DarkWind: 2nd Book, WindDemon Trilogy

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I am not...”

  “‘I will obediently follow the commands I am given at the discretion of my commanding officers’,” Kahn recited the Reaper’s Oath.

  “You are no longer my commanding officer.”

  “‘I am a Reaper’,” Kahn recited. “’I will die a Reaper’.”

  “I know what I am!”

  “Then you will be a Reaper until the day you die and are standing in judgment before Alel,” Kahn reminded him. “The word is your honor. You made the vow. Has your honor fled, Reaper?”

  Cree stared at Kahn, consigning the former military leader to the very depths of the Abyss. Put in that light, he had no choice but to do as Kahn bid.

  “Get out of the car and let’s get this over with,” snapped Kahn.

  It was humiliating, but Cree did as he was told. He kept his hot eyes on the ground as he and Tylan Kahn walked back into the jail to retrieve his disk. The wait for the security man to bring it to him seemed to take forever. But the moment the disk was in his possession, he snatched his hand from Kahn’s grip and stared down the amused security men behind the desk.

  “He’s not well,” Kahn said in a low, pitying voice. “Sometimes he just likes to have his hand held. Shell shock. You know how it is, guys.” Kahn tapped his temple. “Something blasted loose in here, you understand?”

  The security men stopped smiling when the low, throaty growl erupted from the man they had booked earlier that evening.

  “Come along, Kami,” Kahn encouraged. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, little buddy?”

  “Aye and your days are numbered,” Cree grumbled under his breath as they went out the door.

  Once outside, Kahn glanced around but there was no suspicious female in site.

  “Sorry they didn’t snatch me?” Cree snarled.

  “Just shut the hell up.” Kahn replied. Before anything else could happen, he cranked the car and pulled into the street.

  The streetlights overhead passed like giant fireflies flitting past the car as Kahn drove faster than the posted speed limit. His hand on the gearshift was firm, his foot steady on the pedal as he worked his way through the gears until the sports car was running like a weretiger through the nearly empty streets.

  Slumping down in his seat, Cree turned his head and watched the passing scenery. He blinked at a flare of bright neon on the gaudy façade of a strip club and squinted as a bright yellow safety arrow pulsed and ebbed in warning at a temporary lane shift. The glare of the lights in the darkness of the night hurt his eyes and gave him a wicked headache. In the stillness of space, there had been no bright markers and he was not accustomed to the intrusion. Absently, he put his hand to his temple and rubbed, trying to ease the sudden throbbing.

  “Migraine?” asked Kahn, looking at him.

  “It appears so.”

  “We’ll be home soon.”

  Cree nodded.

  Ten minutes of silence passed between the men and when it became apparent Tylan was not taking him in the direction of the home he shared with Bridget, he did not need to ask why. “She’s that angry?”

  “She’s more than angry, Cree,” Kahn answered. “She’s afraid.”

  Cree looked at Kahn. “Afraid of what?”

  Kahn glanced in the rearview mirror as he pulled into the left lane to pass a slow-moving van.

  “Afraid of what?” Cree repeated.

  “You.” He saw Cree turn away, but not before the passing lights of an oncoming semi lit the pain in the Reaper’s eyes.

  “I would never hurt her, Tylan,” said Cree as he stared out the window.

  “I know that, but it’s not her own safety that concerns her.”

  Cree flinched. “I would do nothing to harm the child, either.”

  Kahn nodded. He glanced in the mirror again, then flipped on his right turn signal and nosed the sports car into the parking lot of an abandoned mini-mart.

  “What are we doing here?” Cree asked.

  “We’re going to talk.”

  Cree sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was have Kahn lecture him. That it would be a lecture, he had no doubt. Kahn loved to hear himself talk.

  Leaving the motor and the lights on, Tylan Kahn twisted in his seat and faced his passenger. “What the hell were you thinking this afternoon, Kamerone, or am I flattering you?”

  Cree shrugged.

  “I want an answer, Reaper!”

