BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “Please rise and direct your attention to the back of the church,” one of the deacons called.

  As Cree turned, their eyes met. Bronwyn saw his gaze shift to Brian, then quickly away.

  A young couple had brought their child to be baptized and the preliminary ritual of the welcoming of the infant, his parents and godparents at the back of the church, kept Bronwyn's attention. But she could feel Cree's gaze on her back and at one point noticed Brian turn and look the Reaper's way.

  As the procession started to the altar, the worshipers turned, singing the “Gloria.” Bronwyn noticed Cree was not singing. He avoided her gaze and she felt the snub as though it had been a physical slap.

  If someone had asked her what the readings and homily had been about that Sunday, Bronwyn would not have been able to tell them. Her attention—as was that of many other females—was riveted on Cree. If that had not been the case before the baptism began after the homily, it certainly would have been once the sacrament began.

  Bronwyn noticed that Cree did not watch what was going on. His head was bent and he was staring at the floor. Even when the parishioners rose to repeat the baptism vows, Cree did not look at the young couple and the child at the baptismal font. Taking his seat again with the rest of the congregation, he resumed his stony contemplation of the floor until the deacon took the infant in his arms and came to stand in front of the parishioners.

  “Please join me in welcoming Patrick Sean Wilder to the family of God,” the deacon called.

  Those gathered began clapping. Bronwyn saw the Reaper lift his head, tears cascading down his cheeks.

  “What's the matter?” Brian whispered, bending toward her.

  “N...nothing,” Bronwyn said. She added her distracted clapping to that of the others but her heart was not in the moment. A lump had formed in her throat. Looking at the other women who were openly staring at Cree, she could see they seemed as effected by the man's obvious misery as was she.

  Throughout the remainder of the Mass she watched him. She was in a good position to observe his every move so that it did not seem obvious. Her heart ached each time he closed his eyes and lowered his head. She could almost feel the loneliness weighing down his shoulders. At the Sign of Peace, he did not smile at those whose hands he shook, though his lips moved in the traditional recitation of Peace be with you.

  When Communion arrived, she was not surprised to see Cree step aside for the others in his pew to go to receive the Eucharist. She did not miss the longing on his face as he knelt and lowered his head once more.

  “You can not receive Communion if you are not in a state of Grace,” she remembered Fr. Goodmayer snarling from the pulpit many years earlier. “If you are a sinner, either by choice or in your heart, you must never take the Body and Blood of our precious Jesus Christ!”

  Knowing what Cree was, what he had no doubt done as a warrior, she could well understand why he did not feel worthy to receive the Eucharist. Coming back from receiving her own Communion, she added to her prayers peace of mind for Viraidan Cree. As she did, she saw him look at her for a moment before resuming his stony demeanor.

  It was a lively song that made up the Recessional when the Mass ended. After the last chorus, the parishioners struck up an impromptu clapping in appreciation of the folk choir's efforts.

  “That was fantastic!” Brian said, smiling. “They keep getting better every month.”

  Bronwyn barely heard him. She was trying to find Cree in the people leaving the pews, but he had somehow managed to get past her without her seeing. She was disappointed. She didn't think he would go downstairs for coffee and rolls.

  The priest and deacons were waiting at the foot of the outside stairs to greet the departing parishioners. Bronwyn and Brian could not easily get to the basement door to go downstairs, so they allowed themselves to be herded outside.

  “Nice to see you again, Bronwyn,” the shorter of the two deacons said as he hugged Bronwyn, then took Brian's hand. “Brian.”

  She shook hands with the taller deacon, then went to speak to the priest, who barely acknowledged her. When she turned away, she looked right at Viraidan Cree. He was standing off to one side of the courtyard and was tying a large black bandanna around his head.

  “Hi, Viraidan,” a couple of teenage girls called as they passed him.

  “Miladies,” he greeted, then winked at the young women, which amused Bronwyn.

  The sound of self-conscious giggles wafted through the air before the girls put their heads together and no doubt compared notes about the handsome man they had been ogling.

