BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (17 page)

When her grief was spent, she pushed gently away from him and ran the back of her hand under her chin. She apologized for her outburst.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, reaching for the handkerchief in his back pocket.

Before he could hand it to her, she got clumsily to her feet and walked down to the spot where he had stood skipping stones.

He watched her then worried as he surveyed the water. His agitation at her being so close to the threat of the waves brought him to his feet. He hurried to her, his nerves tingling.

“I’m not going to throw myself in the lake,” she said, as though she had read his mind.

“Good, because Reapers can’t swim.”

Despite her tears, she laughed and looked up at him. “Running water and vampires don’t mix, huh?”

He shrugged, digging his hands into the back pockets of his ebony jeans.

Bronwyn frowned. “They need to clean up this section of the waterline,” she said, kicking a piece of broken beer bottle with her sneaker.

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BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

“Some of the orderlies party down here at night. It’s kept fairly good most of the time.” He scraped the heel of his boot against the ground. “You okay now?”

She bobbed her head and drew in a ragged breath. “I get this way when I think of him.”

“Then don’t think of him.”

Bronwyn pursed her lips but made no comment. She whistled for her little dog, lying under a poplar tree with Ralph. “Let’s go, Stuffie!”

There was loose gravel on the lip of the hill and Bronwyn tripped going up the slight incline. Before Cree could catch her, she fell, her palms scraping in the dirt.

“Son of a bitch!” she cried.

The smell of her blood reached him before the transmission of her pain entered his mind.

“Let me see!” He came to his knees beside her and took her hand. A deep gash on the side of her hand gaped open, blood streaming from it. He pinched the wound closed, the smell making him giddy.

“God almighty, that hurts,” she whimpered, gripping the wrist of her injured hand.

“What the hell did I get cut on?”

Cree glanced at the ground. “Rusty metal half-buried in the shale.”

“It’ll have to sutured,” she sobbed. “I hate needles.”

“I know.”

Whether it was the pain she was experiencing or the fear of being stitched or the alluring scent of her warm blood gushing between his fingers, despite the pressure he exerted on her flesh, Cree made a decision he hoped he would not regret.

“Look at me,” he said sternly, his voice brooking no resistance.

She glanced up and stilled, his stare holding her transfixed.

“You do not feel the pain, beloved. You feel nothing but my touch. You hear nothing but my voice. Do you understand?”

Obviously mesmerized by the power and authority in his gaze, she nodded.

“I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

The wound pulsed with redness, with the flesh split apart so the tendon showed.

Cree lowered his mouth to the laceration. He sharply bit his tongue, then allowed his blood to mix with hers, to flow into her injury. Beneath his lips, he could feel the spores of his black life force bubbling inside her wound, sealing it, healing it. The taste of her blood was like nectar to him and he drew it into his mouth, invigorated by its flavor and intoxicated knowing it was the essence of her that he drank.

101

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Good morning,” Brian said.

Bronwyn nodded, yawning. “What’s up?”

“You forgot,” he sighed, looking at her bathrobe.

“Forgot what?”

“Sunday? Nine o’clock? Coffee and rolls. Inane conversation.”

Bronwyn gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Mass!” she shrieked.

Brian looked at his watch. “Can you get dressed in fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen? Fiddle!” Bronwyn pointed a finger at him. “Stay here. I’ll go shower!”

Brian chuckled as she ran out of the room. He found the Sunday Des Moines
Register
on the coffee table and rifled through it until he found the business section. He sat on the sofa and shook the paper.

“He did a very dangerous thing yesterday.”

Brian lowered the paper. There was an elderly man standing before him. The being known as Cedric, no doubt. But when Brian sniffed, he did not detect the odor Cree had told him Nightwinds possess.

“The scent can be hidden when necessary,” Cedric told him.

“So you can sneak up on people?” Brian growled, snapping the paper shut. He tossed it to the coffee table. “What do you want?”

Cedric took a step closer. “I care deeply for the Lady. She has been most kind to me.

