BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “Swear it, Danyon.”

  “I will bring him home,” he said from between clenched teeth, “but I will not let him have you! You are lost to him forever once the Pact is signed!”

  A shaft of hopelessness stabbed through Bronwyn's heart, but Cree's safety was more important than her happiness. She had the means to free him, to keep him safe. She would do anything to see that achieved.

  “Bring him back safely. See to it the Amazeen do not come after him again. See to it he leaves in peace and I will sign your infernal Pact.”

  Danyon studied her face for a long time. “This you swear?”

  “Only if my Beloved is safe from all that would cause him harm.”

  “You will uphold the pledge that you will be mine?”

  “Is that what the Pact entails?” she countered, having no idea what was written on the glowing parchment.

  “When you sign, you swear to be my lover for as long as you draw breath. You promise to give yourself only to me, as a wife to her lawful husband. You pledge to do as I bid. This you must do as you sign.”

  Bronwyn hesitated for only a moment, but the thought of the man she loved standing in harm's way was the only impetus she needed to give in to the blackmail. “Where do I sign?”

  A feathery quill materialized in her hand.

  “Give me your left hand,” Danyon ordered, his voice quivering with what sounded like anticipation.

  Not allowing herself time to back out, Bronwyn extended her hand. She sucked in a quick breath as she felt a painful prick on her middle finger. A crimson drop beaded on her fingertip.

  “Dip the quill in the blood and swear as you write your name across the page,” Danyon told her.

  She put the tip of the quill to her wound and was not surprised as the blood was drawn into the hollow shaft. Her hand trembling, she put the quill to the parchment.

  “Swear, Beloved,” Danyon stressed.

  “I will be your lover for as long as I draw breath,” she said and scrawled Bronwyn across the page. “I will give myself only to you and do as you bid while we are together.” Her last words were spoken as she wrote McGregor upon the parchment.

  Obviously thrilled that Bronwyn had signed the Pact, Danyon did not seem to notice the phrasing of her pledge. As soon as Bronwyn took the quill from the page, he snatched the parchment, rolled it up, and threw his arms around her.

  “I pledge to lay the world at your feet, Beloved,” he said, raining kisses on her cheeks and forehead. “I will forever be your champion.”

  Bronwyn endured his hateful touch for as long as she could stand it, then pulled away. “Now, do as you swore,” she said, her eyes fused with his. “Bring Cree home.”

  “It will take me a while to—”

  “Get him now! Before they can hurt him!”

  Danyon lifted his hands. “It will take me but a matter of moments to make the trip to Amazeen, but longer than that to bring him home.”

  “Why?” she asked, fearing she had been duped.

  “It is much farther to Amazeen from here than it is from here to my lair, Beloved,” he said in a voice more befitting a grownup talking to a backward child. “I could not carry him as I carried you to the Abyss. Amazeen is beyond the boundaries of your galaxy and deep within one at the very edges of the universe.”

  She stared suspiciously at him. “You're lying.”

  “Beloved, no. I would never lie to you. I could not.” He reached for her hands. “Give me time and I will bring him back here.”

  “How much time?”

  “Five, six weeks.”

  “Five—”

  He shushed her. “But he will be safe with me! I swear I will bring him back to Earth as he was the night he forced himself upon you.”

  “Then go,” she said, striving to keep her secret thoughts from him. “Bring him home.”

  Danyon pulled her to him and kissed her, his lips hard against hers. She kept still, hating the touch of him, but knowing she had no choice. When he released her, it was all she could do to refrain from wiping her mouth.

  “I am yours, Beloved,” he said, putting a hand to his heart. “I will do as you have asked.”

  One moment he was hunkered before her, the next he was gone, only a lingering scent of brimstone in the air to mark his departure.

  She had no choice but to trust him. In her heart of hearts, she had no intention of making good on their bargain once he returned. As soon as Aidan was safe, she would take her own life, foiling the demon the only way she could to keep from spending a lifetime at his mercy. When she had sworn to give herself only to him and to do his bidding as long as they were together, she had already made the vow to kill herself.

