BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (30 page)

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

girls at church on Sunday—lusting after Cree but having as little chance of attracting his attention as an ant underfoot.

She guided the mare toward where she had heard what she thought was Ralph’s excited bark. The lacy umbrellas of the red maples and gingko trees brushed past as the mare ventured deeper into the forest beyond the stables. The ground was rocky, rippled with low hills and smelled of a recent mowing. Looking at the area over which she passed, Bronwyn realized she was traveling over a hay field.

The glint of light on water shone through the stand of trees ahead. Bronwyn slowed the mare to a walk. She thought she heard music. When she listened closely, she recognized the strains of a Celtic folksong, its haunting melody drawing her like a magnet.

She found him at the water’s edge. Ralph was chasing snow geese, which seemed to be delighting in the game of landing on the water then flapping away to taunt the big dog. A huge black stallion was tethered to a sapling nearby, its gaze seemingly on the man standing a few yards away.

Cree was glistening with sweat as he went through the paces of a form of martial arts Bronwyn had never seen before. He was barefoot, shirtless, his broad back to her.

The only clothing he wore was a pair of tight black denim jeans that molded his rump like a second skin.

Sliding down from the mare’s silky back, Bronwyn quietly tied the horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch. Careful where she stepped, she eased forward. Creeping closer, watching the graceful body maneuvers that made the muscles bunch and ripple across his upper torso, she was mesmerized by the beauty of his movements. The fluidity with which he moved, the strength in the muscles of his arms bunching beneath his sweaty flesh, the power exhibited in his thighs as he shifted position, all combined to capture and hold her attention.

The music coming from the battery-powered CD player added the right amount of eroticism to the scene. The lyrical strains of the Celtic tune, the beat of the bodhrán, the skirl of the tin whistle, all added to the mystery of the physical dance being performed at the water’s edge. Cree moved slowly, putting his finely honed body through its paces, synchronized with the rhythms coming from the folksong.

As quietly as she could, Bronwyn hunkered down behind a spreading bush and parted the branches. She wanted the target of her rapt attention to turn so she could see his face, for from the glimpses she had of his profile as he exercised, she knew his eyes were closed, his concentration high.

It was as though the thought reached him like a lethal missile. Cree turned, his eyelids flying open, one hand going to the center of his chest where his medallion lay nestled in the damp hair. He slapped his palm over the silver disk, hiding it from view.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice harsh.

Bronwyn stood, her eyes locked with his and came into the clearing. She stumbled on an exposed root, but Cree made no move to go to her aid.

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He unhooked his T-shirt from a branch and turned his back to her, drawing the black fabric over his head in a savage jerk. Turning, he glared at her. “What were you doing spying on me?” His breath came heavy and rapid from his heaving chest.

Bronwyn took a few steps closer. “Did he give it to you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Did who give me what?”

“The medallion you wear. The one you are trying so hard to keep me from seeing.

The one you removed before we made love so I wouldn’t recognize it. Did Brian give it to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Bronwyn shivered. She wrapped her arms around her, holding his gaze. “It’s a Claddagh, isn’t it?”

“What if it is? What difference does it make?”

“None, unless it’s the one Sean gave me. It was one of a kind.”

“Oh, you mean the one you gave back to him on his deathbed?” A vein throbbed wildly in his neck. “It ceased being yours the moment you put it in his dying hand!”

“Did you and Brian think I wouldn’t find out, Aidan?” she asked, ignoring his hateful remark.

Cree growled low in his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side, but he didn’t answer. Neither did he back up when she came closer.

“You were his friend. Brian was his father. Brian is a Reaper, so it stands to reason Seannie was, too. And unless I miss my guess, you were the one who taught him how to be a Reaper, how to kill for the IRA. You protected him and you’re protecting him now.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Where is he, Aidan? Where is Sean?”

“Sean is dead!” he shouted. “Dead and gone, Bronwyn!”

“Dead men don’t write letters to their mothers.”

