BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “She's out there,” Sister Henry Louise said, looking at the rope. “Scaled like a spider, she did.”

  “She's not the only one out there,” one of the older nuns said. “He's out there, too.”

  The nuns hastily crossed themselves.

  “Who?” Martha Walsh, one of the new students, inquired.

  “The Nightwind,” a long-time student replied. “The Nightwind's out there.”

  * * * *

  She knew someone was trailing her, but she dared not slow down. She increased her walking to a slow trot, then went a bit faster until she panted with the effort. At one point, she stopped by a stream to rest, hid behind a spreading oak and listened. Around her, the hillside lay quiet, but she knew she was not alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and a cold chill enveloped her.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, her hand trembling on the bark of the oak tree.

  “I am only protecting you, Beloved.”

  Her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect “O” of fear, Bronwyn pushed away from the tree and ran as fast as she could. Yet she fancied she felt his hot breath on her neck. Too afraid to look back, terrified of what she would see, she ran until the pain in her side was so great she fell, crashing to her knees in the dew-laden heather. Struggling to get up, she felt a hand on her upper arm—

  And screamed.

  * * * *

  When she came to, Bronwyn found herself surrounded by hay and lying in the back of a wooden cart. The steady clop-clop of horse's hooves let her know the conveyance was moving, and she sat up so quickly, her head swam.

  “Easy does it, lass,” an amused voice spoke from the high seat of the cart.

  She scrambled to her knees to see who had spoken. The bright full moon shone as clearly as a spotlight, allowing her to get a good look at her benefactor.

  He was at least eighty, with kindly eyes looking back at her from a weather-beaten face. The corncob pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth was unlit, but he chewed on it around a crooked grin. His gnarled hands gripping the reins shook, while his thin shoulders bowed with a slight hump.

  “I'm Cedric,” he told her with a Scottish burr. “I live over to Muckamore. Lost me lady of sixty-five years about two years back. I sorely miss her.”

  “I'm sorry,” Bronwyn mumbled.

  “As am I,” Cedric sighed and gently flicked the reins. “Old Bert, here, can go faster when he's of a mind to. I suppose he's tired this evening.”

  “You were following me?”

  “Not me, lass,” Cedric said, shaking his head. “I went down to the Six Mile Water to give Old Bert a drink and found you lying on the ground. I picked you up and put you in my cart. I'm on my way into Ballyclare.”

  “Ballyclare?” Bronwyn gasped. “That's heading back toward Derry Byrne! I can't go there! They'll be looking for me there!”

  Cedric hauled on the reins. He twisted in the seat, an expression of pain of his wrinkled face. “Are ye running away from that damned Galrath, lass?”

  Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her teeth and nodded, sensing the old man wasn't a promoter of the school.

  “Papist prison!” he said with a scowl. “I used to be an Anglican and never did take to that Papist mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Please, I have a son in Belfast. They took him away from me and—”

  “Enough said.” Cedric turned around, sharply snapped the reins. “Get your ass to moving, Bert!”

  Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief as Cedric turned about the cart and headed back the way they'd came. “Thank you...”

  “Don't mention it. Anything I can do to derail the Papists at Galrath is a privilege!”

  Bronwyn relaxed against the side of the cart and closed her eyes. Soon, she nodded off, the steady sway of the conveyance and the gentle humming of its driver helping to ease her mind.

  * * * *

  Cedric craned his neck to see about his passenger. When he found her asleep, he smiled, his red-glowing eyes lighting a path on the roadway.

  CHAPTER 22

  “His name is Rory Brell,” Alistair reported to Dr. Dunne. “Works for Wynth Industries. He be in charge of their security.”

  “I'm familiar with the man,” Dr. Dunne said. He looked at Sean. “You've been careless, my boy, in letting a spy follow you. Didn't you feel you were being watched?”

  Sean shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

  “The difference is you can be identified and you were instructed to see that did not happen!” Dunne snarled. “You more than likely led him right to Fuilghaoth!”

  “So?” Sean drawled. “He can't get in and, even if he did, he wouldn't survive the getting out.”

