BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (18 page)

“You made their day,” Bronwyn said as she walked up to him. She heard Brian let out a long, hard sigh as he followed in her wake.

“Good morning, Bronwyn,” Cree said, ignoring her comment.

“I was surprised to see you here. I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

A muscle bunched in his taut cheek. “A part of me is anyway.”

“Are you going down for coffee and rolls?”

Cree looked over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, Bronwyn caught Brian’s stern shake of the head. Before she could say anything, Cree told her he wasn’t.

“How ‘bout joining us for supper, then?” she asked, giving Brian a look of her own.

“Thank you, but I have business in Iowa City,” Cree responded.

“Some other time, then?”

He shrugged carelessly before heading across the street toward his motorcycle, parked in the religious education center’s parking lot. Bronwyn watched him sprint between oncoming cars and up the grassy incline. When Cree swung his leg over his bike, Bronwyn felt a ripple of desire drive straight through her belly.

“Great God Almighty,” she whispered.

“What?” Brian asked.

“Nothing. Don’t do that again, Brian.”

“Do what?”

“I saw you warn him off.”

Brian’s lips tightened. “He’s not the man for you.”

“You throw Sage Hesar at me like he’s manna from heaven but Viraidan is off-limits?”

“Something like that,” Brian mumbled.

“Well, I’ve got news for you, Brian O’Shea,” Bronwyn snapped. “Maybe I don’t like white bread. Maybe I like rye!”

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* * * * *

The message light was blinking on Bronwyn’s phone when she got home but she ignored it. She was so annoyed with Brian, she had told him she’d changed her mind about fixing supper for the two of them and had left him standing at the curb, his mouth open.

Brownie, stretched out on Bronwyn’s mattress, lifted her head to watch her mistress undress.

“Men are idiots!” Bronwyn asserted as she dragged the blouse out of her skirt.

After tossing clothes about until she found the long T-shirt dress that she lounged around in after work, Bronwyn slammed the closet door and stalked into the living room, Brownie close on her heels.

“Give them an inch and they’ll take a frigging mile!” Bronwyn snarled as she went into the kitchen.

“Who did what to whom this time?” Cedric asked, looking up from the sink where he was opening a can of cat food.

“Leave me alone, Ceddie. I’m in no mood to discuss the stupidities of men who think they know what’s best for me!”

“Ah, we’re talking about Cree.” Cedric took a fork from the drawer and began ladling the cat food into his mouth.

“That,” Bronwyn said, her nose crinkled, “is disgusting.”

“No, this is my lunch.” He plopped another large morsel into his mouth, grinned and began chewing.

“Yuck!” Bronwyn went into the living room and slumped down on the sofa.

“Did it ever occur to you that Cree isn’t interested in you?” Cedric asked from the kitchen door. He leaned against the jamb and continued to scoop his meal from the can.

“You’ve tried hints and that didn’t work. If you run after him, that’s only going to push him farther away.”

“Then what the hell do you suggest I do? And just why the hell do you care since you and Brian were discussing keeping him away from me in the first place?”

“That Australian left a message on your talking machine,” Cedric said, scraping the last of the cat food from the can. “He wants to take you out next Friday night.”

“It’s an answering machine, not a talking machine, and so what?”

“The quickest way to interest a human male is to enflame his ego,” Cedric remarked as he licked the fork clean.

“What are you talking about?”

“Perhaps I was a bit erroneous in my thinking,” the aged Nightwind suggested.

“I’ve been sitting here thinking I should not discourage you from seeing the Reaper.”

“Why not?” Bronwyn asked suspiciously.

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“Well,” Cedric said, putting the can and fork on a kitchen counter, “the best way to show you Cree is not the man for you is to allow you to see him socially. Once you see he’s nothing more than an uncouth, unsophisticated and dull beast, you’ll get over this ridiculous infatuation.”

Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “Infatuation?”

“Ah, hell, Bronwyn,” Cedric stated with a dismissive wave of his frail hand, “you women go all goo-goo-eyed over that bad-boy persona. Best you learn it’s not a romantic thing but a dangerous personality you’re dealing with.”