  “You made their day,” Bronwyn said as she walked up to him. She heard Brian let out a long, hard sigh as he followed in her wake.

  “Good morning, Bronwyn,” Cree said, ignoring her comment.

  “I was surprised to see you here. I didn't know you were Catholic.”

  A muscle bunched in his taut cheek. “A part of me is anyway.”

  “Are you going down for coffee and rolls?”

  Cree looked over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, Bronwyn caught Brian's stern shake of the head. Before she could say anything, Cree told her he wasn't.

  “How ‘bout joining us for supper, then?” she asked, giving Brian a look of her own.

  “Thank you, but I have business in Iowa City,” Cree responded.

  “Some other time, then?”

  He shrugged carelessly before heading across the street toward his motorcycle, parked in the religious education center's parking lot. Bronwyn watched him sprint between oncoming cars and up the grassy incline. When Cree swung his leg over his bike, Bronwyn felt a ripple of desire drive straight through her belly.

  “Great God Almighty,” she whispered.

  “What?” Brian asked.

  “Nothing. Don't do that again, Brian.”

  “Do what?”

  “I saw you warn him off.”

  Brian's lips tightened. “He's not the man for you.”

  “You throw Sage Hesar at me like he's manna from heaven but Viraidan is off limits?”

  “Something like that,” Brian mumbled.

  “Well, I've got news for you, Brian O'Shea,” Bronwyn snapped. “Maybe I don't like white bread. Maybe I like rye!”

  * * * *

  The message light was blinking on Bronwyn's phone when she got home, but she ignored it. She was so annoyed with Brian, she had told him she'd changed her mind about fixing supper for the two of them and had left him standing at the curb, his mouth open.

  Brownie, stretched out on Bronwyn's mattress, lifted her head to watch her mistress undress.

  “Men are idiots!” Bronwyn asserted as she dragged the blouse out of her skirt.

  After tossing clothes about until she found the long T-shirt dress that she lounged around in after work, Bronwyn slammed the closet door and stalked into the living room, Brownie close on her heels.

  “Give them an inch and they'll take a frigging mile!” Bronwyn snarled as she went into the kitchen.

  “Who did what to whom this time?” Cedric asked, looking up from the sink where he was opening a can of cat food.

  “Leave me alone, Ceddie. I'm in no mood to discuss the stupidities of men who think they know what's best for me!”

  “Ah, we're talking about Cree.” Cedric took a fork from the drawer and began ladling the cat food into his mouth.

  “That,” Bronwyn said, her nose crinkled, “is disgusting.”

  “No, this is my lunch.” He plopped another large morsel into his mouth, grinned, and began chewing.

  “Yuck!” Bronwyn went into the living room and slumped down on the sofa.

  “Did it ever occur to you that Cree isn't interested in you?” Cedric asked from the kitchen door. He leaned against the jamb and continued to scoop his meal from the can. “You've tried hints and that didn't work. If you run after him, that's only going to push him farther away.”

  “Then what the hell do you suggest I do? And just why the hell
do you care since you and Brian were discussing keeping him away from me in the first place?”

  “That Australian left a message on your talking machine,” Cedric said, scraping the last of the cat food from the can. “He wants to take you out next Friday night.”

  “It's an answering machine, not a talking machine, and so what?”

  “The quickest way to interest a human male is to enflame his ego,” Cedric remarked as he licked the fork clean.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Perhaps I was a bit erroneous in my thinking,” the aged Nightwind suggested. “I've been sitting here thinking I should not discourage you from seeing the Reaper.”

  “Why not?” Bronwyn asked suspiciously.

  “Well,” Cedric said, putting the can and fork on a kitchen counter, “the best way to show you Cree is not the man for you is to allow you to see him socially. Once you see he's nothing more than an uncouth, unsophisticated, and dull beast, you'll get over this ridiculous infatuation.”

  Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “Infatuation?”

