by Boyett-Compo
“Are you all right?” she asked.
There was no sound from behind the door.
She laid her head against the door. “You're angry. You don't understand why Brian sent me down here. It wasn't to hurt you.”
The silence beyond the door continued.
She moved away. “I was supposed to have an appointment with Rose Ann Danvers this afternoon, but—”
The walls thundered with powerful hits against them.
Bronwyn smiled. She knew that would get a reaction.
“I said I was supposed to have an appointment with her, Aidan. But since you won't be able to go with me, I've postponed it until next week.”
There was a few seconds of silence, then a single slap against the door.
Bronwyn laughed. “Temper, temper.” She walked back to the door and touched it. “I hope you're happy that I'm going to be up all night trotting down here every four hours to feed you. Now I know how new mother's feel.”
Silence.
Bronwyn drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. She touched the door once more and left.
* * * *
For the next three days, every four hours like clockwork, Bronwyn made her trek to the containment cell. No matter what she had been doing, she dropped it to take care of Cree. But no matter what she said or how she provoked him, he remained silent, uncommunicative. There were no more hits on the door, no more howls. She was tempted several times to look in on him to make sure he was all right, but knew he wouldn't appreciate it. She would wait the five days, then risk a glance through the peephole.
On the morning of the fourth day, she was getting dressed when the phone rang. She glanced at the wall clock in the bathroom—it was a quarter to five—and wondered who could be calling that early. Normally she didn't get up until seven, but since she'd been feeding the Reaper, her schedule had been vastly altered. Her 1-5-9 treks to the containment cell would not be missed, she thought as she picked up the phone.
“Dr. McGregor,” she answered.
There was no reply.
“Hello. This is Dr. McGregor.”
Then a lost, forlorn voice said, “She's gone.”
Bronwyn pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Brian?”
“My Dorrie's gone, Bronnie,” he said in a cracked voice.
“Oh, Brian.” Tears filled Bronwyn's eyes. “Sweetie, I'm so sorry.”
“They want me to...they said I had to...” He broke down, sobbing loudly.
“Where are you, Brian?”
“Hospital...”
“Is there someone there with you?”
“Aye.”
“Can you put them on the phone?”
There was a rustling sound, a few low words, then a woman's voice came on the line. “Four East, Mrs. Wilton.”
“Mrs. Wilton, I'm Dr. McGregor. I'm a friend of Dr. O'Shea's. Were you Mrs. Cullen's nurse?”
The woman acknowledged she had been, then reported the particulars of Dorrie's death. Ignoring her own tears, Bronwyn could hear Brian's quiet sobbing in the background.
“He's not dealing with this well,” Mrs. Wilton said with no little annoyance.
“I take it you need someone to handle the funeral arrangements.”
“Well, someone needs to.”
Bronwyn ground her teeth and grabbed a pen to write down the number of the local funeral home the nurse provided. When she had the information, she told the nurse to put Brian on the line.
“I have to know where you want her buried,” Bronwyn said softly.
“Bronnie, I can't...”
“It's being taken care of. Don't worry. I just need to know where you want her laid to rest.”
“Can you...will you...”
“I'd think Georgia, but it's up to you.”
After a long silence, Brian agreed Georgia would have been Dorrie's choice. “She loved Albany. Despite everything, she loved that town.”
“I'll call Crown Hill, then. My parents had a plot there, but mom says she wants to be buried out here. I'm sure there won't be a problem if I tell them I want Dorrie buried there.”
“Oh, God!” Brian keened. “I need you, Bronnie!”
“I'll be there,” she said without hesitation. “Let me get hold of the funeral director first. Okay?”
Brian told her where to come and how long it should take the corporate jet to get her there. She knew Dr. Wynth would never balk at flying her to Georgia.
“I'll see you in a few hours. Try to get some rest,” Bronwyn advised.
“I'm going to stay with her. I have to, Bronnie.”
