BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “Well, that's normal enough.”

  “A bag of cheese puffs, two chocolate bars, a box of raisins, three double packages of toaster pastries, a tube of sugar cookie dough, and a can of mixed nuts.”

  She turned to stare at him. “You're joking!”

  He laid down, his hands cupping the back of his head. “I have a healthy appetite.”

  “You are a heart attack waiting to happen! Do you know what they stuff will do to you?”

  “What can I say? Reapers are junk-food addicts.”

  It was the first time he had labeled himself to her and she wasn't sure how to react.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  She knew he'd plucked her thoughts from the air, but this time it didn't annoy her. She crossed her legs and stuck the blade of grass between her lips. “Do I have reason to be?”

  “No.”

  “Would you ever hurt me?”

  “Never,” he said, his voice low and throaty.

  “Then I'm not afraid of you.”

  “Disgusted by what I am?”

  She shrugged. “Unsettled a bit, perhaps.” She chewed on the grass.

  “Enough to stay away from me?”

  She took the grass from her mouth and tossed it away. “Obviously not or I wouldn't be up here with you, now, would I?”

  Brownie yelped playfully and Ralph answered as they raced down the hill and to the edge of the lapping water.

  “Don't you dare get in that water, Brownie!” Bronwyn yelled.

  “Ralph is part Lab,” Cree remarked. “He loves the water.”

  “Well, I don't feel like bathing that little brat today.”

  “Let her play. If she gets wet, I'll bathe her.”

  Bronwyn glanced at him. He was staring at her, his eyes looking tired and wounded. Before she thought, she touched his forehead. “You've got a fever!” she said, shifting around to get a better look at him.

  He took her hand, staying her inspection of his face. “Reaper body temperature is much higher than a human's. I'm okay, Bronwyn.”

  “You don't look okay,” she said, feeling the heat of his flesh radiating up her arm. “There are deep circles beneath your eyes that weren't there when we came up here. Your face is flushed and—”

  “I am all right.” He brought her hand to his chest. “I swear.”

  Through the fabric of his black polo shirt, she felt the heavy thudding of his heart. It seemed unnaturally quick, though she had no idea what the blood pressure and pulse rate of his kind would be.

  “I'm worried about you. You don't look well, Viraidan.”

  “You'll get used to seeing me this way from time to time,” he said, letting go of her hand. “It's normal.”

  Bronwyn opened her mouth to protest his cavalier attitude, then thought better of it. The man obviously knew whether he was ill or not, she reasoned, and decided to drop the issue. She did, however, make a mental note to talk to Brian and see if he would give her a lesson on Reaper anatomy.

  “Is that a tribal tattoo?” she asked, staring fixedly at the dark blue design.

  “It is a marc as úinéireacht.”

  “Which is?”

  “A mark of ownership.”

  Before Bronwyn could ask what that meant, he unbuttoned his shirt, palmed a medallion hanging on a thick chain around his neck before she could look at it, then pulled the shirt toward his shoulder. “This is a tribal tattoo—the dúr diabhol.”

  Bronwyn glanced at the dark crimson design on his left pectoral. She thought his flesh looked burned around the stylized grim reaper with its scythe handle made of human skulls.

  “It was done with a laser brush,” he said, pulling his shirt over the tattoo.

  “That had to hurt,” she said, flinching.

  “I was a child when it was done. I barely remember the pain,” he said as he rebuttoned his shirt.

  “Your culture was vastly different from ours, wasn't it?”

  “More brutal, more uncaring, aye. But you have men who are just as brutal and uncaring. Daniel Dunne was one of them. He marked his newly-made Reapers in the same manner.”

  At the mention of that hated name, Bronwyn looked at the ground. “Would you mind if I asked you something?”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked, his gaze wary.

  She drew up her knees and clasped them in the perimeter of her arms. “Brian said you were a friend of Sean's.”

  A shadow passed over his face. He looked away to stare at the leafy canopy overhead. “I don't want to discuss him.”

