0036393001337282886 wind demon 01

by blood wind

  “No visitors and no calls,” he reminded the computer.

  “Duly noted, Sir.”

  “And I want a list of anyone who tries to contact her. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Now, lock the sauna for exactly five minutes.”

  “But Dr. Dunne is in the unit at this time, Captain.” The Vid-Com sounded puzzled. “Do you still wish me to lock it?” Cree took one last look at the closed door of the unit. “Aye,” he answered.

  When Bridget was finally able to get out of the sauna, Kamerone Cree was gone.

  ****

  JUSTICE ONAR was in the transporter room when Cree reported there the next morning. He took note that the Reaper was bleary-eyed and looked tired as though he had not slept. Greatly pleased with what he considered to be Kamerone Cree's fear of being sent to Helios Twelve for punishment, the Justice wished to prolong the moment.

  “I want him shackled,” pronounced Onar.

  The technicians turned shocked faces to the old man. Not a one of them was willing to put irons on the Reaper. They risked a glance at Cree and found him standing perfectly still, a murderous look on his tired face. But not a one of them there would have laid money on what the Prime Reaper did next.

  “If that is what His Grace wants,” Cree said, holding out his arms, palms up, “then do it.” He locked his gaze on the old man

  “You would not want to disappoint him.”

  Onar's chin came up. “Be careful, Captain. I can just as easily make it two months, you know.”

  “Oh, I know you can, Your Grace,” Cree replied. “That is why I am not fighting.” He turned and looked at the Captain of the Guard. “And I want it noted in your report that I went willingly to my punishment, Commander Wynth.” The Keeper nodded.

  Justice Onar's lips tightened. He had wanted to see the Reaper manhandled into the Transporter. He had been looking forward to laughing at the raging fury on Cree's face as he was sent to the penal colony. Realizing there would be no more entertainment, he lost interest. “Get this over with,” he demanded.

  Cree smiled sardonically. He would not give the old man any satisfaction at all if he could help it. After all: the punishment wasn't in being sent to Hell-12. The punishment was in being separated from Bridget.

  And that pain was worse than anything the Empire's penal colony could throw at him.

  ****

  BRIDGET LAY in a fetal position on Cree's bed, her hands beneath his pillow. The scent of him still clung to the sheets though he had not slept in his quarters the night before. His flight bag was gone and she knew he would not be returning to this room before being sent to Helios 12. Neither would he call to bid her goodbye.

  She knew this was her punishment for betraying him.

  He would be gone a month and in that time she would be alone. Not like the last time when at least she could speak with Dr.

  Dean and the other women of the Be-Mod Unit. This time, she would be isolated with plenty of opportunity to consider what had happened here last night. There would be ample time to analyze the emotions that had ripped through her; to dissect and put back together again the meanings of his words, his actions, his touches, the feel of his mouth on hers.

  And to wonder why she missed him so very, very much.

  Chapter 14

  THE MAN was larger than Cree, broader in the shoulder and thicker in the waist and at least two inches taller. His arms were like massive oak branches; his thighs like the trunk of that mighty tree; his fists gnarled tap roots. His ebony skin glistened in the heat of Helios 12 and carried with it a musky scent that was as unpleasant to the men with whom he worked as theirs was to him.

  The voice that thundered from his barrel-like chest was deep and resonant and made men of a lesser ilk shiver in trepidation.

  Raine McGregor looked up from where he rested in the shade of the roof overhang of his barracks and viewed the dark man's approach with something less than enthusiasm. “Lares,” he acknowledged.

  The dark man ducked his head once sharply in greeting. He pointed to Kamerone Cree. “Who is that one?” Lares Taborn demanded.

  “He's a Reaper,” Raine cautioned. “Don't mess with him, Lares.”

  “I fear no man, son of the McGregor! Especially not that one!” Lares thundered and was pleased when the target of his stare halted in mid-swing, pickax over his head, and glanced their way.

