BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Ordin materialized, his hideous face stretched in a happy grin. “I rather like it,” he admitted, drawing smoke deep into his lungs. “Thank you for teaching me the art.”

  Danyon waved aside the gratitude. “Be careful how you use it, though. You are vulnerable when you shift into a form not your own. Only a powerful magiksayer could bring you back and there are few of them left. Remember, an enemy could dispatch you with ease.”

  “I have no enemies,” the Bugul Noz boasted. He cocked his head to one side. “Can you die, Nightwind?”

  “Not in the way you mean, no. Unlike the Reaper, I can walk through the hottest fire and never be kissed by the flames. Although I do not like water, I cannot be drowned in it. Take my head and all you'll get is an angry incubus who will rejuvenate and come after you with a fury you cannot comprehend. No, Nightwinds cannot die, my friend. Nightwinds are ageless.”

  “You are invincible?” the Bugul Noz asked, astonishment rife in his voice.

  “Not entirely. Should I be challenged by another Nighwind and lose that challenge, he could send me to the Abyss to remain forever or else bind me to him in slavery as I bound Cedric. But since there are no Nightwinds more powerful than I, that is not a concern for me.”

  “So you have no powerful enemies to cause you grief.” Ordin chuckled. “Unlike the Reaper, with his stinking bounty hunter.”

  A wide grin slipped over Danyon's face. “You say she appeared afraid of you?”

  Ordin laughed. “She wasn't merely afraid, Friend. She was terrified. Instinct tells me the Amazeen fear such beasties. This is why she did not bother the Reaper when he lay defenseless on the roadway.”

  “Had you not been there, I might not have the leverage I will need. Thank you.” Danyon clapped the Bugul Noz's back.

  The Amazeen's stench reached them and Ordin got hastily to his feet. “Your harpy comes, Friend. I will return to my master now. He has a female he is to introduce me to tomorrow.” He chuckled.

  Before Danyon could reply, the Bugul Noz vanished, leaving behind the wafting aroma of his pipe.

  Ski'Ah's scent was worse than it had been on the two previous occasions Danyon had encountered her. The horrendous odor made him ill. He brought the tail of his shirt to his nose to block the stench.

  “I forget you have such sensitive smell,” Ski'Ah complained as she materialized.

  Danyon gasped. “I would appreciate it if you would not forget.”

  “Here,” she said and the scent of jasmine wafted through the air. “Better?”

  “Much,” he mumbled, lowering the cloth from his nose.

  “Why did you call me?” she asked, wariness hovering in her sapphire eyes.

  “I have learned something that might prove useful.”

  “To me or to you?” she inquired, searching his gaze.

  “To us both, I think.” He indicated a nearby log. When she declined the offer to sit, he began pacing in front of the fire the Bugul Noz had built. “I have learned the human part of Cree was responsible for a death that will plague him for the rest of eternity.”

  Ski'Ah frowned. “Why should that concern us?”

  “He was greatly distressed with the knowledge.”

  “Whom did he kill?” she asked in a bored tone.

  “His child.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She took a step toward Danyon. “His child?”

  “Sean Cullen, the human part of Cree, was responsible for a bomb that blew his child to so much dust.”

  “A girl child or a boy child?”

  “What difference...?”

  “A girl or boy?” Ski'Ah screeched.

  “A boy.”

  “Oh,” she said, relaxing. “That is of no import, then.”

  “It is to the human inside Cree.”

  “Perhaps, but it means nothing to me.”

  Danyon bit his tongue to keep from cursing the Amazeen. His hands curled into fists at his side and he willed himself not to attack her.

  “This is one more nail to pound into his flesh, Ski'Ah. He is feeling remorse.”

  “He felt no such remorse earlier this eve when I...”

  “What?” Danyon asked, watching her face.

  She shrugged. “When I listened in on his conversation with a beast he has taken in to live with him.”

  “A beast?” Danyon asked and frowned deeply.

  “Aye. What of it?”

  “A black dog?”

  She nodded slowly. “Is that significant?”

  “Best you do not encounter such a hell-spawned dog.”

