Wind Demon Triology: Book II: Evil Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  One girl—obviously braver or more brazen than the other two—actually lifted a hand to wave her fingers at him and Bridie had to hide a laugh when Jaelin tossed his head and swept his free hand through his dark hair. She could have sworn he gave the little tart a quick nod of the head to accompany that matinee idol gesture and she was even surer he was grinning that lopsided little smirk that was so like his father's.

  "Gonna be a heartbreaker, that one,” Beryla had pronounced.

  Fishing in her purse, she came up with the two twenties to pay for the gas. She flicked the electric window down on the passenger side and leaned over to hand her son the money. She watched Jaelin strut into the convenience store and past the teenage boys—older and bigger than him—who, indeed, stepped aside and nodded. Jaelin nodded back and went on inside, casting one final glance over his shoulder at the girls across the street.

  More giggles erupted from across the street and as Bridget put a hand to her mouth to still her laughter, the brazen girl came sprinting across the street, her short skirt swaying around narrow little hips.

  "Hi,” the girl said, coming up to Bridget's side of the truck.

  "Hi back,” Bridie said.

  "I'm Siobhan Foster,” the girl said, politely extending a hand.

  Bridget took it. “Bridget,” she replied.

  "What's his name?” the girl asked, her periwinkle blue eyes gleaming.

  "Jaelin."

  "Oooh,” Siobhan said. “You're staying out to the Burd House, aren't you?"

  Bridget flinched. She hated that name. “Yes we are."

  "And you home school Jae, huh?"

  Jae? Bridget silently repeated.

  "Yes, I do."

  "Well, my parents are having a barbeque this Saturday and I thought maybe you'd like to come over."

  A slow, knowing grin spread over Bridie's face. “I'll have to ask Jaelin what he thinks but...."

  The girl's attention snapped away from Bridget and she realized Siobhan had been waiting for Jaelin to come out of the convenience store. If it was possible for a pre-teenage to do so, Siobhan Foster began to melt where she stood. It was one thing to get a glimpse at a young dark god across the street but to have him coming toward you in all his earthy glory was a different matter altogether.

  Jaelin gave his mother a glance as he opened the door and got into the truck.

  "Jaelin, this is Siobhan,” Bridie introduced.

  "Hey,” Jaelin acknowledged and once more his hand plowed through his hair.

  "Hey, right back atcha,” Siobhan said on a long sigh. Her fingers were curled over the window ledge.

  "Siobhan has invited us to a barbeque at her parents’ house this Saturday,” Bridie told her son.

  "Cool.” The word was cavalier and spoken in a deep bass voice that made Bridget turn to stare at her son.

  "Then you'll come?” Siobhan asked much too eagerly.

  "We'll see,” he said in that same deep tone. He gave his mother another glance and cocked a dark brow.

  "Oh, yeah, right,” Bridie said, mentally picking up on her son's suggestion and wondering if he was even aware he'd nudged her. “Gotta run, Siobhan.” She reached for the key.

  "I'll call you, okay?” Siobhan asked. “The Burd House is in the book, right?"

  "Yes,” Bridie said with a wince.

  "See ya, Jaelin,” the young girl said.

  Jaelin propped a foot on the dashboard and rested his wrist on his knee. “Take care, milady,” he said once more in that strange, adult-sounding voice.

  Bridie's mouth dropped open and she couldn't get the truck in gear fast enough, practically peeling out of the convenience store parking lot and leaving Siobhan staring at them.

  "Milady?” Bridie questioned. “Milady?"

  Jaelin shrugged. “Whatever,” he said and took up his electronic game again, bringing his other foot up to the dash. “We gonna get those tacos, Ma?"

  * * * *

  After a satisfying wallow in all the tacos and fried jalapenos he could eat washed down with copious amounts of ice-cold root beer, Jaelin had begged his mother to drive over to Wind Cave. They had spent the afternoon touring the caves he was beginning to know like the back of his hand.

  "Why do these caves fascinate you so, sweetie?” she asked as they'd gone back to their car to drive home.

