BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (11 page)

When the pleasure in his loins increased and his shaft grew harder still, he realized it was more than memory and his bodily needs bringing about the erection. He felt the tugging on his shaft, the slick moistness sliding up and down its length, felt phantom teeth nipping at his scrotum.

“No!” he bellowed.

Before him the mist rose up, solidified and she was there, grinning, her long black hair like a cloak about her naked body. She held her heavy, full breasts in her hands, caressing them, inviting him to taste the milky fluid oozing from her nipples.

He backed up until his flesh was plastered to the slick shower wall and stared at the apparition in absolute horror.

“I am told I am the very image of my ancestor,” she purred. “Am I?”

“Ski’Ah,” he whispered, fear straining his throat.

“Aye. I am Ski’Ah incarnate and I have come for you, warrior.”

She reached out to touch him. As she did, the bathroom door crashed open and fifty pounds of snarling animal bolted into the room.

The Amazeen screamed, her arms coming up to cover her face. In the blink of an eye, her form disappeared, leaving behind a noxious scent that brought tears to Cree’s eyes.

He hunkered in the shower, the icy water now enveloping him. Shivering uncontrollably, he barely felt the dog climb into the shower and press itself close.

“Humphf!”

Cree bent forward, burying his face in the dog’s wet fur.

64

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

Danyon paced the glade, waiting for the Amazeen to join him. His face was set into hard lines of anger, for the Bugul Noz had informed him of what had happened in the Reaper’s apartment.

“Had I not been there, she would have snatched him up and carried him away,”

Ordin Gver said.

The Nightwind snarled, fury turning his handsome face to a mask of evil. “I knew not to trust her.”

“You were wise to send me to shadow the Reaper. She came close last evening, but sensing me, she did not materialize.”

“What do you think of our filthy Reaper?” Danyon inquired.

“I fooled him easily. He is completely unaware of my true identity,” the Bugul Noz replied with a chuckle. “He is no more intelligent than a piece of quartz, but he is likeable enough.”

“Not to the Amazeen,” Danyon snorted.

“Do not let her know you suspect her dishonesty.”

“I have no intention of letting her know anything! She could have ruined everything this night!” He looked at the Bugul Noz. “Why are you smiling?”

Ordin took a long pull on his pipe. “It amuses me that I like the Reaper well enough to keep him safe for you, friend.”

Danyon turned to thank the Bugul Noz and found himself looking into the eyes of the black dog named Ralph. “You have grown adept at shape-shifting, Gver.”

Ordin materialized, his hideous face stretched in a happy grin. “I rather like it,” he admitted, drawing smoke deep into his lungs. “Thank you for teaching me the art.”

Danyon waved aside the gratitude. “Be careful how you use it, though. You are vulnerable when you shift into a form not your own. Only a powerful magiksayer could bring you back and there are few of them left. Remember, an enemy could dispatch you with ease.”

“I have no enemies,” the Bugul Noz boasted. He cocked his head to one side. “Can you die, Nightwind?”

“Not in the way you mean, no. Unlike the Reaper, I can walk through the hottest fire and never be kissed by the flames. Although I do not like water, I cannot be drowned in it. Take my head and all you’ll get is an angry incubus who will rejuvenate and come after you with a fury you cannot comprehend. No, Nightwinds cannot die, my friend. Nightwinds are ageless.”

65

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You are invincible?” the Bugul Noz asked, astonishment rife in his voice.

“Not entirely. Should I be challenged by another Nighwind and lose that challenge, he could send me to the Abyss to remain forever or else bind me to him in slavery as I bound Cedric. But since there are no Nightwinds more powerful than I, that is not a concern for me.”

“So you have no powerful enemies to cause you grief.” Ordin chuckled. “Unlike the Reaper, with his stinking bounty hunter.”

A wide grin slipped over Danyon’s face. “You say she appeared afraid of you?”

Ordin laughed. “She wasn’t merely afraid, friend. She was terrified. Instinct tells me the Amazeen fear such beasties. This is why she did not bother the Reaper when he lay defenseless on the roadway.”

“Had you not been there, I might not have the leverage I will need. Thank you.”

Danyon clapped the Bugul Noz’s back.

