BlackWind (46 page)

“Isn't that the dog that was with you the day you fell off your bike?” Bronwyn asked, coming abreast of Cree.

A muscle worked in his cheek. “I didn't fall off my gods-be-damned bike, woman.”

“Then what happened?”

He kicked a large rock off the path. “I laid it down to avoid hitting a frigging deer.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling at the male ego she'd unknowingly bruised.

He cast her a sidelong glance. When she grinned at him, he looked away.

They were quiet until they reached the hill overlooking the lake. A large red maple, a few lilac bushes, and a trio of tall poplars ringed the hill. Lush grass covered the knoll. The view was magnificent, the crescent-shaped lake fanning out in either direction from the hill. The water rippled gently, a deep steel blue that lapped at the rock-strewn jetty that jutted out into the waves.

“When the lake freezes over, some of the people who work here build ice houses out there,” Cree told her.

“It gets that cold here?”

“I've seen some idjuts stupid enough to drive pickup trucks all the way along the shoreline, forty feet or farther out across the water.”

“Huh,” Bronwyn commented. Such a thing seemed incredible to her, having grown up in the South and spending most of her life there.

Cree nodded toward an inviting spot. “I come up here a lot.”

“So I've heard,” she said, dropping to the grass.

“From who?”

“Sage says you come up here to eat your mysterious lunch.”

“And does he tell you what's in that mysterious lunch?”

“He believes hog entrails and chicken gizzards, as I recall.”

Cree snorted. “That boy is one of the idjuts I've seen driving on the gods-be-damned lake. It figures he'd think something so frigging obscene.”

“No entrails and gizzies?” she queried with a grin.

“Not likely.”

“Then what?”

He leaned back on his elbows, crossed his booted feet, and regarded her. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.” She picked up a blade of grass and ran it between her fingers. When he remained silent, she looked back at him.

“So you can report what you've learned to Spice Boy?” he asked.

“You don't want to tell me, don't tell me,” she said, returning her attention to the rolling lake.

“A corned beef on rye with a side order of sweet potato fries and a soda pop.”

“Well, that's normal enough.”

“A bag of cheese puffs, two chocolate bars, a box of raisins, three double packages of toaster pastries, a tube of sugar cookie dough, and a can of mixed nuts.”

She turned to stare at him. “You're joking!”

He laid down, his hands cupping the back of his head. “I have a healthy appetite.”

“You are a heart attack waiting to happen! Do you know what they stuff will do to you?”

“What can I say? Reapers are junk-food addicts.”

It was the first time he had labeled himself to her and she wasn't sure how to react.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

She knew he'd plucked her thoughts from the air, but this time it didn't annoy her. She crossed her legs and stuck the blade of grass between her lips. “Do I have reason to be?”

“No.”

“Would you ever hurt me?”

“Never,” he said, his voice low and throaty.

“Then I'm not afraid of you.”

“Disgusted by what I am?”

She shrugged. “Unsettled a bit, perhaps.” She chewed on the grass.

“Enough to stay away from me?”

She took the grass from her mouth and tossed it away. “Obviously not or I wouldn't be up here with you, now, would I?”

Brownie yelped playfully and Ralph answered as they raced down the hill and to the edge of the lapping water.

“Don't you dare get in that water, Brownie!” Bronwyn yelled.

“Ralph is part Lab,” Cree remarked. “He loves the water.”

“Well, I don't feel like bathing that little brat today.”

“Let her play. If she gets wet, I'll bathe her.”

Bronwyn glanced at him. He was staring at her, his eyes looking tired and wounded. Before she thought, she touched his forehead. “You've got a fever!” she said, shifting around to get a better look at him.

He took her hand, staying her inspection of his face. “Reaper body temperature is much higher than a human's. I'm okay, Bronwyn.”

“You don't look okay,” she said, feeling the heat of his flesh radiating up her arm. “There are deep circles beneath your eyes that weren't there when we came up here. Your face is flushed and—”

“I am all right.” He brought her hand to his chest. “I swear.”

Through the fabric of his black polo shirt, she felt the heavy thudding of his heart. It seemed unnaturally quick, though she had no idea what the blood pressure and pulse rate of his kind would be.

“I'm worried about you. You don't look well, Viraidan.”

“You'll get used to seeing me this way from time to time,” he said, letting go of her hand. “It's normal.”

Bronwyn opened her mouth to protest his cavalier attitude, then thought better of it. The man obviously knew whether he was ill or not, she reasoned, and decided to drop the issue. She did, however, make a mental note to talk to Brian and see if he would give her a lesson on Reaper anatomy.

“Is that a tribal tattoo?” she asked, staring fixedly at the dark blue design.

“It is a
marc as
úinéireacht
.”

“Which is?”

“A mark of ownership.”