  * * * *

  With Sage walking quietly beside them, Brian held Bronwyn's hand as they escorted her back to her apartment. She had been silent and withdrawn upon her release from the clinic and the men were obviously worried about her. They had vowed to see her comfortably settled in her apartment before taking their leave.

  At the door, Sage used Bronwyn's key and let them in. He turned on the lights, for rain was once more hammering at the windows and the day was dark, filled with thunder and black clouds.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Brian asked as he led her to the sofa.

  She shook her head and was about to ask them to leave when the phone rang.

  “Let the machine catch it,” Brian told Sage, who had started to pick up the receiver.

  The trill of the instrument sounded strange to Bronwyn. When it trilled again, she told Sage to answer it.

  “Sweeting, I think whoever it is can wait,” Brian suggested. “You know it isn't your mother.”

  Sage looked from Bronwyn to Brian, for the phone was still ringing, well past the four rings necessary for the automated system to engage. He lifted the receiver. “Dr. McGregor's residence.” Sage listened for a moment, then cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. “It's a lady in Florida. She says it's important.”

  Bronwyn could not recall anyone in Florida to whom she'd given her private number.

  “Did she give a name?” Brian asked, as if sensing Bronwyn's wariness.

  “May I ask your name?” Sage asked into the phone. “Lauren Fowler?”

  Bronwyn frowned. “I don't know anyone by that name.”

  “Ask her to leave a message,” Brian ordered.

  Sage's forehead crinkled. “Well, I don't know,” he said into the receiver. “That seems—”

  The hairs on Bronwyn's arms stood up. “What did she say?”

  Sage scrunched his shoulders. “She said to tell you she has a Nightwind of her own and knows what you're going through.”

  Bronwyn shot up from the sofa and yanked the phone out of Sage's hand. “Who are you?”

  As the woman spoke, Bronwyn felt various emotions, running the gamut from unrestrained fury, to fear, to absolute evil.

  “I see,” Bronwyn said when the woman finished. “May I ask how you got my name?”

  The answer increased Bronwyn's anger.

  “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Fowler, and no, I'm not angry at you. I'm grateful you called. I'm sure there are quite a few such women. You certainly are doing them a favor, and helping to set my situation to rights proves your good intentions. If you'll express mail the instructions for what I need to do, I will take it from there.” Bronwyn listened, then shook her head. “That's not necessary. I appreciate your offer, but I don't want to put you to the trouble. If I run into problems, I'll let you know. Yes, thank you. I will be in your debt forever.”

  When Bronwyn hung up the phone, she turned her narrowed eyes to Brian. “I need you to go with me to Des Moines.”

  “Make I ask why?” Brian asked.

  “There are things I need to buy.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Ski'Ah stared down into the Extended Sleep Unit and knew a moment's supreme satisfaction. The Reaper was deeply under the influence of the cinera she had administered to him on Terra. Every h
our, a light dose of the drug was introduced into his system by the syringe she had placed into the carotid artery of his neck, thus keeping him under the drug's control.

  “We are approaching Montyne Vex, Lady Ski'Ah,” the ship's cybot informed her.

  “Give me the particulars for that planetoid.”

  “Montyne Vex,” the cybot responded, “is a harsh environment of jagged rock formations, blowing sand, and a vast cave system running throughout the steep plateaus. There are underground wells, but no surface water. Devoid of humanoid inhabitation the animal life consists of—”

  “I care not about the life there! Tell me what purpose it holds. Is it a refueling station?”

  “No, Milady. At one time, it was a penal colony held by the Daughters of the Multitude. The prisoners were—”

  “Reapers.” Ski'Ah smiled.

  “Aye, and a depository for Reaper remains.”

  Ski'Ah braced her hand on the E.S.U. “What are the odds of a passing ship stopping there within the next few days?”

  The cybot calculated. “One in two thousand, Milady.”

  “And are there containment cells strong enough to hold this one?”

  “There is one cell, Milady. The door is nine inches in depth and reinforced with titanium locks that are impenetrable except by laser blasts.”

  “But will it hold him?”

