BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  * * * *

  His kiss was as soft as a butterflies wings plying over Bronwyn's flesh. The touch made her groan, wanting more, needing a deeper pressure, an invasion that would satisfy the hunger building within her. She craved to feel him stretched out atop her, his body pressing hers firmly to the seat, his shaft deep within the very core of her.

  * * * *

  “Unh, unh.” He lifted his head and gently shoved her back to her side of the car. “Not the time or the place.”

  “Aidan,” she protested in a childish tone of petulance.

  He stopped, thrilled she had used the shortened version of his name. A glimmer of pure desire went straight through him and it was all he could do not to jump on her and ravish her where she sat.

  “You're a beast,” she grumbled as he started the car.

  “Best you not forget that, Milady,” he replied in a throaty tone.

  “You know what I meant,” she said, dragging her seatbelt across her.

  * * * *

  As Cree backed out of the parking space, Bronwyn was keenly disappointed that he had broken off their kiss. But she was proud of him, too, for the self-restraint at least one of them had exhibited.

  The tires made squishing sounds against the rain-slick pavement as they pulled onto the interstate. To the East, flickers of light still pulsed in the sky, but here the rain had stopped.

  “Are we going to talk about your time on Amazeen?” she asked to break the silence.

  “If you like. What are you curious about now?”

  She glanced at him, realizing he had not asked the question in a snide way, but seemed resigned to tell her what she wanted to know.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “There is hurt, then there is hurt, little one.” He took her hand and brought it to his thigh, rested it there, his fingers twined with hers. “I wasn't tortured deliberately, if that's what you mean.”

  She moved closer to him. “But they hurt you.”

  “They tried to crush my Reaper pride.”

  “But they didn't succeed.”

  “They did not. What they didn't realize is, when you attempt to humble a Reaper, all you do is make him meaner.”

  Bronwyn smiled. “I can see that happening.”

  He glanced at her. “I'm sure you can.”

  “Did they manage to...” She blushed and looked out the side window. “You know.”

  “Breed with me?” he asked, humor in his tone.

  “Yeah.”

  “One of them did, but I don't think she found the experience a pleasant one,” he said grimly.

  Bronwyn looked around at him. “Why?”

  He grinned. In the greenish light from the cockpit, his face looked evil. He chuckled. “Reapers can mind-screw women, mess with their libidos, but Ski'Ah didn't know that. It's a psychic ability we're born with and learn to control at an early age. I knew what she was going to do before she ever laid her filthy hands on me. I used every bit of my ability to suggest to her that she unchain me and let me show her how well Reapers can fornicate.”

  Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her lips. “Good at it, are you?”

  “Experts.”

  She wagged her head at his brag, then shifted in her seat so she faced him. “I take it they had you tied down.”

  “Spread-eagled, naked and defenseless. Or so they thought.”

  “She let you loose.”

  “Quicker than a Diabolusian warthog can shit in the forest.”

  Bronwyn laughed. “Did you hurt her?”

  “I damned near killed her, and would have, if she hadn't had her women pump me full of cinera.”

  “Brian mentioned that drug. What is it again?”

  “It's a neuroinhibitor that instantly blocks oxygen input to the brain. It makes you pass out. It's the only way you can put a Reaper down instantly.”

  “I imagine they weren't too happy with you.”

  “If Reapers scarred, I'd still have the laser whip marks to prove it across my back.”

  Bronwyn tightened her fingers around his. “I'm sorry.”

  “No big deal. I worked that punishment to my advantage.”

  “How?”

  He pulled around a long motor home before answering. “They beat me so severely, I couldn't walk for a few hours. One of the Amazeen felt sorry for me.” He snorted. “I made sure she did.”

  “You mind-screwed her,” Bronwyn said.

  “In a big way.”

  “She's the one who helped you escape.”

  “Provided me with the ship, the manual, all the síoraí crystals I needed to take me to the far ends of the universe, and a goodly supply of Sustenance to keep me sane until I got there.”