  Dunne ground his teeth. “I will not sanction insubordination. Do you remember what I told you would happen if you do not behave?”

  Knowing he was treading on thin ice, Sean remained silent. He did not lower his eyes to Dunne, but his body posture made it obviously clear to the older man that he was sufficiently reprimanded.

  “Wynth Industries is a thorn in my side,” Dunne snapped.

  “I don't know anything about Wynth Industries,” Sean lied.

  “We will correct that oversight immediately,” Dunne growled, casting Alistair a hard look.

  Alistair ran a finger under his collar. “Ye want me to—”

  “Find out where Rory Brell is right this minute and report back to me. I want to know whom he is working under, why he is watching Cullen in particular, and—”

  “I think I can answer the who and why, doctor,” Brian said from his place at the far end of the room. “Bronwyn McGregor's father works for Wynth at Baybridge. He's in charge of the behavior modification unit in Iowa. He's also in Ireland, staying at Derry Byrne, near the Galrath School.” He cast his son a warning look that Sean seemed ignored.

  Dunne's lips peeled back from his teeth. “I knew that slut would come back to haunt us!”

  Sean stood, his hands curled into fists. “Call me whatever you like, do whatever you want to me, but leave Bronwyn out of it.” He took a step closer to Dunne's desk. “But don't you ever call her that again.”

  Brian winced. He sped across the room. “Sean, think before you speak.”

  “Let him speak. Every word he says is duly noted and remembered. The consequences of his temper and his tongue will be on his head.”

  “Sit down,” Brian hissed, pushing Sean into his chair. “And pray, watch what you say!”

  Dunne shot Alistair an infuriated look. “Why are you still here? Find Brell!”

  Alistair spun on his heel and exited the room.

  Sean shifted on the seat, his hot glare locked on Dunne.

  “If you didn't show promise, I'd terminate you,” Dunne said.

  “I'll have a talk with him,” Brian promised, shooting Sean a warning glance.

  “Explain to our hotheaded young fool who and what Wynth Industries is. Perhaps he'll be less apt to allow himself to be trailed by one of their operatives if he understands just how dangerous they are!”

  Brian up drew a chair beside Sean's. “Wynth Industries is run by Brighton Wynth. Headquarters is in Des Moines, Iowa. Don't you remember that lady cop in Albany telling you that was where Dermot McGregor went after he left Georgia? Part of their operation is a prison for the criminally insane.”

  Sean nodded. “I vaguely recall her saying something.”

  “Another part of their operation,” Dunne put in, “is a private research facility funded primarily by the American government. W. I. has developed several protocols that have benefited the psychiatric community, but they are a danger to our operation here.”

  “Why?” Sean asked.

  “W. I. has developed a program in which they can alter the psychotic tendencies of their research subject and turn him or her into a docile human being,” Brian explained. “'Docile’ if somewhat catatonic.” He shrugged. “A worthy endeavor, but should one of our Stalcaires fall into their hands, there would be one hell of an explosion. We
can't risk having them know Reapers exist. Sure as hell, Wynth would send some of its operatives after us to shut us down.”

  “We can't allow that to happen!” Dunne stated.

  “They believe we are an arm of the IRA,” Brian put in, “and that we're a training ground for hitmen.”

  “And should Brell capture you—as is, no doubt, his intention,” Dunne grated, “and they take you back to W. I., you could compromise our entire operation. And that, we will not allow to happen.”

  “Capture me for what purpose?” Sean asked. “As far as McGregor is concerned, if he's behind Brell watching me, he'd want to make sure I stay as far away from Bronwyn. Brell would turn me over to the Brits.”

  “We can't allow Brell or anyone else to take you,,” Brian said. “The Brits would create evidence to convict you, sentence you to death and, when they tried to carry out that sentence, you'd give them the surprise of their lives!”

  Dunne chuckled. “That would almost be worth handing him over just to see the looks on their faces when they realize he can't die.”

  Sean leaned back in his chair. “So what do we do?”

  “Get rid of Brell,” Brian stated.