“And me going out with Koe Brell will accomplish what?”

“It’ll make the Reaper jealous, if he is at all interested in you.”

Bronwyn thought about it. Maybe Cedric was right. Cree had shown a decided streak of jealousy where Koenen was involved. What would it hurt to tweak that jealousy a bit?

“And Danyon wouldn’t like it,” Cedric remarked.

“Like what?”

“You dating that Brell man.” Cedric cocked an eyebrow. “He’s with Aoife right now and won’t be back for another day or so.”

Annoying Danyon had never entered her mind. She spent little time in thinking about the Nightwind, and none at all worrying about what did and did not concern him. To her, he was a necessary evil that came along with having Cedric as her companion.

“What would it hurt to go out with the Brell fellow?” Cedric asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then call him back and say you’ll accompany him. The place he wants to take you sounds interesting.”

Bronwyn chewed on her thumbnail for a moment then made up her mind. “If this turns to crap, I’ll blame you.” She got up and went to the desk.

Cedric shrugged. “You will anyway, dearling.”

She punched the button and listened as Koenen Brell told her about a supper club in downtown Des Moines called the Triskelion.

“It’s a converted warehouse with brick walls and wood floors. There are three sections of the club and they’re shaped like the triskele. Know what I mean?” he asked in his thick Auzzie brogue.

Bronwyn pushed the pause button and turned to Cedric. “What’s he talking about?”

“He’s referring to the ancient Celtic symbol for earth, sea and sky.”

“Oh,” she said, and started the message playing again.

“The bar spirals off to one side, the supper tables to another and the bar tables to the third. The dance floor is a large triangle in the center,” Koe told her. “The food is 108

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great and the atmosphere has to be experienced. I know you like Celtic music and that’s all they play there. You have to go, Bronwyn! Give me a call and tell me what time to pick you up.”

Cedric chuckled. “Great close.”

“If anyone should know about that,” Bronwyn said dryly, “it’s you, Mr. I-Buy-Everything-I-See-On-Infomercials.”

“We needed a widget that dices, pares and cubes raw meat.” Cedric sniffed. “No self-respecting meat eater should be without one.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Take the man up on his offer. What have you got to lose?”

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The Triskelion was crowded when Bronwyn and Koenen arrived. Customers were milling around in the lobby, drinks in hand, waiting for a table. Some looked resigned to what might be a long wait but a few were obviously angry, impatiently glancing at their watches, scowling at those around them.

“If you don’t have a reservation on Friday nights, you’re screwed,” Brell remarked.

With a hand to her back, he ushered Bronwyn past a group of yuppie types. He smiled at the reservations girl who stood like a sentinel between those gathered and the dimly lit supper club beyond. “Table for two for Brell.”

The girl checked her clipboard, running her finger down the list of names, and seemed relieved to find what she was looking for. She smiled. “Your table is ready, Dr.

Brell.”

“How come this asshole gets right in and we’ve been waiting for a damned hour?”

a frizzy-haired woman demanded, her eyes spiteful.

Koenen came toe to toe with the woman. “Could be,” he said, his voice icy, “you have godawful hair and my lady doesn’t. Or it could be because you’re butt-ugly and she isn’t. Whatcha think?”

The woman’s narrowed eyes flared, her mouth dropped open, closed and opened again.

“Has anyone ever said you look like a largemouth bass when you do that?” Koenen inquired with a wink and a cluck of his tongue.

The woman gasped in outrage, sputtered and turned to the man beside her. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Gregory?”

Gregory shrugged and looked away.

“Right this way, Doctor,” the reservations girl said, obviously trying not to laugh.

Bronwyn glanced back at the woman, snarling vulgarities and insults at her companion. “You are terrible, Koe,” Bronwyn quipped.

“I don’t suffer stupidity gladly,” he commented as they reached their table.

“I can see that.” Bronwyn took the chair he held out for her.

Koenen sat across from her. “Women like that drive me crazy.”

“She was rude.”

“And classless and vulgar and myriad other epithets I could hurl at her hideous hairdo.”

Their waitress appeared, handed them the dinner menus then took their drink orders.