  "There's just something so alien about them,” Jaelin had responded. “It's almost like being on another world when you're inside, you know?"

  She did know ... only too well.

  The phone was ringing when they returned home.

  "I'll get it,” Jaelin said in an off-handed way that belied the hurrying of his footsteps up the steps, fishing his set of keys out of his jeans’ pocket.

  "If it's for me, I'm not here,” Bridie said with a laugh.

  Stepping up on the porch, she heard that strange word once more: milady and sighed deeply. It brought back such aching memories and she suddenly felt so old, so alone. Thinking to give her son some privacy, she sat down in one of the white rocking chairs Aurora had bought and stretched out her legs. The air was a bit cooler now and she pulled her cardigan tighter over her chest. The view was so beautiful, so peaceful, yet her heart felt anything but. When the first real spike of uneasiness pricked at her, she barely noticed it for melancholy had washed over her entire being.

  How long the woman had been standing at the edge of the bushes that flanked each side of the cabin, Bridie didn't know. She became aware of her only when the parasite inside her began to writhe beneath the skin of Bridie's back. Very slowly, she got to her feet and walked to the porch railing.

  "May I help you?” Bridie asked, not liking the intense feeling crawling over her or the painful movement of the parasite.

  The woman stepped away from the bushes and across the grass. She was slender with long brown hair worn in a thick braid that hung over her left shoulder. She was dressed in faded jeans and a bulky cable knit white sweater and black hiking boots. “Hello,” she said as she neared the porch.

  "Are you lost?” Bridie asked.

  "No.” She turned to point over the ridge that separated Aurora's land from the next estate. “I live over there."

  Agitation was flooding Bridie's system and she could hear the accelerated beat of her heart. She knew the other woman could, too.

  "We felt you last year when you were visiting but we never got a chance to visit,” the woman said.

  "We?” Bridie said, her brow furrowed. “Who else knows we're here?"

  "That would be me."

  Bridie jumped, spinning around to see a tall, very intimidating man standing at the opposite side of the porch. Dressed entirely in black—long sleeve pullover sweater, black leather pants and black boots—there was no mistaking what he was. She backed toward the front door.

  "We aren't your enemies,” the woman said. “We hope to be your friends."

  Bridie was almost to the front door, reaching behind her for the handle. The man and woman were walking toward one another from opposite ends of the porch.

  "Your son isn't one of us,” the man said and put a foot on the porch's bottom step. He leaned over with his arms crossed over his knee. “Does he know what you are?"

  Her parasite buckled along her back and Bridie cried out, dropping to one knee from the acute pain. Before she could stop him, the man was on the porch and lifting her, taking her toward the porch swing, his wife right behind him.

  "Go away,” Bridie said. The very thought of other Reapers on her home world scared the hell out of her. “Leave us alone."

  "Our son isn't one of us, either,” the woman said. “Do you know why?"

  Scrambling up in the swing until she was hovering in the corner, Bridie shook her head. “Please go away. I don't know who you are but...."

  "I am Viraidan Cree,” the man said. “This is my wife Bronwyn."

  Bridie's eyes widened. “Cree?” she whispered.

  "My ship crashed thousands of years ago in what is now Irel
and,” the man said.

  "Was your son's father part of the Fuilghaoth project?” the woman asked.

  "Fuilghaoth?” Bridget repeated. She was staring at first one and then the other, sweat breaking out on her upper lip.

  "It means blood wind in Chalean,” the man told her. “Was your mate one of the Reapers at the feudal fortress on the Ballynahinch River? Was he a Stalcaire?"

  "A what?” Bridget asked. She shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about."

  "From where did your mate come?” the man asked. He was standing in front of the swing with his arms folded over a brawny chest that stretched the pullover.

  She wasn't going to answer him, but she recognized the mental push he gave her all too well and felt tears enter her eyes.

  "He was born on Rysalia Prime,” she said. “He was Ry-Chalean."

  The man winced. “A powerful combination of races,” he pronounced. “How did he come to be on Terra?"

  Though she tried otherwise, she could do nothing else but answer him truthfully. He was as powerful as Kamerone and apparently just as determined. Her fear of him was increasing with every breath she took.