“I know. I understand. I'll be there as quick as I can.”
“I love you, Bronnie,” Brian sobbed.
“I love you, too,” she replied and realized it was true. She cared deeply for the older man just as she had cared deeply for Sean's mother.
When she hung up, she called to inform Dr. Wynth of the death and to have the jet stand by. It took more than an hour for calls to the Albany funeral home to have the body transported there, to discuss details with the funeral director, and to order a simple mahogany casket. Another hour to make arrangements for the plot, to call the florist to order a spray of flowers, to speak with the priest at St. Teresa's, and to reserve the church. Thirty minutes more to pack a bag and to find someone to cover for her with her patients. Ten minutes to take Brownie to Carol Mason's apartment. Carol was already looking after DeeDee's little dog.
When she was ready to leave, Bronwyn looked about her living room, wondering what she had forgotten. She tried once more to contact Cedric and Danyon but neither answered her call. She was almost out of her apartment when she remembered Ralph.
Another fifteen minutes were taken up as she called around and finally found someone to take the big dog. Another ten minutes to fetch Ralph and take him—protesting the entire way—to Vince Cartelli's apartment.
“Behave, Ralph,” she warned the dog that growled menacingly at the gardener.
It wasn't until the jet was in sight on the runway that she remembered.
“Oh, dear God, Cree!”
She dropped her bag, yelled at one of the ground crew members to put it on the plane, and starting running as fast as she could.
He was pounding on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs when she finally made her way to the containment cell. Having had to stop for the Sustenance added another ten minutes to the timeframe.
“Get me out of here, Bronwyn!”
She skidded to a stop at the door. She doubted Cree would be shouting at her in his thick brogue if he were still in Transition. Not giving herself time to consider if what she was about to do was wise, she hit the lock release and the pneumatic hinge hissed open.
He was standing in the doorway, his face livid with rage and something else she didn't recognize until he snatched the plastibag from her hand and tore it open with his teeth.
Normally, she might well have been sickened by the sight of Cree slurping the thick red liquid, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed, a slender thread of the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and onto his chest. She might even have been frightened of the intense power that came off him in waves had she not been so captured by the sight of his nakedness.
Of their own accord, her eyes traveled the length of him, from his thrown-back head as he guzzled, past his brawny, heaving chest with the thick pelt of wiry hair, to the lean waist with its washboard abs, flat belly, past that part of him that made her blush hotter than the fires under a crucible, along the sturdy legs that ended in perfectly-shaped feet, then up again, lingering once more on that powerful shaft that had her swallowing.
“Stop that!” he thundered, slapping his hand across his chest to cover the golden medallion nestled among the curling thatch. His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “Get me some gods-be-damned clothes, woman!”
His tone thrust Bronwyn into immediate action. She sprinted down the hall, snatched open the closet, and grabbed a black jumpsuit
. Before she could turn to rush back to him, he was behind her, jerking the jumpsuit out of her hands.
Avidly her gaze locked on the firm buttocks shifting in movement as he walked away from her. His long legs had just the right amount of hair on them, she thought, as he stopped with his back to her and thrust one limb into the pant leg. His naked feet were beautiful and she longed to stroke their sturdy length. As that part of him that had so greatly distracted her dangled in view as he lifted his other leg to jam it into the jumpsuit leg, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep her whimper of desire from escaping.
“Brazen hussy,” he accused as he turned, zipping the jumpsuit up to his neck. “What the hell's the matter with you? Where were you? Did you forget I was locked up or was that your little way of punishing me?”
“W...what? Punish you?”
“Where's the Tenerse?”
Bronwyn looked at him as though he were talking in a foreign language. She wasn't prepared when he grabbed her arm none too gently. “Where is my gods-be-damned Tenerse?”
Bronwyn shook herself, trying to block the image of him naked from her mind. “Tenerse—”
“I need it, woman!” he thundered. “I'm nearly out of my mind!”
