BlackWind (36 page)

“Aye,” he answered, the word gruff.

“Then maybe you can tell me how he wound up in that awful place.” She stroked the locket.

“His father took him,” Dr. Wynth explained, sitting down.

Bronwyn shook her head. “That's not possible. His father was dead. His mother—”

“Tymothy Cullen was
not
Sean's biological father,” Sage interrupted.

Surprise parted Bronwyn's lips. She stared at Sage, too shocked to speak.

“A man named Brian O'Shea is Sean's father,” he continued. “O'Shea worked for Dunne. Dunne sent him to America to fetch Sean, and that's how the boy wound up at Fuilgaoth.”

It took a moment for Sage's words to sink in, then Bronwyn shook her head. “When I was in college in Georgia, I used to go see Mrs. Cullen once a month.”

“We know,” Wynth said. “That information is in your file.”

“She never mentioned anything about a man named O'Shea. She said she had no idea how Sean had wound up in Ireland. Why didn't she tell me the truth? Why didn't she tell me Tym Cullen wasn't Sean's father?”

“I suspect she was trying to protect O'Shea,” Sage said. “Sean was gone, but O'Shea is very much alive.”

Bronwyn drew in a breath. “Do you know where he is?”

“On Five North,” Cree answered.

“He's an inmate here?”

Wynth shook his head. “He's the chief resident physician of that section.”

Bronwyn gasped, her eyes wide. “I must go to him! There are things I have to know about Sean!”

Cree leaned back in his chair. “That won't be possible, Dr. McGregor.”

“Why not?”

“You were asking when I arrived if the North and South complexes were run the same as the East and West. I said they weren't.”

“What difference—”

“North and South are lock-down units. The inmates are in their pods twenty-three hours a day. All nine floors are off limits to all but assigned staff and my men.”

Frustration made Bronwyn groan. “Will you let him know I want to speak with him?”

“I will tell him,” Dr. Wynth said.

Bronwyn stood, needing to rid herself of the anxiety that had claimed her. She realized she was trembling and wanted nothing more than to walk off the nervousness. “I'm sorry, but this has all been unsettling and I need time to—”

“Perfectly understandable,” Wynth assured her as he and the others rose. He looked at Sage. “Why don't you take Bronwyn on a tour of the facilities now.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Sage walked to the door and opened it.

“We'll continue our talk another time,” Dr. Wynth said.

“Gentlemen,” Bronwyn mumbled, sparing Wynth and Cree a fleeting look before she left with Sage.

“Where would you like to start?” he asked.

Bronwyn was in no mood for a tour and said as much as they walked down the corridor. “Can we make it later this afternoon?” she asked, her gaze pleading with him.

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head. “I just want to be alone for a while.” She stopped walking. “This has been so...”

Sage put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her to him, and gave her a light hug. “I'm sorry we upset you.”

Bronwyn eased out of his gentle hold and backed away. “It's not your fault.”

He cleared his throat, color having risen in his cheeks at her slight rebuff. “Well, if you need me, just have me paged. I'll be there in the blink of an eye.”

“Thank you,” she said, ducking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“Dr. Hesar fancies himself a knight-errant at times, don't you, Spice Boy?”

Bronwyn looked up to see Captain Cree standing a few feet away. The man in black was scowling, his amber eyes hard.

Sage raised his chin. “I was only offering to help.”

“I'm sure you were.”

Bronwyn sensed the hostility between them and felt uncomfortable.

“If you won't be making the grand tour for awhile,” Cree said as he glared at Sage, “Dr. Wynth would like a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” Sage mumbled. He gave Bronwyn a quick smile, then headed back to the conference room.

Bronwyn shifted her attention to Cree. “You like intimidating people, don't you?”

When he didn't respond, she spun around and walked off.

Cree grinned nastily at her departing back, then turned in the opposite direction. As soon as he did, his gaze locked on a pair of night-black eyes, glowing with undisguised hatred.

The Nightwind blocked his way, standing in the center of the corridor, fists doubled at his side.

“Stay away from my woman,” Danyon Hart growled.