  Fear clouded the Amazeen's eyes. “Why?”

  “When a dearg duls takes a black canine as his familiar, the beast is there to protect him. It will make hash of any that would lay hands to its master.”

  “We Amazeen do not like canines. They are filthy creatures, given to evil habits. We keep felines, but canines...” She shook her head. “They are to be avoided.”

  “On this world, they are demons in disguise. Harm one and you will come back in the next life as one.”

  Ski'Ah shuddered. “A fate worse than any I could conceive.”

  Danyon turned away to hide his smile. “Or I.”

  “It is good I did not enter the Reaper's abode, eh?”

  “Aye.”

  Ski'Ah walked to the log and sat down. For a long time, she said nothing, then sighed. “How can we use the human's guilt to our advantage, Nightwind?” she asked, staring into the flames.

  “I have not decided yet, but as soon as I do, I will let you know. I simply wanted you to know I had discovered this weakness in Cree.”

  She nodded, apparently deep in thought. As her mind roiled with emotions, the stench rose up from her in pulsing waves. Danyon gagged and backed away.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “I will take my leave of you now, lovely lady,” he mumbled. “Be careful until we meet again.”

  When she looked up, he was gone.

  * * * *

  Brian handed Cree a full glass of amber-colored liquid. “Drink it straight down.”

  “What is it?” Cree asked, sniffing at the glass.

  “Just drink it and then we'll talk.”

  The phone had rung just as Brian was sitting down to watch his favorite comedy on television. With two liters of ginger ale, a huge bowl of buttered popcorn beside him, along with chips and salsa, a bag of marshmallows, a box of chocolate-covered cherries, an eighteen-inch stick of pepperoni, four bags of spicy-hot bacon rinds, and a carton of freeze-dried figs, he was looking forward to a relaxing evening with “Reaper Comfort Food,” as Viraidan called it. But Cree's strained voice had put an immediate end to Brian's plans.

  Cree grimaced at the tart smell coming from the liquid, but lifted the glass and drained it, swallowing convulsively. He began to cough as soon as the liquid was down his throat and Brian had to slap him on the back.

  “What the hell was that?” Cree gasped, his eyes watering.

  “Irish whiskey. Eight ounces of the best alcohol County Cork has to offer.”

  “Reapers can't drink alcohol.”

  “One just did.” Brian chuckled and folded his arms. “And I'm anxious to see what it will do to you.”

  “You don't know?” Cree questioned, his eyes wide.

  “Tell me about the Amazeen,” Brian said, ignoring the question.

  “She defiled me,” Cree snarled, visibly shuddering.

  Brian grinned. “Send her to me next time.”

  “She'll not bother you. You have a mate.”

  “So do you.”

  “No, mine—”

  “Sean's mate,” Brian interrupted.

  “Obviously that means nothing to Ski'Ah,” Cree snapped. “She still laid hands to me, vile bitch that she is.”

  “You need to tell me how you know this woman and what she wants from you.”

  Cree shook his head and he sat back, obviously not displeased with the sensation he was feeling.

  “Ah,” Brian
said, smiling. “The whiskey is beginning to work its magic.”

  “I feel calm, Brian.”

  “A side effect of really good Irish whiskey.”

  Cree sat for a moment, then tears pooled in his eyes. “I am sad.”

  “Another side effect of the whiskey. I once heard a priest call it ‘Irish Confession Juice.'”

  “The baby,” Cree whispered. “Our baby.”

  Brian took a deep breath. “Let it out, son.”

  Cree looked at him. “I can't.” His words were a plea for understanding.

  “I think you can.”

  “No, it isn't permitted.”

  “Who will know, Seanie?”

  It was the name—spoken gently—that brought the first tear cascading down Viraidan Cree's cheek.

  “The gods forgive me!” Cree whispered, then covered his face with his hands.

  Brian watched as the Reaper's shoulders shook with sobs. He listened to the keening that came from the very soul of the creature sitting across from him. He made no move to comfort Cree, to touch him. He merely allowed the man to vent the grief and guilt that permeated his being.