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“For as long a wait as there appears out there,” Bronwyn commented, “the service is very prompt.”

“As I said, the regulars never have a problem getting in on the weekends. We know to reserve our tables.” He shook the folds from his napkin. “Otherwise, you may not get in at all. I’ll venture to say the Frizz Queen won’t be enjoying the hospitality of the Triskelion this evening.”

Bronwyn looked around the cozy room. There were thick beams overhead with old cogwheels attached to pulleys that no doubt had served mechanical purposes at one time but which now were used as giant plant hangars. One wall of windows looked out into a courtyard filled with trees and shrubs adorned with tiny white lights. A large fountain sat in the center of the courtyard with park benches to either side. Above the central dance floor, a huge stained glass atrium reflected the light of the full moon.

“This is lovely,” she said.

“Yes, it is.” Koenen reached for hand. “Almost as lovely as you.”

Bronwyn eased her hand from under his and continued her inspection of the room.

As she scanned the small crowd of customers, she was stunned to see Viraidan Cree at a table near the dance floor. He was sitting hunched over the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a nearly full mug of what looked like dark ale. He was staring into the mug and his face was grim, his lips tight.

Bronwyn silently called his name, wondering if he was capable of “hearing” her in the noisy room. He looked up and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met, held as the Celtic music swirled around them. For a long time, they stared at one another, then the Reaper’s gaze shifted to Brell and narrowed. He blinked and turned away, lifting his mug to drain it.

“Bronwyn?” Koenen questioned, waving a hand in front of her face.

Bronwyn flinched, heat flooding her cheeks for she’d forgotten all about her date.

She jerked her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Koenen looked behind him. “What’s so engrossing back there?”

Bronwyn couldn’t refrain from looking toward Cree’s table and was surprised to find it empty. She felt keen disappointment plummet to the bottom of her stomach. “I-I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Anyone I’d know, too?” Koenen inquired as their waitress arrived with their drinks.

“I wouldn’t think so,” she lied.

A lively ballad started from the band and a young woman with long, curly red hair and dressed in a short black skirt and white silk blouse took the stage. As the woman’s feet began moving in the tapping rhythms of a lively Irish step dance, Bronwyn and Koenen joined the other patrons in keeping time by clapping.

“Do you step dance?” he called out over the music.

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“Lord, no!” Bronwyn laughed.

“I know DeeDee does.”

“She took lessons as a girl. I, on the other hand, have two left feet when it comes to tap dancing.” She took a sip of her Bloody Maria. “How ‘bout you?”

Koenen chuckled. “Elephants can dance better than me. I hate dancing. I can’t even do the two-step.”

“Why do you come here if you don’t like to dance?”

“For the atmosphere and the wonderful food you’re going to enjoy.”

Bronwyn had hoped to take a turn on the dance floor. Her regret obviously showed.

“Want me to find someone to trip the light fantastic with you?” Koenen inquired.

Bronwyn was saved from answering when Koenen’s pager went off. He cursed as he unclipped it from his belt. Reading the calling number, he frowned. “Damn it! I asked them not to bother me unless the world was coming to an end!”

“Baybridge?”

“I’m sorry.” Koenen angrily folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I need to see what they want.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said as he got to his feet.

“The damned buildings better be on the verge of collapse, is all I can say.”

Bronwyn watched him stalk toward the lobby where she’d seen the phones. His shoulders were bunched and she was glad it wasn’t she who had called him. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to look once more at the spot where Cree had been sitting.

Finding even the mug gone caused deeper disappointment.

Loud applause rang out when the dancer finished her number with a high kick and a rapid tattoo of her tap-studded toes on the parquet. While showing her own appreciation of the dancer’s talent, Bronwyn felt hands on her shoulders. Soft warmth invaded her ear along with the words, “Let’s dance.”

She turned and blinked. Cree was standing there. He held out his hand.

Moving as though she was in a dream, Bronwyn put her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to the dance floor. As they reached it, the music started. Bronwyn tensed, trying to pull away, but he would not allow it. He swept her into his arms—one hand firmly at her back, her right hand clutched tightly in his.