BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (21 page)

“You thwarted me this evening, Bronwyn. Had the Reaper not appeared, I would have seduced you in the form of Koenen Brell and made you mine once and for all. I went to much trouble to take Brell’s worthless life and assume his unpleasant shape. I 124

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

saved you from his vile plan to destroy you but what thanks did I get? The least you could have done was spend one night with me!”

Bronwyn was in thrall, and when Danyon’s hands moved to the front of her gown, she could not protest the liberties he took. She barely felt the cool air wash over her as he removed her gown, and she didn’t flinch when he stood and removed his clothing.

Though the weight of his body covered hers, and his hands grew insistent upon her flesh, she made no sound. The heat of him pressed into her, sinking her into the soft comfort of the mattress, yet she experienced no fear. She was a mannequin for him to move and mold as he saw fit. Totally detached from what was happening, she lay at the mercy of the Nightwind.

“Put your arms around me,” he ordered, his knee between her thighs.

She did as she was told, bringing him tightly to her breast.

“You will feel great ecstasy in my arms, beloved. The passion within you will rage.”

The first faint stirrings of desire rippled through Bronwyn’s body. She squirmed beneath him, arching her hips to implement his invasion.

“You are mine,” he whispered against his ear. He placed himself at the entrance of her womanhood. “You will revel in my lovemaking and feel the power of it.”

She began to pant with need, bringing up her legs to clasp his waist.

With a low chuckle of victory, Danyon entered her, going deep within her sheath, impaling her on the thrust of his desire.

He rode her hard, bringing her to mindless release, her scream of fulfillment bringing a howl of satisfaction from his throat. She clung to him, her nails digging deep furrows into his back but he seemed only to revel in the pain.

Long after he had left her—his instructions as clear in her mind as the soft daylight filtering in through the blinds—Bronwyn felt the thrill of his touch, the satiation of a need she had long waited to have.

“You will not deny me when I come to you as Koenen Brell,” he had whispered to her, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her naked belly. “We will see one another when I—”

He stopped and cocked his head, as if hearing a call Bronwyn could not hear. His lips drew back over teeth that elongated into savage fangs, and he hissed and cursed in obviously frustration. “No, Aoife! Not now!”

But whatever pulled at him must have been too strong, for he readied to leave.

“Remember nothing of this night,” he told Bronwyn. “Remember only that when Koenen Brell comes to you, you will do whatever he bids. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Danyon had kissed her long and hard, his tongue raping her mouth with deep possession. With his brand of ownership still seeping from beneath her quivering legs, he left her, wantonly spread upon the bed where he had defiled her.

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When she came to herself midway through the morning, she heard the ringing of the phone beside her bed. In the cocooned stupor from which she had to drag herself, she could not find the energy to reach for the phone. She listened as the machine answered in the living room but was not overly curious to know who was calling. With what little vitality she had left, she pulled the cover over her nakedness and went back to sleep, wondering vaguely why Cedric was not in the rocking chair.

* * * * *

Viraidan Cree had slept harder than he could ever remember, but his restless tossing had completely denuded his bed of covering. The sheets lay crumpled on the floor, the coverlet hung precariously over the footboard. The black silk sleep pants he wore were plastered to his legs. His bare chest glistened with sweat.

He felt groggy and his head hurt something fierce. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his belly rumbled with a slight cramp.

“What the gods-be-damned hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, pushing up and attacking his pillow as though it was an enemy. He plowed his hands through his hair, tugging at the thick mass.

Sitting up had made his head swim and he reached behind to grab the headboard.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the vertigo to pass. When he opened his eyes, he saw the glass sitting on his bed stand.

For a moment he was puzzled, then he groaned and mentally kicked himself. It all came back to him in a rush of self-contempt—going to the liquor store at the mini-mall, demanding the clerk give him the most potent bottle on the shelves.

“I want to forget everything!” Cree had snarled.

“Well, there’s Sharp Image,” the clerk responded. “That stuff is ninety-eight proof.”

