BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (22 page)

“Right here.” She stepped back to let him in.

“You didn’t answer your phone. And when I came by earlier there was no answer.”

“I was probably in the shower. I don’t know why, but I’ve taken three showers today.” She shrugged away her words. “Did you leave a message on the machine?”

“Aye,” he replied, getting a good look at her. Her face was haggard, her eyes dull.

“Are you sick?”

“Migraine.” She curled up on the sofa, her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

“Oh, dearling, I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

“No, don’t go. I took my meds and it should go away in a bit.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I may need you to take me to get a shot at the clinic.”

“Of course.” Brian started to take a seat in one of the two recliners flanking the sofa.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Some lemon-lime soda?”

“Sure thing.” He headed for the kitchen.

Bronwyn took the iced glass of soda when he returned. “Thanks.”

“Where’s the Old One?” he asked, looking for Cedric.

“I don’t know,” Bronwyn answered, taking a sip of the beverage. “He wasn’t here when I woke up this morning.”

“Is that like him to up and disappear like this?”

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“He never has before,” Bronwyn sighed. “I’ve been calling him and Danyon all morning, but neither has answered.”

“Perhaps they’re together.”

“Could be. I know Aoife is dying and Danyon could have needed Cedric to help ease her.”

“Aoife?”

“The woman to whom Danyon is pledged. She is close to one hundred years old and has been ill for some time.”

“You’ve met her?”

“No, but Cedric has told me about her.”

“I don’t know that much about incubi and their women,” Brian said with a shrug.

“I have a hard enough time understanding my own kind.”

“Then maybe you can tell me what I can do to help Viraidan,” she said, finishing the soda.

“You can stay away from him,” Brian grumbled.

Bronwyn closed her eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

When Brian did not reply, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Before she could say anything else, he stood.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Brian, I don’t feel like—”

“You wanted to know what you could do for him? Then come with me and I’ll show you.”

“Where?” she asked, pushing herself up.

“To the containment cell.”

Bronwyn froze, her eyes wide. “He’s Transitioning?”

“You need to see what we are. You need to understand how it is with us.”

“No,” she said, putting the glass on the coffee table. “He wouldn’t want me to see him like that without a damned good reason. Just traipsing down there to take a look when he’s vulnerable would be rotten, an invasion of his privacy.”

Brian’s brows drew together. “What difference does that make?”

“I won’t go.”

“I think you should! You seem to have this romantic notion of what—”

The ringing of his cell phone interrupted Brian.

“Hell!” he barked, reaching for the offending instrument. He unclipped it from his belt, his mouth tight, but when he saw who was calling, he felt the blood drain from his face. He hit the talk button and slapped the phone to his ear. “Brian O’Shea.”

As he listened to the caller, Brian went rigid. Sweat formed on his upper lip as his anxiety grew.

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“I’m on my way!” he declared.

“What’s wrong?” Bronwyn asked. “A patient get loose?”

“It’s Dorrie,” Brian whispered, his lips trembling. “She’s had a stroke.”

Bronwyn gasped. “Oh, Brian, no!”

“I’ve got to go to her.”

“Do you want me to drive you to the airport?”

Brian stared at her. “Airport?” he echoed, then shook his head. “I don’t think they’ll let me use the corporate jet.”

“They’d better!” she said, going to him and pushing him toward the door. She opened it for him. “I’ll call Dr. Wynth and make the arrangements.”

Brian walked into the corridor then spun around and stared at her. “He can’t be left alone!”

“Tell me what to do.”

Brian looked at the floor, his gaze shifting back and forth across the sand-colored carpet. “He has to be fed and he has to be given the tenerse when he comes out of it.”

He looked up at her. “Sage isn’t here to inject him!”

“I’ll do that,” she said firmly, and came out into the hall with him, shutting the door on a whimpering Brownie. “Tell me where the meds are.”

“He won’t like you giving him the tenerse.”

“He wouldn’t allow Sage to give it to him even if Spice Boy was here.”