She has given me companionship and—”

“You know something, Nightfart, I don’t care what Bronnie has given you.”

“She was hurt yesterday. He healed her with his own blood.”

“Viraidan?”

Cedric grinned. “I would imagine it was the Cullen part of him that couldn’t help himself.” When Brian gasped, the Nightwind’s grin turned mean. “You have hidden nothing from our kind, Reaper. We know who he was.”

Casting a quick look to the door behind which Bronwyn had disappeared, Brian got to his feet. “Have you told her?”

A snort was Cedric’s first answer. His second was firm. “We’ve no intention of her finding out.”

Relief washed over Brian. “We don’t want her to know, either.”

“Understood. We also understand the danger of what he did yesterday.”

“Tell me what happened,” Brian demanded, sitting down.

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Cedric moved to a recliner and sank creakily to the seat. “Old bones make the odd noise now and again,” he sighed as he shifted his aged body to a comfortable position.

“I suppose I’ll find out,” Brian acknowledged, being polite. “I’m told I’ll live hundreds and hundred of years if my head stays attached to my body.”

“I,” Cedric said, jabbing a thumb at his chest, “am beyond the second millennium of life and would just as soon not be.”

“You were going to tell me what he did,” Brian pressed.

“She cut her hand at the lake and—”

“They were together at the lake? Alone?”

“The Reaper came close to taking her while she slept.”

Brian winced. “By the gods, that man is out of control!”

“Aye and blending his blood with hers shows to what degree.”

“He would reason he had helped her,” Brian defended.

“True, but now he has the taste of her in his mouth and can track her no matter where she goes. Should it be necessary to take her from this place—”

“She’s not being taken anywhere!” Brian snapped. “Especially not by one of your kind!”

Cedric sighed. “The longer she is near the Reaper, the nearer to disaster she is.

Sooner or later, she will begin to see the similarities between Cree and Cullen.”

“I’ll have a talk with him.”

“I fear it will take more than talk.”

“Let me worry about that!” Brian grated.

“Worry about what?” Bronwyn asked from the doorway. She looked from one face to the other. “I see you two have met. What were you talking about?”

“Protecting you,” Cedric ventured, rising clumsily from the chair.

“From what?” Bronwyn asked.

Brian opened his mouth to answer but Cedric beat him to it.

“Cree,” Cedric replied, ignoring Brian’s look of disbelief. “He is not the man either of us would have for you.”

“Really?” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “How ‘bout you two minding your own business, okay?” She walked to the door. “You coming, Brian?”

“I wasn’t even breathing hard,” Brian said beneath his breath, and caught the wicked grin on Cedric’s face.

Bronwyn’s lips were pressed tightly together as she walked into the hall.

Brian hurried to catch up with her. “Are we taking my car or yours?”

“Mine,” she said, casting him an annoyed look. “I don’t want you and Cedric discussing my affairs. Are we clear on that?”

“Aye,” Brian said as they reached the newly constructed enclosed garage.

103

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The ride into Grinnell was spent talking about mundane topics that kept well away from Viraidan Cree or Cedric’s and Brian’s attempt to meddle in Bronwyn’s affairs. At Saint Mary’s, the church was crowded with few seats left unoccupied. Bronwyn and Brian took their places.

Bronwyn joined Brian on the kneeler and made the Sign of the Cross. As was her habit, she looked around before beginning her prayers and was surprised to see Cree at the inside seat across the aisle and three pews up from her.

Once again he was dressed entirely in black with a lightweight turtleneck pullover, its long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, straining across his broad chest and tight dress slacks that accentuated the high firmness of his rump. His long hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and glistened blue-black beneath the chandeliers. He was kneeling, eyes closed, head bowed and resting on his clasped hands.

And she could not drag her attention from him.

Neither could several young women and girls who were gawking at him as though he was a feast and they were starving. Even older women glanced surreptitiously in his direction.

As the bells began tolling to call the parishioners to worship, Bronwyn watched Cree lift his head and look at the huge cross hanging behind the altar. Even though he was in profile to her, Bronwyn could see the misery reflected on his face. When the last bell tolled, he crossed himself and sat in the pew.