“Proof of what?” Cree spat.

The clerk laughed. “How stupid a man can be when he drinks it. If getting blitzed is what you want, that’ll sure do the trick.”

Obviously it had.

The liquor had been awful, its fumes working on Cree’s supersensitive olfactory nerves even before he took the first drink. He had forced himself to swallow the godawful mess, which burned a path down his gullet—far worse tasting than Brian’s whiskey—and had filled his glass several times before the pleasant sense of floating lulled him into thinking he could pass the night comfortably numb.

“The hell with you, Bronwyn McGregor,” he had grumbled as he climbed into bed with the bottle and glass, “and your condemnation of what I helped do to Ski’Ah!”

Perhaps the night had been passed in comfortable detachment—the ever-present image of Ski’Ah burning to her death—but the morning was bringing with it a throbbing agony between his temples and a belly that was on fire.

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When he belched, the taste of the grain alcohol flooded his mouth and he gagged.

He shot up from the bed as though launched from a rocket sled.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he retched into the toilet until his insides felt as though they would squeeze out through his gasping mouth. The residual liquor bubbled into his nose, burning like hell and dropped him to his knees to clutch the porcelain stool.

“Sweet Alel,” he groaned, his long hair falling over his face.

Ralph padded into the bathroom and stood between the tub and toilet, his dark gaze intent on the Reaper.

“Dying,” Cree said, then gagged. More fluid than he thought he could possibly have inside his body exploded from his throat.

“Humphf,” Ralph replied with what might well have been doggie disgust.

Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Cree would not have believed what Ralph did. The dog loped over to the linen closet, nosed open the door, stood on his hind legs to reach an upper shelf, took a washrag in his mouth and dropped back to all fours.

Carrying the rag to the vanity, he stood again, dropped the washrag in the sink, managed to grip the cold water handle with his teeth and pull it toward him to turn on the water. It was a wet, soggy mess that he brought over to Cree, but the Reaper greatly appreciated the effort.

Ralph sat on his haunches as Cree dragged the dripping cloth over his pale face.

“Humphf?”

“Aye, I feel better,” Cree managed to admit. He sat cross-legged on the floor and leaned his head against the wall. “But I’m still dying.”

“Humphf!” Ralph snorted with a yawn.

“‘Not likely’, my ass. I am dying here, dog.”

The ringing of the phone brought instant agony to Cree’s head and he slapped his hands over his ears.

If dogs could smirk, Ralph smirked as he padded into the living room. He reappeared with the satellite phone between his jaws, dropping the instrument into his master’s lap.

The chirp of the phone brought tears to Cree’s eyes but he was able to lower one hand from his ear and grab the implement of torture. “What?” he whined in a pitiful voice.

“Where is Bronwyn?” Brian queried.

“I don’t know,” Cree whimpered, the sound of his voice excruciating.

“I’ve called her apartment all morning and there’s no answer,” Brian grumbled.

“Did she come home last night or spend it with Brell?”

“No Brell.”

“What?” When Cree didn’t answer, Brian asked again, his voice harsh and louder.

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“No, Brian, no,” Cree moaned. “Don’t do that.”

There was a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “What did you drink?”

“Proof,” was all Cree could remember.

Another silence then Brian snorted. “Fool. I’m on my way over there.”

Cree was still sitting beside the toilet, his head against the wall, a death grip on the phone when Brian came into the bathroom and hoisted him to his feet.

“What a gods-be-damned mess you’ve made,” Brian accused. “Well, you’ll be the one to have to clean it up!”

Taking Cree into the living room, Brian shoved him onto the sofa, ignoring the Reaper’s gasp of pain. “Here,” he said, picking up a plastic squeeze bottle he’d obviously brought with him. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind what it is, just drink it!”

The lavender brew smelled awful and the taste wasn’t much better, but almost instantly the heavy throbbing inside his head and the bitter taste in his mouth disappeared. The nausea fled almost as quickly and his mind began to clear.