  “Lares,” Raine warned. “Don't start.” He might as well have saved his breath, for the dark man was reaching up to pull off the necklace of multicolored reeds he always wore. “Lares, please!” The dark man's gaze passed insultingly down Cree's sweaty naked chest and over the dusty blue prison trousers that hung low on his lean hips. “Puny!” Lares pronounced. “He has the muscles of a boy-child!” He handed his precious necklace to Raine, who took it resignedly.

  The object of Lares’ scorn lowered his pickax to the rocky ground and braced his forearms on the wooden handle. He did not take his eyes off the dark man, only seemed to issue a challenge in the very stance of unconcern he had taken as he stared back.

  “He mocks me!” Lares grunted, a wide smile of joy lifting his thick lips to reveal dual rows of ultra-white teeth.

  “No, he doesn't,” Raine groaned. He risked a look at the Reaper and groaned again for that man had dropped his pickax and was heading their way.

  “Who's your ugly friend, McGregor?” Cree called out.

  Lares stiffened, his bull-like neck inflating with outrage. “Ugly?” he whispered on a long exhalation.

  “Lares, please,” Raine pleaded. “You don't want to fight this one. He is an assassin and-”

  “Ugly?” Lares repeated. He started toward Cree, shoving Raine aside as that man attempted to stay him from his intention.

  McGregor stumbled and fell, spinning around on his knees as the dark man and Reaper headed for one another.

  “That was easy,” Cree snorted.

  “What?” Lares shouted.

  “Pushing down a young boy.” Cree stopped, hands on his hips. “How are you with a man, darkling?” Shocked gasps crackled through the work yard as men halted what they were doing. What the men knew would happen, did: Lares Taborn, taking exception to the vulgar nickname, roared and charged like an enraged bull.

  Cree tensed, anticipating the forward momentum of the destructive force stampeding his way. Unfortunately, he miscalculated both the fury and the power of that force and went down under it. The wind was knocked out of his lung and his head slammed down on the ground hard enough to bring the stars down from the heavens. He felt scree from the nearby bluffs digging deep furrows into his bare back as he slid backwards under the impetus of the dark man's massive body.

  “I will make you scream for mercy, you Rysalian pup!” Lares thundered.

  “Ry-Chalean,” Raine called out. “He's Ry-Chalean, Lares!”

  “Worse yet!” the Necromanian warrior stated. “He has the traits of two inferior races in his puny body!” The weight crushing down on Cree was more than he had anticipated; the wicked knee that wedged between his thighs to drive unmercifully into his groin brought bile to his throat. Even the removal of the ton of outraged male that rolled easily off him as he twisted to the side to gag out his agony, did nothing to relieve Cree.

  “Puke on me and die, Ry-Chalean jackal!”

  Cree curled up in a tight ball, clutching his battered manhood and squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the pain.

  “Puny!” Lares flung at him. He came to his feet and stood with his legs straddling Cree's prone body. He spat, his spittle landing near Cree's face then he started to unbutton the fly of his work pants. “I piss on you! I am still champi-” Without a hint of warning, Kamerone Cree flipped to his back and, with his knees still drawn up, shot his legs straight upward into the unprotected V of Lares Taborn's open legs. Cree grunted with fierce satisfaction as the dark man was for one moment impaled on the soles of Cree's dirty boots before being propelled backwards to land in a gas
ping heap three feet away.

  Raine McGregor's mouth fell open. Neither he nor any of the other men watching could credit what they were seeing. Was that Lares bellowing in pain? Lares, who now lay on his side in the dirt, protectively covering his balls? The young Serenian nobleman shifted his stare to the Reaper as that one came unsteadily to his feet. He watched as Cree stumbled, then forced himself to straighten despite the obvious agony wracking his lower body.

  “Get up, darkling!” Cree ordered in a husky rasp. “I'm not through with you, you black sonofabitch!” Lares moaned beneath his breath as he pushed to his feet. He kept bent over for a moment until the nausea passed. He raised his head of thick coarse black hair and lifted his hand to fling his waist -length braid over his shoulder. Narrowing his cinnamon eyes, he locked his glower on the Reaper. “A mistake, that, you Ry-Chalean mongrel,” he managed to say.

  “We will see,” came the reply.

