PRINCE OF THE WIND (31 page)

Maeve tried to pull her hand free, but the sensation against her palm stilled her movements. Her eyes grew wide as the flesh beneath her hand surged upward and shifted lower. She groaned.

"His name is Daemion," Rhiannon whispered.

"I heard you tell his father," Maeve sighed.

"Help me, Maeve."

For one wild moment, Maeve wanted to jerk away and flee. A part of her loathed the mother as well as the child, but another part of her ached at the teeming life pulsing in a womb, a sensation she would never know.

When Rhiannon saw Maeve’s shoulders slump, she squeezed Maeve’s hand. "You will help me?"

Maeve raised her scrutiny from the Windweaver’s belly to her expectant face. She saw fear lurking in the lustrous eyes and made note of the trembling scarlet lips. Without speaking, she nodded.

Rhiannon smiled. "Praise to the gods, Lady. Praise to the gods!"

"What is your plan, witch?"

The Windweaver’s smile widened. "One I know you will approve."

* * *

Riain climbed into the car, shot Goldie a damning look, then stretched out in the seat. "How much further?"

"Less than an hour," Goldie said as she turned the key in the ignition.

"You will never get me in another of these carriages," he seethed. "Tell me again why we are making this never-ending trip."

"I wanted to be with my baby brother, who is undergoing surgery tomorrow morning."

"I remember now." He touched her hand on the steering wheel.

Goldie shrugged. "You’ve a short attention span, Cree."

He winced. So concerned with his own problems, he had forgotten hers. "I am sorry."

"You didn’t have to come along, you know," she grated. "You could have stayed at my apartment."

He looked at her and saw the need for companionship in her eyes. The woman had lost her oldest brother to a dread disease called cancer and now her youngest brother was undergoing surgery for the same illness. The situation did not look good and he could tell she was worried. That was the main reason he had not taken to the air and followed her as she drove to her home. Though he wished that he had.

"I wanted to accompany you."

"Whatever," she sniffed.

Riain sighed deeply and laid his head against the cool glass of the passenger window. He watched the countryside pass by and marveled at how different this land was from his native Chale. It bore the unmistakable likeness to Serenia and that made him wonder if this land was not a distant future of McGregor’s homeland.

"Do you have a land where there are black beaches?" he asked.

Goldie glanced at him. "Greece does, I think."

"Greece. Are there mountains, too?"

"I believe so. I’ve never been there."

"What of a land of dark people?"

"You mean black people? People with brown or black skin?"

"Aye."

"Africa."

"And a land where the natives have eyes shaped like almonds?"

"There are several lands like that. China, Japan, Korea, Thailand…"

"This really is our future," he said in awe.

"God help you, then."

He shifted in his seat so he could look at her. "How so?"

"Well, I don’t know about your world, Cree, but here there is drought, pestilence, famine and—"

"War."

"More wars every year, it seems."

"Such is the way on all worlds, Golden One."

* * *

The place of the Healers made Riain acutely uncomfortable. The smells stung his nostrils and made his eyes water, while the sounds jarred his nerves. As he walked beside Goldie, he looked about the corridor; everywhere he gazed, human misery was staring back at him.

"This is an evil place," he whispered.

"How can you say that?" Goldie chastised. "People’s lives are saved in hospitals like this one."

"Death resides here," he said with a shudder. "This is the Gatherer’s entrance hall."

Goldie stopped, glared at him, and didn’t say a word.

"I’ll be quiet," he said, sensing her anger.

"Good!" she hissed, then continued on to what she told him was the nurse’s station.

Riain dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans, lowered his head, and followed her.

"Trace McHatton’s room, please," she told the white-clad woman behind a tall counter.

"Good afternoon," the woman said. "Are you his sister?"

"Yes."

"He’s been expecting you." The woman glanced at Riain. "Is this your husband?"

"Yes," Goldie replied before Riain could disagree.

"Mr. McHatton is in Room 502."

"Thank you."

"Don’t stay long. He’s very weak."

Riain saw Goldie flinch and reached out to take her arm. He was not surprised when she leaned in to him, for he knew she was fast losing her strength. He nodded at the white-clad woman and gently pulled Goldie from the counter. "Which way?"

Goldie looked around, her eyes suddenly too bright. "Down there," she said, pointing to their left.

When they entered the room in which Goldie’s brother lay, Riain knew the young man would not survive the Healer’s blade come morning. The scent of death was strong in the room.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the man joked.

"The wolf, you mean." Goldie laughed nervously as she eased her hand from Riain’s grip and went to the bed. She bent over her brother and kissed his pale forehead. "How’s it going, Rebel?"

"I’ve been better," he quipped. "And who have you brought to meet me?"

Riain stepped up to the bed and took the weak hand thrust at him. "I am Cree." As soon as his flesh touched that of Goldie’s brother, Riain could feel the life leaching from Trace McHatton. He placed his free hand over the young man’s and held it as though he could keep the warmth from fading.

