DarkWind: 2nd Book, WindDemon Trilogy

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Not until I change my damned underwear,” Helen hissed. She plucked at the seat restraint and threw Iyan McGregor a nasty look as she stomped off the bridge.

  “In normal circumstances, I would have called her back and reminded her to ask permission before leaving the bridge, but..” He grinned. “I don’t think that would have been wise.”

  “Not in the least.”

  Khiershon Cree stared into his wife’s beautiful face and answered her gentle smile. He reached for her hand then brought it to his lips. He placed a soft kiss in her palm. His wife’s slow inhalation of breath brought an instant reaction in his body.

  “Mr. McGregor?” he called.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “You have the bridge, Mr. McGregor,” the Reaper told his 2/IC.

  Iyan looked around to see Cree helping his lady to her feet. He glanced at Barb who lifted one black brow. McGregor shrugged and went back to instructing Helen on the intricacies of navigation in that quadrant.

  “We are being studiously ignored, my love,” Caitlin whispered to her husband.

  “And why not?” Khiershon asked. “They know gods-be-damned well where we’re going and what we’ll be doing.”

  “Really?”

  In answer, the Reaper swept his lady into his powerful arms. His knowing look said it all.

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Kamerone Cree was very ill.

  The ghoret bite had thrown off his Transition cycle and he knew he would be entering the first phase of a new Transition within a few hours. Before that happened, he had to put as much distance as he could between him and the Amazeens.

  The trek into the interior of Montyne Vex was torturous.

  Fever had reclaimed him and his body temperature was rapidly climbing. In Terran reference, a Reaper’s normal body temperature was 105 degrees Fahrenheit. During Transition, the temperature could elevate 10 to 15 degrees higher. With fever, that number would go even higher.

  He sweated profusely. Not even stiff wind blowing across the desolate land was enough to dry the perspiration. It dripped down his face and into his glazed eyes. His joints stiff, beginning to hallucinate, he stumbled along half out of his mind with pain.

  He knew from reconnaissance missions when he was a young ensign that Montyne Vex was a vast system of underground caves, honeycombed with lava beds to the south and glacier fields to the north. He knew he could hide for months, perhaps years, within the subterranean complex. With his highly developed sixth sense, he would be warned of an approaching hunting party and would have time to go deeper into concealment.

  With the blood inside his weakened body boiling from the ghoret venom, he turned doggedly toward the north and the cooling tunnels that would take him to the subzero regions of the planetoid.

  Dorrie paused to pull the collar of her pilfered jumpsuit tighter to her neck. Assaulted by the frigid winds, she shivered, her numb lips trembling . The cold stung her cheeks and made her eyes ache. She had been following the fault line that separated the eastern and western sectors of the Vex for over an hour now. Reasoning that Cree would head into the more inhospitable region of the planetoid in the hopes anyone tracking him would be loathed to venture into the volcanic areas, she had originally headed south toward the smoking craters. But she remembered his words as he lay sweating in the grips of the viper bite and had stopped, reversing direction.

  Snowflakes were beginning to fall sparsely from the thick gray sky and she could feel the moisture of it as it landed on her nose and eyelashes. Blinking away the intrusion, she ran her arm under her nose and stopped to survey her surroundings.

  Ahead of her was a soaring outcropping of rock that resembled a chimney built by a drunken bricklayer. At the base of the outcropping, she could see a dark blob of a hole and it was toward that perceived entrance that she set her course. Forcing one foot ahead of the other, she started on again.

  A shadow moved in the gathering darkness and she stilled, turning her head to look. She drew in a long breath, going as still as the craggy rocks looming over her.

  The weretiger was ten yards away, off to her left, its gleaming teeth sharp and pointed, dripping with saliva as it grinned. Even through the skirl of the icy wind she heard its warning growl as its red eyes fixed on her. The animal was rail-thin, its ribs showing through the matting of its dark fur. As it licked its chops, its feral eyes glowing in anticipation of a meal, it lowered its mangy head and slithered a few steps toward Dorrie, its tail tucked between its spindly legs.