  "He is a Reaper,” she said.

  "As am I,” the man said. “I repeat: how did he come to be here?"

  "Viraidan,” the woman said quietly. “This isn't an interrogation.” She moved to sit beside Bridget. “I was born here on Terra. We've been Joined since 1996 and Aidan gave me one of his fledglings a year later. We were living in Iowa then but when people began noticing we didn't age, we began moving. Our last stop was here."

  "Where in Iowa?” Bridget asked, searching Bronwyn's eyes.

  "A small town named Kellogg. Both Aidan and I worked at the Baybridge, a private maximum security prison for the criminally insane,” she replied.

  "I know what it is,” Bridget said. “I went to college in Grinnell."

  "Really?” Bronwyn exclaimed. Her face lit up. “What a coincidence. Where are you from originally?"

  "Mount Vernon, Iowa but I live in Albany, Georgia now."

  Bronwyn gasped, pivoting her head around to stare at her husband. “Aidan, did you...?"

  "I came to this world from Chale,” the man interrupted. He narrowed his eyes. “The name Cree meant something to you. What?"

  "It is my husband's name,” Bridget said. There were goose bumps on her arms and she was shivering, her lips quivering.

  "I am from Albany,” Bronwyn said, giving it the pronunciation of all-benny as a native from there would say it instead of the awl-buh-ny that Bridget had used.

  "What was his bloodsire's name?” the man asked.

  "General Drae Cree. His mother was Analeis Brell from the royal house of Chale."

  "It was Captain Kyrish Brell of Rysalia who found the wormhole,” the man said.

  "A distant relative of my husband's mother,” Bridget said. She hugged her arms around her, keeping an eye on the door for her son.

  "Cree is a common enough name,” the man said. “I doubt we are kin but it is strange we share the Reaper bond."

  "And the Iowa and Georgia connections,” his wife reminded him.

  "Where is he now?” the Reaper asked.

  Bridget was beginning to feel a small amount of ease with these people. Her parasite had stopped writhing and was no longer causing her trouble. If the revenant worm no longer sensed danger, Bridie could relax her guard a bit.

  "He was taken by the Amazeen..."

  "Son of a fucking bitch!” the Reaper snarled and stomped over to the railing. He sat down, his hips on the rail and his long legs stuck out in front of him. “Was it a BlackWind who came after him?"

  "A what?” Bridget said then shook her head. “No, she was a major. My husband's friends have gone after him. Hopefully before Jaelin—our son—transitions, they will bring Kamerone home."

  The Reaper gave her a steady look. In the fading light as the sun started down, his amber eyes took on a reddish glow. “Wench, your son is not one of us just as our son is not one of us. They are not Reaper nor will they ever be."

  Bridget shook her head. “No, his father was a Prime Reaper and..."

  "So was I yet our son, Colton, is not Reaper."

  "How old is your son?” Bridget asked.

  "He was born in 2001,” Bronwyn said. “Aidan and I kept trying but when we least expected him, I conceived."

  "That would make him...” Bridget whistled. “Your son is sixty-two years old?"

  "And looks it,” Viraidan said sadly. He himself did not look a day over thirty-five. “He doesn't want the Transference and we have unwillingly accepted it though it hurts to watch him age each year."

  "He married but his wife was never able to give him a child. She died in a car accident about four years ago. Colton doesn't seem interested in finding a new mate,” Bronwyn added. “He just sits and rocks with Cedric, our Nightwind, and together they keep each other entertained telling jokes."

  "You were a Reaper when you conceived him?” Bridie asked Bronwyn.

  "I was but unless a fledgling is given to the offspring of a Reaper either in utero or once he's old enough to endure the Transition, he will never be one of us."

  "Jaelin will never Transition, Bridget, unless you decide to give him a Transference,” Cree said softly.

  "Kamerone didn't know that,” Bridget said. “I didn't know it. He always told me his sperm was rife with the parasite's spore so we just assumed our son would Transition at puberty."

