BlackWind (51 page)

For a moment he was puzzled, then he groaned and mentally kicked himself. It all came back to him in a rush of self-contempt—going to the liquor store at the mini-mall, demanding the clerk give him the most potent bottle on the shelves.

“I want to forget everything!” Cree had snarled.

“Well, there's Sharp Image,” the clerk responded. “That stuff is Ninety-Eight proof.”

“Proof of what?” Cree spat.

The clerk laughed. “How stupid a man can be when he drinks it. If getting blitzed is what you want, that'll sure do the trick.”

Obviously it had.

The liquor had been awful, its fumes working on Cree's super-sensitive olfactory nerves even before he took the first drink. He had forced himself to swallow the godawful mess, which burned a path down his gullet—far worse tasting than Brian's whiskey—and had filled his glass several times before the pleasant sense of floating lulled him into thinking he could pass the night comfortably numb.

“The hell with you, Bronwyn McGregor,” he had grumbled as he climbed into bed with the bottle and glass, “and your self-righteous condemnation of what I helped do to Ski'Ah!”

Perhaps the night had been passed in comfortable detachment—the ever-present image of Ski'Ah burning to her death—but the morning was bringing with it a throbbing agony between his temples and a belly that was on fire.

When he belched, the taste of the grain alcohol flooded his mouth, and he gagged. He shot up from the bed as though launched from a rocket sled.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he retched into the toilet until his insides felt as though they would squeeze out through his gasping mouth. The residual liquor bubbled into his nose, burning like hell, and dropped him to his knees to clutch the porcelain stool.

“Sweet Alel,” he groaned, his long hair falling over his face.

Ralph padded into the bathroom and stood between the tub and toilet, his dark gaze intent on the Reaper.

“Dying,” Cree said, then gagged. More fluid than he thought he could possibly have inside his body exploded from his throat.

“Humphf,” Ralph replied with what might well have been doggie disgust.

Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Cree would not have believed what Ralph did. The dog loped over to the linen closet, nosed open the door, stood on his hind legs to reach an upper shelf, took a washrag in his mouth, and dropped back to all fours. Carrying the rag to the vanity, he stood again, dropped the washrag in the sink, managed to grip the coldwater handle with his teeth, and pull it toward him to turn on the water. It was a wet, soggy mess that he brought over to Cree, but the Reaper greatly appreciated the effort.

Ralph sat on his haunches as Cree dragged the dripping cloth over his pale face.

“Humphf?”

“Aye, I feel better,” Cree managed to admit. He sat cross-legged on the floor and leaned his head against the wall. “But I'm still dying.”

“Humphf!” Ralph snorted with a yawn.

“'Not likely,’ my ass. “I am dying here, dog.”

The ringing of the phone brought instant agony to Cree's head and he slapped his hands over his ears.

If dogs could smirk, Ralph smirked as he padded into the living room. He reappeared with the satellite phone between his jaws, dropping the instrument into his master's lap.

The chirp of the phone brought tears to Cree's eyes but he was able to lower one hand from his ear and grab the implement of torture. “What?” he whined in a pitiful voice.

“Where is Bronwyn?” Brian queried.

“I don't know,” Cree whimpered, the sound of his voice excruciating.

“I've called her apartment all morning and there's no answer,” Brian grumbled. “Did she come home last night or spend it with Brell?”

“No Brell.”

“What?” When Cree didn't answer, Brian asked again, his voice harsh and louder.

“No, Brian, no,” Cree moaned. “Don't do that.”

There was a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “What did you drink?”

“Proof,” was all Cree could remember.

Another silence, then Brian snorted. “Fool. I'm on my way over there.”

Cree was still sitting beside the toilet, his head against the wall, a death grip on the phone, when Brian came into the bathroom and hoisted him to his feet.

“What a gods-be-damned mess you've made,” Brian accused. “Well, you'll be the one to have to clean it up!”

Taking Cree into the living room, Brian shoved him onto the sofa, ignoring the Reaper gasp of pain. “Here,” he said, picking up a plastic squeeze bottle he'd obviously brought with him. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind what it is, just drink it!”

