BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  His shoulders shook beneath the weight of his sorrow. He clung to her hands, needing the contact, wishing with all his heart he could feel those rigid fingers enclose his own just one more time. He longed to feel her brush the hair back from his eyes. To hear her sweet Irish lilt as she called him Seannie.

  He would never know how long he would have stayed that way had the funeral director not come in to bid him leave. He had not even been aware of the violent storm lashing against the building.

  “We are under a tornado warning, sir,” the director said softly.

  Cree nodded. It was all he could do to heave himself from his knees, bend over Dorrie Cullen, and place a gentle kiss on her work-worn brow.

  As he drove through the pouring rain—his own tears rivaling the water cascading down the car windows—he knew a grief so encompassing it was hard to draw breath. At one point, he pulled off the road, crossed his arms over the steering wheel, lowered his head to his hands, and cried, barely aware of the keening sound dredged up from his closing throat.

  CHAPTER 41

  There were only a handful of people at the funeral liturgy the next day: Brian, Bronwyn, and Cree, along with a few older parishioners who came to any and all funerals held at St. Teresa's. Tymothy and Dorrie Cullen had made no friends in Albany and the only neighbors who had been friendly to Dorrie while they lived there had either died or moved away.

  It was a sad little affair with the priest obviously embarrassed by the lack of mourners. Although his homily was well written and equally well given, he had not known the dead woman and the words he spoke of her sounded generic. Even the music—though traditional—seemed out of sinc.

  There was a short trip to the cemetery under a steel gray sky that threatened more rain. Only two cars: the hearse and the limo drove Dorrie Cullen to her final resting place.

  Bronwyn sat between Brian and Cree in the limo and neither man spoke. Her hand was in Brian's but she was conscious of the length of Cree's leg alongside her own. Now and again in church she would look beside her at the Reaper but—just as she had seen him do in church in Grinnell—he sat like marble, his head down, his eyes closed throughout the ceremony. Though he joined Brian and Bronwyn when they walked up to Communion, he did no more than touch Dorrie's casket, shaking his head at the priest's offer of the Host.

  The Rite of Committal, the graveside part of the ceremony, was brief. The three of them scooped up handfuls of the Georgia red clay to fling into the gaping maw of the grave as the casket was lowered.

  “From dust have we come and unto dust we shall return,” Father McElroy spoke.

  Brian was trembling violently by the time the casket had finished its six-foot journey into the belly of the earth. His face was stark white, his lips quivering.

  Cree gently pushed Bronwyn aside and put his arm around Brian. He drew the man to him, lowered his head, and said something Bronwyn couldn't hear. But when he had spoken, Brian raised his tear-streaked face and nodded. Whatever had been said seemed to calm the man.

  “Eternal rest grant unto her oh, Lord.”

  “And let perpetual light shone upon her,” Bronwyn answered and heard Cree echoing her words.

  “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

  “Amen,” Bronwyn whispered.

  Brian turned abruptly and walked to the limo as fast as he could. His shoulders were bunched against his grief and he looked like a man battling the forces of nature to reach his destination. Once more the sky had turned to a leaden gray and lightning made jagged lines across the western horizon. It seemed fitting that the elements should mourn the passing of Dorrie Cullen.

  Cree had found the black suit he had gone after, Bronwyn thought, as she walked alongside him. He had also found a black shirt and tie. She idly wondered if he ever wore anything other than the unrelieved black. Not that the black did anything to detract from his powerful male beauty. If anything, it only added to the allure, the mystery of Viraidan Cree, and she could imagine him in no other garb. Glancing at him, she noticed he had taken a pink rosebud from the spray that had blanketed Dorrie's casket. The perfect bud seemed out of place in his powerful hand.

  “He's going to need you, Aidan,” she said softly.

  “Aye, I know.”

  “You are a good friend to him.”

  He made no reply.

  She put a hand on his arm. He stopped and looked down at her.

  “Will you talk to me about Sean one day?” she asked.

  He stared at her for a long time. “One day I will talk to you about him.”

  There was no need to remain in Albany. As soon as they left the cemetery they drove to the airport where the jet's crew had turned in the two cars Cree and Bronwyn had rented. Already on board was what little luggage they had brought with them, including a locked cooler Brian had purchased to hold the Sustenance Cree had somehow commandeered while he was out the evening before.

  “Don't ask,” he had snapped when Bronwyn inquired about the plastibags of blood.

  Earlier that morning, Cree had administered Brian's shot of tenerse, but Brian had been so nervous about the coming funeral that Bronwyn offered to inject Cree. Once more, she played witness to the agony the med caused the Reaper and had massaged away the stinging. Before he turned away, he had looked at her with eyes that smoldered with desire.

  “Dr. McGregor?” Mr. Ludlum called as they neared the jet.

  Bronwyn let Cree and Brian go on ahead, stopping to see what Ludlum wanted. “Yes?”

  He smiled hesitantly. “I forgot to tell you that one of the nurses from the hospital had sent along a box for you. I had it in the boot of the limousine on the way here. I gave it to that nice Captain Jeffreys and he put it on board.”

  “A box? For me?”