Despite the turmoil boiling inside him, Brian grinned at her use of the insulting name.

“Don’t just stand there, O’Shea!” she challenged. “Tell me where you keep his Sustenance and the tenerse!”

“Ah, hell, I forgot about Ralph.”

“I’ll feed him and walk him, don’t worry. That’s the least of our problems!”

“Here’s the key to Cree’s apartment,” Brian said.

As they hurried down the corridor toward his condo, Brian watched Bronwyn out of the corner of his eye. Her willingness—some might even say eagerness—to help, to be a part of Viraidan’s life, was all the proof Brian needed to understand there would be no keeping them apart. He sighed, his mind going to Dorrie.

Perhaps the gods had made the decision for them all.

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“Sometimes the Transition lasts an hour or so, sometimes several days,” Brian explained. “It depends on whether the Reaper gets fresh, warm blood or Sustenance from the refrigeration unit.”

“Understood,” Bronwyn said.

“Since he can’t go out to hunt for fresh blood, the Transition will take longer.”

They had stopped at Brian’s apartment long enough to take a plastibag of blood from the refrigerator and to call Dr. Wynth to request the use of the jet. Wynth had said the jet would be ready in twenty minutes.

“I can’t believe they’re letting me use the Raven Jet,” Brian muttered.

“How will I know when the Transition is over?” Bronwyn asked as they left the apartment.

“I’m guessing three, maybe four days. To be on the safe side, let’s say five. It’s certainly not going to hurt him to stay in there longer than usual.”

“I don’t want to keep him in any longer than necessary. I’m guessing Viraidan is claustrophobic.”

“Aye, that he is. In spades!”

They rode the elevator to the lowest level. Bronwyn leaned against the stainless steel wall of the cage. “How do I feed him?”

“There is a security hatch through which you can pass the bags of Sustenance. You push a red button beside the cell door and a long titanium tray will slide toward you.

Place the bag on the tray then press the green button to send it into the cell. You will need to feed him every four hours. That will keep the bloodlust at its lowest level. If you don’t get to him within that time, if you take longer than five or six hours to feed him again, he’s going to be mad with hunger and that’s not a pretty sight.”

“Where do you get the Sustenance?” she asked as the elevator doors opened.

“It’s outdated blood,” Brian answered, stepping aside for her to exit the cage. “I stockpile it for us.”

“And no one questions that?”

“We keep blood on hand in case of medical emergencies here and I also get it from the local blood bank. They think I’m conducting experiments. No one has questioned me so far.”

“And the tenerse?”

“I distill that myself from the protocols given to us by the queen.”

The corridor was dimly lit and there was a strange smell in the air.

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“Reaper scent,” Brian told her. “Our urine during Transition is potent.”

Bronwyn covered her nose with her hand. “Yes, it is.”

They came to a row of three gray doors, each ten feet apart. The doors had a solid surface except for a small peephole like that on Bronwyn’s own front door.

“The peephole was specially built to encompass the entire cell,” Brian said. “I don’t know how they designed it, but there’s no distortion like you get with a fish-lens apparatus.”

They reached the farthest door.

“He’s in there.”

No sooner had the words left Brian’s mouth than the door began to vibrate. The violent thuds against it shook the walls.

“No need to be worried,” Brian said, sensing Bronwyn’s disquiet. “He can’t get out.”

Bronwyn watched Brian activate the tray and place the bag of Sustenance on it. He sent the bag into the cell. Almost immediately there was a howl of rage and the pounding on the door began again.

“I forgot you held the bag for me while I got the tenerse out of the fridge,” Brian groaned. “He smells your scent and is so gods-be-damned mad he’s ignoring the Sustenance.”

“You think he knows I’m out here?”

“Aye, but it doesn’t matter. The next time he gets the Sustenance he’ll catch the scent again and know for sure.” He looked at his watch. “You’ve got the key to my apartment?”

Bronwyn patted her pocket. “Yes, sir.”

“And you know where everything is?”

“Go, Brian. I’ve got everything covered.”