The lavender brew smelled awful and the taste wasn't much better, but almost instantly the heavy throbbing inside his head and the bitter taste in his mouth disappeared. The nausea fled almost as quickly and his mind began to clear.

“What was that?” Cree asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“Cechanz. One of the drugs the Queen told us about.

“The gods bless Her spiny little heart.”

“What happened? You get mad because Bronnie went out with Mr. Down Under?”

Cree laid his head on the back of the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I brought her home, Brian.”

Brian stilled, his eyes flaring. “From where?”

“The Triskelion.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

The lavender medicine had done its job so that Brian's shout did not cause Cree the agony it would have five minutes before. Cree sighed. “It's a long story,”

“You just happened to be there? When have you ever gone to the Tris?”

“There's always a first time.”

“Didn't I tell you to keep away from her?”

Cree didn't answer. He lay sprawled on the sofa, his long legs stuck out in front of him.

Brian looked toward the bedroom. “Is she in there?”

“No.”

Ignoring the reply, Brian got up and checked anyway. He came back, his lips pursed. “I went by her apartment on the way here and she didn't answer the door.”

“Maybe she's with her mother.”

“DeeDee went to Europe last week with Neal and Sage Hesar, or did you forget that?”

“Then maybe she went to Rebecca Woods. They've become good friends.”

“I tried there. Rebecca's husband said she's in Chicago at the King Tut exhibit this weekend.”

“Well, maybe she went for a walk,” Cree said, exasperated. “How the hell would I know?”

“I've been worried about her all night.”

Cree raised his head and looked at the older man. “I'd know if something was wrong with her.”

“You would? Drunk out of your mind? Thinking clearly and able to hear her if she needed you?” Before Cree could answer, Brian snorted. “Oh, I forgot you have her blood indexed within you. You should be totally aware of anything that goes on with her, right?”

“Brian—”

“I don't have such a connection to her! And I'm worried!”

“All right!” Cree yelled. He shot up from the sofa. “Let's find her, then!”

Halfway to the door, Cree stopped and a hard shudder ran through his body. He stumbled, clutched a floor lamp to keep from falling even as Brian made a grab for him.

When the older man touched Cree, he groaned. “Oh, Alel, not now!”

Cree was hot as fire, the vibratory waves of a pending Transition rippling through his flesh faster than ever.

Throwing his arm around the Reaper, Brian pulled him out the door and down the corridor to the elevator, slapping angrily at the button until the doors pealed back. Thrusting a sweating, panting Cree inside, Brian pushed the button to the lower level.

“It was the alcohol,” Brian said. “And the Transitioning out of cycle that brought this on.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Cree whispered, his body beginning to twist with the fiery agony spreading through his organs.

“You are an ungrateful young sot.”

Cree gasped in torment as his limbs twisted and popped, the bones elongating and the joints cracking. Thick, wiry hair began shooting up from his flesh and the smell of it was musky in the close confines of the elevator.

“Hold on,” Brian begged, obviously hoping to get Cree to the containment cell before full bloodlust Transition occurred.

The elevator stopped. Both Reapers stumbled down the corridor toward the cell, Cree bent over with the pain in his belly. As Brian grunted beneath Cree's weight, Cree whimpered in excruciating pain.

Opening the containment cell door was easy, but Brian had to wrestle Cree into the room, shoving him to the floor. He slammed the door shut as fast as he could, for the bloodlust had come fully on the man in the cell. Howls of rage shook the walls. Cree sprang at the door, pummeling it with black leathery fists and scraping lethal talons down the reenforced glass. Even though Cree crashed into the door with all his brutal strength, the thickness of the walls and door muffled the sound.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Brian hung his head, exhausted and unnerved by the quick out-of-sequence Transition that could have been a disaster had he not been there to see to Viraidan Cree. He slumped against the wall, panting, and ran a trembling hand across his mouth.

“Too close,” he said, feeling the thunderous vibrations hitting the wall behind him. “Too close.”

Brian knocked one last time on Bronwyn's door and was about to turn away when he heard the lock click. When the door opened and he saw her standing there, he relaxed. “Where've you been, Sweeting?”