  She was sure she knew what had happened, but asked anyway: “She thought you were going to take her with you.”

  “Amazeens are not the brightest stars in the megaverse.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “Best case scenario? They banished her and sent her to one of their nunneries on Idyllion.”

  “And worst case scenario?”

  “They made an example of her and burned her alive.”

  Bronwyn shuddered, drawing his jacket around her once more. “Which do you think happened?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I think they turned her into a crispy critter.”

  “Do you regret she might have been killed because she helped you?”

  “No.”

  Bronwyn eased her hand from beneath his. “Why not?”

  He pulled the SUV onto the breakdown lane. The vehicle skidded on the gravel as he slammed on the brakes. He pushed the gear into park.

  “They kept me locked in a cell with nothing in there but a gods-be-damned cot to which I was chained hand and foot. Any of them could come in any time they liked to ‘assess’ my potential. Some of them were merely curious and did no more than stroke my chest and legs. Some were more aggressive and directed their attention to that part of me they found the most interesting. Even though they didn't hurt me, being fondled against your will is not enjoyable, Bronwyn. It was humiliating, degrading, and I loathed every moment they had their hands on me.

  “I managed to stay perfectly quiet around women like that, for they really had no meanness in them. But a few—and that included the bitch who helped me escape—treated me like a prize stallion they could pull and twist and hurt until I cried out, until I showed something other than stoic acceptance of what they were doing to me. Those women I will hate until the day I cease to draw breath, and if there is a Hereafter, I will curse them until time is no more!”

  Bronwyn lowered her head. “I'm sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For what they did to you.”

  “I've been hurt far worse than that, baby,” he snapped, reaching for the gear shift lever.

  She said nothing as he slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped down the interstate. They were silent all the way back to Baybridge.

  CHAPTER 38

  When Cree pulled into the parking garage and stopped the SUV at the elevator, he didn't get out to open the door for Bronwyn, but sat staring out the windshield, his jaw tight, his hands wrapped around the wheel.

  “Thank you for bringing me home,” she mumbled, shrugging out of his jacket.

  “My pleasure,” he grated, gunning the engine.

  If he had pushed her out the door, she thought, he couldn't have made his feelings any clearer by racing the motor. She was surprised he hadn't looked at his watch in a bid to make her hurry.

  “I don't wear a gods-be-damned watch,” he snarled as he leaned over, took the handle of the door, and slammed it shut behind her.

  Bronwyn's mouth dropped open as he peeled away, the squeal of the tires loud in the parking garage.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” she hurled at the departing taillights.

  She stood there a moment, growing angrier by the second. Hissing, she stomped to the elevator, jabbed the button, and mumbled
curses. By the time she reached her apartment, she had worked herself into a fine head of steam.

  Cedric jumped straight up off the sofa, the fur on his back going stiff as Bronwyn slammed into the room. He hissed, his whiskers twitching, before he shifted into human form. “What in Raphian's name happened?”

  “Men!” Bronwyn ran through the living room and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  * * * *

  Brownie padded to the door and scratched at the panel, whimpering. The little dog looked back at Cedric.

  “I don't know,” Cedric answered the silent canine plea for understanding. He walked to Bronwyn's door and knocked lightly.

  “Go away!” Bronwyn said, her voice rife with tears.

  “Can I help?” Cedric asked, stroking the door. Rarely was the portal closed between them, for he slept each night in the rocker beside her bed and, when he couldn't, he was uncomfortable.

  “Leave me alone, Cedric!”

  The Nightwind leaned his forehead against the door. Her crying unsettled him. He slid down beside the portal and resumed his feline shape. Brownie whimpered again and curled up beside him.

  It was a little past midnight when Cedric sensed the other presence in the room. He opened his eyes and looked up. Brownie woke, too. The little dog growled low in her throat, then slunk away on her belly.