“I didn't bring it.” Her eyes widened when the look on his face became lethal.
He turned, dragging her to the elevator. “Where is Brian?”
For a moment she couldn't remember. “I...I...”
“Just shut up! I'll deal with that bastard later!”
The ride up in the elevator was the longest fifteen seconds of Bronwyn's life. Her arm ached where Cree's hand gripped the flesh. She knew there would be one hell of a bruise before the day was out. She could hear him gnashing his teeth, and the heavy breathing and rigid posture that had claimed his body was enough to make the faint of heart lose hope they'd survive the ride with him. He jerked her out of the elevator on Brian's floor even before the doors were all the way open.
As he pulled her down the hall, they passed people who leapt out of their way. No doubt those who saw them would have rumors floating about the head of security and his captive, Dr. McGregor.
Not bothering to knock on Brian's door, Cree lifted his bare foot and slammed it against the panel, splintering the frame. He pulled her into the apartment, through the living room, and into the kitchen, then sent her careening across the room.
“Get me the med, woman!”
Bronwyn crashed into the counter, crying out as her hip hit the edge. She turned to give him a furious look, but his face bore the unmistakable stamp of a man who was fast reaching the limit of his endurance. She couldn't get the fridge door open fast enough.
Her hand shaking, she took one of the prepared syringes of Tenerse from the Plexiglas box in which it was stored. Turning around, she was almost afraid to get near him. He was breathing so hard he was heaving, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands were fisted at his side and his jaw was clenched so tightly, a muscle bunched in his cheek.
She looked around, groaning when she didn't see what she needed.
“What are you looking for?”
“Alcohol swab—”
“Give me the shot. Now!”
He was taller than her and she knew the injection had to go in his jugular vein. She was about to tell him to sit at the table when he dropped to his knees and yanked the collar of the jumpsuit out of her way.
“Do it before I go insane!”
She put the index finger of her left hand on his neck, found the spot Brian told her should be used, and plunged the needle into his flesh. She felt him flinch, heard his in-drawn breath as the liquid spread through his vein, and saw him squeeze his eyes closed to the agony traveling through him.
Bronwyn put the disposable syringe on the counter. Cree was still on his knees, his head bowed, his breathing somewhat slower, but his eyes still held firmly closed. His hands were bunched on his knees, pressing into the flesh.
She didn't think; she simply reacted. She put her left hand on the back of his head and pulled his forehead against her belly. Her right hand she used to gently rub the spot where she had given him the injection. When his arms went around her hips, she held him closer.
“Where is Brian?” he asked in a gruff voice.
Brian's face passed through her mind, then Dorrie's. As Sean's mother's visage drifted out of sight, Cree looked up at her.
“She's dead?” he whispered.
“She died this morning.”
A strange expression passed over Cree's handsome face. “How?”
“A stroke. Brian was with her when she passed away. He'd been there since the day he took you to the containment cell.”
Cree lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her. His arms tightened.
“I told Brian I would go there,” she said, stroking Cree's thick black hair. “The jet is waiting for me.”
“I have to go,” he said, releasing her. He got to his feet and looked at her.
Brian and Cree were close, and she understood that. “I'll let them know you'll be coming, too. Do you need to pack something?”
He shook his head.
“You can't go like that.”
He glanced down at what he was wearing. “I guess I can't.”
“Go change. We can get you a suit down there.”
He nodded and turned away.
“Aidan?” she called.
He looked back.
“You might want to take a shower first,” she suggested with a gentle smile.
He winced, as if just now realizing how he must smell. “I'll be as quick as I can,” he said before walking from the room. Almost immediately he was back.
“What?” she asked.
“Bring what we need, Bronwyn. Brian will have taken his supply, but we might need a few days more of each.”
How strange, she thought, as she rummaged in Brian's closet, to be looking for a suitable carryall for bags of blood and an alien substance that could turn a ravaging beast back into a human male.