“Right here.” She stepped back to let him in.

“You didn't answer your phone. And when I came by earlier there was no answer.”

“I was probably in the shower. I don't know why, but I've taken three showers today.” She shrugged away her words. “Did you leave a message on the machine?”

“Aye,” he replied, getting a good look at her. Her face was haggard, her eyes dull. “Are you sick?”

“Migraine.” She curled up on the sofa, her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

“Oh, dearling, I'm sorry. I'll leave.”

“No, don't go. I took my meds and it should go away in a bit.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“Then I may need you to take me to get a shot at the clinic.”

“Of course.” Brian started to take a seat in one of the two recliners flanking the sofa. “Can I get you anything?”

“Some lemon-lime soda?”

“Sure thing.” He headed for the kitchen.

Bronwyn took the iced glass of soda when he returned. “Thanks.”

“Where's the Old One?” he asked, looking for Cedric.

“I don't know,” Bronwyn answered, taking a sip of the beverage. “He wasn't here when I woke up this morning.”

“Is that like him to up and disappear like this?”

“He never has before,” Bronwyn sighed. “I've been calling him and Danyon all morning, but neither has answered.”

“Perhaps they're together.”

“Could be. I know Aine is dying and Danyon could have needed Cedric to help ease her.”

“Aine?”

“The woman to whom Danyon is pledged. She is close to one hundred years old and has been ill for some time.”

“You've met her?”

“No, but Cedric has told me about her.”

“I don't know that much about incubi and their women,” Brian said with a shrug. “I have a hard enough time understanding my own kind.”

“Then maybe you can tell me what I can do to help Viraidan,” she said, finishing the soda.

“You can stay away from him,” Brian grumbled.

Bronwyn closed her eyes. “Maybe I don't want to.”

When Brian did not reply, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Before she could say anything else, he stood.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Brian, I don't feel like—”

“You wanted to know what you could do for him? Then come with me and I'll show you.”

“Where?” she asked, pushing herself up.

“To the containment cell.”

Bronwyn froze, her eyes wide. “He's Transitioning?”

“You need to see what we are. You need to understand how it is with us.”

“No,” she said, putting the glass on the coffee table. “He wouldn't want me to see him like that without a damned good reason. Just traipsing down there to take a look when he's vulnerable would be rotten, an invasion of his privacy.”

Brian's brows drew together. “What difference does that make?”

“I won't go.”

“I think you should! You seem to have this romantic notion of what—”

The ringing of his cell phone interrupted Brian.

“Hell!” he barked, reaching for the offending instrument. He unclipped it from his belt, his mouth tight, but when he saw who was calling, he felt the blood drain from his face. He hit the talk button and slapped the phone to his ear. “Brian O'Shea.”

As he listened to the caller, Brian went rigid. Sweat formed on his upper lip as his anxiety grew.

“I'm on my way!” he declared.

“What's wrong?” Bronwyn asked. “A patient get loose?”

“It's Dorrie,” Brian whispered, his lips trembling. “She's had a stroke.”

Bronwyn gasped. “Oh, Brian, no!”

“I've got to go to her.”

“Do you want me to drive you to the airport?’

Brian stared at her. “Airport?” he echoed, then shook his head. “I don't think they'll let me use the corporate jet.”

“They'd better!” she said, going to him and pushing him toward the door. She opened it for him. “I'll call Dr. Wynth and make the arrangements.”

Brian walked into the corridor, then spun around and stared at her. “He can't be left alone!”

“Tell me what to do.”

Brian looked at the floor, his gaze shifting back and forth across the sand-colored carpet. “He has to be fed and he has to be given the Tenerse when he comes out of it.” He looked up at her. “Sage isn't here to inject him!”

“I'll do that,” she said firmly and came out into the hall with him, shutting the door on a whimpering Brownie. “Tell me where the meds are.”

“He won't like you giving him the Tenerse.”

“He wouldn't allow Sage to give it to him even if Spice Boy was here.”

Despite the turmoil boiling inside him, Brian grinned at her use of the insulting name.

“Don't just stand there, O'Shea!” she challenged. “Tell me where you keep his Sustenance and the tenerse!”