  Dorrie began to tremble, a blossom of urine spreading across the front of her jumpsuit. She moaned, wincing at the sound, knowing the big cat had heard her. She took a step back from its steady advance.

  “Don’t move, Dorrie.” His words were soft, barely audible.

  “Cree,” Dorrie whispered urgently, risking a glance toward the sound of his voice, but he was nowhere in sight. “Cree, it’s...”

  “I see him. Don’t move.”

  The beast stopped its advance and switched its lethal gaze from its prey to the intruder. Its lips peeled back from its fangs several times in warning; it growled low in its thin throat.

  “I’ve no quarrel with you, brother,” Dorrie heard the Reaper say. “But the bitch is one of mine. I will protect her.”

  The weretiger’s tail swished violently and its lumpy head swung toward Dorrie.

  “Mine,” Cree repeated. He materialized beside Dorrie and she flinched as his hand fell on her shoulder.

  Sidling closer, the weretiger lifted its snout and sniffed the air, evaluating the scent of the prey as well as the intruder. Being upwind of the pair, it could not latch onto their smell and scuttled closer still.

  “Oh, God!” Dorrie groaned.

  “Be very still,” Cree warned her. “Let it sniff you.”

  “Let it...?” She shut up when his hand tightened on her shoulder.

  The beast sidestepped toward them, never taking its red eyes from the intruder. When it was only a foot or so away from Dorrie, it lowered its head and sniffed again.

  “Mine,” Cree said once more and when the creature raised its head and locked gazes with the Reaper he put his hand out to the beast.

  “Kam, no!” Dorrie hissed, fearing the feline would pounce. She was stunned when the scrawny beast tucked its tail between its legs and crouched down until its belly was resting on the sharp rocks underfoot.

  Cree hunkered down beside Dorrie, laid his hand on the beast’s head and rubbed the sparse fur. “I understand,” he said. “I, too, am hungry.”

  A low whine came from the animal then it began to purr raggedly. It swept out its rough tongue and licked Cree’s wrist. Its red eyes rolled and it whined again.

  “I know.” The Reaper sighed. “I crave blood like you, but not this bitch’s. She is one of my pack.”

  Dorrie shuddered and had to bite her lip to keep quiet.

  The werebeast laid its head on the rocks and sighed as though in defeat.

  “Cree?” Dorrie questioned.

  “It’s sick and it’s starving,” Cree said and stood. “The most humane thing would be to put it out of its misery.”

  Dorrie’s attention was riveted on the beast at her feet. She saw its shaggy eyebrows twitch, watched as its tail thumped once against the rocks, and felt pity for the animal as it became still.

  “Please don’t kill it.”

  Cree took her hand in his. “It would have killed you.”

  She felt the raging fever in his touch and reached out her free hand to feel his brow. “Oh, lord, you are burning up!”

  The werebeast raised it head and looked up at Cree. It whimpered.

  “Ghoret,” Cree responded to the whimper.

  Unsteadily, the beast got to its feet and staggered to the Reaper. It rubbed its matted fur against Cree’s leg then locked its feral eyes on the man at the female’s side.

  It whimpered again.

  Cree nodded, seeming to understand the creatur
e’s vocalization. He looked to the rocks ahead of them. “Shelter. I need to lie down.”

  Her hand burning from the heated grip of his, Dorrie took his arm and, trying not to look at the sick animal tagging along in their wake, allowed Cree to lead her toward the crazy chimney.

  Kahmal was infuriated.

  She was also freezing.

  She held up her portable transpositioner and took another reading. The screen was iced over and she had to use her thumbnail to scrape away the rime. Since night had fallen and the dark skies were black as tar around her, she could easily read the two major heat sources showing on the screen but was perplexed by a third minor heat source. The heat signatures were coming from the outcropping of crags ahead of her and it was toward this cantilevered structure that she set out.

  By the time she was within ten feet of the place where Dorrie and Cree had ventured, the Amazeen Major was suffering from acute hypothermia. Her fingers and ears were frostbitten and every fifth step she took was slower than the one preceded it.

