DarkWind: 2nd Book, WindDemon Trilogy

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I am in charge of this ship!”

  “And I am in charge of this mission and that man is my responsibility. I was told to bring him back to Rysalia Prime in good condition and I intend to make gods-be-damned sure that will be the way of it!”

  “He’s moving,” one of the guards said and lifted her weapon to point it at the Reaper.

  The women turned to see Cree lifting a trembling hand to his head. The scrape of the thick iron links of his fetters against the dirt floor was a reassuring sound. It meant there was protection-meager though it seemed-between the Reaper and his captors.

  “Get out,” Kahmal ordered, pushing the Captain and Sejm from the cell. “Now!” She was close on their heels, closing the cell door and dropping the thick wooden plank into place behind their departure.

  “Post two guards at this door, two at the end of the corridor and two at the entrance to the chamber. I will take no chances that beast might get free,” Captain Chakai ordered.

  “He can’t,” Sejm insisted. “I have injected each of the corpses with heavy doses of muscle and neuroinhibitors as well as the triso he requires to keep from going insane with blood hunger between transitions. He will stay in a perpetual groggy state for as long as the meat in that cell lasts.” Her smile was hateful. “I will take no chance where that one is concerned, either.”

  The Captain and the Chalean scientist exchanged a look then left together. Two of the Amazeen guards positioned themselves to either side of the door and two more went to stand at the end of the narrow corridor.

  Major Kahmal stared at the heavy iron door. Though she could not see through the thickness of the portal, she had no problem imagining the Reaper trying to make his muscles work, to stand, trying to rid himself of the fog clouding his mind. She closed her eyes, picturing him sitting there, his body scored with brutal burns, and she could see the hopeless, confused look that had been deep in his amber eyes.

  “Stop it!” She turned from the door and hurrying down the corridor.

  But the image of the handsome Reaper was etched in her brain and was with her every step of the way.

  Full movement had not yet returned nor had words. He grunted now and again and made sounds much as a child who has yet to learn to speak would make. Strange sounds frightened him and he would burrow against the wall, shielding his face within the circumference of his shackled arms as the guards slid open the peephole to stare in at him.

  Slowly, like a cornered animal, he would lower his arms and stare helplessly at the Amazeen. When they made no threatening move toward him, only stood there glaring at him, he would scramble hesitantly to his knees and cock his head to one side, keening in a low, hurt voice as he rocked back and forth.

  “Wah?” he would ask each time, lifting his shaky hand to them in pleading, but they ignored him and the clink of the peephole panel closing brought actual physical pain for his thirst was great and growing with every passing minute.

  The damage to his motor functions and mental skills were more advanced than had either been expected or imagined. What was thought would last only a few hours had now stretched into a day and afternoon and even Sejm was beginning to wonder if irreparable harm had not been done the Reaper. Obviously the damage was more extensive than was first realized and the parasite was having difficulty making repairs. The Reaper’s flesh had healed, but his mind had not.

  Except for the memories-locked in his head-that his captors had no way of knowing he was reliving.

  “Bridie?” he questioned upon jolting awake from one of the strange sensations wavering through his mind.

  He felt his heart pounding and knew what the organ was and what it was called though he could not seem to fashion the word no matter how hard he tried. He could not wrap his swollen tongue around the sounds. He snorted with disgust at his inability to speak and pushed up to sit slumped against the wall.

  Though mentally he could put names to the things around him: floor, ceiling, wall, stinking bodies, he did not know who-or what-he was. He tried hard to give himself a name, an identity, but the reasoning would not surface. To him, it was almost as though the slate of everything he had ever learned about himself had been wiped clean.

  The frustration was unbearable.

  What bothered him most, though, was the excruciating thirst tormenting him and the memories he could not keep at bay.

  The memories plagued him more than the thirst for he did not understand the events he was seeing nor recognize the faces that drifted across his fevered vision.