  The two men closed on one another, circling, crouched low in wrestler's stances; each looking for an opening in the defense of his opponent. Lares snaked out a sweeping arm, not so much in an attempt to sag his adversary's leg as it was in taunt; Cree made a half-hearted grab for the dark man's head, his hand sliding off. After a moment or two of testing one another in a like manner, they came together with a meaty clash of naked chests that made every man watching them wince.

  Raine sat on the ground, drew his knees up into the arch of his arms, and was in awe of the spectacle unfolding. Both men were evenly matched despite the fact that Lares weighed a good forty to fifty pounds more than Rysalia's Prime Reaper. Their skills were on an even par, as was their strength. When Lares pulled Cree down on top of him and flipped the Reaper head-over-heels behind him, Raine could do no more than grunt with wonder as the Rysalian rolled to his feet, and without thought, spun around and dropped down on the dark man like a boulder.

  Commandant Jahannum came out of his office and stood with his warden, Jona, to watch the spectacle. Neither man would interfere. The Commandant was amused at the prisoners rolling about in the sharp shards of the rock pile, their naked chests and backs bleeding from numerous cuts. He nodded when the Reaper lashed out with a spinning drop kick that felled the dark man as easily as blowing fluff from a dandelion.

  “He may well kill the darkling, Commandant,” suggested Jona.

  “Does it matter?” replied the Commandant. He silently applauded the Reaper as a well-timed left hook sent the Necromanian crashing to the ground. He frowned when Taborn came back with a brutal jab to the Reaper's kidney that dropped Cree to his knees. When black blood flew from an equally brutal right cross that broke Cree's nose, the Commandant began to worry.

  “Shall I stop it?” Jona asked.

  “One moment more.” His worry turned to anticipation as the Reaper thrust out his left leg and swept Lares from his feet. Before the dark man could react to the fall, the Reaper was up and over him, straddling him with a jagged chunk of rock that he dug into the bigger man's glistening throat.

  “Do you beg quarter?” the men heard Cree asking in a grating near-whisper.

  “I…” the dark man said, his breath coming in heaves of breathlessness, “beg…for…no…man!” Cree pressed the edge of his makeshift weapon down on the windpipe of his adversary. “Then ask for quarter, fool!”

  “I will not,” Lares responded, his eyes widening as he saw pure rage leap into the white man's demon orbs. He braced himself for the killing blow.

  “Hell!” Cree shouted and flung the rock away from him as hard as he could throw it. After one final, damning look at his opponent, he thrust himself up, dragging tired breaths into his bruised lungs. He straddled the dark man, then shocked every one there by holding out his hand to his enemy to help him up.

  Lares looked from the Reaper's hand to his dirty face to the proffered hand again. Having never been beaten in a fight before, the dark man did not know how to accept defeat gracefully. He was willing to die before admitting he had lost the fray so he shook his head. “Finish it,” he demanded. “I deserve death.”

  “Do not be a fool,” Cree warned him in a low voice. “You lost the fight, you ugly sot, not the war.” He jabbed his hand closer to Lares. “Take my hand.”

  “No.”

  “Is it not better to live and fight me another day than to die an ignominious death in a shithole like this? Take my hand!” The Necromanian's eyes narrowed. “I told you no.”

  Cree shook his hand at Lares. “Take my gods-be-damned hand or accept defeat as it was handed to you for I will turn my back in contempt leaving no doubt my regard of you.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice once more so only Lares might hear.

  “Reapers do not offer their hand lightly, you ugly bastard; to warrant such an honor, the man on the receiving end must be found worthy.” He straightened up although he did not withdraw his hand. “I have tested you and found you worthy.” He looked around them. “These men know that, else I would have slit your stinking throat and been done with it.” He narrowed his own eyes. “Are you man enough to accept the compliment or not?”

  Lares thought about that for a moment. His big face screwed up with the effort, then relaxed, the deep crinkles smoothing out.

  A lopsided grin widened his mouth. “Worthy, eh?” he asked, bringing up his own hand.

  “Aye,” Cree answered, slapping his hand against Lares’ and gripping it with a strength that surprised his opponent. He stepped back and jerked the Necromanian to his feet, grunting with the effort of lifting so heavy a man.