  The sound of a jet taking off from the regional airport a mile away caught Cree’s attention and he looked up through the passenger side window and watched the slow ascent of the plane. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked softly and put his hand on the window.

  “Flying?” At Cree’s nod, the ex-Admiral of the Rysalian Fleet Command grunted. “With the job I have at GaNetCo, I fly all the time.”

  “I don’t mean in one of those primitive craft. I mean a real ship.”

  “Hell, I hope you aren’t talking about their piddly-ass space program. They are just now venturing beyond Pluto and into the alpha quadrant. They’ve yet to find the wormhole at the Sinisters to get to our part of the universe. That’ll take them another five years at least.”

  Cree leaned his forehead against the cool glass. “I miss the hell out of it, Tylan,” he said. “Not tagging along in one of their antiquated space probes, but flying in an L.R.C.” He closed his eyes. “Captaining my own deep space vessel with a crew of men as loyal to me as I am to them.”

  Kahn’s forehead wrinkled. “Is that what’s bothering you, Cree? Not being able to captain a ship?”

  “That and a million other things I’m not able to do.” Cree laid his head on the seat back. He put his fingers on his temples and pressed small circles against the flesh in an attempt to ease the pain in his head. His worried gaze searched the dark headliner above him. “Or to be anymore.”

  Tylan Kahn drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. He swiveled around until he was facing forward once more. After a long pause, he said, “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’re bored. Is that what brought on the self-destructive crap you pulled this afternoon?”

  Cree turned his attention to the window once more and began running the knuckle of his right hand in an arc across the glass, his dark gaze steady on the black sky.

  “I wake up in the morning and I’ve nothing to do. I watch Bridie get ready for work and leave and I just sit there. I’ve no time to be anywhere because there is nowhere for me to be. Nowhere for me to go.” The last sentence was spoken so softly Kahn barely heard the words.

  “You go to the park,” Kahn countered. “You go to the zoo. You may never be allowed to go into another movie theater in Albany, Georgia, but you can always rent a video.”

  “I sat there watching that movie today,” Cree said as though Kahn had not spoken, “and I couldn’t tell you anything that happened in it. Nothing caught my attention until the names starting rolling at the end.”

  “Doesn’t take much to amuse you, does it?”

  “Name after name after name,” Cree whispered. “Job after job after job.” He let his hand fall from the window onto his thigh. “They all have jobs. Places to go every morning. Things to do. Goals to accomplish.” He ground his teeth. “Even that shitty little twerp who tried to throw me out of the theater has a gods-be-damned job!” He turned fierce eyes to Kahn. “You have a job. Lares and Raine have jobs. Dorrie and Tealson and Alexi and...” He flung out his hand. “Everybody but me has a gods-be-damned fucking job!”

  “I beg to differ, Cree. I don’t have a fucking job,” Kahn said dryly, “but I’ve often thought I’d be good at it. Pays well, I’ve heard, and just think of the variety of partners you’d have. Of course there are some things I’d prefer not to do, but for the right money, I could learn.”

  Cree stared at him. “What?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Kahn shook his head. Sometimes humor sailed right over the Reaper’s head and wh
en that happened, Kahn scored an invisible tick on the list he was keeping inside his head. He chuckled to himself, striving to keep Cree from seeing his twitching lips. “We have jobs and you don’t,” he explained, “because we aren’t Reapers.”

  “Aren’t you lucky?”

  “I’ve always thought so, aye,” Kahn agreed. At his passenger’s intake of breath, he turned to face him. “Look. I can’t begin to know how you feel, Cree, but I do understand what you’re trying to say in your convoluted way. You were trained to do something for which there is no equal on this world.” He shrugged. “Or any other for that matter. You have talents that can not and must not be utilized here. We can’t allow you to go out there and find a job because it isn’t safe for you. Not just because of the Amazeen, either. Until now, we didn’t even know that was a threat. The problem lies in someone finding out what you are. We can’t take a chance that you’d get hurt and someone getting a look at your black blood or analyzing it. Or, Alel forbid, you Transition out of cycle.” Before Cree could say anything, Kahn held up his hand. “Don’t tell me that won’t happen because you know it could.”