Cree’s eyes widened and his full lips parted. He stared at her, his posture rigid. She could hear his breathing, heavy in the still morning air. When he remained silent, she dug into the pocket of her lightweight jacket, and pulled out an envelope and extended it to him.

“Go ahead, look at it. His initials are there in the return address space.” She thrust the envelope closer to his chest. “It’s postmarked two weeks
before
Miss Dorrie died.”

He snatched the envelope, his lips pulled back over gritted teeth. “I suppose you read the gods-be-damned thing, didn’t you?”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“How did you get this?” he said, shaking the letter at her.

“Mr. Ludlum gave a box of letters to me. He said one of the nurses at the hospital sent them along. She thought Brian and his son would want them.” An uneasy smile 178

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

trembled on Bronwyn’s lips. “That part didn’t register with me until just now—Brian and his son. I guess the nursing staff knew Miss Dorrie’s son was alive.”

“No one has said anything about him being alive!”

“But he is. I know he is and I want to see him. I need to talk to him.”

Cree threw up his hands. “By the gods, woman! Why?” There was obvious misery stamped on his handsome face. “Why?” he asked again in a whisper.

When she didn’t answer, he flung the letter away from him as though it was a Frisbee and went to her, grabbing her upper arms in his strong grip. He shook her lightly.

“You laid in my arms last night,” he reminded her. “You gave yourself to me. You told me you loved me!”

“I do love you,” she said forcefully. “My needing to see Sean has nothing to do with you. This is between Sean and me, Aidan.”

Cree laughed mirthlessly. “That’s what you think.”

“It’s obvious he doesn’t want me, Aidan,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “If he did, he would have sought me out. If he had loved me the way I loved him, he would have come after me. He would have told me about Alistair Gallagher, the man who detonated the bomb that killed my father. He would have explained what happened.”

“And you would have listened?” he scoffed, his grip on her arms tightening.

“I don’t know if I would have or not. I was angry, in shock that day in the hospital.

My father and my child had been killed. That is not something easily accepted.”

He searched her eyes, his hands relaxing a little on her flesh. She watched emotions pass over his face—anxiety, hurt, uncertainty. When his shoulders drooped and his hands fell away from her arms, he lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I love you, Bronwyn,” he said so softly she had to strain to hear him. “I love you with all my heart and with what soul I have left. I could not bear losing you again.”

Bronwyn moaned, stepping forward to place her trembling hands against his cheeks to lift his head. He opened his eyes to look at her and she saw moisture glistening in the amber orbs.

“Oh, Aidan. You aren’t going to lose me.”

A solitary tear fell down his cheek. He reached up to cover her hands with his own then drew her palms to his chest, her right hand pressed firmly over the medallion beneath his T-shirt.

“It is your Claddagh. I’ve worn it since the day I came back.”

Bronwyn moved her hand so her fingers could touch the impression of the medallion through the fabric. “Sean gave it to you, didn’t he?”

Cree sighed heavily. “Sean died that day.” When she started to protest, he put a hand to her lips. “Let me finish. He was Brian’s son and he was a Reaper, that’s true.

The parasite inside him was an offspring of the queen I have inside me. There are only a 179

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few ways a Reaper can truly die—by drowning, beheading or by fire. Sean’s parasite was so badly damaged it could not survive. When the healers pronounced him dead, he truly was.”

“But you were burned just as badly,” she reminded him. “When you crashed in Ireland all those centuries ago, you were hurt just as severely as Sean, weren’t you?”

After a long pause, he nodded. “Aye, and I knew the agony he had endured. But there was a difference.”

“What difference?”

“The queen is more powerful than her offspring, and each generation is less powerful than their dam when they are produced. What She could withstand, Her progeny could not. The parasite in Sean Cullen ceased to exist, and when it ceased to exist, his mortal body succumbed to its injuries.”

“But he’s alive. Somehow they brought him back to life.” She drew in a breath. “Did they give him a new parasite?”

“They tried, but the implantation didn’t work.”

