have a talk about her.”

Ralph whined.

“I will kill that son-of-a-bitch, Ralph. As surely as I draw breath, I will slay the Nightwind.”

Ralph shivered.

The Reaper had killed earlier that morning. Twice. And as he always had since he could remember, he had gone out to be alone, to celebrate the
bású
, the execution of his enemy, with the
mhaolaigh an stoirm fiáin
, the alleviation of the savage storm within him. The exercise, the strenuous ritual of the complex martial arts routine, cleared his mind and soothed the revenant worm that had controlled him body and mind during the
bású
.