by Boyett-Compo
“Perfectly, Sir. Anything else?”
“Find Cree!”
Cahill snapped to attention and saluted, then dashed from the room.
“I'm worried about Bronwyn,” Sage admitted, looking at Brian.
“If she's with Cree, she's perfectly safe,” Wynth said.
“Do you think she's with Cree, Brian?” Sage asked.
Brian flinched. “No, I don't.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don't know,” Brian said, getting up. “And I won't find out sitting here.” He locked gazes with Sage. “Will you help me look for her?”
“I've got a stake in finding her,” Sage said with a quick smile that slid almost instantly from his lips. He cast Dr. Wynth a passing look. “After all, she's now my stepsister.”
“Go,” Wynth said, flinging a hand at them. “I'm worried about her, too. I'll hold off calling Neal and DeeDee until you men get back to me.”
Brian took Sage's arm and led him into the corridor, moving close to the young man once they were out of Wynth's earshot.
“We aren't going to find Viraidan. But Bronwyn is another matter.”
Sage stared at him. “You think that was Cree's body in the morgue?”
“I know gods-be-damned well it wasn't. If it isn't Brady, I don't know who the hell it is, and at this point I don't really care. We need to concentrate on finding Bronwyn and as quickly as we can!”
* * * *
Bronwyn was listening to the wind skirling through the trees. She felt the chilly breeze blowing across her face and was reluctant to open her eyes. Comfortable where she lay—the cottony softness beneath her, the warm comforter snug along her body, and the soothing silkiness of the fabric pressed lightly against her cheek—had lulled her into gentle dreams from which she hated to be drawn. Sighing as a firm hand stroked her hair, she smiled.
“Time to wake, Milady.”
A pout formed on Bronwyn's lips. She gave out a moan of protest but opened her eyes. For a moment, she watched her bedroom curtains billowing, the white lace fluttering in the breeze. She closed her eyes once more and turned to her back. Lifting her arms to the sides of her head, she stretched, groaning as her muscles flexed.
“Pease shut the window, Cedric.”
The sound of the window closing, the cessation of the wind, brought her eyes open again. Expecting to see the aged Nightwind hovering at her bedside, she was not pleased to find Danyon Hart.
“It's late afternoon, Beloved,” he informed her. “There are people looking for you.”
She pushed up in the bed, her face tight. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“Your machine is turned off and you weren't answering your pages. People are worried. I thought it best to wake you.”
Looking at her watch, she was stunned to see it was well after 4 p.m. “Oh, my God!” she said, tossing back the covers. She stopped, staring at her nightgown. “What the hell is going on here?” Not prone to taking naps during the day, she would have never put on her nightgown to sleep. Suspiciously, she looked at Danyon. “Did you do this?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “There was a fire in the morgue. Koenen Brell is dead.”
Surprise lifted Bronwyn's eyebrows. “Dead?”
“Do you remember being there with him?”
Bronwyn looked at the comforter, her gaze straying back and forth over the floral pattern. She searched her memory and found a black hole, pieces of her day missing. A vague recollection of talking to Brell flittered through her mind but escaped as quickly as it came.
“What's the last thing you remember?” Danyon pressed.
“I was with Aidan. At the stables.”
“And Brell drove up as you were leaving. Remember?”
She put a hand to her head. “Vaguely, but—”
“The two of you talked about Brell's concerns regarding Cree.”
“Concerns about what?”
“Do you remember going to the morgue to confront Brell?”
“Confront him? Why would I have...?”
“He suggested that Cree had been killing your patients,” Danyon said, his eyes holding hers, not allowing her to look away. “He was more astute that I gave him credit for, since that was exactly what the Reaper has been doing.”
A memory slithered insidiously through Bronwyn's mind and snatches of her conversation with Brell returned.
“You went to the lab and got into an argument with Brell,” Danyon insisted. “He tried to stab you, but you got away. You ran into the corridor, passing Nyles Brady, who attempted to grab you. Remember? You kicked him, ran to the stairwell, and as you snatched open the door, you looked back and saw him struggling with Brell. You watched in horror as Brady dragged Brell into the lab and the slammed the door shut. Do you remember?”
Bronwyn was lost in the Nightwind's stygian gaze. Slowly, she saw the scenes unfolding in her mind's eye, accepting them as truth as the tragedy played itself out.
“Do you remember?” Danyon repeated.
She nodded, unable to break free of the hold his dark orbs had on her.
“Good,” he said, putting out a hand and drawing her to her feet.
She allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. He nestled her against his chest and cupped her head in one strong hand.
“Listen carefully to what I tell you, Beloved,” he said, his voice the only sound she could hear. “Heed my every word and know it to be exactly as things occurred. Understand?”
“Yes, Danyon,” she answered automatically.
“You fled the morgue, running up the stairs to find a call box from which to let security know what was happening. You heard the fire alarm go off and it startled you. Understand? You tripped on the stairs and fell, hitting your head on one of the risers. Do you feel the bump?”
Bronwyn touched the raised knot on her left temple. “Yes.”
“Your head is hurting, is it not?”
A slight whimper escaped her lips. “Yes...”