  His body was so hot there was no need for a fire. Dorrie cuddled against him, his heated breath fanning her hair, and soaked in the warmth from his flesh, the comfort of his strong arms around her.

  “How soon?” she asked.

  “D...don’t k...know.” Cree’s body was wracked by shudders of pain. He tightened his grip around the Terran woman. “Hour. Maybe longer.”

  “Maybe less?” she whispered against his throat.

  “Maybe less.” The venom infiltrating his blood made his parasite wriggle with displeasure and caused him nearly unbearable agony as the thing undulated along his spine.

  The werebeast lay curled on a ledge above them, its own feverish red eyes glowing in the darkness. It seemed to be watching over the restless Reaper and the Reaper’s bitch.

  Dorrie stared up at the creature, wondering if it would attack Kamerone Cree when the Reaper began to Transition.

  “No,” Cree told her. “It will run away.”

  As though in agreement, the weretiger raised up, shifted its position on the ledge then lay down again, its hindquarters positioned so it could spring from the ledge and propel its body deeper into the cavern in which they had taken shelter.

  A violent shudder rippled down Cree’s lean body and he jerked his arms from around Dorrie and sat up, wrapping his arms around himself. She could hear his teeth clicking together.

  “I w...will not h...harm you, D...dorrie,” he whispered, his voice growing thick.

  Dorrie wished she could assure him that she knew he wouldn’t, but she wasn’t so sure. She knew he had once Transitioned in front of Bridget and had even been fed from Bridie’s veins without harming his lady. But that was then and that was the woman he loved. This was now and he was suffering the agonies of the damned because of the ghoret bite. Nothing was the same.

  “D...doesn’t m...matter,” he vowed, his febrile eyes searching her. “I will n...never harm you.”

  She reached out to stroke his arm and winced at the increase in the heat of his flesh.

  “N...not long, n...now.” His words grew thicker and sounded more animal growl than human speech.

  Dorrie started to speak but he sprang away from her, plastering himself against the far wall, his shriek of sheer agony making her flesh crawl. She stared at him as he peeled off his clothing and flung it aside.

  She swallowed hard, her womb quivering from the sight of his rock-hard body.

  One moment he was curled into a fetal position, the next he was on all fours, his back arching like that of an angry cat, his head hanging down between his arms. He shook his head angrily, his body rippling from head to tailbone with the effort like that of a dog shaking off water.

  “Kam?” Her heart pounded against her ribcage.

  He growled, then threw his head back and howled, the piercing sound reverberating through the cavern.

  The weretiger shot to its feet and flung itself from the ledge. The scribbling of its claws on the rock as it strove to gain purchase was loud in the close quarters. It disappeared into the nether regions of the cavern with a screech of terrified protest.

  Dorrie’s mouth dropped open as she took in the spectacle of the Reaper going into full Transition. The sounds alone-the splitting of his flesh as claws emerged from his fingers and toes; the regrouping of his internal organs; the snapping of his bones; the leathery growth of his snout and ears pushing out from his head-were enough to give her nightmares for years to come. But the most godawful sound was the liquid squish of fangs pushing up from his mandible and down from the roof of his jaw. The glint of the ivory canines slick with long strands of saliva would stay with her forever.

  As would the vermeil eyes glowing out at her from beneath a black, leathery brow framed by thick fur.

  Whimpering with terror, Dorrie scuttled like a crab to the far shadows of the cavern and hid there, her face buried in her arms. She covered her ears with her hands to cut off the horrific sounds of his changing. She curled in upon herself, drawing her knees up as close to her body as she could and turned her back to the Reaper. If he could not control his Transition and came after her, at least she would not have to see him approaching.

  He growled deep in his throat as he caught the scent of the female. He lifted his snout and sniffed the air, dragging her odor into his expanded lungs. He stood, sniffing again, homing in on the pheromones that pulsed from her excited body. He sidled closer, swinging his great head, then headed toward the female. She had a sweet blood-smell about her and he stopped only a few inches away from her thick golden mane. His snout crinkled as he drew in her scent and his night-gaze moved hungrily over her slender form.