  “And the source of the problem,” Dunne added. When Sean turned a heated stare on him, Dunne rolled his eyes. “Not the girl, but the father! As long as he's allowed to plot against you, he unknowingly is plotting against Fuilghaoth. We need to make sure he can not pose a threat to our existence.”

  Sean tensed. “Are you ordering me to kill Bronwyn's father?”

  “What do you think?” Dunne asked.

  “I won't do it!”

  “Father or daughter,” Dunne said with a yawn. “Take your pick.” When Sean said nothing, simply stared at him, the doctor cocked one shoulder. “Either the father dies or the daughter. I'll leave the decision up to you.”

  Icy hatred washed through Sean. He knew all too well that what Dunne promised, happened. If he did not agree to kill Dermot McGregor, another Reaper would go after Bronwyn, and her death would not be easy.

  “What's it to be?” Dunne pressed.

  “Think before you speak,” Brian cautioned. He put a hand on Sean's knee.

  Sean knew he had no choice. “When?”

  “As soon as we locate Brell. Chances are he's nearby.”

  “You want me to take him out, too?”

  “We'll have Alistair do it, unless he is with McGregor. If that's the case, you can kill two birds with one bomb.”

  “A bomb,” Sean repeated.

  “The preferred choice of the lads.” Dunne chuckled again. “If they think you are IRA, they'll not question the manner of assassination.”

  “I'll get what you need,” Brian remarked. “Plastique is the best medium for this kind of thing.”

  Sean looked at Dunne. “Is that all?”

  “For now.” The doctor leaned back in his tall leather swivel chair. “You may go.”

  Coming to his feet, Sean turned his attention to his father. “The gods damn you for ever laying eyes on my mother.” That said, he stomped from the room.

  * * * *

  “Such an impressionable young man,” Dunne sighed. “And growing more difficult to control by the day.” He steepled his fingers. “I hope we won't have to terminate him.”

  Brian felt the gash of a warning scraping down his back. “I'll handle him, Sir. He'll come around. I'll see to it.”

  “He's due for his next Transition—when?”

  “The end of next month.”

  “No tenerse after the third week,” Dunne ordered. “Put him in a containment cell and see what happens when he goes against his masters.”

  Remembering all too well a similar lesson applied to him, Brian tried to dissuade Dunne from acting on his vengeance.

  “He will be brought to heel, or terminated!” Dunne vowed. “Either way, I'll have no more trouble from that whelp!”

  * * * *

  “Don't dawdle, laddie,” Alistair said, “and be careful ye don't blow yourself up.”

  Sean ignored his partner. He got out of the car, cast a quick look around the dark street in front of the Flying Wench, then dropped beside the car Dermot McGregor had rented. He scooted under the vehicle, attaching the box with the heavy-duty magnet glued to its top to the inside of the wheel arch. After making sure the wires sticking from the end of the box were exposed, he slid from under the car. Standing, he dusted the grit and dirt from his faded blue jeans and sauntered back to the sedan, where Alistair waited. He got in.

  “Good boy.” Alistair chuckled, looking down at his wristwatch. “We've got a while to wait, I reckon. Might as well take a snoozer.”

  His attention riveted on the death vehicle he had created, Sean crossed his arms over his chest to still his trembling. Though he had gotten used to dispatching the occasional Parliament member or loyalist, he knew he would never be able to justify the evil he was doing. Each successive killing made him ill. He had yet to finish an assignment without puking.

  “Ye ain't Transitioned enough to want to go for the blood,” Alistair had told him. “But it'll happen. Can't stop it.”

  Despite the two Transitions that had turned him into a slathering, howling beast, Sean had yet to crave the taste of blood that Brian insisted he would. He had yet to desire anything other than the vegetarian meal prepared especially for him. He thought perhaps his secretive nightly excursions to the chapel at Fuilghaoth and the hours he'd spent on his knees begging God not to allow him to change into a full-fledged blood beast had slowed the process.

  But he knew the day was fast approaching when no amount of prayer, no humble entreaties to his God, would stop the inevitable.

  He feared that day when he would change into a creature, like the one he'd observed in a deep containment cell. The memory of that loathsome monster still gave him nightmares.

  “Thinking of Johnny, are ye?” Alistair inquired.