CHAPTER 40
One of Bronwyn's greatest pleasures was the feel of a jet taking off beneath her. The strain of the g-force, then the weightlessness, made her sigh. She always wished the feeling would last longer.
“You'd like space travel,” Cree mumbled.
She turned her head to glance at him across the aisle. He wasn't looking at her. “What's takeoff like in a space craft?”
“More prolonged and more intense,” he replied, then shut his eyes.
“Gotta try that one day,” she said wistfully.
Cree grunted, then turned his head to stare out the starboard window.
“This must be tame for you,” she said.
When he didn't reply, she tried again.
“What was it like when you landed on Earth?”
When he still didn't answer, she gave up and turned toward her window to look at the patchwork of fields, stitched together by silver-colored roads, moving slowly beneath the wings of the jet.
The man is an enigma, she thought. She doubted anyone had ever understood him or ever would. He had a way of closing himself off to gentle probing and locking out others to insistent inquiry. His silence challenged her. His brooding posture intrigued her. She wanted to know more about him, to get to know the man beneath the stern exterior. There had been glimpses of a more human side to him and it was that persona to which she had tried reaching out, only to be rebuffed when she got too close.
What are you hiding, Viraidan Cree? she wondered. What terrible secret are you trying to keep the world from knowing?
“The idjuts couldn't communicate.”
Bronwyn jumped at the sudden interruption. “I beg your pardon?”
He shrugged. “When I crashed in Ireland, I taught the natives a thing or two of my culture,” he said, his eyes glowing with mischief. “They didn't have a spoken or written language as yet. All they knew how to do was grunt. Because they were so gods-be-damned backward, I taught them the Low
Chalean dialect and gave them a rudimentary alphabet.” He grinned. “And I taught them how to fight.”
“Not one of your more intelligent moments there, Aidan,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “How was I to know they'd embrace the concept so readily?”
“It's thought the Gaels taught the Irish to speak somewhere around 300 B.C.”
“It's thought wrong. And it wasn't ogham script they learned to write, either. It was Chalean High Runic form and it was around a lot longer than they originally thought. Only the Holy Men, the ones you call Druids, could write it, though.”
“Is Chalean your native tongue, then?”
“No. Rysalian would have been, had I stayed on the planet long enough to learn it. There are similarities between Rysalian High Speech and Chalean just as there are similarities between French and Spanish.”
“You were, what? Two years old when you were sold to the Amazeen?”
“Aye.”
“Then Chalean is their dialect.”
“By Alel's beard, no!” he said, his face turning hard. “Those bitches speak a language all their own. It's a compilation of the languages of many worlds, mostly Diabolusian.”
“Who taught you Chalean?”
Cree raised his leg and crossed his right ankle over his knee. “A slave assigned to take care of me.”
“Like a nanny?”
Humor tugged at Cree's full lips. “I doubt Daithi Tarnes would have liked being called a nanny. The man was six feet tall and, despite the cutting, was rock-hard and twice as strong.”
“The cutting?”
Cree held up his hand and used his index and middle finger like a pair of scissors. “They took away his goodie.”
Bronwyn blushed. “Oh...”
“All the men of the harems were neutered,” Cree said in a matter-of-fact tone. “All those except the ones the Amazeen intended to breed by.”
“This Daithi had been captured by them?”
“He had been in the Chalean Guard and was taken prisoner during a skirmish near the capital of Meiraman when the Amazeen went after one of the royal sons.”
“How was it you learned to be a Reaper, then, if you were cared for by an outsider? Someone not of your kind?”
“I learned what I needed from the computer on the ship I commandeered,” he said, pride in his voice. “There was an extensive amount of data on Reapers. Some of what I read surprised me, but most I'd already begun to feel by the time I came into puberty. The urges I experienced made sense after I finished assimilating the information. I knew I had been created to kill, and then I knew how I should go about it.”