  Cree lay on the sofa, his back to Brian, and curled into a fetal ball, his hands thrust between his legs. He buried his face in the fold between the sofa's back and seat and cried.

  Softly, Brian began to speak. “When they brought your body back to Fuilgaoth, I was beyond grief. I couldn't cry. I couldn't let them see my pain. I knew Dunne would try to revive you and, if the burns had not been so bad, they would have succeeded. I would have had my son back. To lose a child is one of the hardest things in the world for a father to bear.”

  “I murdered my child,” Cree sobbed.

  “You did, or Sean did?”

  “I did.”

  “Then are you ready to admit that you and Sean are the same man?” Brian asked the question without scorn. He crossed his ankle over his right knee and waited for the answer.

  Many minutes passed before the Reaper turned onto his back. He flung his arm over his eyes, drew up his knees, and lay there until there were no more hitches in his breathing.

  “I am drunk,” he said at last.

  “I used to enjoy putting on a good drunk now and again.”

  “Why?” was the incredulous query.

  Brian shrugged. “It pushed all the feeling out of mind for a time.”

  “But it will come back.”

  “Aye, that it will. Along with one helluva hangover.”

  “Hangover?”

  Brian uncrossed his legs and got up. He walked to the bar where he'd left the whiskey bottle and poured another full glass, which he brought to Cree. “Drink it down, lad.”

  Cree let his arm fall behind his head and stared at the glass. He started to protest, but pushed himself up, took the glass, and drained it. This time, he got the amber liquid down without gagging or coughing. He handed the glass back to Brian, then lay down again.

  “You didn't answer my question,” Brian said as he took his seat.

  “That being what? I'm rather fuzzy around the edges, Da.”

  Brian smiled. “I think you answered my question, son.”

  “Ask it again so I'll know what I said,” Cree said with a burp. He was staring at the ceiling, as if counting the holes in the acoustic tile.

  “Have you decided that you and Seannie are one and the same?”

  Cree thought for a moment, then again covered his eyes with his arm. “We always have been, I guess. I've his heart, not mine. I've his brain, not mine. I have all of his thoughts and wants and desires and memories. The only part of Viraidan Cree that is left is the memories I have of who he was and his body. I'm more me than him.”

  “Realizing just who you are is one step closer to accepting who you are. And that's one step closer to being comfortable with who you are.”

  “That doesn't help me feel any better.”

  “No, but eventually you'll forgive yourself. You won't forget what has happened, but you will forgive.”

  “I can't stand the thought of another man touching her.”

  “I know, but what choice do you have? You can't let her know who you are. How would you explain why you never contacted her? Why you weren't there for her?” Brian sighed. “Why you are alive when she was there when you died?”

  “I don't feel good,” Cree answered, turning to his side.

  Brian spied a wastebasket and went to fetch it. He placed it on the floor in front of Cree.

  “What's that for?”

  “The nice hangover you're going to wake up with in the morning.” Brian pulled down the afghan hanging on the back of the sofa and spread it over Cree's legs. “I'll get you a bottle of water and put it here on the end table.”

  “Sustenance?” Cree asked, yawning.

  “I don't think you'll be wanting or needing any tonight. Let the booze take you, lad. I'll be back in the morning with your shot. Until then, just rest.” He glanced around. “Where's the dog?”

  “Bedroom, I guess,” Cree mumbled.

  Ralph appeared in the kitchen door. “Humphf?”

  “Take care of him, Ralphie,” Brian advised then let himself out. “He's not going to be a happy camper come morning.”

  * * * *

  Cree reached up to adjust the sofa pillow under this cheek. “I'm not a happy camper now,” he said as he heard the door close.

  Running his hand inside his shirt, he pulled out the silver chain he always wore around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a one-of-a-kind Claddagh. He brought it to his lips, kissed it lovingly, then stuffed it back inside his shirt. Then, just as he had done for many years, he whispered “Good night, Milady,” then slipped restlessly into the arms of Morpheus.