The Amazeen’s stench reached them and Ordin got hastily to his feet. “Your harpy comes, friend. I will return to my master now. He has a female he is to introduce me to tomorrow.” He chuckled.

Before Danyon could reply, the Bugul Noz vanished, leaving behind the wafting aroma of his pipe.

Ski’Ah’s scent was worse than it had been on the two previous occasions Danyon had encountered her. The horrendous odor made him ill. He brought the tail of his shirt to his nose to block the stench.

“I forget you have such sensitive smell,” Ski’Ah complained as she materialized.

Danyon gasped. “I would appreciate it if you would not forget.”

“Here,” she said and the scent of jasmine wafted through the air. “Better?”

“Much,” he mumbled, lowering the cloth from his nose.

“Why did you call me?” she asked, wariness hovering in her sapphire eyes.

“I have learned something that might prove useful.”

“To me or to you?” she inquired, searching his gaze.

“To us both, I think.” He indicated a nearby log. When she declined the offer to sit, he began pacing in front of the fire the Bugul Noz had built. “I have learned the human part of Cree was responsible for a death that will plague him for the rest of eternity.”

Ski’Ah frowned. “Why should that concern us?”

“He was greatly distressed with the knowledge.”

“Whom did he kill?” she asked in a bored tone.

“His child.”

Her mouth dropped open. She took a step toward Danyon. “His child?”

“Sean Cullen, the human part of Cree, was responsible for a bomb that blew his child to so much dust.”

66

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

“A girl child or a boy child?”

“What difference—?”

“A girl or boy?” Ski’Ah screeched.

“A boy.”

“Oh,” she said, relaxing. “That is of no import, then.”

“It
is
to the human inside Cree.”

“Perhaps, but it means nothing to me.”

Danyon bit his tongue to keep from cursing the Amazeen. His hands curled into fists at his side and he willed himself not to attack her.

“This is one more nail to pound into his flesh, Ski’Ah. He is feeling remorse.”

“He felt no such remorse earlier this eve when I…”

“What?” Danyon asked, watching her face.

She shrugged. “When I listened in on his conversation with a beast he has taken in to live with him.”

“A beast?” Danyon asked and frowned deeply.

“Aye. What of it?”

“A black dog?”

She nodded slowly. “Is that significant?”

“Best you do not encounter such a hell-spawned dog.”

Fear clouded the Amazeen’s eyes. “Why?”

“When a dearg duls takes a black canine as his familiar, the beast is there to protect him. It will make hash of any that would lay hands to its master.”

“We Amazeen do not like canines. They are filthy creatures, given to evil habits. We keep felines, but canines…” She shook her head. “They are to be avoided.”

“On this world, they are demons in disguise. Harm one and you will come back in the next life as one.”

Ski’Ah shuddered. “A fate worse than any I could conceive.”

Danyon turned away to hide his smile. “Or I.”

“It is good I did not enter the Reaper’s abode, eh?”

“Aye.”

Ski’Ah walked to the log and sat down. For a long time, she said nothing then sighed. “How can we use the human’s guilt to our advantage, Nightwind?” she asked, staring into the flames.

“I have not decided yet, but as soon as I do, I will let you know. I simply wanted you to know I had discovered this weakness in Cree.”

She nodded, apparently deep in thought. As her mind roiled with emotions, the stench rose up from her in pulsing waves. Danyon gagged and backed away.

67

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Forgive me,” she said.

“I will take my leave of you now, lovely lady,” he mumbled. “Be careful until we meet again.”

When she looked up, he was gone.

* * * * *

Brian handed Cree a full glass of amber-colored liquid. “Drink it straight down.”

“What is it?” Cree asked, sniffing at the glass.

“Just drink it and then we’ll talk.”

The phone had rung just as Brian was sitting down to watch his favorite comedy on television. With two liters of ginger ale, a huge bowl of buttered popcorn beside him, along with chips and salsa, a bag of marshmallows, a box of chocolate-covered cherries, an eighteen-inch stick of pepperoni, four bags of spicy-hot bacon rinds and a carton of freeze-dried figs, he was looking forward to a relaxing evening with “Reaper Comfort Food”, as Viraidan called it. But Cree’s strained voice had put an immediate end to Brian’s plans.