  “The cell was not meant to hold the Reaper for any length of time, Lady. Data suggests the manacles would not hold should he go into full Transition.”

  “Then what good are they?” Ski'Ah hissed.

  “Reapers were kept under the influence of light doses of cinera while they were being disciplined and—”

  “You mean tortured,” Ski'Ah breathed, caressing the top of the E.S.U. as though it were a living lover.

  The cybot sighed audibly. “If you prefer that terminology.”

  “After the torture?” she asked, circling the E.S.U. slowly, never taking her eyes from Cree.

  “They were beheaded with a Dóigra and their bodies incinerated in the Cave of Fire.”

  “Ah,” Ski'Ah sighed, imaging such a fate for the Reaper in her grasp.

  “Do you require any other information regarding the planetoid, Milady?”

  “Take a reading and tell me how long ago humanoids have been within the Punishment Circle.”

  “Four cycles, Lady Ski'Ah,” the artificial intelligence unit answered. “Data reports a Serenian L.R.C. stopped to repair a hull breach. “The crew remained on Montyne Vex for less than a rising. They did not venture into the cave system. Data reports no humanoids have gained access to the Ritual Chamber or those chambers beyond for nine cycles.”

  “Are there any ships in the quadrant nearby?” she asked, formulating a plan.

  “None registering, Lady.”

  “So passersby are not something I need worry about.”

  “It would appear not.”

  Ski'Ah narrowed her eyes. “When was the last Reaper slain on the Vex?”

  It took a bit longer for the cybot to download that information from the ship's computer. “Five point six megacycles.”

  “Five and a half Terran centuries.” Ski'Ah's gaze held on the Reaper's handsome face. “Could this one be the last of his kind?”

  “There is a ninety-nine-percent chance he is. If there are others, they would be on Chale, but the odds are against there being another like him alive today.”

  Ski'Ah nibbled on her thumbnail as she stared into the unconscious face of her captive. She knew if she returned him to Amazeen, the Council of Elders would declare him the possession of the Terran female and never allow the execution that was due him. Neither would they administer the punishments necessary to appease the death of her ancestor. She also knew there would be Amazeens who would wish to breed by him, who would willingly take his vile flesh to themselves to produce more Reaper offspring in the hopes of discovering a way to harness the lethal power.

  “That I will not allow,” Ski'Ah said through clenched teeth. “Never again will a Reaper be allowed to harm an Amazeen warrioress!”

  Closing her eyes and ears to her present surroundings, she went back in her mind to the Obelisk in the Shadowlands, where she had conferred with her long-dead ancestors during her initiation rite into the Sisterhood. She heard again her namesake's entreaty to be avenged; saw again the anguished look on the dead one's fire-destroyed face; felt the anger that had long-denied the ancient Amazeen warrioress peace in the Afterworld.

  “Find him, Little Ski'Ah,” the older Ski'Ah had demanded. “Find him and punish him so I will know justice has been served for what he did to me!”

  Now, staring into Cree's handsome face, Ski'Ah knew a moment of intense spite. She longed to see that face ravaged, as was that of her ancestor, the flesh sloughing off in long, blackened strips. She longed to inhale the fragrance of his burning flesh and to revel in the howls of his agony as flames devoured his filthy body.

  “You must atone for your sins,” she snarled, digging her nails into her palms. “If I return you to Amazeen, you will never know the punishments you deserve. You might even find a way to escape and return to your mate.”

  “Montyne Vex ahead, Lady,” the cybot said.

  Ski-Ah weighed the chances of ever having a Sister find out about the Reaper's existence. If things went as she planned, no Sister would. Viraidan Cree would join his unholy ancestors in the Cave of Fire and no one would be any the wiser. For a moment longer, she went over the possibility of having her plans discovered, disregarded the slim chance, then ordered the cybot to put down on the planetoid.