  Bronwyn felt heat rising in her cheeks. “May I ask why?”

  Cree cut his eyes to her. “No.”

  She sighed heavily and turned her attention to the dogs frolicking at the water's edge. There were so many questions, questions she thought perhaps Cree would answer in time. At least, she hoped he would.

  “Don't count on it,” he said, springing to his feet.

  She watched him walk down the hill. His shoulders were stiff, his hands clenched into fists. He was like quicksilver, she thought. One moment he seemed to want to be with her and the next he was pushing her away. His manner, his mood swings, irritated her, yet she found herself drawn to him in a way she could not explain.

  As he picked up stones and sent them skipping across the water's surface, she was reminded of watching Sean do the same thing on the Flint River. She smiled sadly and squinted. If she concentrated, she could picture that long lost boy standing on the river bank in Georgia, his sideward pitches causing the rocks to skip three, four, or more times across the water.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the male standing at the water's edge was Sean grown into manhood. She could picture his bright blond hair and cornflower blue eyes shining in the warmth of the sun. In her mind's eye, she could see the light green shirt he had worn most often and the tight faded blue jeans that had made her insides ache.

  She lay on the grass, her hands to either side of her head. The smell of the grass was crisp and clean, it's lushness a comforting cushion beneath her body. A light breeze washed over her, and the lacy patterns of the tree branches overhead against her closed lids lulled her.

  Her thoughts returned to the river, but this time it was the Kinchafoonee and the late afternoon when Sean had made her a woman. Her memories were strong—his hands on her breasts; the feel of his lips on her mouth; the weight of his body upon hers; the pressure of him seated deep inside her.

  There was a rustling sound nearby but she did not open her eyes. She was locked in the past, her body on fire with a need she had not felt in many years. Her breathing was deep, slow, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  She felt contact along her right side—a hard length stretched beside her. A sensation moved over her leg, pressing that leg to the ground. Another sensation became wedged between her legs, insistent pressure firm at the juncture of her thighs. Strong fingers threaded her own and she captured them in a tight grip. The light grew slowly darker over her face until soft, pliant lips claimed hers. A powerful chest flattened her breasts, the tips aching to be touched. When the warm moistness of her shadow lover's tongue slid past her lips, Bronwyn groaned and tightened her grip on the phantom hands that held her own captive.

  She groaned again when her left hand lost its prisoner, then gasped as the escapee found its way to her breast. Arching up into the possessive grasp that plied her, she thought she would faint, for her lover's tongue took that moment to probe deep inside her mouth.

  Her free hand went to her lover's hair, pressing his mouth tighter to hers, which brought a grunt from deep in his throat. She felt him release her other hand as he shifted fully atop her, his hands going under her body to caress her buttocks, his knees spreading her legs apart, the steel of his shaft held hard against the core of her. His lips left her mouth and trailed down her throat, placing hot kisses in the hollow.

  “Sean!” she cried, holding him to her.

  “I am here, ghrá mo chroí.”
<
br />   Bronwyn's eyes flew open. The long-remembered term of endearment sent a shockwave of pure agony through her soul and brought her out of the strange revelry into which she'd fallen.

  Cree was sitting beside her, his face closed, unreadable.

  She sat up, pulling at her blouse, clutching the front in a fist.

  “You were dreaming,” he told her.

  Bronwyn let out a shuddering breath, then another. She squeezed her eyes closed. “It was so real,” she said, her voice breaking. “It felt so real!”

  * * * *

  He watched her cover her face with her hands and ached as she began to cry. For a moment, he resisted the urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her, but her heart-breaking sobs struck a chord deep within him and he pulled her onto his lap, drew her head to his shoulder, and held her as her wild sobbing shook them both.

  When her grief was spent, she pushed gently away from him and ran the back of her hand under her chin. She apologized for her outburst.

  “Don't worry about it,” he said, reaching for the handkerchief in his back pocket. Before he could hand it to her, she got clumsily to her feet and walked down to the spot where he had stood skipping stones.