“He’s naked in there. As soon as the full Transition occurs, his clothes get shredded like so much confetti. There is a closet at the end of the hall. We keep jumpsuits in there.

Just fold one up and put it on the tray.”

“I’m sure he’ll remind me if I don’t.”

Brian hesitated, his loyalty to Cree vying with his need to go to Dorrie, the woman he loved.

“I’ll take care of him,” Bronwyn said, touching Brian’s cheek. “You know I will.”

“I know, lass.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Tell Dorrie hello for me,” she said, her voice breaking.

Brian started to say something, but turned and rushed down the corridor.

Bronwyn was tempted to go to the peephole and look in on Cree, but as soon as the thought entered her mind, the pounding grew harder.

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“It’s all right, Aidan,” she said softly. “I’m not going to look.”

The pounding stopped abruptly.

She laid her hand on the door’s slick surface. “I’ll be back later.”

Bronwyn walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks—tears for Dorrie, for Brian, for the man whose tortured soul was revealed once more in the inhuman howl of misery that penetrated the thick concrete walls.

Twice more she came down to the containment cells that afternoon, but all was quiet behind the titanium doors. She sent the plastibag through then stood at the door.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

There was no sound from behind the door.

She laid her head against the door. “You’re angry. You don’t understand why Brian sent me down here. It wasn’t to hurt you.”

The silence beyond the door continued.

She moved away. “I was supposed to have an appointment with Rose Ann Danvers this afternoon, but—”

The walls thundered with powerful hits against them.

Bronwyn smiled. She knew that would get a reaction.

“I said I was
supposed
to have an appointment with her, Aidan. But since you won’t be able to go with me, I’ve postponed it until next week.”

There was a few seconds of silence then a single slap against the door.

Bronwyn laughed. “Temper, temper.” She walked back to the door and touched it.

“I hope you’re happy that I’m going to be up all night trotting down here every four hours to feed you. Now I know how new mothers feel.”

Silence.

Bronwyn drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. She touched the door once more and left.

* * * * *

For the next three days, every four hours like clockwork, Bronwyn made her trek to the containment cell. No matter what she had been doing, she dropped it to take care of Cree. But no matter what she said or how she provoked him, he remained silent, uncommunicative. There were no more hits on the door, no more howls. She was tempted several times to look in on him to make sure he was all right, but knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. She would wait the five days then risk a glance through the peephole.

On the morning of the fourth day, she was getting dressed when the phone rang.

She glanced at the wall clock in the bathroom—it was a quarter to five—and wondered who could be calling that early. Normally she didn’t get up until seven, but since she’d 135

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been feeding the Reaper, her schedule had been vastly altered. Her one, five and nine treks to the containment cell would not be missed, she thought as she picked up the phone.

“Dr. McGregor,” she answered.

There was no reply.

“Hello. This is Dr. McGregor.”

Then a lost, forlorn voice said, “She’s gone.”

Bronwyn pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Brian?”

“My Dorrie’s gone, Bronnie,” he said in a cracked voice.

“Oh, Brian.” Tears filled Bronwyn’s eyes. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

“They want me to… They said I had to…” He broke down, sobbing loudly.

“Where are you, Brian?”

“Hospital…”

“Is there someone there with you?”

“Aye.”

“Can you put them on the phone?”

There was a rustling sound, a few low words then a woman’s voice came on the line. “Four East, Mrs. Wilton.”

“Mrs. Wilton, I’m Dr. McGregor. I’m a friend of Dr. O’Shea’s. Were you Mrs.

Cullen’s nurse?”

The woman acknowledged she had been then reported the particulars of Dorrie’s death. Ignoring her own tears, Bronwyn could hear Brian’s quiet sobbing in the background.

“He’s not dealing with this well,” Mrs. Wilton said with no little annoyance.

“I take it you need someone to handle the funeral arrangements.”

“Well, someone needs to.”

Bronwyn ground her teeth and grabbed a pen to write down the number of the local funeral home the nurse provided. When she had the information, she told the nurse to put Brian on the line.