BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Dunne nodded. “The most unassailable and invulnerable being in this galaxy and several others. An elite warrior without peer. Show him once how to do something and he will do it the second time a hundred times better than your more proficient expert. He can assimilate knowledge faster, more thoroughly than any genius ever could.”

  Sean thought back to a lifetime of never opening a book yet getting higher marks than any child in his classes. Of how easily learning came to him—almost without effort. He'd had to work at failing his last year of school so he could be with Bronwyn.

  “I can see the gears turning in your head.” Dunne chuckled. “You knew you were different from other kids. You just didn't know how different.”

  Sean winced and turned on to his side. “Go away.”

  “Once you go through Transition the first time, you will be amazed at how much you will assimilate. I could put a book of Egyptian hieroglyphics in front of you and in a matter of seconds you would be able to decipher and read them. I could—”

  “I'm not going to do anything for you.”

  “Do you believe you actually have a choice, Sean?”

  “I won't become one of your puppet monsters!”

  “Oh, but you will,” Dunne said silkily.

  “No!” The one word was a harsh explosion of sound.

  “Look at me,” Dunne commanded. When Sean did not obey, the doctor grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on to his back. Sean glared at the man. The doctor's jaw was tight, his gaze hot. “I have three Stalcaires, three elite warriors, who are perfectly loyal to me. They will do anything I tell them to do without question. If I send one of them to Galrath, how long do you think it will take him to drain every last drop of blood from Bronwyn McGregor's luscious little body?”

  Sean drew in a hard breath. Blood pounded through his veins; sweat popped up on his brow.

  “How long?” Dunne repeated.

  “Don't,” Sean whispered.

  “Ten minutes? Five?”

  “Please, don't.”

  “Less than five?” Dunne pressed. “What if I told the Stalcaire to make her suffer before he drank her blood? To rip her apart while she's still living.”

  “No!” Sean tried to cover his ears with his hands, to shut out the loathsome words, but Dunne grabbed his wrists.

  “Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe I'll do what I say.”

  He studied the doctor's brutal glower and knew a defeat so complete, so merciless, it was like a living death. No doubt the man would carry out his threat without the first twinge of regret.

  “Well?” Dunne queried. “What's it to be? Do you go forth with your destiny or do you want the death of that precious little girl on your hands?”

  Trapped, Sean thought. With no recourse. As entangled as a dragonfly caught in the web of a spider. He could see no exit from the snare into which he'd been plunged, no escape from Dunne's savage clutches.

  “Do as I say and the girl lives, none the wiser about the young man she fancied who fell off the face of the earth,” Dunne vowed. “Fight me, oppose my will even once, and I will send a Reaper to Galrath. I assure you, your lady will feel the brunt of my anger. Balk at an order, fail to carry out a mission, and I'll have Bronwyn McGregor hurt in a way she will never recover. Challenge my authority by trying to escape and I will have her torn apart.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Sean closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said on a breath.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes...sir.”

  Dunne released his hold on Sean and straightened. “Good boy. I think we understand each other perfectly, don't you?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Bronwyn sat in the pew and stared at the statue of the Blessed Mother. She was not listening to Father O'Malley, had turned out his thick brogue and singsong homily. Now and again, her gaze would stray to the coffin sitting in the aisle and facing the altar. No feelings of guilt plagued her at the death of Sister Mauveen.

  She had expected something to happen to the vicious old biddy, and had not been surprised that it happened so soon after the Nightwind promised to see to the matter.

  “The nun will be punished,” he had vowed.

  And she had—falling down the stairs, breaking every bone in her fragile body.

  “Let us pray.” Father O'Malley's voice rose and fell with the sending off of Sister Mauveen's malevolent spirit.

  Bronwyn looked down at her hand and stared at the stitches that ran parallel to her lifeline. The cut left by the broken ruler hurt, for it was right where she flexed her palm.

  Those around her came to their feet. Bronwyn followed suit as though someone else plied the strings that worked her.

  “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you,” Bronwyn mumbled.