  Though he practiced trying to conceal his thoughts, Sean had not mastered the technique, and the occasional pondering filtered out for Brian or Alistair to read.

  “Johnny had a right-good case of the bloodlusts, he did,” Alistair snorted. “That's the worst of a Transition when you reach that point.”

  Sean looked at his partner. “Have you ever reached that point?”

  Alistair grinned. “Many's the time, laddie, and passed it.” His grin widened. “As will ye. Drove Johnny mad, though. Some can take it and live with it, and some can't—Johnny couldn't.”

  The thought of turning into the ravening animal he had seen in the deep containment cell set Sean's teeth on edge and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. “I pray every night that will never happen.”

  The older Reaper chuckled. “Praying is a waste of time, lad. Ain't a matter of if, Seannie. It's a matter of when. Ye can eat all them filthy vegetables ye want and it won't keep the bloodlust from comin’ of its own accord. Ye be skating on thinner and thinner ice, laddie. Sooner or later, ye will break through and, when ye do, there will be no turnin’ back.”

  Sean scrunched down in his seat. He turned so he could keep watch on the entrance to the Flying Wench. “The tenerse is bad enough. I can’ t begin to imagine what the blood will taste like.”

  “Right salty, it is. Can't do without it on a daily basis once the bloodlust Transition occurs. Ye'll know soon enough.” Alistair reached under his seat and pulled out a pint flask. “Wanna sip?”

  Sean knew what he was being offered, so didn't look. “No,” he snapped, but as soon as his partner uncorked the flask, he inhaled the metallic stench of fresh blood and his mouth watered. He unconsciously licked his lips, even though the thought of consuming the vile liquid made him gag.

  “Ah, now that's a real pick-me-up, it is!” Alistair said, smacking his lips. “Sure ye don't want a taste, laddie?”

  “No!”

  Alistair's giggle made Sean dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from lashing out.

  “Might as well relax. It'll be a w
hile ‘fore the show begins.”

  Sean laid his head against the window glass. He had felt jittery, wired as tight as the bomb under Dermot McGregor's car. A part of him was upset Bronwyn's father would die come morning, but another part of him rejoiced. It was that side of his new personality that he found the most disturbing. It bothered him to realize he was becoming immune to watching people die, blasé about ending a fellow human being's life. He worried about his lack of sympathy for the men he'd helped kill and the offhand attitude toward death that was becoming a part of his psychological makeup. He brooded over his inability to dredge up a sufficient amount of guilt over the killings. He knew he was becoming as callous and unfeeling as the other Reapers.

  “Ye think too much,” Alistair mumbled. “That is the biggest problem with ye, laddie.”

  “I wasn't born to kill.”

  “Sorry to be the one to tell ye this, Seannie, but, aye, ye were. That is exactly why ye was born. No amount of going to that there church you kneel down in every week will help you, lad. You are marked same as us all. If there really be a heaven and hell, you know where you'll be going!”

  Sean knew that was partly true. But he had yet to come to terms with the inevitability of the ways things would be for him from here on out.

  “She'll hate me for this,” he said softly.

  “I told ye, I'd be the one to detonate the bloody bomb,” Alistair growled. “Ye be worryin’ the situation like a dog after a bone. Forget it!”

  “Not that I'll ever see her again.” Sean's voice was even softer.

  “Count that a blessing, laddie. Ye'd not want to and have to worry ye might jump her and make another of us.”

  Sean flinched. “That I do not want.”

  “Then, like I say—count it as a blessing that ye won't be seeing her.”

  Bronwyn's lovely face drifted through Sean's troubled mind. He ached with a need to hold her, press her sweet body to his. He longed to kiss her, stroke her sleek flesh, and plunge himself into the heat of her.

  “That's it,” Alistair grated. “Make yourself sick with wanting her and me horny as hell with the images ye be wafting around in the ether!” He punched Sean's arm. “Cut it out, now!”

  Tamping down on the thoughts running through his mind, Sean concentrated on the inn's sign—a witch astride a broom. He stared at the ugly, bulbous nose of the hag, the black pointed hat and stringy dark hair flying from under the grin.