BloodWind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  REAPERS NEVER dream; they are programmed not to. Dreams can be deadly enemies to a warrior, for in that unconscious state in which a day's, a year's, a lifetime's mistakes and worries dwell, lay mystical answers the Empire would rather the Reapers' not have. The symbolic nature of a dream— with its hidden meanings and vague, ambiguous inferences— can undo the strictest regimen of Behavioral Modification. Even in drug-induced nightmares— the substances of which are part and parcel of what happens during reinforcement therapy— the relevance and implications are controlled so the warrior experiences only what he has been instructed to experience. His dreams, in other words, are controlled. In reinforcement therapy, those controlled dreams mirror only the warrior's worst fears; there are no pleasant thoughts allowed to interfere with the protocol.

  But in uncontrolled dreams, one of which at that very moment Kamerone Cree was passing through on his way back to consciousness, the relevance and implications were being stimulated by the Resistance implanted device in his hypothalamus.

  SHE WAS waiting for him at the door when he returned home.

  She was smiling, her arms open wide to welcome him.

  Her body was warm and soft and infinitely satisfying as she slipped into his arms and pressed her cheek to his.

  "I have missed you, Kam," she whispered. Her arms went around his waist and she held him tightly to her. "I have been so lonely without you."

  He heard himself groan: a savage, possessive sound meant to convey to her his urgent need. Swinging her up into his arms, holding her high against his chest, his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that took away both their breaths. He plundered her mouth with his tongue; she met his thrust for thrust with her own.

  "You are my beloved," she breathed against his mouth. "The only man I shall ever need."

  Though he had traveled the universe over many times; sped through the stars to distant worlds and returned unscathed; the few steps into the bedsuite were the longest trip he had ever taken. He could hear his ragged, excited breathing; listened with blatant male pride to hers. Her body in his arms was an exquisite torture, the likes of which he would gladly suffer for the rest of his life.

  "Kam." she spoke his name over and over again as he laid her on their bed. Her green eyes were liquid emeralds as he tore away his jumpsuit to reveal to her the extent of his need.

  "Make me truly your woman, Milord," she begged him. "Lay claim to what you want."

  It made the blood pound in his temples to rip the silky transparent gown from her shapely body; the sound of the material ripping in his hands excited him and he threw back his head and howled in triumph.

  "Kam!" she pleaded with him. "Please!" Her hips writhed on the bed in a wanton display of her own arousal. Her arms came up to receive him.

  He fell on her, splaying her legs wide with his knees. His jutting member stabbed unerringly upward into the moist center of her, striving for the core of her internal heat and she closed around him: imprisoning his cock inside her body.

  With a brutal thrust that sent them both over the edge of sanity, he rammed into her as far as his shaft would go and his world burst around him like a nova. His seed spurted deep into her and took hold: he had claimed her as his own. Throwing back his head, he bellowed with the release of his passion, feeling her nails drag wickedly down his bare back.

  "Mine!" He shouted to the heavens and all the gods who had denied him this pleasure for so long. When he lowered his head, he saw her staring up at him with rapt wonder and knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he had fulfilled and sated his woman as he had been meant to do. And he knew she would be his forever; that he would move heaven and hell to keep her at his side; that he would do whatever it took to make her his.

  "I love you, Kam," she whispered to him.

  He lowered his head and took her mouth, plying feather-soft kisses on her bruised lips.

  "I love you, too, Bridget," he whispered back.

  THE HEALER reluctantly put her hand on her patient's forehead and pushed aside his sweat-dampened hair. His devastating handsomeness was not lost on Dr. Imogene Mathis nor was the sharpness of his gaze as his lids suddenly snapped open. She snatched away her hand as though he had tried to bite her.

  "D-don't try moving," she told him "You were stabbed and I had to remove one of your kidneys."

  Cree felt as though a red-hot poker was pressing into his lower right side. The pain was excruciating, but there was a deeper, rawer agony lapping at his consciousness that made him try to push himself up. When he did, agony rocketed through his body and he gasped with the force of it. Every muscle in his body was cramping and every bone throbbed deep in its marrow.

  "I said not to move, Captain," the Healer snapped. "Try that again and I'll have you clamped to the table!"

  "What did you do to me, woman?" he gasped. He gripped the edges of the table. "How long have I been out?"

  "Two days," she answered and watched the disbelief cloud his eyes.

  "I have to get up," he said and tried again only to find he was too weak and in too much pain. Why can't I block out this pain? I should be able to block it out.

  "You aren't going anywhere," Dr. Mathis informed him. "As a matter of fact, I doubt you will be able to be transported back to FSK-14 at the designated time."

  "You have no idea what you've done to me," he grated. "What you've set in motion!"

  "I saved your life."

  "Leave me," he ordered. "Now!"

  "I most certainly will not! I have to— "

  Cree swung his head toward her and his eyes were wild. "I am going into Transition, bitch! Do you want to be in here with me when that happens?"

  The Healer gawked at him, saw him begin to transform right before her eyes and barely made it out the door before the most godsawful sound she would ever hear sent her screaming for help.

