BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Loud applause rang out when the dancer finished her number with a high kick and a rapid tattoo of her tap-studded toes on the parquet. While showing her own appreciation of the dancer's talent, Bronwyn felt hands on her shoulders. Soft warmth invaded her ear along with the words: “Let's dance.”

  She turned and blinked. Cree was standing there. He held out his hand.

  Moving as though she were in a dream, Bronwyn put her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to the dance floor. As they reached it, the music started. Bronwyn tensed, trying to pull away, but he would not allow it. He swept her into his arms—one hand firmly at her back, her right hand clutched tightly in his.

  “I don't want to...” she said, her eyes filling with moisture.

  “Shush,” he instructed, moving them to the middle of the floor.

  It was the song that had brought tears to Bronwyn's eyes. The slow tune had been Sean's favorite. The memory of her singing the words to him caused intense hurt, the pain of it stabbing at her heart, raking over the wound she knew would never heal. The singer's words tore at her very soul:

  * * * *

  “Red is the rose on yonder garden grows

  Fair is the lily of the valley

  Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

  But my love is fairer than any.

  Come over the hills, my handsome Irish lad

  Come over the hills to your darling

  You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow

  And I'll be your true love forever.

  * * * *

  “ ‘Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed

  When the moon and the stars they were shining

  The moon shone its rays on his locks of golden hair

  And he swore he'd be my true love forever.

  * * * *

  “It's not for the parting of my sister Kate

  It's not for the grief of my mother

  'Tis all for the loss of my handsome Irish lad

  That my heart is broken forever.”

  * * * *

  Cree waltzed with expert grace, his long legs in perfect sync with the soft strains of the Celtic melody washing over them. His eyes were locked on hers as they danced, her body so close to his she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach. The black silk of his shirt shimmered beneath the revolving lights of the disco ball overhead. Sparkles of that playful light reflected off his soft black leather britches, so tight on his powerful legs it looked as though he had been poured into them.

  Vaguely aware of the people watching them, of the women staring with hungry eyes at his taut body, she began to relax in his arms. The moment she gave in to the pull of the music, the insistence of his hold, he pulled her closer to him so that her cheek came to rest against the opened collar of his shirt. She felt his chin rest gently on the back of her head and closed her eyes, taking in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and experiencing its fragrance in the pit of her belly.

  It was as though they were the only two people on the dance floor. The singer seemed to sense their pleasure, for she sang it again in its entirety. Cree waltzed Bronwyn across the floor, his movements sensual and plying her body with wave after wave of desire. When the music stopped, he dipped her low, held her there for a moment, then swept her around in a half circle and finally tight up against him so that their bodies touched from chest to knee.

  There was no sound in the room as they stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. When noise at last intruded on their intimate moment, it was the band's fiddler, who played a lively Celtic tune with vigor.

  Cree still held Bronwyn's hand in his. He brought it to his lips and turned her arm so he could plant a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. His gaze never left hers.

  Bronwyn drew in a slow breath, deeply affected by the sensations his touch sent through her. When he finally released her hand and stepped back, she felt like throwing herself into his powerful arms.

  “Another time,” he said, then turned away, disappearing among the dancers before she could bid him stay.

  It was Koenen's hand, tight on her upper arm, that brought her back to her senses.

  “Did you enjoy making a fool of yourself out there?” he snarled, drawing her off the dance floor.

  Bronwyn tugged against his rough handling and pulled her arm free. “Excuse me?”

  Koenen's handsome face twisted into a mask of contempt. “I can't believe you allowed that son-of-a-bitch to rub all over you like that. I've never been so disgusted. You were acting like a slut in heat!”

  Fury blazed within Bronwyn. She slapped him as hard as she could, snapping his head to the side. With such rage and venom in the hit, Brell staggered beneath the force of it.

  “Go to hell!” Bronwyn snarled and spun around, pushing her way through the curious onlookers.

  It was raining when she shoved open the heavy oaken doors and walked into the Des Moines night. A lone taxi was parked across the street and she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The cabbie turned on his headlights and made a u-turn, pulling up to the canopy under which she was standing. Just as she reached for the taxi door, Koenen put a firm hand against it.

  “I brought you, I'll take you home,” he grated.

  “I'm not going anywhere with you.” She pushed away his hand and tried to open the door, only to have him pull her from the curb. “Get your hands off me!” she yelled.

  “I'm sorry, okay?” he said, holding up his hands. “I got a little crazy in there and—”

  “A little crazy?”

  The cabbie rolled down the passenger window and asked if she was getting in.

  “Yes,” Bronwyn said.

  “No,” Koenen replied at the same time.

  “There are people behind you wanting a lift,” the cabbie protested. “Either get in or step back, lady.”

  Bronwyn started around Koenen, but he blocked her path. When he did, another couple made a run for the cab door, scurrying inside as quickly as they could.

  “Now see what you did?” Bronwyn slammed her open palm against Koenen's shoulder.

  “I will take you home.”

  “No, you won't!” she insisted, attempting to go back inside so she could call another cab.

