BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  The man who had taught him the rules of the Convocation had impressed upon him at a very early age the laws that governed his kind. He knew each rule as though it had been burned into his brain.

  The older part of him had mated with Chandra. He had given her his seed. She had been his mate.

  The only mate he was allowed to possess for all eternity.

  “I believe this situation might well be unique, though, don't you?” Brian had inquired.

  Cree slowly lowered his hands.

  Aye, he thought, it was unique. In his extensive knowledge of Reaper lore and law, no precedent had been set forth for such a thing as he had experienced. No Reaper had ever been given the Revenant Queen of another. Only the Queen's offspring had been implanted in Reaper candidates, so what had happened to him was completely outside the norm.

  He screwed up his courage and closed his eyes, willing his mind to link with the One who controlled him.

  “Lady?” he questioned and felt the Queen undulating painfully along his spinal column. He sucked in his breath, the agony excruciating.

  “You wish something, Beloved?” She inquired.

  “Is it your wish that I remain alone the rest of my life?” he asked, his heart pounding.

  The Queen shifted positions, bringing him to his knees with the agony. For a long while She did not answer, and when She did, Her voice was a soft caressing hiss in his ears.

  “You want this human female, Beloved?”

  He panted with pain as he knelt on the floor, one hand on his throbbing spine. “She is his mate,” he gasped, then shook his head. “She is my mate!”

  “You want Dispensation to have her.”

  The pain was nearly unbearable, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not block it. It laid him out on the floor, drew his legs to his chest, and punished him with its brutal intensity.

  “What are you willing to offer to Me for the female human, Viraidan?”

  Eons ago, he had done Her bidding without question, willingly carried out the vile requests She had made of him. He had slain his enemies and friends alike to feed Her unquenchable thirst for gore. His sword had plowed through many a body to ease Her thirst and he had done so with no regard for the lives he wasted. He had borne no conscience and had given no quarter. As his reward, She had given him Chandra to ease the need within his loins.

  “Give her to me, Lady,” he begged, his voice strained with agony.

  “And in return?”

  The part of him that still bore the thoughts and feelings and emotions of Sean Cullen balked at what he knew he was being forced to promise, but that part also knew it was the only way Bronwyn McGregor would be a part of his life again.

  “I will hunt,” he said, shame filling what was left of the soul of Sean Cullen and thrilling the evil that remained in Viraidan Cree. “But—”

  A wild torment drove through his body, bringing a scream of animal suffering to his lips. It was all he could do to finish speaking before She allowed the torture to spread.

  “But I will only slay those who deserve such a fate,” he panted. “I will not harm the innocent.”

  The pain eased slightly. The burning, throbbing waves of agony rippled over his spine, then stepped down in strength a little more.

  “Give me the evil ones and I will be content,” She said in a soothing voice.

  “Agreed,” he replied and felt the pain decrease again.

  “Kill in the fashion of those before you.”

  “Aye,” he said, willing to do whatever She asked to stop the excruciating pain.

  “Then you may have her, Beloved.” She released Her hold on his body.

  The torment racking his spine stopped, and an immediate lassitude overtook him. He relaxed in the cottony warmth She provided.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Sleep.”

  His last waking thought before the tendrils of darkness enveloped him was of the pretty teenage girl with the long brown hair and grass-green eyes.

  * * * *

  The Bugul Noz sat on his canine-fashioned haunches and stared at the sleeping Reaper. Observing Cree's restless tossing and hearing the occasional soul-deep groans that came from him, Ordin Gver felt a great pity well up inside him.

  It had been long after the moon had risen that Cree had come back to his apartment. He had barely acknowledged the black dog before going into the bedroom and flinging himself down on the mattress.

  Ralph had nosed open the partially closed door and gone to the bed. “Humphf?” he inquired. What's wrong?

  “I sold my soul today, Ralph,” Cree said in a flat voice.

  “Humphf?”

  “To have her again. To know love again.”