  One face tormented him more than the others: the face of a being very different from himself. More like those who watched him. With the face, came fragments of terrible physical pain, crushing loneliness, and bitter betrayal. When that face appeared, he would moan like a wounded animal and clutch his arms around his chest. His keening brought tears.

  But he welcomed the tears and flicked his tongue at the saltiness, savoring the minute amount.

  The face appeared in his mind-as it did more and more often as the hours passed-and with it the telling moisture.

  He hung his head and let the tears fall, unable to govern his emotions. He was so engulfed in his mental misery, he did not hear the cell door open, but the flare of the bright phospho lantern flooded the dark room and he gasped.

  “Cree!” a harsh voice spoke.

  The light from the corridor hurt his eyes and he turned his head away, pressing his cheek tightly to the wall.

  “Look at me!”

  He understood the words, but it was the tone of voice, the sharpness, that garnered his attention and he turned toward the speaker, lifting a grimy hand to shield the brightness of the greenish light.

  “Turn down the intensity of that gods-be-damned light!” the speaker ordered. “You’re giving me a dracking headache!”

  The light no longer blinding him, Cree lowered his arm. He saw the female-aye, he thought after a moment’s hesitation that was the correct word-glaring at him with what he knew was hatred.

  She was standing just inside the doorway to the cell and he knew it was beyond the limit his shackles would allow him to move had he the strength or desire to lunge at her. The guards just behind her were armed with weapons he knew could cause intense pain if they were loosed on him.

  “Dr. Sejm tells me you are within hours of Transitioning,” the female said.

  He cocked his head to one side, not understanding the word. He tried to reason it, but the word had no meaning for him. He turned his head the other way, questioning her with his eyes, asking in his mute way for her to explain to him what the word meant.

  “Do you know what to do with those?” She pointed at the decaying bodies.

  He turned his head toward the stench in the corner of the cell then looked back at her.

  He shook his head.

  Akkadia frowned. She turned to one of the guards. “Fetch the Chalean.”

  Cree lifted his hand and extended it palm up to the female. “Wah?” he croaked. He flexed his fingers, pleading. “Wah?”

  The Amazeen Major stared into his eyes, their gazes locked, and felt something twist in her belly.

  “Wah,” he said again. His lips opened and closed several times, his eyes narrowed as though he were in great pain then he managed to croak: “Tuh.” He licked his lips, almost smiled.

  “No.”

  “Wah...tuh,” he repeated, his voice childlike.

  “No.”

  He groaned, knowing she would do nothing to relieve the unbearable thirst. He hung his head, the sounds coming from him like those of a hurt child.

  “I can’t give you water, Cree,” she said. “You will be Transitioning soon and no one will dare get close enough to you to give you water,” she heard herself defending her cruelty.

  “Make no apologies to that beast!” Sejm snarled as she came to stand in the doorway of the cell.

  Kahmal stiffened then turned to face the woman. “I was not apologizing,” she denied. “I was explaining-”


  “He is beyond understanding at the moment,” Sejm snorted. “You waste your breath.” Her angry gaze swung to Cree. “Just as him continuing to breathe is a waste!”

  Cree understood the old woman’s words well enough to know she was his enemy and his life forfeit if the crone had anything to do with it. The venom in her voice, the deadly hatred aimed his way, could not be mistaken. But he did not know why she hated him. What had he done to make her look at him with such...he searched his mind for the correct word...aye, disgust? He remembered. The word was disgust and she had used it earlier to describe her feelings for him.

  “He has no notion what to do with that,” Kahmal said, flinging her hand toward the dead bodies.

  Sejm grunted. “He’ll know what to do all right, once the hunger takes over. Our little beast will leave no bones unturned when the Transition begins.”

  “Look at him! He sits there like a child, unable to comprehend what is about to happen to him and you can make jokes?”