  She felt nothing as the recessional began, the coffin being rolled down the aisle toward the narthex. She caught Father O'Malley's eye as he passed. He frowned at her.

  She didn't care; she detested the old man.

  It was difficult for her to genuflect as she left the pew, but she did out of respect for her beliefs. God had nothing to do with her being imprisoned in this vile place. Unlike the phantom voice that visited her nightly, He was a source of comfort. It wasn't right to take her anger out on Him.

  Rain was falling as the procession made its way to the gravesite beyond the chapel. Tombstones glistened in the grayish light. Lightning speared the clouds from west to east, then blazed again in a staggered arch across the sky.

  “Well, that shoots my Da's theory all to hell,” Sheila whispered.

  Bronwyn glanced at the girl walking beside her. She raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Da says it always rains when a good person dies. Says it's the angels crying for the dearly departed.” She snorted. “Mauveen was meaner than one of your junk yard dogs. If the angels are crying, it's with happiness the mean bitch has turned up her ugly old toes!”

  “Not nice to talk ill of the dead,” Destiny whispered behind them. “God's listening, you know.”

  “No news to him,” Sheila shot back, “that Mauveen was a bitch, I'm sure!”

  Bronwyn tuned out the girls. She was rarely allowed outside, so despite the rain and the jagged lightning, she breathed in the smells of the freshly turned mound of dirt toward which they walked. To the south, just beyond the high wall separating Galrath from the rest of the world, a huge oak stood sentinel. None of its branches were close to the wall, but it was like a beacon to Bronwyn, drawing her attention.

  It was there she saw the cat.

  It was sitting on one of the highest branches, its blue-black fur seemingly untouched by the rain. Its piercing green eyes were locked on her, following her every step.

  As the Rite of Committal continued, Bronwyn watched the sleek creature. It never moved from its lofty position. Never seemed to blink, to look away from her steady regard. When Father O'Malley pronounced the last words over Sister's Mauveen's body and the casket began inching downward, Bronwyn mimicked the actions of the nuns and her fellow students, gathering a handful of sod to throw into the open grave. As she passed the coffin, absentmindedly tossing in the clod of dirt, she looked up and thought the cat was grinning.

  When the procession headed back to the school, Bronwyn turned and again looked to the high branches. She lifted her injured hand in farewell.

  The cat daintily raised its leg and pawed at the air in answer.

  * * * *

  Mother Mary Joseph walked into Bronwyn's room, a gentle smile on her face. “How are you feeling?”

  “I've had terrible heartburn since breakfast,” Bronwyn reported, standing.

  “To be expected,” the Mother Superior commented. “Or so I've heard.”

  “Did Father O'Malley send you?” Bronwyn asked quietly.

  The Reverend Mother sighed. “He believes you need to come to confession.”

  “What am I to confess that I haven't already?”

  “
He didn't like your inattention during the funeral Mass this morning. He believes you were being disrespectful to Sister Mauveen.”

  “I probably was. Not intentionally, but I couldn't have cared less what happened to her after what she did to me.”

  Mother Mary Joseph frowned. “We should all care about one another, Bronnie. We must pray for our enemies as we pray for our loved ones.”

  “As Sister Mauveen no doubt prayed for me?”

  The Mother Superior sighed again, heavier than before. “She was a troubled woman. We must ask the Lord to open His arms and accept her.”

  “If she's in heaven, Reverend Mother, I've no desire to be there.”

  The nun winced. “Well, I'm sure she'll be making a detour through a few years of purgatory before she reaches the Pearly Gates,” she muttered.

  Bronwyn smiled, but made no reply.

  “Father is expecting you. Don't keep him waiting.” She patted Bronwyn's shoulder, then left, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her habit.

  Bronwyn glanced out the window, looking to the place where she always saw the figure after sunset. She expected to see him standing on the crest of the hill, but he was not there.

  With a groan of frustration, she reached for her missal and rosary and headed for Father O'Malley's office.