Before Bronwyn could ask what that meant, he unbuttoned his shirt, palmed a medallion hanging on a thick chain around his neck before she could look at it, then pulled the shirt toward his shoulder. “This is a tribal tattoo—the
dúr diabhol
.”

Bronwyn glanced at the dark crimson design on his left pectoral. She thought his flesh looked burned around the stylized grim reaper with its scythe handle made of human skulls.

“It was done with a laser brush,” he said, pulling his shirt over the tattoo.

“That had to hurt,” she said, flinching.

“I was a child when it was done. I barely remember the pain,” he said as he rebuttoned his shirt.

“Your culture was vastly different from ours, wasn't it?”

“More brutal, more uncaring, aye. But you have men who are just as brutal and uncaring. Daniel Dunne was one of them. He marked his newly-made Reapers in the same manner.”

At the mention of that hated name, Bronwyn looked at the ground. “Would you mind if I asked you something?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked, his gaze wary.

She drew up her knees and clasped them in the perimeter of her arms. “Brian said you were a friend of Sean's.”

A shadow passed over his face. He looked away to stare at the leafy canopy overhead. “I don't want to discuss him.”

Bronwyn felt heat rising in her cheeks. “May I ask why?”

Cree cut his eyes to her. “No.”

She sighed heavily and turned her attention to the dogs frolicking at the water's edge. There were so many questions, questions she thought perhaps Cree would answer in time. At least, she hoped he would.

“Don't count on it,” he said, springing to his feet.

She watched him walk down the hill. His shoulders were stiff, his hands clenched into fists. He was like quicksilver, she thought. One moment he seemed to want to be with her and the next he was pushing her away. His manner, his mood swings, irritated her, yet she found herself drawn to him in a way she could not explain.

As he picked up stones and sent them skipping across the water's surface, she was reminded of watching Sean do the same thing on the Flint River. She smiled sadly and squinted. If she concentrated, she could picture that long lost boy standing on the river bank in Georgia, his sideward pitches causing the rocks to skip three, four, or more times across the water.

She closed her eyes and imagined the male standing at the water's edge was Sean grown into manhood. She could picture his bright blond hair and cornflower blue eyes shining in the warmth of the sun. In her mind's eye, she could see the light green shirt he had worn most often and the tight faded blue jeans that had made her insides ache.

She lay on the grass, her hands to either side of her head. The smell of the grass was crisp and clean, it's lushness a comforting cushion beneath her body. A light breeze washed over her, and the lacy patterns of the tree branches overhead against her closed lids lulled her.

Her thoughts returned to the river, but this time it was the Kinchafoonee and the late afternoon when Sean had made her a woman. Her memories were strong—his hands on her breasts; the feel of his lips on her mouth; the weight of his body upon hers; the pressure of him seated deep inside her.

There was a rustling sound nearby but she did not open her eyes. She was locked in the past, her body on fire with a need she had not felt in many years. Her breathing was deep, slow, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

She felt contact along her right side—a hard length stretched beside her. A sensation moved over her leg, pressing that leg to the ground. Another sensation became wedged between her legs, insistent pressure firm at the juncture of her thighs. Strong fingers threaded her own and she captured them in a tight grip. The light grew slowly darker over her face until soft, pliant lips claimed hers. A powerful chest flattened her breasts, the tips aching to be touched. When the warm moistness of her shadow lover's tongue slid past her lips, Bronwyn groaned and tightened her grip on the phantom hands that held her own captive.

She groaned again when her left hand lost its prisoner, then gasped as the escapee found its way to her breast. Arching up into the possessive grasp that plied her, she thought she would faint, for her lover's tongue took that moment to probe deep inside her mouth.

Her free hand went to her lover's hair, pressing his mouth tighter to hers, which brought a grunt from deep in his throat. She felt him release her other hand as he shifted fully atop her, his hands going under her body to caress her buttocks, his knees spreading her legs apart, the steel of his shaft held hard against the core of her. His lips left her mouth and trailed down her throat, placing hot kisses in the hollow.

“Sean!” she cried, holding him to her.

“I am here,
ghrá mo chroí
.”

Bronwyn's eyes flew open. The long-remembered term of endearment sent a shockwave of pure agony through her soul and brought her out of the strange revelry into which she'd fallen.

Cree was sitting beside her, his face closed, unreadable.

She sat up, pulling at her blouse, clutching the front in a fist.

“You were dreaming,” he told her.

Bronwyn let out a shuddering breath, then another. She squeezed her eyes closed. “It was so real,” she said, her voice breaking. “It felt so real!”

He watched her cover her face with her hands and ached as she began to cry. For a moment, he resisted the urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her, but her heart-breaking sobs struck a chord deep within him and he pulled her onto his lap, drew her head to his shoulder, and held her as her wild sobbing shook them both.

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.

“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 popular 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 can not 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.