Cree narrowed his eyes. Though he was less than a month away from Transition, he knew he could shift his body into full Reaper mode if he needed to. His mouth watered with the desire to sink his teeth into the Nightwind's throat and rip out his flesh.

“Try it,” Danyon sneered.

Cree took a step closer to the Nightwind, then stopped, his ears picking up a strange sound. He sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling with surprise.

Danyon obviously heard the sound, as well, since he turned in the direction from which it came and his nostrils also quivered.

Along the corridor, the air grew frigid and a stiff breeze washed over them. The unknown smell intensified. From the far end of the corridor, a sickly blue mist began to roll along the floor toward them.

“What the hell is that?” Danyon demanded.

Cree felt a prickle of unaccustomed fear ripple down his spine. He took a step back.

Danyon put a hand over his nose. “By the gods, but that smell is more disgusting than Reaper stench.”

Cree grumbled at the insult, but kept his attention riveted on the spreading mist. He, too, was offended by the rank smell. He felt clammy, awash in the fetid odor emanating from the encroaching vapor. He shifted his shoulders, uncomfortable that his clothing clung to his flesh.

“Do you feel that?” Danyon inquired, obviously so unnerved by the unnatural substance that he took up a position beside Cree. “Do you feel the evil from that thing?”

Cree did not take his eyes from the insidious mist. Although he was nauseated by the stink of the Nightwind so close to him, he was bothered more by the presence of something he could not identify.

A hissing sound echoed through the corridor, so loud both Cree and Danyon covered their sensitive ears to blot out the pain that had suddenly invaded their hearing. They stumbled back, crashing into the wall behind them, neither able to move, plastered against the concrete like insects pinned within a collector's shadowbox.

Cree felt the preternatural fingers caress him. He was sickened by the touch, unmanned by the feel of spectral digits roaming freely over his flesh, assessing, probing, stroking him in places no one had touched in a long, long time. Unable to escape the rigid hold that lashed him with invisible fetters to the wall, he endured the feel of slimy lips sliding over his. He swallowed convulsively against the unclean tongue, tasting of suppurating flesh, that pushed past his lips to rape his mouth. He gagged at the slick feeling, his knees buckling beneath the onslaught. Trembling with terror, he stared into the mist, seeing nothing, and knew a horror unlike anything he could have imagined.

“Viraidan,” the phantom mist whispered on a throaty sigh. “I have come for you.”

Cree shuddered violently and managed to pull himself away from the wall. Hands still over his ears, he slid to the floor, his back scraping down the concrete. He hunkered there, his shirt and trousers sticking to his cold flesh.

As suddenly as the attack began, it ended.

The mist withdrew, sucking in on itself, sliding back down the corridor and disappearing in the blink of an eye. The stench—so powerful, so unnerving—became only a lingering hint of unpleasantness that made Cree's eyes water and his nostrils sting.

“W...what in hell was that?” Danyon questioned, sliding down beside Cree. He, too, was shivering, his clothing wet.

“I...I...” Cree could not finish. He turned, spewing bile as the taste that had conquered his mouth still clung. He bent over, retching violently until there was nothing inside him to bring up.

Danyon pushed his back up the wall. “I'd say you've got big trouble, Reaper.”

“Go back to your lair.”

“Whatever that thing was, I'm glad it's after you and not me.”

Cree looked up, ready to do battle with the Nightwind, but the creature was gone, the only sign he'd been there was the stench he left behind to mingle with that of the phantom fog's.

Cree closed the door to his quarters and leaned against it. He was as unnerved as he could ever remember being in his long life. Even after an hour-long run around the outdoor track at full speed, he could not shake the sense of impending doom that had settled like an iron mantle on his shoulders. He could still see the spectral fog flowing toward him, could taste the vile flavor that had invaded his mouth, could feel the eager fingers that had fondled his privates, could hear the insidious evil that had spoken in the corridor. Each of his senses had been assaulted by the experience and he felt violated in the worst way.

Haunted, he walked to the window. He pushed aside the curtain with the back of his fingers and stared unseeingly into the courtyard below. He ignored the knock at his door and continued standing at the window even when the door opened and closed behind his visitor.

“Did you forget you were going to meet me for lunch?”