  * * * *

  The rain had continued through the day and into the evening hours. A harsh storm raged across Northern Ireland, and wind skirled around the eaves of Galrath. In the night sky, lightning stitched storm clouds together with white-hot silk thread, patching up the ragged holes. Bright pulses of intense light lit the sodden countryside and spears of deadly energy pocked the land. Thunder reverberated the windows of Bronwyn's room as rain pecked at the glass.

  A light tapping at the door made Bronwyn scowl. She was in no mood for further chastisement from the nuns. After returning from Father O'Malley's office, two of Sister Mauveen's cohorts had come to complain of Bronwyn's lack of sufficient grief at the nun's sudden passing. Meekly answering their sneering reprimands, Bronwyn was fast approaching a saturation point and was afraid the next religious who lectured her would get a piece of her mind!

  Flinging open the door as the tapping came again, Bronwyn was relieved to see Destiny, which was highly unusual. She was allowed no visitors to her room from among the girls.

  “What are you doing here?” Bronwyn whispered.

  “Let me in and I'll tell ya!” Destiny snapped, pushing Bronwyn aside.

  Bronwyn stuck her head into the corridor to see if any nuns were lurking about, then shut the door. She had barely turned around before Destiny took her arm, led her to the bed, and made her sit with her.

  “I can't stay but a minute, but I thought you might like to know what I overheard when I was dusting the Reverend Mother's sitting room.”

  Bronwyn's pulse rose. “What?”

  “Your Da called from the States. When I realized who it was calling, I ‘accidentally’ picked up the extension and listened in. At one point, the Reverend Mother must have thought I was eavesdropping ‘cause she told your Da to hold on. I hung up quick like and just in time, too, ‘cause she came to the door between her office and the sitting room and told me to leave.” Destiny frowned. “But I'd heard enough.”

  It was all Bronwyn could do not to shake the girl. She dug her nails into her palms. “What did they talk about?”

  “Himself?”

  “My Seannie?”

  “Aye.”

  Fear bubbled up in Bronwyn's throat. “What of him? Is he all right?”

  Destiny grinned. “Himself is over here.”

  Bronwyn grabbed the girl's arm. “In Ireland?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Came just this week, he did. Your Da don't know where he is, but he's got men searching. Told Mother Mary Joseph to be extra careful with you and if himself showed up, to call the coppers and have him arrested!”

  Tears formed in Bronwyn's eyes. “Sean is here.”

  “Thought you ought to know,” Destiny said, getting up. She padded to the door, opened it, and stuck out her head. “See ya.” With that, she was through the door, closing it gently behind her.

  As the storm raged outside, Bronwyn's thoughts grew just as turbulent. Knowing Sean was in Ireland, hopefully on his way to rescue her from this prison, made her heart soar with love for him. But fear of what might happen if he were caught dampened that joy.

  “I knew you would come, Sean,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I knew you wouldn't leave me here.”

  The pitcher and ewer, sitting in the dry sink by the door, sailed across the room and crashed against the far wall, splintering into fragments on the wooden floor. Her hairbrush followed, its handle putting a dimple in the plaster wall. Bronwyn's eyes grew wide as her comb, a jar of ointment for her cut hand, and a tumbler of water on her bedside flew across the room and hit the wall.

  “Stop it!” she shouted, scurrying from the bed and pressing against the wall by the window.

  The chair at her desk skidded to the center of the room, spun round and round, then flung itself against the footboard of her bed.

  “Stop!” she yelled, knowing full well who—or what—was responsible for the destruction.

  Bronwyn's door opened and Sister Mary Pat came in just as Bronwyn's desk flipped to its top and began bumping up and down on the floor.

  “Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Sister Mary Pat gasped, crossing herself. She barely had time to jump back before two of Bronwyn's textbooks came flying at her head. She jerked the door closed behind her as the heavy volumes slammed into the portal.

  “Stop!” Bronwyn screamed, covering her ears to shut out the sound of the desk thumping against the floor. She stared wild-eyed as all the small things in her room began to churn in a vortex in the center of the floor.