“Then how—”

He shushed her, then reached inside his shirt and withdrew the Claddagh. He pulled the silver medallion over his head and placed it in her palm, curling her fingers around it.

“This was in his hand when they brought him back to Fuilgaoth. Not even death could have taken it from him. It was there when a part of him came back from the dead.”

Bronwyn drew in a shuddering breath. Cree had all but admitted Sean was alive.

She felt her knees grow weak and would have collapsed had he not helped her to sit on the ground. She stared at the medallion that still bore the warmth of Cree’s flesh and brought it to her chest.

“Where is he?” she said, tears falling down her face. “Aidan, please. I have to know where he is.”

Cree took a breath then exhaled slowly, his gaze locked on hers. “You’re looking at him.”

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“Do something!” Ski’Ah demanded.

Danyon was bone-tired and experiencing a grief he had not expected at the loss of Aoife, the woman who had been his mistress for more than eighty years. He had prolonged his departure from the old woman’s gravesite near Belfast, mourning her in his own way for three days past the moment of her burial. Now he was deeply depressed, unable to understand why and annoyed that the Blackwind was making demands of him.

“She took his seed within her last night!” Ski’Ah hissed. “He claimed her as his mate!”

“She was already his mate,” Danyon mumbled.

“What if she has conceived?” the Amazeen warrioress snapped.

He rubbed at an unaccustomed ache in his temple that should not be there. “If she has, I will see that the fetus does not survive.”

Somewhat mollified, Ski’Ah commenced pacing in front of the stable. She was furious, decidedly so, because she had not been able to prevent the Reaper from taking the human woman the night before. The black dog’s presence had been an effective deterrent.

“This changes things,” she grated.

“In what way?” Danyon asked, not really caring. He had fallen into a strange lassitude that alarmed him and his inability to get incensed about Cree lying with Bronwyn surprised him even more than his unexpected grief.

“He cannot be executed once I get him back to Amazeen. He belongs to a Sister—

human and inferior, though she is—and as such, he is protected under ancient Chattel Laws. He cannot be made to atone for the crimes he committed against my ancestor!”

“So don’t tell them he belongs to Bronwyn. Who will know the difference?” Danyon asked with a yawn. He longed to find a warm bed.

Ski’Ah drew herself up. “When I take him back, I am obligated to tell the Council of Elders. I could lose my head for omitting the fact the Reaper has been claimed by another woman!”

“Not that it matters to me, but what will become of him, then?” Danyon asked, intrigued despite his weariness.

The Amazeen threw out a dismissive hand. “He will be imprisoned in the public square for all to see and taunt. To a Reaper, being caged is the ultimate torture. Pain is nothing to them, but confinement is an agony they do not tolerate well. He will be punished in a way he will find hard to endure.”

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Danyon shrugged. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“I would have preferred watching him roast in the auto-de-fe! His screams would have been music to my ears and my ancestor would have been avenged!”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want.” Danyon chuckled.

“I want this over with, Nightwind! I am ready to return to Amazeen. The cybot on my ship awaits my order to transport us onboard. This has gone on long enough.

When—”

“I am curious. Where does one hide an alien spacecraft?”

“Behind the Terran moon, fool! No more useless prattle. When will I be able to capture him?”

Danyon sobered. “Soon, beautiful Ski’Ah. Very soon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This you promise?”

He raised his left hand to the heavens. “As surely as I pledged my undying love for Bronwyn McGregor, I promise you, soon you will be in possession of the Reaper and on your way across the megaverse.”

“You will rid me of the beast that interferes?”

“Ah, yes, the black beast.” Danyon thought of the entity he had befriended. The Bugul Noz would have to be dealt with, for Ordin Gver had developed a strong affection for the Reaper. “I will see to him. Have no fear on that account, lady.”

Content that the one obstacle to capturing the Reaper would be removed, Ski’Ah seemed to relax. She batted her long lashes at Danyon and moved closer, her hand going toward his chest.

“Ah, no,” he said, stepping back. The thought of her laying hands on him turned his stomach. “I am in need of a bath and a warm pallet.”