  Cree squeezed his eyes shut. “So what do I do with the rest of my useless life, Kahn? Do I go to the park and feed the pigeons? Do I go to the movies and choke down popcorn?”

  “That may no longer be an option.”

  “Or do I go to the zoo and commiserate with the other beasts who are caged and kept from their natural habitats?”

  Kahn opened his mouth to insult the Reaper again-knowing sometimes that was what it took to shake the man from his morbidity-but Cree shoved open the door and fled the car.

  “Damn it, Cree, come back here!” Kahn shouted, but the Reaper was striding angrily across the parking lot of the deserted mini-mart, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders hunched.

  For a long time Kahn sat there watching Kamerone Cree pacing the cracked asphalt, staring at the ground, kicking out now and again at the weeds and grass that had grown up through the breaks. In the vapor of the lone mercury lamp that was the only security for the abandoned building, he kept vigil on a man for whom he had grown to care very deeply.

  “You are hurting,” Kahn whispered. “I understand, my brother, but there is nothing I can do for you. Nothing any of us can do.”

  Kahn saw Cree’s head come up and he realized the Reaper had snatched the words from the ether around them. Cree was staring at him across the shadowed parking lot, their eyes locked.

  “I’m sorry, Cree,” Kahn said, but his lips never moved. “I truly am.” He saw Kamerone Cree’s shoulders slump in defeat and the Reaper hung his head.

  A minute flicked past on the dashboard clock then Cree started back to the car. Without a word, he got in, shut the door, and leaned his head on the seat back.

  Kahn started the car and drove home.

  Since it was Saturday morning, Bridie did not have to work.

  At least not at the Albany Memorial Hospital.

  Saturdays were her day for housework: washing and ironing; vacuuming, dusting and mopping; emptying the garbage and doing a dozen other chores that took most of her Saturdays and bit into the Sundays as well.

  On days like today, she wished she had won the argument all those months ago and hired a maid to do the work for her. But Kamerone Cree did not want strangers in his home. Nor would he lower himself to help her with the cleaning. When she had broached the subject, he had stared at her-mouth open, eyes wide.

  “Have you forgotten why I bought you?” he demanded. It seemed to her he was outraged at her suggestion that he actually turn his hand at anything as menial as dragging the garbage cans to the curb on Thursday mornings.

  “Do you honestly think I believe for one minute that you bought me to do your housecleaning, Reaper?” she’d hurled back at him.

  That one question had precipitated an argument that had lasted for well over an hour and had ended with Bridget locking herself in the bedroom and Cree slamming out of the house.

  The matter had not been discussed again.

  Overwhelmed by everything she had to do on what was ostensibly her day off, Bridget sat on the sofa in the den and looked about her with disgust. There were candy wrappers littering the floor beside Cree’s favorite chair. Two empty soft drink cans on the end table had left white rings on the oak surface. Newspapers were folded haphazardly and stuffed into the magazine rack, which was overflowing already. The sticks from five ice cream bars-along with their paper coverings-had fallen out of the wastebasket by his chair and were covered with carpet lint. Two of his plaid shirts were lying in a heap by the patio door and one black boot was sticking out from beneath the loveseat. Muddy footprints tracked from the patio across the area rug and to the loveseat. Magazines, junk mail, and flyers were scattered across the top of the coffee table and one lamp shade had dirty smudges across the bottom, no doubt from a dirty hand reaching up to adjust it.

  Bridget turned her head and looked at the kitchen where dishes were piled on the cabinets and in the sink and the garbage can was overflowing with tuna fish and tomato soup cans. There was a sticky-looking stain in front of the microwave and another darker blotch beside the refrigerator. Potato chip dust was crushed into the rug beneath the sink and one of the neon strip lights had burned out over the breakfast bar.