  “Woman, listen...” Koenen began, then stopped. A hateful smirk crossed his face as he looked over Bronwyn's shoulder. “I ought to stomp the shit outta you!”

  Bronwyn turned to find the Reaper standing a few feet away, his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Instant relief turned to dread as she realized the situation could turn ugly.

  “You had them page me, didn't you?” Koenen hissed. “You did it so you could move in on her!”

  “You need a ride home, Milady?” he asked Bronwyn.

  “Yes.”

  “Let's go, then.”

  “You're not taking her anywhere, Cree!” Koenen barked.

  Cree took a step toward Brell. A muscle ticked in the Reaper's lean jaw. “You think you can stop me?”

  Brell's lips skinned back from his teeth. “It will be my pleasure to put you down, you arrogant hound!”

  Bronwyn moved between them. “Don't either of you start something here!”

  Several people had gathered outside the club doors, avidly watching.

  “I'm going with him and that's all there is to it, Koenen,” Bronwyn snapped. “If you don't like it, tough!”

  Koenen looked as though he were about to explode. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side and he shot daggers of hate at Cree with his eyes. “Yeah, you go with him, Dr. McGregor. Get drenched on that piece of shit motorcycle, for all I care. I hope you both catch your death of cold!”

  Brell spun around and headed back inside the club.

  Bronwyn sighed heavily, looking out at the pouring rain. She didn't look forward to getting drenched. It had also turned cooler and she was feeling the chill through the lightweight pullover she wore.

  “Here,�
� Cree said, shrugging out of his leather jacket.

  “Oh, no, I can't,” she protested, but he was already swinging the heavy jacket around her shoulders.

  “I don't need it.” He took her arm to lead her to the parking lot.

  “I hope you have a helmet,” she said miserably, lifting his jacket to cover her head.

  “Afraid not.”

  Bronwyn whimpered. Stepping into a puddle, she whimpered again, as miserable as she could remember being for quite some time. But she was pleasantly surprised when Cree drew her toward a sports utility vehicle. He opened the door for her and ushered her inside.

  Through the rain-streaked windshield, she watched him walk around the SUV. He didn't seem to mind the water pummeling him, and when he opened the door and climbed behind the wheel, she smiled as he raked his hands through the wet strands of his long hair.

  “I didn't know you owned a car,” she said.

  “I don't. It's Brian's.”

  “And you just happened to borrow it this evening?”

  “Something like that,” he said, sticking the key in the ignition.

  “Lucky for me. I really am happy you came along. Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “You should be more selective in the company you keep,” he told her, pulling into traffic.

  “I'm sure Dr. Brell would say the same of you.”

  “There is no love lost between us.”

  “Why?” she asked, watching him through the greenish glow of the cockpit lights.

  He shrugged.

  She knew she'd get no answer from him so she settled in the seat, drawing his heavy jacket closer around her.

  “Want me to turn on the heat?” he queried.

  “No, I'm okay, but you're soaked. You have to be cold.”

  “Reapers don't get cold.”

  “Never?”

  He shook his head.

  “What is it like where you come from?” she asked, wondering about the climate.

  Cree frowned. “I don't know.”

  Bronwyn's brows shot upward. “Why not?”

  He took Interstate 10 and accelerated onto the super slab before he glanced at her. “I was very young when last I was there.”

  Remembering the story Brian had told her about Cree's crash-landing on Earth, she was even more curious. “How old were you when you left?”

  “Chale?”

  “That's your home?”

  He nodded, changing lanes. “I was two years old when I was stolen by a Dahrenian slaver and taken to Rysalia.”

  “Where were you before you came here?”

  Cree was silent for a moment. In the reflected light from the cockpit, Bronwyn saw his jaw harden. “On Amazeen Prime,” he stated.

  “From the way you said that, I take it you didn't like living there.”

  “I was a prisoner of the Amazeen. No, I didn't like it.”

  “Had you broken one of their laws or were you a prisoner of war?”

  “I was sold to them by that infernal Dahrenian. Purchased to be used in their breeding program when I came of age.”

  A shiver ran through her. “They do things like that?”

  “They tried,” he said with a snide laugh, “but Reapers don't breed well in captivity. And there is only male issue from their loins. Female fetuses die in the womb.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the parasite in each Reaper kills any female fetus. Females are weak, unworthy of the parasite's help.”

  “I take it the parasite is male.”

  “On the contrary. It is female.”

  He glanced at the accelerator. As if realizing he was going well over the speed limit, he let the SUV drop back into a more acceptable range.

  “Then why would the parasite kill female fetuses?” Bronwyn asked.

  “I've always thought it was jealousy, but I could be wrong. Thank Alel the Amazeen warriors could not produce half-Reaper/half-Amazeen females. Those bitches should be allowed to die out, but unfortunately they find males to breed with wherever they go.”

  “The Amazeen are females?” Bronwyn gasped.

  “They are the scourge of our star system. As evil as the nights on Virago are long.”

  Cree sped up to pass a semi, the backwash from the truck's rear wheels making it hard to see. He handled the SUV as though it were a natural extension of him, gliding in and out of traffic with an ease Bronwyn found exciting.