  The dark man in turn surprised, if not shocked, Cree by draping a companionable arm across the Reaper's dirty shoulder and drawing him close. “You are not as puny as I first thought, Ry-Chalean jackal.” No man had ever dared put an arm around the Reaper before and he damned sure did not like it. He pushed the dark man away. “Never do that again.”

  Lares threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Come, jackal,” he said. “I think we both need a bath!”

  ****

  “I WILL BE pissing blood for a week,” Cree complained as he brought his knees up and sat with his arms draped across them.

  He leaned against the bathhouse wall.

  “You loosened my front teeth.” Lares wiggled his central incisors with his thumb.

  “Too bad. I meant to knock them out.”

  Lares chuckled. “You are not bad for a white man, I suppose. Do you get to spar like that often?” Cree shook his head. “Not since I was at the Fleet Academy. We were only allowed to fight our own kind because ordinary men can not withstand the blows.”

  “Ordinary men. I like that.” He thumped his chest. “I am not an ordinary man.” Cree snorted. “No, you are a conceited buffoon.”

  Lares grinned widely. “So you have not used your fists for anything other than playing with yourself then?”

  “I did not say that,” Cree snapped, ignoring the vulgar insult. “As a matter of fact, the last man I hit, couldn't hit back and I regret that very much.”

  “Why did you do it, then?” Lares didn't think much of men who picked on weaklings.

  Cree stared off across the compound. “I found the prick in bed with my woman,” was the terse reply.

  “Ah,” Lares said, understanding. “Being cuckolded makes a man do strange things I'm told.”

  “I should have killed him,” Cree said, “but she would never have forgiven me had I done so.”

  “And it means much to you for her not to think ill of you,” Lares stated. “I am familiar with the predicament.”

  “I am not.”

  Lares shifted his position so he could better see the Reaper in the gathering darkness. “You are the one they call the Iceman, are you not?”

  “Not to my face, they don't.”

  “Why do they call you this?”

  Cree shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Or cares?” He thought about it for the first time in his life, and then shrugged again. “I suppose it is because I have no warmth in me. My soul is as cold as
the glaciers of Chrystallus.”

  “You have more fire in you than most of your race. But there's warmth and then there's warmth, eh, Jackal?”

  “Aye,” Cree agreed, thinking of Bridget.

  The dark man sensed where Cree's mind had gone by the look on his face. “Are you warm with your woman or do you treat her the way those Rysalian pigs treat their womenfolk?”

  The Reaper flinched. “I have yet to find out,” he admitted, surprising himself that he would say such a thing to a complete stranger.

  Lares nudged his companion with a heavy shoulder. “I have a woman,” he whispered. “A fine woman.” He put up his hands and drew lush curves in the air. “Big breasts; small waist; superb ass; and legs that go all the way up to that shapely ass!” Cree grinned. “And are you warm with your woman, Taborn?”

  Lares put his right hand in his lap and cupped his member. “I am as hot as, and have the cutting edge of, Ionarian steel with my J'Bai!”

  “Her name is J'Bai?”

  The dark man shook his head. “No, Jackal, no. A J'Bai is a man's betrothed.” He held up his reed necklace. “She made this for me when we were but bantlings. It is dear to me and I am never without it. I would rather die than allow it to be broken. She and I will be joined-” He stopped, his face clouding. He corrected himself. “I was to be joined with her one week before I was sent to this hellhole.”

  “What did you do to be sent here?”

  “A small matter,” Lares complained. “Only murder. I shall be here two years.”

  “Who did you swat?” Cree asked in the terminology of his kind.

  Lares scowled. “A pesky priest of that gods-be-damned order that sent my great-grandfather here when this pest hole was called Labyrinth. They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Domination. ” He ground his teeth. “They are a damnably hard insect to squash, those bastards.”

  “Those bastards of whom you speak are a branch of the Empire, the rulers of my homeworld.”

  “More's the pity for you, then.” Lares looked the Reaper in the eye. “And just like Necroman, the Rysalian Empire has resistance fighters who are trying to swat their own insects.”