  Ludlum waved his hands about. “It was a box of old letters that belonged to Mrs. Cullen. The nurse said many were from you and she left it to your discretion to give them to Dr. O'Shea and his son as you saw fit.”

  At the mention of Sean, Bronwyn flinched, but she managed to thank the thin man. “I'll see it.”

  “Godspeed, Dr. McGregor.” He spun on his elegant loafer heels and wobbled off, pumping his arms as though he were trying to take flight. The image of a vulture seemed to settle over his stick-thin frame.

  Shaking her head at the unkind thought, Bronwyn climbed the steps into the jet. Brian was sitting in the chair she had used on the flight down, so she moved further back in the plane. Cree seemed to be lost in thought, his attention riveted on the rain that was now beading the window. As she took her seat, she asked the stewardess for the box Ludlum mentioned.

  “It's in the baggage compartment, Doctor. Remind me when we land and I'll get it for you.”

  Bronwyn nodded and buckled her seatbelt. From where she sat, she could see Cree's stony profile and she wondered what he was thinking. There was a remoteness about him that seemed to warn people away, and the stewardess gave him a wide berth. She wished she were sitting opposite him, at least that near, for the distance between seemed insurmountable.

  As the jet began to taxi down the runway, Bronwyn laid back her head, closed her eyes, and reveled in the feeling that propelled her skyward. She wondered if Cree could feel her exhilaration.

  “Aye,” he whispered to the gathering dusk outside his window. “I am very aware of what you feel, Beloved.”

  * * * *

  Bronwyn yawned as the plane settled once more to earth. It was pitch black outside when they landed in Newton, Iowa. She heard Cree talking softly to Brian. The Reaper was hunkered down beside the older man's chair. He patted Brian's shoulder, then stood and looked at her.

  “Can you get home by yourself, Bronwyn?”

  She blinked. “You don't want me riding back to Baybridge with you?” she asked, hurt rife in her voice.

  “I need to talk to Brian in private while he's still able to listen. Would it be all right if I called one of my men to pick
you up?”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, surprised by his question. “Where are you going?”

  Brian chuckled. “Out for a wee drink, we are. Or five or six or ten.”

  Bronwyn frowned. “I don't know if that's a good idea, Aidan.”

  “I'll take care of him, Bronnie,” Cree replied.

  “Who's gonna take care of you?” Brian snorted. “The last time you had a wee drink you—”

  Cree hissed at the older man, said something Bronwyn didn't catch, then walked back to her.

  “He needs to bid his lady a proper Irish farewell,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do. He wants to get shit-faced Irish drunk!”

  Cree grinned. “Good that you understand what Celtic warriors need.”

  “What about you? Do I have to worry that you'll wrap his car around—”

  “We're taking my bike.”

  “Wrap your bike around a telephone pole?” she finished as though he hadn't interrupted.

  He put his hand over his heart. “No alcohol for this Reaper. I learned my lesson, I did.”

  “Gobshite,” Brian pronounced. “This is one Reaper who intends to come home none the good for wear!”

  “Aidan!” Bronwyn whined.

  “He'll be all right,” Cree said and chuckled.

  “Don't let anything happen to either of you,” she pleaded, searching Cree's amber gaze.

  He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. “I promise.”

  A thrill of longing shot through Bronwyn. She drew back her hand, seeing in his dark gaze the knowledge of what he had caused to happen in her body.

  “Sleep well, Dearling,” he said huskily, then turned, shoving Brian off the jet. “I'll call one of the guards to come get you.”

  Sighing heavily, Bronwyn headed into the terminal when the stewardess hurried up to her with the box of Dorrie's letters.

  “I'd forgotten all about them,” Bronwyn said, feeling a deep sadness settle over her as she accepted the item. “Thanks.”

  “Have a good evening, Doctor,” the stewardess bid. “Looks like more bad weather is on the way by morning.”

  “Great,” Bronwyn muttered.

  By the time a ride had been sent for her, Bronwyn knew Cree and Brian had gone back to Baybridge to fetch the motorcycle. She was worried about them, although she knew very little could hurt either man.

  Knowing that didn't help her frame of mind. By the time she arrived at her condo, she was wide awake, knowing she'd be unable to sleep until she heard that powerful bike roar into the parking lot.

  It was too late to fetch Brownie, and Cedric was still absent. With no other living being to keep her company, the condo felt lonelier than ever. Putting the box of letters on her desk, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tomato juice, and sat to watch television. Soon bored of the pathetic fare that passed for entertainment on the networks, she flipped to cable, but there wasn't much there, either, to interest her. Finally with a snarl of contempt, she turned off the television and sat staring into the distance.

  Her gaze drifted to the letters and held. After five minutes of looking at the box, she headed to the desk. Just as she got there, the phone rang, startling her. Thinking it might be about Cree and Brian, she jerked it up.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice tight.

  “Hello, dear,” her mother answered. “Don't you ever listen to your messages?”

  Bronwyn noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine and mentally groaned. “Have you been trying to reach me?”

  “Only since yesterday morning,” her mother said, sounding a bit miffed.

  “I'm sorry, Mom, but I've been in Georgia.”