  Cedric shifted, coming with effort into his human form as his old bones cracked and popped. He took in the look on the face of the being standing before him and shook his head. “What you are going to do is wrong.”

  “She is mine. As those before her were mine.”

  The Nightwind shook his head. “This is wrong.”

  Danyon glared. “Why don't you go back to your lair for a while, Cedric.”

  Fear filled Cedric. “Danyon, no! I don't want to—”

  “I think you should take a leave of absence for a few days.”

  “I won't interfere!” Cedric said, tears forming in his eyes. “I swear, I will not interfere. Just don't send me back. Please don't send me back!”

  Danyon smiled, but there was no warmth in that cold expression. “Go back to your lair,” he ordered, his voice hard and rife with demand. “Now!”

  Before Cedric could reach out to his master, he disappeared in a flash of multi-colored light. His howl of misery was cut off in mid vibrato, but it was enough to set Brownie to whimpering.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn, awakened by the sounds coming from her living room, sat up in bed. The light from the room beyond cast her visitor in silhouette and her heart began to pound.

  “Who's there?” she asked, knowing Cedric would never dare enter her room without permission.

  “Rest easy, Milady,” was the soft, throaty command.

  Bronwyn drew in a quick breath. “Danyon?” she asked incredulously. She threw back the covers. “What the hell are you—”

  He moved so quickly she had no time to get out of bed. The protest that began on her lips died as he reached for her, a strange tingling crawling up her arm to numb her brain.

  “Lie down,” he ordered.

  Unable to resist, Bronwyn did as she was told.

  “Listen to what I say to you and understand every word. I have waited long enough for you to come to me. The time for waiting is long past.”

  It was though a blanket of thick fog had formed around her. She could hear nothing but his mesmerizing voice, feel nothing but his hand on her arm as he stroked her, see nothing but the glow of his crimson eyes peering into hers.

  “You thwarted me this evening, Bronwyn. Had the Reaper not appeared I would have seduced you in the form of Koenen Brell and made you mine once and for all. I went to much trouble to take Brell's worthless life and assume his unpleasant shape. I saved you from his vile plan to destroy you, but what thanks did I get? The least you could have done was spend one night with me!”

  Bronwyn was in thrall, and when Danyon's hands moved to the front of her gown, she could not protest the liberties he took. She barely felt the cool air wash over her as he removed her gown, and she didn't flinch when he stood and removed his clothing. Though the weight of his body covered hers, and his hands grew insistent upon her flesh, she made no sound. The heat of him pressed into her, sinking her into the soft comfort of the mattress, yet she experienced no fear. She was a mannequin for him to move and mold as he saw fit. Totally detached from what was happening, she lay at the mercy of the Nightwind.

  “Put your arms around me,” he ordered, his knee between her thighs.

  She did as she was told, bringing him tightly to her breast.

  “You will feel great ecstasy in my arms, Beloved. The passion within you will rage.”

  The first faint stirrings of desire rippled through Bronwyn's body. She squirmed beneath him, arching her hips to implement his invasion.

  “You are mine,” he whispered against his ear. He placed himself at the entrance of her womanhood. “You will revel in my lovemaking and feel the power of it.”

  She began to pant with need, bringing up her legs to clasp his waist.

  With a low chuckle of victory, Danyon entered her, going deep within her sheath, impaling her on the thrust of his desire.

  He rode her hard, bringing her to mindless release, her scream of fulfillment bringing a howl of satisfaction from his throat. She clung to him, her nails digging deep furrows into his back, but he seemed only to revel in the pain.

  * * * *

  Long after he had left her—his instructions as clear in her mind as the soft daylight filtering in through the blinds—Bronwyn felt the thrill of his touch, the satiation of a need she had long waited to have.

  “You will not deny me when I come to you as Koenen Brell,” he had whispered to her, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her naked belly. “We will see one another when I—”

  He stopped, and cocked his head, as if hearing a call Bronwyn could not hear. His lips drew back over teeth that elongated into savage fangs, and he hissed and cursed in obviously frustration. “No, Aine! Not now!”