“Please rise and direct your attention to the back of the church,” one of the deacons called.

As Cree turned, their eyes met. Bronwyn saw his gaze shift to Brian then quickly away.

A young couple had brought their child to be baptized and the preliminary ritual of the welcoming of the infant, his parents and godparents at the back of the church, kept Bronwyn’s attention. But she could feel Cree’s gaze on her back and at one point noticed Brian turn and look the Reaper’s way.

As the procession started to the altar, the worshipers turned, singing the
Gloria
.

Bronwyn noticed Cree was not singing. He avoided her gaze and she felt the snub as though it had been a physical slap.

If someone had asked her what the readings and homily had been about that Sunday, Bronwyn would not have been able to tell them. Her attention—as was that of many other females—was riveted on Cree. If that had not been the case before the baptism began after the homily, it certainly would have been once the sacrament began.

Bronwyn noticed that Cree did not watch what was going on. His head was bent and he was staring at the floor. Even when the parishioners rose to repeat the baptism vows, Cree did not look at the young couple and the child at the baptismal font. Taking his seat again with the rest of the congregation, he resumed his stony contemplation of 104

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

the floor until the deacon took the infant in his arms and came to stand in front of the parishioners.

“Please join me in welcoming Patrick Sean Wilder to the family of God,” the deacon called.

Those gathered began clapping. Bronwyn saw the Reaper lift his head—tears cascading down his cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” Brian whispered, bending toward her.

“N-nothing,” Bronwyn said. She added her distracted clapping to that of the others but her heart was not in the moment. A lump had formed in her throat. Looking at the other women who were openly staring at Cree, she could see they seemed as affected by the man’s obvious misery as was she.

Throughout the remainder of the Mass she watched him. She was in a good position to observe his every move so that it did not seem obvious. Her heart ached each time he closed his eyes and lowered his head. She could almost feel the loneliness weighing down his shoulders. At the Sign of Peace, he did not smile at those whose hands he shook, though his lips moved in the traditional recitation of “Peace be with you”.

When Communion arrived, she was not surprised to see Cree step aside for the others in his pew to go to receive the Eucharist. She did not miss the longing on his face as he knelt and lowered his head once more.

“You cannot receive Communion if you are not in a state of Grace,” she remembered Father Goodmayer snarling from the pulpit many years earlier. “If you are a sinner, either by choice or in your heart, you must never take the Body and Blood of our precious Jesus Christ!”

Knowing what Cree was, what he had no doubt done as a warrior, she could well understand why he did not feel worthy to receive the Eucharist. Coming back from receiving her own Communion, she added to her prayers peace of mind for Viraidan Cree. As she did, she saw him look at her for a moment before resuming his stony demeanor.

It was a lively song that made up the Recessional when the Mass ended. After the last chorus, the parishioners struck up an impromptu clapping in appreciation of the folk choir’s efforts.

“That was fantastic!” Brian said, smiling. “They keep getting better every month.”

Bronwyn barely heard him. She was trying to find Cree in the people leaving the pews, but he had somehow managed to get past without her seeing. She was disappointed. She didn’t think he would go downstairs for coffee and rolls.

The priest and deacons were waiting at the foot of the outside stairs to greet the departing parishioners. Bronwyn and Brian could not easily get to the basement door to go downstairs, so they allowed themselves to be herded outside.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Nice to see you again, Bronwyn,” the shorter of the two deacons said as he hugged Bronwyn then took Brian’s hand. “Brian.”

She shook hands with the taller deacon then went to speak to the priest who barely acknowledged her. When she turned away, she looked right at Viraidan Cree. He was standing off to one side of the courtyard and was tying a large black bandanna around his head.

“Hi, Viraidan,” a couple of teenage girls called as they passed him.

“Miladies,” he greeted, then winked at the young women, which amused Bronwyn.

The sound of self-conscious giggles wafted through the air before the girls put their heads together and no doubt compared notes about the handsome man they had been ogling.