  There was a short silence, then DeeDee McGregor sighed heavily. “You went to see the Cullen woman?”

  “Mom—”

  “You need to wean yourself from contact with that woman,” DeeDee grumbled. “It isn't good for either you or her—”

  “She died, Mom,” Bronwyn said between clenched teeth. “I went to attend her funeral with Brian.”

  “Brian O'Shea? What was he...?”

  Bronwyn was in no mood to explain about Brian and Dorrie. “Was there something you needed, Mom?”

  “Well, yes, I wanted to share some good news, but it doesn't seem to be the right time.”

  Bronwyn closed her eyes. “What good news? I could use some.”

  “I'll call back in the morning,” her mother said, her voice sharp. “Get some rest and we'll talk then.” Before Bronwyn could reply, her mother hung up.

  “I love you, too,” Bronwyn mumbled as she put down the phone.

  Depressed after the stilted conversation—so uncharacteristic for the two of them—Bronwyn sat on the sofa, the letters on her desk forgotten. At a little past two o'clock in the morning, she heard the rumble of Cree's bike and shot up from the seat. She pulled aside the curtain and saw him sagging beneath Brian's weight as he carried the older man over his shoulder. Sighing with relief, she was about to turn away when she saw Cree look up at her.

  “Good night,” she mouthed.

  He held up a hand, acknowledging her, then she lost sight of them as Cree carried his burden into the building.

  Relieved that the men were home safely, she turned toward the sofa. But again, her gaze fell on the box of letters.

  For a moment, she stared at the box. She knew there would likely be at least a couple of dozen of her own letters to Dorrie, each written after Sean's death and while Bronwyn was in college. There would most likely be many of Brian's letters and perhaps a few from Seannie.

  It was the thought of reading Sean's letters that brought her to the desk. Gnawing on her lower lip, she fought with herself, wondering if she had the right to read what he had written. Wondering if seeing his words after all this time would be too painful. As much as she ached to know what he might have written, she pondered the wisdom of prying.

  She touched the locket hanging at her neck. It was her dearest possession and she never took it off. Within the hinged interior was a poem Sean had written her long ago. Whenever she felt the burden of Sean's leaving, she would touch the locket and recite the poem to herself. His words comforted her. Perhaps reading what he had said to his mother would bring a measure of peace.

  The box had been taped shut, the wide cellophane material sealing the top on three sides. Bronwyn rummaged in the desk for a box cutter. When she peeled open the lid, a strong smell wafted up—a clinical smell, the scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, of medicine and floor wax.

  Inside the box lay several large manila envelopes, each labeled by year, beginning with 1984—the year Dorrie Cullen was taken to Milledgeville.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the first envelope and held it in her hands for a long time. She could feel the blood pounding in her temple. She stroked the handwriting on the envelope front, smiling slightly at the heavy scrawl that had been Sean's mother's penmanship.

  A part of her wanted to thumb open the metal clasp on the back of the envelope, yet another part warned the memories invoked by what she might read would re-open wounds that had lately started to heal. After another moment of trying to decide what to do, she carefully replaced the envelope in the box and walked to the window to stare out at the dark night.

  When she pushed aside the curtain and looked down, she saw Cree and Ralph taking the pathway to the lake.

  “My God, Aidan! You woke Vince at this time of night to get Ralphie?”

  As though he had heard her, he nodded. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his black jeans, his shoulders hunched against the world, drawn in upon himself, and she felt the burden of his solitude heavy on her heart.

  Not giving herself time to rationalize whether what she was doing was right, she grabbed her trench coat and the flashlight she kept on her desk, and left the apartment. A light mist was blowing across the parking lot as she took the trail t
o the lake. Pulling the hood over her hair, she switched on the light and directed its beam along the gravel pathway.

  The air was cooler than she had anticipated, but the chill of it washing over her face, accompanied by the soft prickle of mist, felt good.

  He was standing with his back to her, looking out across the midnight waters of Rock Creek Lake. His hands were still jammed into his jean pockets, but his shoulders no longer looked so rigid. There was a sense of defeat about the way he stood. Ralph, hunkering on the ground at his feet, turned his big head to look at her as she came toward them.

  Bronwyn tripped over an unseen root. When her arm rose, the flashlight beam traveled up to catch Cree's eyes as he turned. She gasped at the chatoyant glow that came from his wolf-like amber eyes, and would have fallen had he not rushed forward, catching her easily in his arms.

  “Woman, what the hell are you doing out here this time of night?” His tone was more exasperated than angry. He steadied her, then moved away, putting distance between them.

  “Making a fool of myself, apparently,” she mumbled. Being this close to the water, there was enough sky-glow to see, so she switched off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket.

  “You shouldn't be traipsing around in the dark.”

  “I saw you coming here. You looked like you needed some company.”

  “You know me that well, do you?”

  She looked up at him, then blinked. “You shaved your goatee!” She made a grunting sound of disbelief. “And cut your hair!”

  He tugged at the thick curls spiraling at his nape. “It's not all that short.”

  “But why?”

  “On my world, it is a ritual of mourning to shorn the hair.”

  Bronwyn felt a tug at her heart. “You did it for Dorrie.”