  Ralph stood on his hind legs and dragged a sloppy tongue over Cree's cheek. He had reveled in the gentle ruffling of his ears and the affectionate pat on his broad head before the Reaper turned to the middle of the mattress, shutting him off to further care.

  Now, Ordin Gver resumed his normal state and stared down at the sleeping man. “Love,” he whispered, then shook his head. He shifted once more to his canine form, then hopped up on the mattress. Gently, he stretched out beside Cree, laid his head on his paws, and sighed.

  He, himself, had never known love—no kind touch upon his brow; no lips upon his cheek. No one had ever drawn him near and held him in comforting arms. No eyes had ever looked upon him with affection...

  Until now.

  The Bugul Noz sighed again and shifted his eyes to the door. He wondered about the pretty brown bitch he had yet to meet. He wondered if she would sense he was not entirely of her species. Would she, too, recoil from him as human females did? Would she run away, yelping to the heavens at his ugliness? Would she cower behind her mistress and soil the carpet at the sight of him?

  A third sigh closed his tired eyes. He turned to his side, placing his back against the side of the sleeping Reaper. The touch of their bodies soothed Ordin Gver and he snuggled closer to the Reaper's warmth.

  CHAPTER 34

  Jason Faulkner was already in the exam room when Bronwyn arrived the next morning. He was strapped to his chair, his forearms and wrists secured tightly to the metal chair arms. Leather restraints ran across his chest and around each ankle. The chair was bolted to the floor and housed inside a metal cage locked with a thick padlock and chain. The top of the cage was enclosed, its mesh electrified for added safety.

  Knowing how dangerous the man was, Bronwyn was relieved to see the restraints. She was nervous being in the same room with him, and when he spoke, she jumped.

  “I wish to protest that one's presence,” Faulkner stated, cocking his chin toward the room's other occupant. “This is a direct violation of doctor-patient privilege.”

  Bronwyn glanced at the Reaper. He looked intimidating in his black uniform, yet she was grateful for his presence. He was standing with his arms crossed, legs spread. Around his neck was a set of mini-earphones and clipped to his belt was a small cassette player.

  “Captain Cree will not be able to hear what we will be saying, Mr. Faulkner,” she said, annoyed that she sounded as nervous as she felt. “That's why he brought his radio.”

  Faulkner smiled nastily. “Note the protest, doctor. It matters little to me what that one tells you. I know he will be listening to every word I say.”

  Bronwyn put Faulkner's chart on the table in front of the cage and took a seat. “I will so note, Mr. Faulkner.”

  “He is lusting after you, did you know that?”

  Bronwyn's face flamed. She refused to look at Cree, although from the corner of her eye she saw him reach up to put the earphones in place.

  Faulkner chuckled. “He has wicked thoughts of you, dear doctor.”

  “We're not here to talk about Captain Cree,” Bronwyn said, opening the serial killer's chart. “We're here to talk about the twenty-four women you murdered.”

  “Thirty-nine,” Faulkner corrected and grinned when Bronwyn looked up. He nodded. �
�Thirty-nine.”

  * * * *

  Cree never took his eyes off Bronwyn, watching her facial expressions as she interviewed the beast in the cage. Now and again as the music changed tracks, he caught a word or two, and the implications of those words sickened him. He sensed the conversation was upsetting Bronwyn, but there was nothing he could do about it. This was the job she had chosen, and though he detested it, he would never interfere. When the interview was over and he watched her get shakily to her feet, he turned off the cassette player and heard Faulkner's comment.

  “I would like to do the same things to you, dear doctor. I would take my time with you and—”

  Cree moved quicker than was humanly possible and took Bronwyn's arm. He opened the door to the interview room and ushered her outside. He could feel her trembling as he closed the door behind them and stood there, her arm still in his firm grip. Her breathing was shuddery and her eyes stricken as she looked up to meet his gaze.

  “He is sick,” she said. “I understand that.”

  Cree's grip tightened. “All that is wrong with him is the evil in his mind, Bronwyn. You can't help men like him.”