  “Ah, hell, Bronwyn,” Cedric stated with a dismissive wave of his frail hand, “you women go all goo-goo-eyed over that bad-boy persona. Best you learn it's not a romantic thing but a dangerous personality you're dealing with.”

  “And me going out with Koe Brell will accomplish what?”

  “It'll make the Reaper jealous, if he is at all interested in you.”

  Bronwyn thought about it. Maybe Cedric was right. Cree had shown a decided streak of jealousy where Koenen was involved. What would it hurt to tweak that jealousy a bit?

  “And Danyon wouldn't like it,” Cedric remarked.

  “Like what?”

  “You dating that Brell man.” Cedric cocked an eyebrow. “He's with Aine right now and won't be back for another day or so.”

  Annoying Danyon had never entered her mind. She spent little time in thinking about the Nightwind and none at all worrying about what did and did not concern him. To her, he was a necessary evil that came along with having Cedric as her companion.

  “What would it hurt to go out with the Brell fellow?” Cedric asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “Then call him back and say you'll accompany him. The place he wants to take you sounds interesting.”

  Bronwyn chewed on her thumbnail for a moment. then made up her mind. “If this turns to crap, I'll blame you.” She got up and went to the desk.

  Cedric shrugged. “You will anyway, dearling.”

  She punched the button and listened as Koenen Brell told her about a supper club in downtown Des Moines called The Triskelion.

  “It's a converted warehouse with brick walls and wood floors. There are three sections of the club and they're shaped like the triskele. Know what I mean?” he asked in his thick Auzzie brogue.

  Bronwyn pushed the pause button and turned to Cedric. “What's he talking about?”

  “He's referring to the ancient Celtic symbol for earth, sea, and sky.”

  “Oh,” she said and started the message playing again.

  “The bar spirals off to one side, the supper tables to another and the bar tables to the third. The dance floor is a large triangle in the center,” Koe told her. “The food is great and the atmosphere has to be experienced. I know you like Celtic music and that's all they play there. You have to go, Bronwyn! Give me a call and tell me what time to pick you up.”

  Cedric chuckled. “Great close.”

  “If anyone should know about that,” Bronwyn said dryly, “it's you, Mr. I-Buy-Everything-I-See-On-Infomercials.”

  “We needed a widget that dices, pares, and cubes raw meat.” Cedric sniffed. “No self-respecting meat eater should be without one.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Take the man up on his offer. What have you got to lose?”

  CHAPTER 37

  The Triskelion was crowded when Bronwyn and Koenen arrived. Customers were milling around in the lobby, drinks in hand, waiting for a table. Some looked resigned to what might be a long wait but a few were obviously angry, impatiently glancing at their watches, scowling at those around them.

  “If you don't have a reservation on Friday nights, you're screwed,” Brell remarked. With a hand to her back, he ushered Bronwyn past a group of yuppie types. He smiled at the reservations girl, who stood like a sentinel between those gathered and the dimly lit supper club beyond. “Table for two for Brell.”

  The girl checked her clipboard, running her finger down the list of names, and seemed relieved to find what she was looking for. She smiled. “Your table is ready, Dr. Brell.”

  “How come this asshole gets right in and we've been waiting for a damned hour?” a frizzy-haired woman demanded, her eyes spiteful.

  Koenen came toe to toe with the woman. “Could be,” he said, his voice icy, “you have godawful hair and my lady doesn't. Or it could be because you're butt-ugly and she isn't. Whatcha think?”

  The woman's narrowed eyes flared, her mouth dropped open, closed, and opened again.

  “Has anyone ever said you look like a largemouth bass when you do that?” Koenen inquired with a wink and a cluck of his tongue.

  The woman gasped in outrage, sputtered, and turned to the man beside her. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Gregory?”

  Gregory shrugged and looked away.

  “Right this way, Doctor,” the reservations girl said, obviously trying not to laugh.

  Bronwyn glanced back at the woman, snarling vulgarities and insults at her companion. “You are terrible, Koe,” Bronwyn quipped.