“What was that?” Cree asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“Cechanz. One of the drugs the queen told us about.”

“The gods bless Her spiny little heart.”

“What happened? You get mad because Bronnie went out with Mr. Down Under?”

Cree laid his head on the back of the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I brought her home, Brian.”

Brian stilled, his eyes flaring. “From where?”

“The Triskelion.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

The lavender medicine had done its job so that Brian’s shout did not cause Cree the agony it would have five minutes before. Cree sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“You just happened to be there? When have you ever gone to the Tris?”

“There’s always a first time.”

“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from her?”

Cree didn’t answer. He lay sprawled on the sofa, his long legs stuck out in front of him.

Brian looked toward the bedroom. “Is she in there?”

“No.”

Ignoring the reply, Brian got up and checked anyway. He came back, his lips pursed. “I went by her apartment on the way here and she didn’t answer the door.”

“Maybe she’s with her mother.”

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“DeeDee went to Europe last week with Neal and Sage Hesar, or did you forget that?”

“Then maybe she went to Rebecca Woods. They’ve become good friends.”

“I tried there. Rebecca’s husband said she’s in Chicago at the King Tut exhibit this weekend.”

“Well, maybe she went for a walk,” Cree said, exasperated. “How the hell would I know?”

“I’ve been worried about her all night.”

Cree raised his head and looked at the older man. “I’d know if something was wrong with her.”

“You would? Drunk out of your mind? Thinking clearly and able to hear her if she needed you?” Before Cree could answer, Brian snorted. “Oh, I forgot you have her blood indexed within you. You should be totally aware of anything that goes on with her, right?”

“Brian—”

“I don’t have such a connection to her! And I’m worried!”

“All right!” Cree yelled. He shot up from the sofa. “Let’s find her, then!”

Halfway to the door, Cree stopped and a hard shudder ran through his body. He stumbled, clutched a floor lamp to keep from falling even as Brian made a grab for him.

When the older man touched Cree, he groaned. “Oh, Alel, not now!”

Cree was hot as fire, the vibratory waves of a pending Transition rippling through his flesh faster than ever.

Throwing his arm around the Reaper, Brian pulled him out the door and down the corridor to the elevator, slapping angrily at the button until the doors peeled back.

Thrusting a sweating, panting Cree inside, Brian pushed the button to the lower level.

“It was the alcohol,” Brian said, “and the Transitioning out of cycle that brought this on.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Cree whispered, his body beginning to twist with the fiery agony spreading through his organs.

“You are an ungrateful young sot.”

Cree gasped in torment as his limbs twisted and popped, the bones elongating and the joints cracking. Thick, wiry hair began shooting up from his flesh and the smell of it was musky in the close confines of the elevator.

“Hold on,” Brian begged, obviously hoping to get Cree to the containment cell before full bloodlust Transition occurred.

The elevator stopped. Both Reapers stumbled down the corridor toward the cell, Cree bent over with the pain in his belly. As Brian grunted beneath Cree’s weight, Cree whimpered in excruciating pain.

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Opening the containment cell door was easy, but Brian had to wrestle Cree into the room, shoving him to the floor. He slammed the door shut as fast as he could, for the bloodlust had come fully on the man in the cell. Howls of rage shook the walls. Cree sprang at the door, pummeling it with black leathery fists and scraping lethal talons down the steel surface. Even though Cree crashed into the door with all his brutal strength, the thickness of the walls and door muffled the sound.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Brian hung his head, exhausted and unnerved by the quick out-of-sequence Transition that could have been a disaster had he not been there to see to Viraidan Cree. He slumped against the wall, panting and ran a trembling hand across his mouth.

“Too close,” he said, feeling the thunderous vibrations hitting the wall behind him.

“Too close.”

* * * * *

Brian knocked one last time on Bronwyn’s door and was about to turn away when he heard the lock click. When the door opened and he saw her standing there, he relaxed. “Where’ve you been, sweeting?”