Cree grimaced at the tart smell coming from the liquid, but lifted the glass and drained it, swallowing convulsively. He began to cough as soon as the liquid was down his throat and Brian had to slap him on the back.

“What the hell was that?” Cree gasped, his eyes watering.

“Irish whiskey. Eight ounces of the best alcohol County Cork has to offer.”

“Reapers can’t drink alcohol.”

“One just did.” Brian chuckled and folded his arms. “And I’m anxious to see what it will do to you.”

“You don’t know?” Cree questioned, his eyes wide.

“Tell me about the Amazeen,” Brian said, ignoring the question.

“She defiled me,” Cree snarled, visibly shuddering.

Brian grinned. “Send her to me next time.”

Cree knew Brian was joking but it bothered him nevertheless. “She’ll not bother you. You have a mate.”

“So do you.”

“No, mine—”

“
Sean’s
mate,” Brian interrupted.

“Obviously that means nothing to Ski’Ah,” Cree snapped. “She still laid hands to me, vile bitch that she is.”

“You need to tell me how you know this woman and what she wants from you.”

Cree shook his head and he sat back, obviously not displeased with the sensation he was feeling.

68

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

“Ah,” Brian said, smiling. “The whiskey is beginning to work its magic.”

“I feel calm, Brian.”

“A side effect of really
good
Irish whiskey.”

Cree sat for a moment then tears pooled in his eyes. “I am sad.”

“Another side effect of the whiskey. I once heard a priest call it ‘Irish Confession Juice’.”

“The baby,” Cree whispered. “Our baby.”

Brian took a deep breath. “Let it out, son.”

Cree looked at him. “I can’t.” His words were a plea for understanding.

“I think you can.”

“No, it isn’t permitted.”

“Who will know, Seannie?”

It was the name—spoken gently—that brought the first tear cascading down Viraidan Cree’s cheek.

“The gods forgive me!” Cree whispered, then covered his face with his hands.

Brian watched as the Reaper’s shoulders shook with sobs. He listened to the keening that came from the very soul of the creature sitting across from him. He made no move to comfort Cree, to touch him. He merely allowed the man to vent the grief and guilt that permeated his being.

Cree lay on the sofa, his back to Brian, and curled into a fetal ball, his hands thrust between his legs. He buried his face in the fold between the sofa’s back and seat and cried.

Softly, Brian began to speak. “When they brought your body back to Fuilgaoth, I was beyond grief. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t let them see my pain. I knew Dunne would try to revive you and, if the burns had not been so bad, they would have succeeded. I would have had my son back. To lose a child is one of the hardest things in the world for a father to bear.”

“I murdered my child,” Cree sobbed.

“You did, or Sean did?”

“I did.”

“Then are you ready to admit that you and Sean are the same man?” Brian asked the question without scorn. He crossed his ankle over his right knee and waited for the answer.

Many minutes passed before the Reaper turned onto his back. He flung his arm over his eyes, drew up his knees and lay there until there were no more hitches in his breathing.

“I am drunk,” he said at last.

“I used to enjoy putting on a good drunk now and again.”

69

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Why?” was the incredulous query.

Brian shrugged. “It pushed all the feeling out of mind for a time.”

“But it will come back.”

“Aye, that it will. Along with one helluva hangover.”

“Hangover?”

Brian uncrossed his leg and got up. He walked to the bar where he’d left the whiskey bottle and poured another full glass, which he brought to Cree. “Drink it down, lad.”

Cree let his arm fall behind his head and stared at the glass. He started to protest, but pushed himself up, took the glass and drained it. This time, he got the amber liquid down without gagging or coughing. He handed the glass back to Brian then lay down again.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Brian said as he took his seat.

“That being what? I’m rather fuzzy around the edges, Da.”

Brian smiled. “I think you answered my question, son.”

“Ask it again so I’ll know what I said,” Cree said with a burp. He was staring at the ceiling, as if counting the holes in the acoustic tile.

“Have you decided that you and Seannie are one and the same?”

Cree thought for a moment then again covered his eyes with his arm. “We always have been, I guess. I’ve his heart, not mine. I’ve his brain, not mine. I have all of his thoughts and wants and desires and memories. The only part of Viraidan Cree that is left is the memories I have of who he was and his body. I’m more me than him.”