  She swung her attention to the crusted bowl of hot and chunky salsa and the opened bag of tortilla chips. The salsa had dripped down the bowl onto the carpet, ground into the fiber in two places. There was a line of sugar ants marching into and out of the tortilla bag and carting away tiny planks of nourishment that they brandished in their mandibles like trophies of war.

  And all of this destruction had occurred in the span of one day’s time, she thought with amazement.

  “My husband the junk food addict,” she seethed and dug her fingernails into the sofa cushion edge.

  The bedroom and bath were no less filthy-perhaps even worse-for Cree had discovered the delights of hot water and reveled in taking three and four baths a day.

  “My husband the water spaniel,” Bridget grumbled.

  Their utility bill was astronomical each month.

  After a long inhalation and equally long exhalation, Bridget pushed up from the sofa and began unwinding the cord of the vacuum cleaner. When she had the cleaner plugged in, she started piling newspapers, candy wrappers, junk mail and anything that wasn’t part of her home decorating scheme into a green plastic garbage bag. Her upper lip elevated with disgust, she thrust the tortilla armada into the bag and wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “Do you need some help?”

  Bridget shrieked, frightened by the unexpected voice behind her. She turned to see Cree standing under the archway between the kitchen and the dining area. He looked adequately tamed by his overnight banishment to Tylan Kahn’s apartment.

  He also looked as though he’d had no sleep. But his melancholy expression and tired eyes cut no ice with Bridget at the moment and she turned her back on him.

  “How’d you get in here?”

  Cree frowned, unsure of her question. “I live here.”

  “You don’t live here.” She stuffed the ice cream bar remains into the garbage bag. “You exist here, Reaper!”

  He glanced about him and cringed. The place was a mess: one that he had made entirely on his own. And it smelled, too. He lowered his head and scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his boot. “I can help.”

  Bridget cast him a look that said volumes. “Then go see if your son is awake,” she snapped. “His diaper probably needs changing if he is.”

  Cree looked up, horror in expression. “I can’t change his diaper!” he said and knew the moment he said it that his lady had completely misconstrued the reason he could not tend to their child. “Bridget, I-”

  “Go away, Cree!” she yelled at him, her patience gone and her pride putting words into her mouth she knew she’d later regret. “Just get the hell out of my life!”

  “No
,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to make you understand.”

  She could not stop the venom from entering her voice or the sting of her words from striking him. “I understand everything I need to know about you, you selfish, arrogant son-of-a-bitch!” She threw the garbage bag as hard as she could across the room where it hit the bank of windows and spilled its contents on the floor. “If you want to live like a pig, Kamerone Cree, then you can live in this sty all by yourself!” She ran from the room.

  Something inside Cree broke lose and he pivoted on his heel and stalked after her, his eyes glowing. He was not surprised to find their bedroom door locked when he tried the handle.

  “Open the door, Bridget,” he demanded, rattling the knob. When his lady did not answer, he beat his fist against the panel. “Open the gods-be-damned door!”

  “Go to hell!” she shouted at him.

  Without another word, the Reaper lifted his foot and kicked the door. The wood split and the door popped up and flew back against the bedroom wall.

  Bridget spun around, her mouth a shocked O as she watched her lover advancing on her. She put her hands out to ward him off and was relieved when he came to an immediate halt. Her relief was short-lived, though, for his thunderous voice cut through the room like a photon torpedo.

  “Woman, sit!” he ordered, pointing to the bed.

  She’d seen that look once before and remembered that tone of voice: “You are my woman! My woman! Do you understand that?”

  Cree cocked his head to one side, easily reading his lady’s memories. “Aye,” he said, nodding. “And do you remember what you swore to me that day, Bridget?”

  Bridget lifted her chin, refusing to do as he ordered. “I know what you made me admit to you, Cree.”

  “And it was not something you were willing to do, is that what you’re saying?”

  “The Resistance told me what to do and I did it!’ she said, seeing him flinch as though she’d slapped him.

  “And you had no choice,” he accused, wanting to hurt her in return. “You didn’t volunteer for the assignment.”

  “I know what I did, Cree. I know what you did, as well!”