  He watched her, then worried as he surveyed the water. His agitation at her being so close to the threat of the waves brought him to his feet. He hurried to her, his nerves tingling.

  “I'm not going to throw myself in the lake,” she said as though she had read his mind.

  “Good, because Reapers can't swim.”

  Despite her tears, she laughed and looked up at him. “Running water and vampires don't mix, huh?”

  He shrugged, digging his hands into the back pockets of his ebony jeans.

  Bronwyn frowned. “They need to clean up this section of the waterline,” she said, kicking a piece of broken beer bottle with her sneaker.

  “Some of the orderlies party down here at night. It's kept fairly good most of the time.” He scraped the heel of his boot against the ground. “You okay now?”

  She bobbed her head and drew in a ragged breath. “I get this way when I think of him.”

  “Then don't think of him.”

  Bronwyn pursed her lips but made no comment. She whistled for her little dog, lying under a popular tree with Ralph. “Let's go, Stuffie!”

  There was loose gravel on the lip of the hill and Bronwyn tripped going up the slight incline. Before Cree could catch her, she fell, her palms scraping in the dirt.

  “Son of a bitch!” she cried.

  The smell of her blood reached him before the transmission of her pain entered his mind.

  “Let me see!” He came to his knees beside her and took her hand. A deep gash on the side of her hand gaped open, blood streaming from it. He pinched the wound closed, the smell making him giddy.

  “God almighty, that hurts,” she whimpered, gripping the wrist of her injured hand. “What the hell did I get cut on?”

  Cree glanced at the ground. “Rusty metal half-buried in the shale.”

  “It'll have to sutured,” she sobbed. “I hate needles.”

  “I know.”

  Whether it was the pain she was experiencing or the fear of being stitched or the alluring scent of her warm blood gushing between his fingers, despite the pressure he exerted on her flesh, Cree made a decision he hoped he would not regret.

  “Look at me,” he said sternly, his voice brooking no resistance.

  She glanced up and stilled, his stare holding her transfixed.

  “You do not feel the pain, Beloved. You feel nothing but my touch. You hear nothing but my voice. Do you understand?”

  Obviously mesmerized by the power and authority in his gaze, she nodded.

  “I can not bear to see you hurt.”

  The wound pulsed with redness, with the flesh split apart so the tendon showed. Cree lowered his mouth to the laceration. He sharply bit his tongue, then allowed his blood to mix with hers, to flow into her injury. Beneath his lips, he could feel the spores of his black life force bubbling inside her wound, sealing it, healing it. The taste of her blood was like nectar to him and he drew it into his mouth, invigorated by its flavor and intoxicated knowing it was the essence of her that he drank.

  CHAPTER 36

  “Good morning,” Brian said.

  Bronwyn nodded, yawning. “What's up?”

  “You forgot,” he sighed, looking at her bathrobe.

  “Forgot what?”

  “Sunday? Nine o'clock? Coffee and rolls. Inane conversation.”

  Bronwyn gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Mass!” she shrieked.

  Brian looked at his watch. “Can you get dressed in fifteen minutes?”

  “Fifteen? Fiddle!” Bronwyn pointed a finger at him. “Stay here. I'll go shower!”

  Brian chuckled as she ran out of the room. He found the Sunday Des Moines Register on the coffee table and rifled through it until he found the business section. He sat on the sofa and shook the paper.

  “He did a very dangerous thing yesterday.”

  Brian lowered the paper. There was an elderly man standing before him. The being known as Cedric, no doubt. But when Brian sniffed, he did not detect the odor Cree had told him Nightwind's possess.

  “The scent can be hidden when necessary,” Cedric told him.

  “So you can sneak up on people?” Brian growled, snapping the paper shut. He tossed it to the coffee table. “What do you want?”

  Cedric took a step closer. “I care deeply for the Lady. She has been most kind to me. She has given me companionship and...”

  “You know something, Nightfart, I don't care what Bronnie has given you.”

  “She was hurt yesterday. He healed her with his own blood.”