  But whatever pulled at him must have been too strong, for he made to leave.

  “Remember nothing of this night,” he told Bronwyn. “Remember only that when Koenen Brell comes to you, you will do whatever he bids. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Danyon had kissed her long and hard, his tongue raping her mouth with deep possession. With his brand of ownership still seeping from beneath her quivering legs, he left her, wantonly spread upon the bed where he had defiled her.

  When she came to herself midway through the morning, she heard the ringing of the phone beside her bed. In the cocooned stupor from which she had to drag herself, she could not find the energy to reach for the phone. She listened as the machine answered in the living room but was not overly curious to know who was calling. With what little vitality she had left, she pulled the cover over her nakedness and went back to sleep, wondering vaguely why Cedric was not in the rocking chair.

  * * * *

  Viraidan Cree had slept harder than he could ever remember, but his restless tossing had completely denuded his bed of covering. The sheets lay crumpled on the floor; the coverlet hung precariously over the footboard. The black silk sleep pants he wore were plastered to his legs. His bare chest glistened with sweat.

  He felt groggy and his head hurt something fierce. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his belly rumbled with a slight cramp.

  “What the gods-be-damned hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, pushing up and attacking his pillow as though it were an enemy. He plowed his hands through his hair, tugging at the thick mass.

  Sitting up had made his head swim and he reached behind to grab the headboard. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the vertigo to pass. When he opened his eyes, he saw the glass sitting on his bed stand.

  For a moment he was puzzled, then he groaned and mentally kicked himself. It all came back to him in a rush of self-contempt—going to the liquor store at the mini-mal
l, demanding the clerk give him the most potent bottle on the shelves.

  “I want to forget everything!” Cree had snarled.

  “Well, there's Sharp Image,” the clerk responded. “That stuff is Ninety-Eight proof.”

  “Proof of what?” Cree spat.

  The clerk laughed. “How stupid a man can be when he drinks it. If getting blitzed is what you want, that'll sure do the trick.”

  Obviously it had.

  The liquor had been awful, its fumes working on Cree's super-sensitive olfactory nerves even before he took the first drink. He had forced himself to swallow the godawful mess, which burned a path down his gullet—far worse tasting than Brian's whiskey—and had filled his glass several times before the pleasant sense of floating lulled him into thinking he could pass the night comfortably numb.

  “The hell with you, Bronwyn McGregor,” he had grumbled as he climbed into bed with the bottle and glass, “and your self-righteous condemnation of what I helped do to Ski'Ah!”

  Perhaps the night had been passed in comfortable detachment—the ever-present image of Ski'Ah burning to her death—but the morning was bringing with it a throbbing agony between his temples and a belly that was on fire.

  When he belched, the taste of the grain alcohol flooded his mouth, and he gagged. He shot up from the bed as though launched from a rocket sled.

  Stumbling into the bathroom, he retched into the toilet until his insides felt as though they would squeeze out through his gasping mouth. The residual liquor bubbled into his nose, burning like hell, and dropped him to his knees to clutch the porcelain stool.

  “Sweet Alel,” he groaned, his long hair falling over his face.

  Ralph padded into the bathroom and stood between the tub and toilet, his dark gaze intent on the Reaper.

  “Dying,” Cree said, then gagged. More fluid than he thought he could possibly have inside his body exploded from his throat.

  “Humphf,” Ralph replied with what might well have been doggie disgust.

  Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Cree would not have believed what Ralph did. The dog loped over to the linen closet, nosed open the door, stood on his hind legs to reach an upper shelf, took a washrag in his mouth, and dropped back to all fours. Carrying the rag to the vanity, he stood again, dropped the washrag in the sink, managed to grip the coldwater handle with his teeth, and pull it toward him to turn on the water. It was a wet, soggy mess that he brought over to Cree, but the Reaper greatly appreciated the effort.