“You don't know how long you were out, but when you woke, the air was thick with smoke. The klaxons were peeling and you could hear people running. Understand? You were disoriented, and instead of going up the stairwell, you went down, well past the morgue level and to the containment cells below.”
He tipped up her head and stared into her eyes.
“Do you know how you gained access to the containment cell area?”
Bronwyn reached down to her hip and pantomimed digging into a pocket. She brought up her hand, her fingers clutched around a phantom key.
“I had this in my jeans,” she said.
“Good. What happened then?”
Bronwyn blinked for a moment, then a memory congealed in her mind. “I went into the containment area and locked the door behind me. My head was hurting so badly, all I wanted to do was lie down.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” she said in a monotone. “In one of the cells.”
“On the floor?”
“There was nowhere else to lie.”
“Where was your pager?”
“I had left it in my apartment.”
“Where was Cree during this time?”
She cocked her head, thinking. “I don't know.”
“Do you remember arguing with him?”
Bronwyn nodded.
“What did you argue about?”
She suddenly felt deep regret. “He asked me to marry him and I told him no.”
“Why would he have asked you to marry him?”
A blush spread over Bronwyn's cheeks. “We've been having an affair, but I had decided to break it off.”
“Why?”
“He had become too possessive.”
“What did he say would happen if you broke off the relationship?”
“That he'd leave and I'd never see him again.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“That's good,” Danyon whispered. “Because you never will.”
/>
Bronwyn felt a deep sorrow, but remained silent.
“What happened after you let yourself into one of the containment cells?”
“I must have passed out from the pain in my head.”
“How long were you out?”
“I don't know.”
“Then you woke. What did you do then?”
“I went to the elevator but it wasn't working, so I went to the stairwell.”
“And that will be where they will find you,” Danyon said, releasing her. He stepped back. “Change your clothes, Beloved.”
Bronwyn moved away from him, pulling the silk nightgown over her head as she walked, and slipped back into the clothing she had worn earlier in the day. When she was dressed, she turned to await his next orders.
“Take my hand,” he said.
She slipped her fingers into his palm.
In the twinkling of an eye, light and sound fled.
Bronwyn awoke to find herself staring up into the relieved gaze of a firefighter.
“I've found her!” the man shouted, hunkering beside her. “Ma'am, are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Bronwyn lifted a hand to her injured head. “I think I've got a concussion.”
* * * *
Brian closed the clinic door behind him. Sage Hesar and Briton Wynth were talking as he joined them.
“How is she?” Sage asked.
“She's resting,” Brian replied.
“Dr. Hesar has admitted knowing about those specialty cells. I think you've got some explaining to do, Dr. O'Shea,” Wynth grumbled.
“We can talk about that tomorrow,” Brian said. “I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open.”
“Cahill sent one of the security men to Cree's apartment,” Sage said, catching Brian's eye.
“And?”
“All his personal stuff is gone.”
“What about the bike?”
“It's still in the parking lot.”
“He couldn't have left on the bike with his possessions,” Wynth argued. “The staff car assigned to Cree is missing. That must have been what he took.”
“And the dog?”
“No sign of him,” Sage replied. “Obviously he took Ralph with him.”
“The thing is, there's no record of Cree having left Baybridge at all,” Wynth complained. “How the hell did he leave without us knowing?”
“I doubt security bothers to check his movements,” Brian suggested. “Why should they?”
“Everyone is supposed to be checked in and out!” Wynth snarled. “And they sure as hell will from now on!”
“Whatever,” Brian mumbled. He was tired, and although he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, he wanted nothing more than to go to his apartment and lie down, to think over the day's events. Relieved that Bronwyn was safe, he was deeply concerned about Cree, knowing full well the Reaper was in serious trouble.
“Why don't you go rest, Brian?” Sage proposed. “I'll be here if she should need anything.”
“I don't know anything else I can do,” Brian said.
“I've got a call in to her mother,” Wynth said. “Perhaps I should go back to my office and wait for her call.”
“Good idea,” Brian agreed. “If they hear about the fire on the news, they're bound to be worried.”
“Then that's what I'll do.” Wynth slapped Sage on the back. “Call me if Bronwyn's condition changes, will you?”
Sage nodded. “You'll be the first to know.”
Wynth left, nodding officiously to those he passed.
“He's already given Cree's job to Cahill,” Sage grumbled.
“It doesn't matter,” Brian said. “The Reaper won't be coming back.”
Brian turned and headed down the corridor. His footsteps dragged and his shoulders slumped, his weariness equal parts fatigue and sorrow. Viraidan Cree was gone—a captive of the Amazeen who had tracked him across the universe—and with him, all traces of Brian's lost son, Sean.
“If the Amazeen should ever get me back to their home world,” Cree had once remarked, “there will be no trial. I'll die in the auto-de-fé cage.”
The thought of Cree/Sean dying in such a horrendous way brought tears to Brian's eyes.
* * * *
When Bronwyn woke, the urgent need to relieve herself pushing her from slumber, the clinic was quiet. The soft glow from the nightlight near the floor kept the darkness at bay. Not wanting to have to deal with a nurse, Bronwyn aside pushed the covers and got up, clutching her IV pole from which hung a plastibag of glucose.