  Sejm’s sardonic scrutiny crawled over the Amazeen Major. “Are you feeling pity for that thing?” she asked. When Kahmal did not answer, the Chalean scientist arched one thin white brow. “You are! You feel sorry for him.” She threw back her head and chortled with glee, highly amused by the situation.

  “There is nothing humorous about this!”

  “You are right!” Sejm flung back at her. “That monster slaughtered one of your sisters. His bloodson most likely slaughtered another. How can you have anything but loathing for the likes of him?”

  The Reaper flinched. Had he killed this woman’s kin? Was that why he was shackled to the wall like an animal? Was that the reason the old one named him a beast? He could not imagine himself taking a female’s life; the concept was beyond his understanding. Yet from the angry look the younger female shot him, he reasoned he must have done something sinfully wrong.

  “Sah...ree,” he managed as her eyes met his. “Fer...give.”

  Kahmal drew in a breath. Surely she had not heard words of apology from the mouth of a Reaper! And especially not from the Prime Reaper, himself!

  “By the gods, but that is rich!” Sejm chuckled. “Listen to the fool babbling!”

  Cree ached inside. He put up a hand to arm the sweat from his brow. The room had grown unbearably hot and he was sweating profusely. The chains on his wrists were burning his flesh; the band around his throat was constricting his breath and he began to pant with the effort.

  “He is going into Transition,” Sejm warned, backing out of the doorway. “Unless you wish to see if he can reach you from where he is sitting, Major, I suggest you get out of his cell!”

  Kahmal backed away from the Reaper. Her eyes were wide in her face as she watched the wiry fur begin to sprout from his pectorals and upper arms.

  “It is not a pretty sight, but if you must watch, pray do so from beyond the safety of the door,” said Sejm.

  Morbid fascination had claimed Akkadia Kahmal. As the Reaper’s fingers curled into claws, his fingernails into wickedly sharp talons, his teeth elongating to become deadly fangs, she hovered in the doorway, unable to look away.

  Kamerone Cree was whimpering like a hurt animal, his body convulsing as each new change overtook it. She stared into molten gold eyes that were filled with fear and knew he did not understand what was happening to him.

  “Hel...lp me,” he pleaded, lifting his hands to her. “Puh...lees, hel...lp me.”

  Then he lost what few words he had been able to say as his muscles contracted, bunched then rippled along his back. His ears began to grow, thick fur shot from the nape of his neck and flowed down his back and over his legs. The horrible sounds of bones cracking and sinew tearing filled the Amazeen warrioress’ throat with hot bile. But it was the sound of the leather pants ripping as his flesh expanded that broke Kahmal’s immobility and she jumped out of the room, slamming the door as the Reaper began to howl in agony.

  The Major’s hands trembled as she dropped the heavy plank into place over the door. Peering through the peephole, she was stunned to see the beast Kamerone Cree had become in the few short seconds it had taken her to shut the door.

  He was on all fours, his head thrown back, his piercing howl giving sound to the torment twisting his body. She watched him fling his head, the heavy mane spraying drops of sweat from his leathery snout and wickedly sharp ears.

  Then he turned his crimson eyes to her and snarled.

  “Merciful Alluvia,” Kahmal whispered as she stared at the long, pointed fangs dripping with saliva. She stared into his sanguine eyes and felt cold, a shiver crawling down her spine.

  “Now do you see what he truly is, Major?” Sejm asked.

  Kahmal could not answer. Her full attention was on the Reaper as he began to strain against his shackles. She watched in amazement as he twisted and turned as any dog or wolf would when trying to break free of its leash. His howls and snarls filled her with immense fear, but instead of deepening her hatred for the man, the sight of him in Transition had an unexpected effect on the warrioress.

  “Keep watching,” Sejm suggested. “He’s furious at being restrained, but once he catches the scent of the corpses, he will lunge at them and begin to feed.”