  * * * *

  The sky over Montyne Vex was a deep gray, looking bruised and battered by the fierce winds that howled across the steppes. As the cybot trudged along with the unconscious Reaper slung over its mechanical shoulder, Ski'Ah dragged her feet through the thick chiaroscuro sand. Keeping the hood of her red cape pulled over her nose and mouth so she would not breathe in the swirling dust, she shivered. The wind was ice-cold. Low banks of fog obscured the regions to the south. To the north, snow clouds were gathering. She was amazed to hear thunder in the distance and see the occasional flash of lightning stitching through the dark clouds.

  “How much farther?” she asked.

  The cybot turned to give her its respectful attention. “Up the next steppe, Lady Ski'Ah. It is to that plateau to which we travel.”

  Ski'Ah squinted against the intruding dust and looked at the vast rock formation that jutted overhead. The jagged cliffs of the plateau were forbidding. A fall from the plateau would result in being impaled by sharp cone-like protrusions rising from the base.

  “A most inhospitable climate is Montyne Vex,” the cybot commented.

  Ski'Ah clutched the cape tighter at her throat, wishing she had thought to wear gloves, for the pelting sands scoured her fingers raw. Luckily, she had taken along her goggles, or she would have been blinded by now.

  As the cybot began its climb up the plateau, Ski'Ah held back. She had no desire to have a blast of wind catch her cape, sail her off the flat surface, and drop her onto the deadly spires at the plateau's base.

  “When you have him manacled,” she called, “come back for me!”

  “As you wish, Lady.” The cybot easily climbed the plateau and disappeared into the dark maw of a cave.

  By the time the cybot returned, Ski'Ah was shivering violently from the cold, her lips trembling, her hands frigid claws that seemed frozen to the fabric of her cape.

  “W...what took you so l...long?”

  “I had to inject the Reaper,” the cybot replied. “He was waking.”

  A tremor that had nothing to do with the intense cold washed over Ski'Ah. The thought of the Reaper escaping, taking out his vengeance upon her, did not set well.

  “C...carry me into the c...cave.”

  “Aye, Milady.”

  The cybot lifted her into its steely arms and turned to the plateau. Ski'Ah was not concerned with being swept over the s
ide and onto the rocks with the cybot's surefooted tread. The cybot had gyroscopes that made it easy for the A.I.U. to maintain balance. A sudden blast of wind would be measured and the counter forces employed to keep the cybot erect and earthbound as it moved.

  “Do you wish me to bring supplies from the ship, Lady Ski'Ah?”

  “Aye,” she said, realizing the cybot had turned on its internal heating coils so that her body was being warmed in its mechanical embrace. “Bring water and a meal for me.”

  * * * *

  From his perch high atop one jagged spire, Danyon Hart watched the Amazeen being carried into the cave. He was squatting on the rocky formation, his wrists resting on his knees, his body buffeted by strong, harsh winds, and reveling in the artic cold that washed over him, whipping his black hair about his head. His open shirt flapped wildly, the cold kissing the wiry hairs on his chest. He drew a deep breath of frigid air into his lungs.

  Snow was coming, and it would be a brutal fall that would cover the land with a thick carpet of numbing cold that would last for months in this clime. He had read the turbulent history of this violent land and understood that in summer, the plateau beneath him would be red-hot to the touch, the sands a scalding torment to those unfortunate enough to land there. But in the winter that was approaching on the horizon, this plateau would know blizzards unlike anything Earth could imagine, while the lands to the south would be sizzling hot. By his reckoning, full winter was one, maybe two, days away.

  He looked at the starjet far below.

  It had taken the craft two weeks to soar its way from Earth to this barren rock, only a few thousands miles from the wormhole that led to Amazeen. It would take it another two weeks to travel back the way it had come, the Reaper at the controls. While it had sped toward Montyne Vex, Danyon had ridden the heavens unseen with the Amazeen and her pathetic captive, though neither had known he was there. Not even the artificial intelligence unit had been smart enough to discern his lurking presence.

  The Reaper—unconscious in the E.S.U.—would have made an easy target had Danyon been inclined to dispatch him where he lay, but the Nightwind's promise to his lady must be upheld. As much as he would like to see the last of Viraidan Cree, he stayed his hand from taking the Reaper's miserable life.