  “I'm curious,” she said.

  “So I've noticed.”

  “If you don't want to answer, you don't have to.”

  “If I think you're getting too personal, I'll tell you so.”

  She laughed. “I know you will.” She stretched out her legs, enjoying the ride.

  “Adventureland,” he said, pointing to the right up ahead.

  Bronwyn looked toward the glowing neon lights around the amusement park. “I didn't notice it when we passed on the way to the Triskelion.”

  “I doubt Brell would have thought to show it to you. It's not something a wild and swinging guy would find entertaining.”

  “Ouch. You really don't think much of him, do you?”

  “I never think of him at all if I can avoid it.”

  They were silent for a moment, then Bronwyn said, “You're good.”

  Cree turned to look at her. “Good at what?”

  “You managed to get us off the subject,” she sighed, amused at the ease with which he'd maneuvered the topic from himself.

  Swerving expertly into the exit lane, Cree took them off the interstate. “Too much spiced cider at the Tris. Gotta pee.”

  “Was that what you were drinking? I thought it was ale.”

  “Reapers shouldn't drink alcohol,” he said, then mumbled under his breath, “Especially this one.”

  He turned into the truck stop at the exit and slid the SUV into a parking space. Turning off the engine, he glanced at Bronwyn. “Need to go in?”

  “No, I'm fine.”

  “Then I'll lock the car behind me,” he said, opening the door.

  “Why? Is this a dangerous part of town?”

  “No, but I'll feel better knowing you are safe behind locked doors.”

  Warmth settled gently in Bronwyn's stomach. She watched him with interested eyes as he went into the truck stop. Her gaze dropped to his rear end and held as he walked. “Man, oh, man,” she said, liking what she saw.

  Through the rain-streaked windshield, Bronwyn saw several women and a couple of men inside the truck stop turn to watch him pass and wondered if they weren't as intrigued by the man as she was.

  He was undeniably handsome, virile, and seductive. The powerful build of his body was a bit intimidating though reassuring at the same time. She doubted few men could take him in a fair fight. He had about him an air of tightly controlled anger that she suspected could become lethal should he unleash it. Any man foolish enough to engage the Reaper in combat might find he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

  The rain increased in strength. Wind buffeted the car. Lightning lit up the night and drove Bronwyn further down in her seat. As thunder shook the windows, she whimpered and buried her face in the confines of Cree's leather jacket. She barely heard the locks pop up, but flinched as rain misted into the car.

  “The gods-be-damned bottom's fallen out,” Cree complained as he slammed the door shut. “We're going to have to—”

  A strident shriek of lightning forked across the heavens. Bronwyn screamed, covering her ears.

  Cree shot the driver's seat back as far as it would go and reached for her, dragging her gently over the console and into his lap, where he cradled her protectively against his firm chest. “It's all right, ghrá mo chroí,” he whispered against her hair. “I am here.”

  She pressed against him, hiding her face in the wet coolness of his shirt. His arms were wrapped around her, one hand covering her exposed ear to block the sound of the torrential rains hammering at the car. With each sharp crack of lightning across the firmament, his hol
d tightened, and when the harsh glare pulsed more frequently, he began to croon to her in his native tongue.

  Despite her intense fear of the weather, Bronwyn concentrated on the richness of his voice as he sang. Though she did not understand his language, she knew the melody well. It was “Red is the Rose.” The cadence of his heart beat strongly to the rhythm of the tune. He had a beautiful, clear voice and he sang the old Celtic tune with feeling.

  They sat that way for twenty minutes as the storm raged overhead. Hidden by the slashing rain striking the fogged windows, Cree and Bronwyn were cocooned within the SUV, oblivious to what was going on outside. His singing had lulled her, soothed her phobic fears. She relaxed against him, her left hand tucked inside the V of his shirt, her fingertips tracing the raised pattern of his tattoo, occasionally plucking at the wiry hair that thickly covered his broad chest.

  * * * *

  By the time the rain stopped, Bronwyn was asleep, her head tucked under his chin, her fingers entangled in the chain of the medallion he wore. Cree was content to sit there, holding her, listening to her soft breathing. He was watching truck stop customers come and go, and when he finally realized he and Bronwyn were receiving odd looks, he mentally shook himself from the languor that had claimed him and gently called her name.

  Bronwyn stirred, but she was obviously comfortable and snuggled closer to his warmth.

  “Wake up, little one,” he whispered, stroking her back.

  She opened her eyes. “Where are we?” she asked, yawning.

  “Bosselman's Truck Stop.”

  “Uhm.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

  “We're creating quite a fascinating spectacle, Milady,” he said with a note of humor in his deep voice.

  She sighed. “Ask me if I care.”

  He chuckled. “I don't need to. I know you don't, but I do.”

  She looked up at him. “Party pooper.”

  Cree stared into her beautiful face and lost all sense of correctness. The people walking past the car meant nothing to him. All he saw was the woman he loved gazing up at him with trust and budding affection, and he bent his head to claim her lips.