“What do you need, Beloved?” Danyon asked from the room's deeper shadows.
Bronwyn gasped. Irritated the incubus had once more infringed upon her solitude, she refused to answer. Dragging the IV pole with her, she headed for the restroom.
“Why do you insist on ignoring me?” Danyon queried from his chair.
“Because you're a pest,” she said through gritted teeth. Struggling with the pole, she managed to get into the restroom. When she was finished, she opened the door, annoyed further that Danyon was still there.
“Go away.”
“Not this time.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the tips. “The time for obeying you is long passed.”
She glared at him. “And why is that?”
“It would be easy to put whatever thoughts I deem necessary in that pretty little head of yours, but the time for doing that is over, as well.”
Bronwyn's hand around the IV pole tightened. “What are you talking about?”
The truth of what the incubus had done shifted through Bronwyn's mind as though it were a video she had been watching. The scenes moved from the stables to the morgue to the vast, chilled blackness of the Abyss where she had been taken. The overpowering loneliness of that evil place, the harsh, howling wind, the sulfurous smell of decayed wood and stagnant primordial ooze, the wicked dampness of the rushes upon which she'd lain, rushed up to stagger her. There was the image of the morgue once again as she observed the Bugul Noz transform himself into her. She saw Danyon shapeshift into Koenen Brell, the gleaming scalpel clutched in his fisted hand. As she watched in growing horror, the scalpel was thrust into the belly of her look-alike while she heard Aidan's anguished cries of denial.
“No,” she whispered, realizing her lover must believe her dead.
The scene flashed to Cree's stricken face as flames roared around him, keeping him from coming to aid the “dying Bronwyn.” There was infinite despair stamped on the twisted features of Viraidan Cree. Driven to his knees by what he was seeing, he was oblivious to the spectral figure that materialized at his side.
“Do you know who she is?” Danyon whispered.
“An Amazeen.” Bronwyn whimpered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Aye. But not just any Amazeen, Beloved. She is Ski'Ah, the one whose family owns the Reaper.”
Bronwyn slumped against the wall, burying her face in her hands to shut out the awful images. “No,” she wailed, sliding to the floor.
“Have you any idea what they will do to him?” Danyon asked, coming to squat down beside her.
“Don't,” she pleaded, choking on her misery.
“I believe you can imagine. No need for me to go into the gruesome details.”
Bronwyn's keening was like that of a wounded animal. She did not have the strength to bat away the hand that was laid on her head, smoothing back her tousled hair.
“But it need not be,” Danyon whispered silkily. “There is a way to save your lover, if you are so inclined.”
She slowly lifted her head to search his malevolent eyes.
Danyon nodded, his smile as lethal as the fire's of hell. “What would you do to save the Reaper from his richly-deserve fate, Beloved?”
Bronwyn saw the answer before her. She read it in his expectant face. “No,” she said, knowing that if she gave in to him, her life would no longer be her own.
“Will you leave him to his fiery death?”
She shivered
, a bone-deep cold settling throughout her body. She wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering.
“Remember what Sean looked like when you visited him in the hospital?” Danyon probed.
Another keening cry issued from Bronwyn's trembling lips.
“Imagine the pain, Dearest. The agony of the flames searing away the Reaper's flesh. Can you feel the kiss of the fire?”
He circled his hand in the air and a quick flash of intense heat wafted over Bronwyn. She gasped, the smell of burning flesh strong in that brief moment. Pressing against the wall, she stared at him with horrified eyes.
“He has felt those claiming fingers before and survived,” Danyon reminded her. “This time, he will not, and the agony will be ten times ten what he felt when his ship crashed.”
“Please,” Bronwyn cried, knowing she had no choice, her heart breaking.
“All you need do is lift one hand,” Danyon encouraged. “Lift your hand and I will take from it a single scarlet drop of your precious blood.” He lowered his voice. “That is all it will take to save Cree from death.”
A parchment scroll appeared out of nowhere, hovering in the air only inches from her face. Bronwyn stared fearfully at the spectral document, its page lit with an unholy, greenish light.
“Sign the Pact, Beloved,” Danyon whispered, his voice as sultry as a lover's sigh. “Sign and I will spare the Reaper's life.”
She tore her eyes from the parchment. “How?”
Danyon smiled. “I will go to Amazeen and fetch the bastard.”
Hope soared in Bronwyn's breast. “You can do that?”
“Of course.”
She held his gaze. “Will you?”
“If you sign the Pact.”
She knew he was as duplicitous as any demon ever spawned in the hellish realm. Trusting him had no doubt proven to be the downfall of many women through the centuries. To do so blindly would be a folly she might well have cause to regret.
“Swear to me you will go after him,” she said.
“Have I not just told you I would—if you sign the Pact?”
“On your love for me,” she said, stressing every word, “swear you will not harm him nor let anyone or anything else on Amazeen harm him. Swear you will return him to me as he was the night he and I lay in one another's arms.”
The incubus’ face grew hard as stone, the handsome plains creasing with hatred, anger, and envy. “You ask much of me, Beloved.”