Cree did not answer. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, his body as tense as a steel spring.

“You spoke to her, didn't you?”

The question brought his eyes open. He turned to stare at the man who had joined him beside the window.

Brian O'Shea took a step back. He held up a hand. “We won't talk about it, if you don't want to.”

Cree let out a shaky breath. “Oh, you meant Bronwyn...”

“Aye,” Brian said on a long breath. “Who did you think I meant?”

“The Amazeen,” Cree whispered, the name a bitter taste in his mouth.

Brian's forehead crinkled. “What is an Amazeen?”

Cree let the curtain close. He walked to the sofa and sat, knees spread with hands clasped between them, and lowered his head. “They are a race of warrior women. Savage bitches who enslave their menfolk and use them like breeding cattle.”

“Even Reapers?” Brian asked, sitting in the chair across from Cree.

A shudder rippled through Cree. For a long time he didn't speak. When he did, his voice was flat and toneless. “They tried mating with my race until they realized only male offspring came from the union.”

“Reaper males,” Brian stated, “tainted with parasite spore. Female embryos would have been devoured by the parasite.”

Cree nodded. “Her clan is the reason I came to Earth.”

“Do you want to tell me about it, son?” Brian asked softly.

Cree raised his head and looked into the eyes of the man who was the closest thing to a friend he had ever known. He looked into eyes filled with concern, eyes that looked back at him with a quiet love he had never accepted.

“I've asked you not to call me that. I am
not
Sean Cullen.”

“I know. Not entirely, anyway.”

“Cullen was weak,” Cree stated from between clenched teeth.

“Sean was half-human,” Brian countered.

“He was a fool!”

Brian smiled gently. “He was a man in love.”

Cree shot to his feet and began pacing, his angry strides giving evidence to the agitation churning within him. When at last he returned to the couch and sat, he buried his face in his hands.

“This is becoming unbearable!” he said, his voice breaking. “I don't want his thoughts in my head. I don't want his feelings twisting around inside me! They've gotten worse since his woman arrived!”

It was the first time since the Prime Reaper had awakened in Fuilgaoth—his transformation from a badly burned young man in his teens to a physically powerful warrior in his thirties completed—that Cree had acknowledged the two entities were one. It was the first time he had spoken of Sean Cullen's feelings.

Brian sighed heavily and left his chair to sit beside Cree. He did not touch Cree, just sat there, allowing his presence to calm his friend, give him the reassurance that he was not alone.

“How can I help, Viraidan?”

“She is beautiful,” Cree whispered.

“The Amazeen?”

“No!” Cree exploded, glaring at the man who had given life to a small part of him. “That bitch is uglier than a Diabolusian warthog with the mange! I'll kill her the first chance I get! She is the least of my worries.”

Brian looked away. “You meant Bronwyn.”

“Aye, I meant Bronwyn,” Cree snapped.

“I've not met her, but Sean told me she was lovely. Of course, he was looking at her with the eyes of a man in love.”

“Sean loved her more than his own life.”

“I know.”

“She
was
his life!”

“I believe he felt so.”

“She was his mate,” Cree groaned.

Brian drew in a long breath. “As she will always be.”

“A Reaper can have but one mate in his life, O'Shea. You know that. You had Dorrie. I had Chandra. She was my mate, the mother of my son. I should not be having these wicked thoughts of the McGregor woman!”

“I believe this situation might well be unique, though, don't you?” Brian inquired. “Sean is having the thoughts, not Viraidan.”

“How can he still think of her? She betrayed him,” Cree said, his voice husky.

“I don't believe that was the way of it.”

“She told him she would never forgive him. She turned her back on him as he lay dying.” Moisture burned Cree's eyes. “He was in agony and she turned away.”

Brian drew in a long breath. “That must have been worse for him than the physical pain.”

“He needed her,” Cree stated, wiping away the treacherous tears clouding his vision. He stared at the wetness clinging to his fingers, then furiously wiped his hand on the front of his shirt. He shot up from the sofa and stared out the window.

“Does he still love her?”

There was a long moment of silence before Cree leaned his forehead against the windowpane. “He will always love her. He aches for her and she invades his dreams each night.”