  “But I have to try,” she said, her gaze pleading.

  He shook his head. “Some you will never be able to salvage. Best you realize that now and not waste your time trying.”

  She pulled her arm from his hold. “What would you suggest we do with men like Jason Faulkner, Captain? Execute them?”

  He folded his arms and regarded her. “That is the only way society will ever be safe from predators like him.”

  “Society has been served. He'll never leave Baybridge.”

  The right side of Cree's mouth lifted in a smile. “Aye, in that you are right.”

  Her shoulders slumped, the evil she had been shown lurking in Faulkner's mind obviously draining her energy. “Thank you for being there. I'm glad you insisted. I felt safer.”

  He ached to reach out to her, to cup her cheek, but he resisted the urge. “I'll make sure he gets back to his cell.”

  She nodded, then turned to go.

  Cree watched her until she turned the corner. He could sense the turmoil tumbling in her mind and knew she would have bad dreams that night. The memories of the vile things Faulkner had related to her would return to torment her in the darkness.

  A slow growl of fury rumbled through his chest and his eyes slid to the door behind which Jason Faulkner sat. Crimson flashes rippled through Cree's eyes, then bled over to form a scarlet haze that pulsed with every angry breath he took. At his sides, his hands doubled to powerful fists, his fingernails digging into the flesh. For the first time in a long time, he felt the Blood Lust rising, singing through his veins, and scratching at his throat. He sniffed the air, drawing in the demonic stench of the man tied to the chair in the room beyond. He could taste the evil of Jason Faulkner on his tongue, savored the rankness of it, and made his decision.

  His fingers went to the buttons of his uniform shirt.

  * * * *

  Faulkner looked up as the door opened. The cocky grin slipped from his face when he realized it was not the female doctor. It took him a moment to realize that what had come in naked through the door was the stuff of his worst nightmares. In the moment it took him to open his mouth to scream, it was already too late for the serial killer who had savagely mutilated thirty-nine young women.

  * * * *

  “What happened?” Bronwyn asked as she hurried into the morgue.

  “Massive coronary,” a man she didn't recognize barked with a thick Australian accent. He glanced up at her, did a double take, then straightened from his position over the dead man.

  Jason Faulkner was lying on a metal gurney, his body as white as parchment. His eyes were wide open and staring fixedly at the ceiling. There was a hideous grimace on the killer's face, his lips drawn back in a rictus of a scream.

  “Who found him?” Bronwyn asked.

  “Our Fascist dictator, Cree. Are you Bronwyn McGregor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You interviewed Faulkner today?”

  “This morning. He was okay when I left him. Captain Cree told me he'd see him back to his cell.”

  “Well, he's useless to us now.” The man ripped off his rubber gloves, wadded them into a ball, then slammed them forcefully into the trashcan.

  “Are you implying that I—”

  The pathologist spun around and looked at her with eyes she realized were almost sapphire in color.

  “You didn't do anything, Doctor,” he replied. “I'm not mad at you. I'm just pissed that we won't be able to find out where this son of a bitch buried his victims. Their families have a right to—”

  “We know where they're buried.” At his blink, she nodded. “He told me this morning. It's in my notes that Mari Beth is typing up. I've already informed the authorities.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “He told you?”

  “He took great delight in bragging about what he'd done and how he'd gotten away with it for so long. There were more victims than we knew about, too.”

  The pathologist winced. “That's not surprising, but at least we'll be able to give them a decent burial. Thank God for small miracles.”

  “I agree.” Bronwyn looked down at Faulkner. “He looks scared to me.”

  “Maybe the bastard saw the vengeful face of his creator when he bought it, or the grin of the devil come to take him to his just reward.”

  “I'm inclined to believe the latter.”

  “Good Catholic, are you?”

  “Cafeteria Catholic, I'm afraid.”

  “Me, too.” He chuckled, sticking out his hand. “I'm Koe Brell.”

