BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (15 page)

“Captain Cree was good enough to offer his services as an escort while I’m interviewing the Class Seven inmates,” she said, hoping to forestall any other combative words.

“If you need an escort, I would be happy—”

“Class Seven inmates,” Cree said, “are off-limits to you. Or did you forget that, Brell?”

Koe took a step closer, obviously not threatened by the Reaper’s stony expression and stiff stance. “I can walk her to an interview just as—”

“Captain Cree goes into the interview with me,” Bronwyn was quick to say.

A light of understanding washed over Brell’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bronwyn cut him off.

“We have Dr. Wynth’s permission. Everything is perfectly legal and within the guidelines.”

Brell cast Cree a narrowed look, as if realizing he had been defeated in this particular instance. Cree’s return look was smug and filled with victory. Upon observing their facial expressions, Bronwyn rolled her eyes.

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“Thank you for offering, Koe,” she said, glancing up at Cree who stepped out of her way so she could exit the room.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Brell called.

“Not if your gods-be-damned tongue gets pulled out, you won’t,” Cree mumbled under his breath.

“What?” Bronwyn asked as he fell into step beside her.

“Sage Hesar,” he replied, glancing at her upturned face.

“What about him?”

“Don’t you think he’s a handsome young devil?” Cree echoed Brian’s words from between clenched teeth.

Bronwyn stopped in the middle of the corridor. Cree took a few steps then turned and looked back at her.

“He doesn’t pose a challenge for you, does he?” Bronwyn asked.

Cree snorted. “The only thing Brell could challenge—”

“I’m talking about Sage.”

The Reaper’s brows drew together. “What of him?”

“You don’t feel threatened by him.”

“Hell, no, I don’t.”

Bronwyn smiled nastily. “But Koenen’s a different can of worms, isn’t he?”

The Reaper obviously realized where her reasoning had roamed and he stood, arms akimbo, gaze narrowed and looked at her.

Bronwyn arched a brow. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Aye, you are right,” he replied, his brogue thick as molasses on a cold day. “Brell
is
a can of worms.”

Bronwyn walked to him. “Are you afraid of worms, Captain? Are they a threat to you?”

They stared at one another—Cree’s attention wandering freely over her upturned face, Bronwyn’s gaze passing over then locking on his lips.

Why had she thought Koenen Brell so handsome? she wondered as she studied Cree’s rugged features. The man before her was beyond compare in the physical department. There was authority stamped on his lean face, power in the steady regard that held her transfixed. He gave off an aura of raw sexuality that brought heat to her cheeks and juices to her loins. And that tattoo! The thing was sensual in a strange sort of way. The stylized scythe almost called out to her to trace it with her fingertips. It more than added to Cree’s magnetic pull. From the soft thickness of his sable hair to the piercing gleam in the amber eyes, Viraidan Cree was pure sensuality and the signals his powerful body gave off were playing hell with her control.

“What is it you want?’ he asked.

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She looked at his lips and wanted nothing more than to feel that velvet hardness slanted across her mouth, claiming her. “What do you want?” she countered, holding her breath.

“Be careful what you wish for.” After a long pause, he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “You just might get it.”

Bronwyn stepped back, her heart thudding dangerously fast. She swallowed, trying to tamp down the growing desire making her body tingle. When she didn’t reply, he stepped back—military-style—pivoted then started walking down the corridor.

“Viraidan,” she said, hearing the rampant need in her voice, but not embarrassed by it as she might once have been.

He turned.

She lifted her chin as she drew near him. “I never wish for anything I don’t truly want,” she surprised herself saying.

That wicked half-smile she had come to recognize lifted the right side of his mouth.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Bronwyn.”

* * * * *

Koenen Brell shrugged out of his lab coat and hooked it on the clothes rack beside the door. His face twisted with fury as he slammed himself down at his desk. With his anger so intense he could barely breathe, he reached for pencil after pencil and snapped them in two, dropping the wooden carcasses on the desktop.

“Interfering bastard,” he growled, wishing each pencil he broke was the backbone of the head of security forces.

For nine years he had been waiting to meet the woman responsible for his father’s death. It had been he who had hinted to Neal Hesar that Hesar’s whore should suggest the job to her daughter. He had also been the one to put the bug in Brighton Wynth’s ear to hire Bronwyn McGregor. When news had reached him that the McGregor spawn would be coming to Baybridge, Koenen Brell had been beside himself with glee.

He had bided his time when she first arrived. Meeting too quickly would not have been to his advantage. Though it had irked him to prolong the confrontation, he had forced himself to take it slow, to let her come to him as he knew she eventually would.

“Vengeance is best served cold,” he muttered, and vengeance was what he intended to have. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the woman who had caused his father’s death.

He had lied to Bronwyn when he told her he did not blame her. In truth, he had put the blame squarely on her slender shoulders. Had it not been for her, his father would still be alive. She had been the catalyst that had set that horrid sequence into motion, and for that she must be made to pay.

While it was true he had not spoken to his father in years, Koenen Brell had worshiped the man. Despite the fact his father had seldom written and had called only 90

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a few times after abandoning his family in Perth, Koenen blamed his mother and the stupid child she had conceived for pushing away his father. To him, his father was a hero and deserved to be avenged for his untimely death.

Koenen had maneuvered himself into the job at Baybridge simply to be near the place his father had worked. He had learned all he could about the McGregor family and had put the blame of his father’s murder where it needed to be—on Bronwyn.

“If it is the last thing I do,” he snarled, “I will make you pay for taking my father from me!”

Grabbing several sheets of paper from his desk, Brell began to methodically shred them, his face twisted with rage.

“Does that really help, Koenen?”