  * * * *

  When Cree woke the next morning, he lay there for a moment, wondering why he felt so bad. He ran his tongue over his teeth and swore the enamel had grown a coat of fur. There was an evil taste in his mouth and, when he swallowed, his spittle rushed back up his throat, along with something so foul, so disgusting, he barely had time to twist his body.

  * * * *

  Ralph cocked his head to one side as his master regurgitated a massive quantity of bad-smelling liquid into the wastebasket. The horrid sounds coming from the sick man lifted the dog's brows. He watched as the Reaper gripped the edge of the sofa and continued to relieve himself. When Cree plopped back on the cushions, his arm flung over his pale face, Ralph trotted into the kitchen.

  It was the Bugul Noz who opened the refrigerator, rummaged around inside, and took out the bottle of cold water. He sighed, shut the refrigerator door, then reverted to his canine shape, the bottle of water clutched in his massive jaws. He padded back to the living room and nudged Cree's arm with the bottle.

  * * * *

  Reaching to grab the arm of the sofa to keep from sliding off it, Cree pried open his aching eyes and looked at his arm.

  “Humphf,” Ralph grunted.

  “I was wrong,” Cree whispered, wincing at the sound of his overly loud voice.

  “Humphf?”

  “I can die. I'm dying right now,” he declared in a voice just above a breath.

  “Humphf.” Ralph dropped the bottle to the sofa cushion. He grunted when his master fumbled for the bottle, then managed to get a grip on it.

  It took more energy and wit than Cree would have thought possible to twist off the cap and bring the bottle to his mouth. He didn't flinch as the cold water streamed down his chin, across his neck, and behind his head, for he managed to get some in his mouth. He swished it around, struggled to lift himself far enough off the sofa to spit it in the wastebasket. Afterward, he collapsed on the cushion.

  “Humphf,” Ralph admonished with a yawn.

  “No, I won't do it again and I'm going to kill Brian.” Cree swigged another sip of water and this time let the coldness trickle down his parched throat.

  * * * *

  Ralph cast a disapproving eye at the offensive wastebasket and trotted to
the other side of the room, away from the putrid smell. He lay on his back and began to twist his body, scratching his haunches against the carpet. When he was finished, he cast a quick look at the sofa and saw the Reaper was sleeping again, the empty bottle clutched to his chest.

  CHAPTER 33

  Bronwyn's first full day at work proved to be a handful. The caseload Dr. Hesar assigned her was more than she had expected and it took her all morning just to get through the first two files. After taking copious notes on the serial killer and pedophile she would begin working the following day, she was tired and had the beginning of a nasty headache by the time she broke for lunch.

  “I'm going to the cafeteria,” she told Mari Beth Grimes, the secretary she would be sharing with Koenen Brell, a man she had yet to meet. Koenen was Rory's son, Sage had informed her.

  “Take your pager,” Mari Beth reminded her.

  “Got it.”

  The cafeteria was on the lower level, near the front entrance to Baybridge. It was fairly crowded by the time Bronwyn arrived, but the smells coming from the steam tables drew her eyes from the fast food kiosks.

  “You gotta try their chicken and dressing,” Sage said, joining her. His lab coat bore a dark rust-colored stain.

  “Is that blood?” Bronwyn asked.

  Sage dusted the front of the lab coat. “Afraid so. One of my patients decided to open his veins with a strip of hard rubber he pulled from the shoe molding in his room. Must have taken him half an hour to scrape the rubber through his flesh.”

  “It's amazing what they can come up with, isn't it?”

  “I sent him down to the loony room for a few days.”

  “Loony room?”

  “There are a couple of rooms on Five North that are like the old rubber rooms from days gone by. We strip the offenders, put ‘em in a specially constructed straightjacket, and lock them up for a day or two. There is no furniture, only padded walls and floor with a hole in one corner for ye olde body wastes. The room can be hosed down when the patient leaves because, nine times out of ten, the bastards have crapped and pissed from one side of the room to the other, wiping their butts on the floor like dogs.”

  Bronwyn winced at the description as they reached the line that was snaking in front of the steam tables. Up close, the food smelled even better and looked delicious.