  “Viraidan?”

  Cedric grinned. “I would imagine it was the Cullen part of him that couldn't help himself.” When Brian gasped, the Nightwind's grin turned mean. “You have hidden nothing from our kind, Reaper. We know who he was.”

  Casting a quick look to the door behind which Bronwyn had disappeared, Brian got to his feet. “Have you told her?”

  A snort was Cedric's first answer. His second was firm. “We've no intention of her finding out.”

  Relief washed over Brian. “We don't want her to know, either.”

  “Understood. We also understand the danger of what he did yesterday.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Brian demanded, sitting down.

  Cedric moved to a recliner and sank creakily to the seat. “Old bones make the odd noise now and again,” he sighed as he shifted his aged body to a comfortable position.”

  “I suppose I'll find out,” Brian acknowledged, being polite. “I'm told I'll live a couple of hundred years if my head stays attached to my body.”

  “I,” Cedric said, jabbing a thumb at his chest, “am in the second millennium of life and would just as soon not be.”

  “You were going to tell me what he did,” Brian pressed.

  “She cut her hand at the lake and...”

  “They were together at the lake? Alone?”

  “The Reaper came close to taking her while she slept.”

  Brian winced. “By the gods, that man is out of control!”

  “Aye and blending his blood with hers shows to what degree.”

  “He would reason he had helped her,” Brian defended.

  “True, but now he has the taste of her in his mouth and can track her no matter where she goes. Should it be necessary to take her from this place—”

  “She's not being taken anywhere!” Brian snapped. “Especially not by one of your kind!”

  Cedric sighed. “The longer she is near the Reaper, the nearer to disaster she is. Sooner or later, she will begin to see the similarities between Cree and Cullen.”

  “I'll have a talk with him.”

  “I fear it will take more than talk.”

  “Let me worry about that!” Brian grated.

  “Worry about what?” Bronwyn asked from the doorway. She l
ooked from one face to the other. “I see you two have met. What were you talking about?”

  “Protecting you,” Cedric ventured, rising clumsily from the chair.

  “From what?” Bronwyn asked.

  Brian opened his mouth to answer but Cedric beat him to it.

  “Cree,” Cedric replied, ignoring Brian's look of disbelief. “He is not the man either of us would have for you.”

  “Really?” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “How ‘bout you two minding your own business, okay?” She walked to the door. “You coming Brian?”

  “I wasn't even breathing hard,” Brian said beneath his breath and caught the wicked grin on Cedric's face.

  Bronwyn's lips were pressed tightly together as she walked into the hall.

  Brian hurried to catch up with her. “Are we taking my car or yours?”

  “Mine,” she said, casting him an annoyed look. “I don't want you and Cedric discussing my affairs. Are we clear on that?”

  “Aye,” Brian said as they reached the newly constructed enclosed garage.

  * * * *

  The ride into Grinnell was spent talking about mundane topics that kept well away from Viraidan Cree or Cedric's and Brian's attempt to meddle in Bronwyn's affairs. At St. Mary's, the church was crowded with few seats left unoccupied. Bronwyn and Brian took their places.

  Bronwyn joined Brian on the kneeler and made the Sign of the Cross. As was her habit, she looked around before beginning her prayers and was surprised to see Cree at the inside seat across the aisle and three pews up from her.

  Once again he was dressed entirely in black with a lightweight turtleneck pullover, its long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, straining across his broad chest and tight dress slacks that accentuated the high firmness of his rump. His long hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and glistened blue-black beneath the chandeliers. He was kneeling, eyes closed, head bowed and resting on his clasped hands.

  And she could not drag her attention from him.

  Neither could several young women and girls who were gawking at him as though he were a feast and they were starving. Even older women glanced surreptitiously in his direction.

  As the bells began tolling to call the parishioners to worship, Bronwyn watched Cree lift his head and look at the huge cross hanging behind the altar. Even though he was in profile to her, Bronwyn could see the misery reflected on his face. When the last bell tolled, he crossed himself and sat in the pew.