  "That's part of the reason we wanted to meet you,” Bronwyn said. “That and the fact that we didn't know there were other Reapers left after Fuilghaoth was destroyed.” She sighed. “At least we had hoped there aren't."

  "You said your husband's friend went after him. They have a ship?"

  "The one we came here from Rysalia on,” Bridget said and when he would have questioned her, she held up a hand. “It's a long story. Let it suffice to say they went after him and they will do everything they can to return him to me."

  "Are they Reaper, too?” he asked.

  "No. They are mostly Rysalians but there is also a Necromanian and a Serenian among them. When we fled Rysalia Prime, we brought six other women with us. All but one of them is in Georgia."

  "Where is the other?” Bronwyn asked.

  "She was taken captive with my husband.” She shrugged. “It's complicated."

  "We need to tell you our story and you need to tell us yours,” the Reaper said. “Then we need to decide what must be done."

  "Done? What do you mean?” Bridget inquired.

  "There is a war coming,” Viraidan Cree said. “The news is full of worse and worse atrocities taking place in the Middle East each day. Terrorists are set to blow this world apart. When that happens, we need to have those we love, those close to us, near by. We will survive where the others won't."

  "We have a Nightwind and a Bugul Noz with us,” Bronwyn said. “They, too, are creatures upon which the war will have no effect. I have a friend in Florida who has a Nightwind of her own. She and their daughter will come here when the time is right. Viraidan's father, Brian, is with us, as well, and he is a Reaper."

  "He's not really my father,” her husband grumbled.

  "The closest thing you've ever had,” Bronwyn countered.

  "We need to plan, wench,” the Reaper stated, apparently not willing to concede the point.

  "We have been building a fortress here beneath the Black Hills for ten years. It's big enough for at least fifty people as it stands now but there are three chambers that can be extended so we could hold up to four times that many,” Bronwyn added. “The problem is, humans would not be able to exist down there for very long. Those we take with us must be willing to have the..."

  The front door opened and Jaelin stepped out. He stared at their visitors for a moment then walked straight toward the Reaper who pushed away from the porch rail and straightened up. Kamerone's son put out his hand. “I am Jaelin,” he said.

  The tall man
took his hand. “I am Viraidan."

  "Are you a Reaper, too?” the young man asked.

  Chapter Thirty

  Beryla leaned over the table upon which Kamerone Cree was laying and grinned. “Hey there, sailor? Come here often?"

  "Only when I'm looking for pretty ladies to put their hands on me,” the Reaper said. His words were slow and mumbled, his smile tremulous, but his eyes were gleaming.

  "Well, you've come to the right place, stud,” Beryla told him with a wink. She placed a kiss on his brow then straightened up to give him a steady look. “How do you feel and don't sugarcoat it, okay?"

  "I hurt,” he said. “I really hurt, Milady."

  Beryla nodded. For him to admit such a thing, he had to be in terrible pain. “It won't be for much longer, sweetie. I promise.” She stood still for Barb Fuller to tie a surgical mask over her face.

  Caitlin and Lisa Mahon were standing off to one side, unfamiliar with what Beryla was going to do but standing by in case they were needed.

  The Reaper's arms were already strapped down at right angles to his body and an IV line had been placed. Tina came into his line of view. “Hey handsome,” she greeted him, her smiling eyes the only thing he could see of her pretty face. “How's about taking a little trip to dreamland for us?"

  Cree's gaze snapped back to Beryla. “I'm not going to be awake?"

  "Hell, no, you aren't going to be awake,” Beryla stated as though he'd offended her. She nodded her head toward a vid-com screen where the latest biomaps of his brain Caitlin had taken that morning could be viewed. The biomaps showed where the seven implants were located. “That's a lot of digging around in that noodle of yours. I wouldn't think about allowing you to be awake and knowing you, you'd make snide remarks all the way through.” She shook her head. “Your cute little ass is gonna be out, baby."

  Ivonne had rolled an instrument tray up to the table and he instinctively turned his head to look at it. As soon as it saw the probes—those long thin metallic tubes—he shuddered and unconsciously groaned, squeezing his eyes closed to blot out the sight.