  “I don't suffer stupidity gladly,” he commented as they reached their table.

  “I can see that.” Bronwyn took the chair he held out for her.

  Koenen sat across from her. “Women like that drive me crazy.”

  “She was rude.”

  “And classless and vulgar and myriad other epithets I could hurl at her hideous hairdo.”

  Their waitress appeared, handed them the dinner menu, then took their drink orders.

  “For as long a wait as there appears out there,” Bronwyn commented, “the service is very prompt.”

  “As I said, the regulars never have a problem getting in on the weekends. We know to reserve our tables.” He shook the folds from his napkin. “Otherwise, you may not get in at all. I'll venture to say the Frizz Queen won't be enjoying the hospitality of the Triskelion this evening.”

  Bronwyn looked around the cozy room. There were thick beams overhead with old cogwheels attached to pulleys that no doubt had served mechanical purposes at one time but which now were used as giant plant hangars. One wall of windows looked out into a courtyard filled with trees and shrubs adorned with tiny white lights. A large fountain sat in the center of the courtyard with park benches to either side. Above the central dance floor, a huge stained glass atrium reflected the light of the full moon.

  “This is lovely,” she said.

  “Yes, it is.” Koenen reached for hand. “Almost as lovely as you.”

  Bronwyn eased her hand from under his and continued her inspection of the room.

  As she scanned the small crowd of customers, she was stunned to see Viraidan Cree at a table near the dance floor. He was sitting hunched over the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a nearly full mug of what looked like dark ale. He was staring into the mug and his face was grim, his lips tight.

  Bronwyn silently called his name, wondering if he was capable of “hearing” her in the noisy room. He looked up and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met, held as the Celtic music swirled around them. For a long time, they stared at one another, then the Reaper's gaze shifted to Brell and narrowed. He blinked and turned away, lifting his mug to drain it.

  “Bronwyn?” Koenen questioned, waving a hand in front of her face.

  Bronwyn flinched, heat flooding her cheeks. She jerked her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “I'm sorry. What did you say?�
�

  Koenen looked behind him. “What's so engrossing back there?”

  Bronwyn couldn't refrain from looking toward Cree's table and was surprised to find it empty. She felt keen disappointment plummet to the bottom of her stomach. “I...I thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “Anyone I'd know, too?” Koenen inquired as their waitress arrived with their drinks.

  “I wouldn't think so,” she lied.

  A lively ballad started from the band and a young woman with long curly red hair and dressed in a short black skirt and white silk blouse took the stage. As the woman's feet began moving in the tapping rhythms of a lively Irish step dance, Bronwyn and Koenen joined the other patrons in keeping time by clapping.

  “Do you step dance?” he called out over the music.

  “Lord, no!” Bronwyn laughed.

  “I know DeeDee does.”

  “She took lessons as a girl. I, on the other hand, have two left feet when it comes to tap dancing.” She took a sip of her Bloody Maria. “How ‘bout you?”

  Koenen chuckled. “Elephants can dance better than me. I hate dancing. I can't even do the two step.”

  “Why do you come here if you don't like to dance?”

  “For the atmosphere and the wonderful food you're going to enjoy.”

  Bronwyn had hoped to take a turn on the dance floor. Her regret obviously showed.

  “Want me to find someone to trip the light fantastic with you?” Koenen inquired.

  Bronwyn was saved from answering when Koenen's pager went off. He cursed as he unclipped it from his belt. Reading the calling number, he frowned. “Damn it! I asked them not to bother me unless the world was coming to an end!”

  “Baybridge?”

  “I'm sorry.” Koenen angrily folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I need to see what they want.”

  “I hope it's nothing serious,” she said as he got to his feet.

  “The damned buildings better be on the verge of collapse, is all I can say.”

  Bronwyn watched him stalk toward the lobby where she'd seen the phones. His shoulders were bunched and she was glad it wasn't she who had called him. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to look once more at the spot where Cree had been sitting. Finding even the mug gone caused deeper disappointment.