  He looked about him. He sniffed the air. Satisfied he had no rival lurking about ready to pounce, he lowered his head and nudged the female.

  Dorrie stiffened; her heart beat so fast she thought it would break free of her chest. She trembled as she felt his hot breath on her neck, waiting for those strong jaws to close over her and tear away her spine. She nearly screamed when his rough, pebbly tongue dragged over the flesh at the base of her neck then flicked under the restriction of her arm to lap at her jaw.

  “No, Cree.”

  A purr started low in his throat as he heard what to his animal ears was the soft whimper of the female’s surrender. He nudged her again, his muzzle seeking her face.

  “Cree,” she forced herself to say. “It’s Dorrie. It’s me , Kamerone.”

  Her words meant nothing to him. In his sickened state, the Reaper did not understand the humanoid tongue. His transition from man to beast was complete and no vestige of humanity existed within his beastly brain. All that registered was his great blood-hunger and the raging desire to rut with the female.

  He nudged her again then nipped at her neck with just enough strength to sting.

  “No!” Dorrie howled. She tried to scramble away, but he was on her, his forepaws locked around her hips. Terrified, she opened her mouth and screamed.

  The Reaper, startled by the loud sound, shook his head, lowered his fangs to the nape of her neck-intending to snare her flesh-then quivered as a heavy blow to the side of his head toppled him from the female and pitched him into blackness.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Cree woke to a splitting headache and a trio of wary eyes staring back at him from in front of a sputtering fire. Gingerly, he put a hand to the spot on his temple where the pain seemed to have settled and drew his fingertips away dotted with wetness. He stared at his blood.

  “Who the hell hit me?”

  “Bastard!” yelled Dorrie. “She should have caved in your gods-be-damned thick skull!”

  He blinked at the vehemence and turned to Kahmal for an explanation.

  “You tried to mate with her,” the Amazeen Major explained.

  Cree winced. From the prickly feeling all over his skin, he knew he had to have undergone Transition in the not too distant past, but he could not seem to recall the event. He was sick to his stomach, his
head throbbing and the fever making his thirst an unbearable state.

  “I was trying to mate with her?” He was amazed at this development. He already had a mate. Transition would not-should not-change that fact. He picked up his clothing and thrust his feet into the pant legs.

  “I don’t think you knew what you were doing,” Kahmal told him. “You must have been trying to mark your territory to keep that one from having Burkhart.”

  He swung his gaze to the weretiger who gazed back at him with a mournful expression that seemed resigned to whatever fate this superior animal had in store for it.

  “She wanted to kill the poor thing and I wouldn’t let her,” Dorrie said in a sulky voice.

  “We would be doing it a favor.” The Amazeen was hunched over the meager fire, her frostbitten fingertips black. She was shivering badly.

  “Come here, lady,” Cree whispered hoarsely. He held out his hand.

  “Not on your life, asshole!” said Dorrie. “I ain’t coming anywhere near you ever again!” She swiped at her breeches as though she could rid herself of the feel of his body atop her own.

  “He meant me,” Kahmal snapped. She locked eyes with the Reaper. “What do you want?”

  “My body temperature is still high. Let me warm you.”

  Her teeth chattering, her body cold, the Amazeen did not think twice about his offer. She crawled over to where he lay on his side and stretched out beside him. As he enfolded her in his arms, put one leg over hers, she pressed against his chest. Almost immediately, the high heat of his body began to thaw the chill of her flesh.

  “Dorrie?” he called to her, looking over his shoulder. “Let me hold you, too.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She, too, was shivering, the fire providing miniscule warmth as the flames began to die.

  “The transition is over,” he said on a long sigh. “You’ll freeze if you don’t.”

  “Then I’ll freeze!”

  Kahmal lifted her head from his chest and looked up into his tired face. “Do you want me to drag her over here?”