  "Lock him in!" she shrieked. "Lock him in! He's going through Transition!"

  The guards made no move toward the medical hut door. Not a one of them wanted to be anywhere near a Reaper going into Transition. To a man, they ran in the opposite direction, shoving each other aside as they made for safety.

  Lares grabbed Raine's arm as the young man made to go to Cree. "We may have developed a friendship with the Reaper, but he would not know that now." He cast a look toward the medical hut from which an undulating howl came. "He would not know us now."

  "Listen to him!" Raine breathed. "It sounds as though he is dying. We have to help him!"

  The dark man shook his head. "He is transforming from human to beast, son of the McGregor. He has done it many times and will continue to do so as long as he draws breath." He shuddered. "There is no help for him in this world."

  Raine hung his head. "How can he bear it?" he asked, his voice breaking.

  The hopeless howl of an animal in extreme agony pierced the hot solar wind around them and made men put their hands to their ears to blot out the sound. It was a tormented cry, filled with loneliness and burden, rife with bleak acceptance of its own strangeness.

  Lares returned his attention to the medical hut. "I don't think he can."

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  SHE WAS not at the door awaiting him with open arms when he returned to FSK-14 two months later; he had been gone a month longer than planned and she had had no way of knowing why or when he would return. She did not hear him enter his quarters for she was occupied with, and his arrival drowned out by, the sounds coming from the antique music device she so cherished.

  He flung his flight bag on the sofa and walked to her door. She was lying across the bed on her back, the earphones of the old CD player clapped over her ears. Her eyes were closed and she was gripping one of his old utility shirts to her chest. He was stunned to see tears running down her cheeks. The sight of her sorrow cut right through his soul.

  "Bridget?" he called out, but she did not hear him. He called again and when she still did not respond, he looked around for the CD player, spied it, and then wal
ked over to turn it off. When he did, she opened her eyes, saw him and gasped. The look on her face hurt him deeply. As she scrambled off the bed, putting distance between them, her hand going up to ward him off, the pain deepened.

  "How long have you been standing there?" Cree started toward her, wanting desperately to take her in his arms, but when he took that first step, she whimpered. He would have had to be deaf not to hear the terror in the sound.

  "When did you get back?" she asked, tossing his old utility shirt to the bed.

  He shook his head in answer, turned and walked to his bedsuite.

  Bridget reached up to take the earphones from her head. She put them aside and, with her heart thudding like a trip hammer in her chest, she looked down to see her hands shaking. Clenching her fists, she stood there, waiting for him to call to her, to make good on the bargain they had made before he left, but he didn't.

  An hour passed. Two.

  She heard nothing from his bedsuite. Going to her door, she listened, heart in her throat, but heard no sound from behind his closed door. Hesitantly, thinking perhaps he meant for her to come to him, she went to his door, and after a long moment of indecision, rapped lightly. "Captain?"

  "Go away, Bridget."

  She had spent two months wondering what would happen when he returned to FSK-14. Since she had had no outside contact with those on board the station, she had no way of knowing why he was staying away longer than the one month he had been ordered to serve. When the time for him to return came and went, she began to wonder if he hadn't been detained for some infraction of Hell-12 regulations; knowing Cree, that was entirely possible. When the second month had nearly passed, she began to worry about him. There were brutal men on Hell-12 and she had found herself fearing for his safety. Only the night before, she had dreamed of him lying in a medical ward: hurt and alone, calling out her name, needing her. She had awakened with a sense of unease and had gone to his room where she had found an old shirt that still bore the scent of him. She had taken the black garment back to her room, turned on the CD player to try to take her mind off her concern for him, and took to her bed. As she lay there wondering where he was at that moment, she had entertained the notion that he might never return. That knowledge had hurt her more than she had been prepared to accept and she had begun to cry.

  When had she lost her fear of him? When had she begun to see him as a man instead of a Reaper? Was it the night he had found her with Konnor Rhye and she had seen such deep hurt in his eyes? The night she thought sure he would beat her, but had kissed her instead?

  Yes. Of course it had to have been that night. What woman would not be thrilled to have two handsome men fighting over her— the victor drag her home to his lair, his intent clear? To see the wild possessiveness stamped across her captor's handsome face? Wasn't that a fantasy of every woman: to be dominated by a male capable of claiming— and holding— her in so dramatic a fashion? It was as ego satisfying to a woman as it was a victory for the man.

  That had been a part of it, she reasoned, the fierce possessiveness he'd shown that night. But it had been more than that, too. It had been his gentleness, the way he had touched her had sealed her own fate. It had been his tender kiss; the way his lips had plied hers, brooking no denial that she was his to do with as he pleased. It had been the way he had looked at her, lust smoldering in his dark eyes, that had made her cling to him like a wanton.

  Standing at his door, her hand on the smooth metal expanse, she leaned her forehead against the coolness and called to him again. "Are you all right?"

  "Aye."

  He sounded tired. Tired and so infinitely lost. Had he misunderstood the alarm on her face when she'd found him standing over her bed? Had he mistaken her look of surprise as fear of him? Had he thought when she reached out to him that she was denying him? And had he taken her whimper as one of fear instead of relief that he was well? Surely not. But with a man like Cree....