  Bronwyn took the man's hand and felt a shiver ripple through her. She looked into his face, searching. “Bronwyn.”

  “No,” he said, letting go of her hand.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said ‘no,'” he returned. “I don't blame you for my father's death.” He shrugged. “Me and the old man hadn't spoken in ten years when he got made into tossed salad over in Ireland.”

  “Oh,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “I didn't realize he was from Australia. I thought he was from Ireland.”

  “He was. My mother was from Sydney and that's where I was born and raised. He left us right after he found out Ma was pregnant with my brother, Diarmuid. I was nine years old and that was the last time I saw him.”

  “I'm sorry he died because of me.”

  “We all have to die for one reason or another.”

  Bronwyn looked away, feeling the man's hurt.

  “I never met your father,” Brell informed her, “but I know your Mom quite well.” He grinned. “Dee Dee's almost as lovely as her daughter.”

  Bronwyn blushed. “I'd heard you Aussies were formidable flirts. Guess it's true.”

  “Oh, I'm not flirting with you, darling,” he said, his face stern. “I'm merely putting you on notice.”

  “On notice for what?”

  He took her hand, bringing it to his lips as he held her gaze captive with his own.

  Bronwyn felt a stab of desire shift through her belly when he drew her closer, folding her hand against his broad chest.

  “Have supper with me this evening,” he said in a low, throaty voice.

  She found herself lost in the sapphire pools of his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome with thick, black, wavy hair that curled invitingly around his chiseled face. His broad shoulders and lean hips, flat waist and long legs were distracting enough, but it was the Black Irish temptation of that dark hair and those sparkling blue eyes that made her heart skip a beat. She leaned toward him, wondering what his full lips would feel like on hers.

  “I won't take no for an answer.” He stroked a lock of stray hair from her cheek, then ran his fingers along her jaw line, the tips easing into her hair.

  “You'll have to,” came an annoyed voice from the doorway.

  Bronwyn jumped back, pulling free of Koe Brell's war
m grip.

  A muscle in Brell's cheek bunched as he turned to face the intruder. “I've always said you have piss-poor timing, Cree,” he snapped.

  Viraidan Cree stood framed in the doorway, his long legs spread, his hands hanging loose and ready at his sides. His body language spoke of power and a willingness to engage in combat if that was what was required.

  “Th...thank you for your invitation, Koe,” Bronwyn stammered, “but Sage and I have plans this evening.”

  “Sage Hesar?” Brell inquired.

  “How many other Sages you know around here outside a spice rack?” Cree grunted.

  Brell ignored the question and looked at Bronwyn. “Some other time, then?”

  She nodded. “I'd like that.”

  “Perhaps we could—”

  “George Vance is waiting in interview room D, Doctor McGregor,” Cree interrupted. “If you plan on seeing him today, let's get to it.”

  Brell turned a heated look to the Reaper. “Where the hell do you get off giving her orders?”

  Bronwyn sensed a confrontation she'd just as soon stop before it started. The two men were glaring daggers at one another, and the look Cree sent Koe's way was a hundred times angrier and lethal than any look she'd seen him give Sage. To prevent any unpleasantness, she moved toward the Reaper.

  “Captain Cree was good enough to offer his services as an escort while I'm interviewing the Class Seven inmates,” she said, hoping to forestall any other combative words.

  “If you need an escort, I would be happy—”

  “Class Seven inmates,” Cree said, “are off limits to you. Or did you forget that, Brell?”

  Koe took a step closer, obviously not threatened by the Reaper's stony expression and stiff stance. “I can walk her to an interview just as—”

  “Captain Brell goes into the interview with me,” Bronwyn was quick to say.

  A light of understanding washed over Brell's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bronwyn cut him off.

  “We have Dr. Wynth's permission. Everything is perfectly legal and within the guidelines.”

  Brell cast Cree a narrowed look, as if realizing he had been defeated in this particular instance. Cree's return look was smug and filled with victory. Upon observing their facial expressions, Bronwyn rolled her eyes.