Brell jumped, spinning around to confront whomever had spoken. He glared at a man he did not recognize. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

Danyon Hart sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. There was a tight smile on his face as he walked toward Brell. “You are I are going to become very close, Koenen,” Danyon replied, his eyes flashing crimson. “Very, very close, indeed. As a matter of fact, no one will know where you leave off and I begin!”

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Brian looked up from his desk to find Cree leaning against the doorjamb. “How’d it go with Vance?” he inquired.

Cree shrugged. “As well as could be expected.”

“That bastard is as vile as they come.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Throwing his pen to the desk blotter, Brian leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did she get through the interview okay?”

“She seemed to.”

Brian rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Is Vance still alive or has he joined Faulkner in the hereafter?”

“He was alive when I left him in his cell.”

“And functioning, was he?”

Cree rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe not functioning at peak efficiency.”

“Come in and shut the door.”

For a moment it seemed Cree would not obey the command. He looked down the corridor, then drew in a deep breath and came into the room, closing the door behind him. Without being asked, he took a seat. “You got a lecture prepared or are you going to wing it?” he grumbled, and crossed his left ankle over his right knee.

“How close to Transition are you?”

“Three weeks,” was the stony reply.

“Tell me what happens if you Transition out of cycle,” Brian commanded.

“Ah for the love of Alel!” Cree snapped. “I—”

“Tell me what happens!”

Anger settled on Cree’s handsome face. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he ground his teeth. He glared at Brian, refusing to answer.

Brian lowered his clasped hands to his desk and sat forward. “I went down to the morgue this afternoon and took a look at Jason Faulkner.”

Cree’s left foot jiggled up and down, an indication of his annoyance. His breathing—rapid and heavy—was audible.

“That was sheer terror I saw engraved on the man’s face. Whatever he saw put one helluva fierce strain on his heart and it killed him.”

They stared at one another for a long time, neither speaking. Finally, Brian leaned back.

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“If I go to Vance’s cell and look in on him, am I going to see terror on his face too, Viraidan?”

“That asshole doesn’t look any different than he did when he woke up this morning,” Cree snarled, dusting unseen lint from his trouser leg.

“But his mind’s not the same as when he crawled out of bed this morning, now is it?”

The Reaper shot up from the chair and began pacing in front of Brian’s desk. “Those two perverted excuses for human beings won’t be missed and won’t ever hurt another woman or child again! And Bronwyn won’t have to hear their vile boasting of the evil they’ve done!”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Faulkner and Vance. I am worried about you!”

“You don’t need to.”

“For every time you Transition out of cycle, another day or two is lopped off the day sequence. You know that, Viraidan!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Brian shouted. He got to his feet and shook a finger at the Reaper. “How long did you maintain the Transition? Two minutes? Five? Ten? How long did you hold it?”

“How the hell should I know?” Cree yelled. “I wasn’t counting!”

“You Transitioned twice in one day. And you didn’t take Sustenance from either victim. You held the shift without venting the bloodlust. It would have been bad enough if you’d bled them, Viraidan, but you didn’t. That puts more of a strain on the parasite and—”

“I can handle it!”

“Mark my words,” Brian grated, his lips skinned back from his teeth. “You are going to go into Transition well before you expect it, and by the gods, Viraidan, you’d better hope you’re close enough to get to the containment cell before someone sees you!”

“I will handle it,” Cree said, stressing each word.

“You better hope you do.”

Cree stalked to the door, flung it open and started out.

“And stay the hell away from Bronwyn McGregor!” Brian ordered.

Those the captain of Security Services passed in the corridor stepped back from the infuriated look on his face. They pressed themselves against the wall or hastily entered rooms they’d had no intention of entering. The few employees who had decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator regretted doing so as Cree shoved past them. He knew his warning growl frightened more than one of them.

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Once outside, the Iowa night air turning cooler as fall approached, the Reaper’s long strides took him past the parking lot and out behind the main building as he headed for the gravel path to the lake.

A twinge in his back made him flex his shoulders. When it happened again, he stopped walking, the pain finally registering. He hung his head, doubled his fists and pressed them to his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to blot out the burning sensation that had begun.

“I know,” he said, feeling the ripples of demand shifting across his kidneys.

He knew he would have to kill for Her. She was reminding him as gently as She would that he needed to make good on his promise.

He also knew, in order to kill, he would have to Transition again.

The agony intensified in his back. He bent over with the force of it, his elbows on his flexed knees.

“Give me time,” he gasped when a sharp stab of pure torture went through his right kidney. “Please, Lady!” he begged.

She held the torment for another breath or two then relented, reminding him who controlled him.

Cree’s breathing was ragged as he straightened. He knew the reprieve would not last long. Before She could renew Her physical attack on him, he turned and staggered back down the path. He was sweating profusely by the time he reached his motorcycle, moaning in agony as he swung his leg over the machine.

He needed to hunt.

For Her.

He never slowed down as he reached the security huts. There was a tracking device on his bike and his men knew he was coming. The gate was barely open as he roared between the parted chain link sections, opening the throttle as he shot down the roadway.

It was dawn when he returned, his face haggard, his eyes glazed with the bloodlust that had turned him from man to beast in order to feed the parasitic mistress that rode him. He was not wearing the same clothing he had worn when he had left Baybridge.

The tattered black uniform now lay buried in a shallow hole—near the splintered bones of the Reaper’s latest kill.

* * * * *

Bronwyn had just come out of her condo, Brownie padding spryly beside her, when she noticed the big black dog lifting its leg on the corner of the building. She hesitated, pulling gently on Brownie’s leash. The sight of such a large canine—unleashed and roaming free—unsettled her. The beast could turn, snarl and attack. Even though Brownie was a female, the animal could conceivably jump on her and clamp his 94