  "I have missed you," she told him through the door.

  There was no answer.

  "Captain?"

  Again, there was no answer.

  Perhaps he had fallen asleep.

  CREE LAY with his hands behind his head, listening to Bridget finally move away from his door. No doubt she had expected him to rush out and fall on her like a crazed beast, raping her into submission.

  "Captain?"

  He ignored the Vid-Com, annoyed more than ever by its interfering and— to his ears— nagging voice.

  "You are in pain, Sir," the computer said softly.

  He turned his head and looked at the screen, but didn't answer. He knew his Controllers were aware of his condition. When he had arrived back at FSK-14, he had been whisked off immediately to the Ministry of Science and they had poked and prodded and pried until they had assessed the damage caused by the loss of his kidney.

  "We can not allow indiscriminate Transitions, Captain," one scientist had told him. "That is exceptionally dangerous for anyone with whom you come into contact."

  "A new kidney must be found for transplant," another had remarked. "Until then, he must be transfused frequently."

  "When was the last time you were given blood, Captain?"

  "An hour ago," Cree had lied. "Just before I left Hell-12."

  "Good," they had all nodded. Smiling and making notations, they had concurred that he would not need to be transfused again until morning.

  Or so they— and he— had thought.

  Now the pain was driving him mad. He turned over on his side, drew his legs up and clasped them in the perimeter of his arms, deliberately trying to quash the growing thirst in his gut.

  "When was the last time you were given blood, Captain?" the Vid-Com inquired.

  "Two hours ago," he lied.

  The Vid-Com was silent for a moment and he knew it was checking with his Controllers, and then it spoke again. "You are required to go to the Ancillary at this time, Sir."

  "Go to hell," he ground out.

  There was a change in the Vid-Com's tone.

  "Captain, you would not want to awaken in the middle of the night in such pain that you mistakenly take from the Terran female what you should not," it warned. "In that condition, you would have no control over the damage you could do to her."

  The very thought of that happening brought Cree upright in the bed. That was the one thing he had been worried would happen since he'd set foot back on the station. He had made a vow to himself to fight the godsawful urges that were now running rampant through his body for he was undergoing a drastic change that concerned him deeply.

  "Captain?" the Vid-Com insisted.

  Aye, he thought bitterly as he got up from the bed. There were changes, all right. Now he could smell Bridget through the solidity of a titanium door. He could hear her heart beating from twenty feet away. Sense the heat of her blood pounding through her veins. Almost taste the saltiness of that red liquid coursing through her jugular—

  "Computer?" he grated, reaching for his shirt. He flung it around his shoulder and jabbed his arms into the black sleeves. "Call the Ancillary and tell them I'm on my way."

  "Yes, Sir," the Vid-Com agree and he could have sworn the vile thing had actually sighed with relief.

  "Where is Bridget?" he demanded.

  "She is in her room."

  "Lock her in until I get back."

  BRIDGET PUT down the book she was reading and listened to him moving about in the eating area. She stood, went to the door. "Captain?" she called to him and was surprised when her door shushed open and she found him standing in the opening, his hands braced to either side of the frame.

  "Aye?" he asked, his expression blank.

  She thought he looked none the worse for wear for having spent two months in a penal colony. If anything, he looked more powerful than when he had left. His complexion was deeply tanned, although there was an unnatural ruddy glow to his cheeks and lips. Involuntarily, her gaze traveled over his thick chest and down the heavier muscled area of hi
s thighs before crawling back up to his astonishingly beautiful male face. Her scrutiny settled on the hungry glow in his dark chocolate eyes.

  "Like what you see?"

  "What if I do?"

  That stopped him cold. He stared at her, unable to believe he had heard her correctly. She smiled at him. What the hell?

  "Want what you see?" Bridget felt a quiver deep in her womb and her knees went weak. When she ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips and watched his heated gaze fall automatically to them, she let out a little moan that snapped his attention straight back to her eyes.

  "Yes, Captain," she whispered. She held out her arms to him. "I want— "

  She got no further for he swept her up in his arms with such force, with such powerful intent, he crushed the very breath from her body. Her arms went around his neck, his head swooped down, and their mouths came together with a bruising fusion. His tongue invading her mouth was all she remembered until she felt his body pressed heavily atop her own on her bed, the stabbing steel of his manhood straining to be free of his trousers.

  "Cree," she groaned against his mouth, taking his kiss, tasting his tongue, wanting much, much more.

  "I want you," he mumbled against her throat where his tongue was lapping at the salty moisture of her flesh, striking at the spiral of her inner ear, slipping inside to send shivers of delight throughout her body.

  "I want you," she returned, burying her fingers in the sleek darkness of his unbound hair and dragging his mouth back to her own. She raped him with her tongue: thrusting into his mouth, claiming him as possessively as he had claimed her. She ran the tip of it over his teeth, across his lips, probing at the sensitive corners and felt him shudder violently.

  "By the gods, woman, don't!" he begged, jerking himself off her as though he were being sucked out of an air lock.