  Once more Bronwyn's door opened. Sister Mary Pat, accompanied by another nun, came in, crucifix held high. “Be gone!” Sister Mary Pat shouted over the spinning whirlwind.

  As the din rose, Bronwyn heard harsh male laughter. She was barely aware of other nuns crowding into the room, staying well away from the dangerous tornado whirling before them. Even when one of the older nuns grabbed her arm and pulled her from the wall, tugging her out of the room, she was so shocked reality did not register.

  “Call Father O'Malley,” Sister Mary Pat demanded. “Tell him it's happening again!”

  The nuns hustled Bronwyn to the chapel and crowded around her in the pew, the older nun's arm firmly around her shoulder.

  “Don't think of him,” the nun cautioned. “Concentrate on the Holy Trinity, Bronwyn. Concentrate on the Holy Trinity!”

  Rain lashed brutally against the chapel windows, shaking them in their frames. The moan of the wind was so loud it drowned out all other sounds. Flares from the lightning striking ground all around Galrath made the old building tremble.

  The chapel filled with the inhabitants of Galrath. The girls, in their nightclothes, pressed into the pews as close together as space would allow. Their faces were pale, their eyes round, their lips quivering.

  “Pray the Rosary,” the Reverend Mother ordered. Hands trembled as her command was carried out.

  For three hours the storm threw its strength against the walls of Galrath. By the time the wind's howl had lessened and the rain had ceased its relentless downpour, nerves were frayed and the soft sound of sobbing could be heard over the creak of the overhead beams and the plink of twigs and leaves hitting the window. Voices were strained from the many decades of the Rosary that had been prayed aloud over and over again, from the prayers that had beseeched God, His son and the Blessed Mother to intercede in the evil that visited Galrath that night.

  When the last shriek of the storm faded and peace and calm were restored to the elements, Father O'Malley took to the lectern with a stony look of battle on his craggy features.

  “Satan, himself, paid a call on us tonight, ladies,” he intoned. “But he was turned away at the gate. He fou
nd he had no welcome here!”

  Bronwyn felt the priest's eyes boring into her and she looked up.

  “He came for the weakest link amongst us, but that link stood strong, inviolate, and once again the Prince of Darkness was defeated.”

  The older nun, whose arm was still locked around Bronwyn's shoulder, leaned toward her. “You did good, Bronwyn Fiona.”

  Bronwyn turned to the old woman. “You know who he is?”

  Nodding, the nun squeezed Bronwyn's shoulder. “When I was a lass your age, he came for me, but I denied his seductive call. Just as many before you have denied him.”

  “He can not enter these walls,” another nun whispered. “But he can send his loathsome energy to wreak havoc. The destruction he has caused here over the years has been fearsome.”

  Bronwyn looked about to find every eye in the chapel on her. She shuddered, suddenly terrified of the nightly phantom that had helped to console her unhappiness for the last several weeks. That she had conversed with the demon, encouraged it, made the hair stand up on her arm.

  “Deny him and he will leave you,” the older nun said. “Cast him back into the Abyss from which he sprang.”

  Something heavy hit the chapel door. Shrieks filled the room. The girls jumped to their feet, terrified.

  “Deny him,” came the chant of the nuns. “Deny him.”

  The wind began to howl once more; the rain slashed savagely against the windows.

  “Deny him. Deny him.”

  The girls picked up the cadence of the chant as they left their pews and crowded around the pew where Bronwyn sat, the old nun's arm still around her shoulder.

  “Deny him. Deny him. Deny him.”

  Father O'Malley came down from the lectern, taking the crucifix from the stand by the altar and marching with it as though it were a battle standard.

  “Deny him!”

  For the first time, Bronwyn felt the babe inside her womb move. She gasped, her hands going to her belly.

  “Protect your child from the evil that longs to corrupt it!” Father O'Malley charged her. “Keep that innocent safe!”

  The babe twisted within her. Bronwyn cried out and leaned over from the pain in her belly. She felt hands on her, pulling her back against the pew. The room spun, the lights overhead circling her like a kaleidoscope, the rays fractured and spinning off in myriad directions.