  Kahmal’s stomach lurched at the thought and she was about to turn away when she saw the Reaper go still, his muzzle going up. With morbid fascination, she watched his black nostrils flare and contract, then watched as he turned his head to look at the bodies in the corner.

  “Oh, Cree,” she said so softly no one could hear her, but with a sickening feeling, she realized the Reaper had for he turned to look at her. His crimson eyes glowed like the fires of the Abyss and when his jaws parted, she knew he was grinning at her.

  When he swung his head back toward the corpses, Kahmal backed away from the door, shut the cover of the peephole and tried to drown out the sounds coming from the containment cell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dorrie Burkhart looked up at the Amazeen then away, refusing to acknowledge the bitch’s presence.

  “He is in Transition,” Kahmal stated. “The corpses will sustain him.”

  Dorrie clenched her teeth and dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, but remained silent.

  “You have seen this happen to him, have you not?”

  Having spent the last several months in an E.S.U. and now being shackled to a wall inside a musky cave had done nothing to improve Dorrie’s temper. She ignored the question, concentrating instead on a spider crawling up the rock wall.

  “I know you have feelings for the man. I thought you would like to know he is not being harmed.”

  An incredulous snort was Dorrie’s answer.

  “You question my word?” the Major snarled. “Woman, I do not lie!”

  Dorrie turned her attention from the ugly spider to the Amazeen. “I may not be able to see him, but I could smell the burning flesh,” she hissed. “Tell me again he isn’t being harmed!”

  “I put a stop to that,” Kahmal responded. “That was Sejm and the Captain’s doing. Not mine!”

  “I bet you put a stop to it, but not before he was hurt!”

  “My orders were to see him safely to Rysalia Prime to be tried...”

  Dorrie narrowed her eyes. “Tried, hell! You speak as though there is actually going to be justice done! You are taking him back to be hanged or burned or whatever other nice little torment you have in store for the man. You bitches condemned him, but I think you forget the Resistance would not have succeeded without him. You used him and cast him aside when his usefulness to you was over. There is no honor in betrayal, Major!”

  Kahmal lifted her chin. “I do not set policy. That was the decision of the Council of Elders.”

  “That was the decision of Sejm and The Great Lady!” Dorrie threw back at her. “They tried to hang him before we ever left FSK-14.”

  “Because they knew he would not allow them to rule,” Kahmal countered.

  Dorrie grunted. “As if he g
ave a Diabolusian warthog’s ass about who the hell ruled the Rysalian Empire! All he cared about was his woman and Sejm had made gods-be-damned sure she was taken away from him.”

  Kahmal said nothing. She had wondered why the Reaper had been summarily condemned to death during the Resistance’s takeover of Rysalia Prime. He had aided the cause-though blackmailed into doing so-and upheld his end of the bargain. But she suspected it had never been the Council’s intention to let Cree live in peace after the takeover, though they had promised him he could leave Rysalia with his Terran woman.

  “Ask yourself why they want to get rid of him so badly,” Dorrie suggested, seeing the uncertainty in the other woman’s green eyes.

  “I know why,” Kahmal replied. “They feared he would rally his bloodsons and annihilate the female population of the Confederation for what it did to the males.”

  “That would have been hard for him to do from Earth, now, wouldn’t it? He was living there peacefully with his woman and child, no thought of ever returning here, when you came to arrest him. If he was as evil as you seem to think, why did he let you take him?”

  “He did so to save the life of his whore!”

  “He did so to save the life of the strangers in that room, as well, or did you forget I was there that day?”

  Kahmal bit her lip then flung out a dismissive hand. “His intentions on Terra are beside the point. He killed my sister and other Amazeen when he murdered Khonnor Rhye,” she declared. “He locked them in their E.S.U.s and blew up their ship!”

  That was the first Dorrie had heard about Amazeen being on the ship in which Rhye had fled, taking Bridget with him. “You go through his records and see how many women-if any at all-he ever killed. I know the number already. It is zero. If he killed your sister-”