"It’s okay," Trace said gently.

At that moment, Riain knew the man had already made his Peace with the Wind and was ready to leave this world, perhaps even eager to do so. Tears filled Riain’s eyes. He walked to the window when Goldie pulled up a chair and began asking about their family.

"So, tell me how things are in Hotlanta," Trace requested.

Riain listened to the brother and sister, but he deliberately blotted out their words. He stared into the parking lot, watching people going and coming. Their movements mesmerized him for a time, then, bored, he looked up over the trees and frowned.

There was a river crooking to the South, away from the hospital. He stared at it for a moment before he realized he had seen this waterway before. Even as the thought intruded, he saw lightning to the East.

"Bainbridge," he said, his heart beginning to thud violently.

"What?" Goldie asked.

Riain looked around at her. "This is Bainbridge."

"Yes, I told you that already."

"And that," he said, pointing to the waterway, "is the Flint River."

"Yes," she drawled. "So?"

He turned and stared at the river. "There’s a storm coming."

And with it, he thought, Suzanna de Viennes.

He shoved his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the amethyst vial.

His first trip through the Abyss would be this evening, unless he could find a way to circumvent it.

"Are you all right, Cree?" Goldie inquired.

He looked around to see the McHatton’s watching him. "I must go, Golden One."

"Golden One?" Trace chuckled. "Now that’s a hoot, Sis!"

Riain came to the bed, took Trace’s hand, and held it. "It will not be a rough journey. There is great peace at the end of your road."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Goldie snapped, pushing Riain away from her brother.

"Sis," Trace sighed. "He knows and he’s trying to—"

"Get out of here, Cree!" Goldie snarled. "Now!"

Riain opened his mouth to apologize, but Goldie grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the door. She didn’t give him time to say anything before she pushed him into the corridor and shut the door in his face.

"He’s decided not to have the operation," the white-clad woman said. She was walking toward him, a tray in her hands.

"It would do no good, and only prolong his pain."

The woman nodded. "That’s why he doesn’t want to go through with it. He knows it’s a losing battle." She looked at the door. "I think he’s just been holding on long enough to see his sister."

Riain glanced at her tray and saw vials of potions. "You will make his last hours comfortable with those?"

"We’ll try. He’s a DNR."

Riain did not know what that meant, so said nothing. He could see great compassion in the woman’s eyes. "Tell her I am grateful for her help, but I won’t be seeing her again. Tell her Suzanna will be here tonight."

"Oh," the woman said, confusion reflected in her gray eyes.

"She’ll understand."

* * *

Just before the stroke of midnight, the door to Trace’s room opened. The soft shaft of light fell on his face and he turned toward it.

"Hello, sweeting," a soft feminine voice greeted him.

His voice was weak, his breath shallow as he looked into beautiful green eyes. "Well, hey yourself, darling…"

"Would you like to go with me?"

Trace smiled sadly. "Yes, ma’am, I surely would."

She gently touched his forehead. "I’ve a favor to ask first."

He sat on the park bench for a long time, staring at the purple vial in his hand. The weight of it was miniscule, but the potency so lethal, a single drop could kill a dozen strong men.

Overhead, lightning stepped through the heavens and the rain started again. It was close on the witching hour and he could feel time slipping away. Soon, she would find him and they would begin their dance of death. If his dreams held true, she would cut his throat and drag him into the infernal regions of the Abyss.

"Or I can stop you here and now, Lady."

In his dreams, he ran from her, stumbling toward the rushing water he could hear only a few yards away. In the arms of Morphia, he was helpless, unable to keep her from touching him, vulnerable, hopeless, unable to stop the inevitable from happening.

But that was in his dreams.

In reality, he would make a stand. He would fight her with the last intake of his breath.

Deliberately, he put the poison in his pocket and stood. He could feel her closing in, could smell her. Soon, he would hear her evil voice calling to him.

He squared his shoulders and stepped out from the shelter of the overhanging branches that had kept him fairly dry. Rain pelted him as he took the pathway toward the river. In seconds, his clothing was soaked. Beneath his boots, gravel crunched but he made no attempt to mute his footsteps. The sooner the witch found him, the sooner he could try to put an end to this living nightmare.

The young man who lay dying in the Healer’s Place had given Riain the courage to try to break the vicious cycle that would surely begin this night if he failed. The calm acceptance of death that Riain had seen on Trace McHatton’s face had been all the impetus he needed to make his decision.

"The journey will not be hard," he said aloud. "And I will be waiting in the Arms of the Gatherer when it is Maeve’s time to join me."

But first, he would rid the world of one evil.

"Riain Cree!"

He brought up his head and cocked his ear toward her hideous voice.

"Here, Suzanna," he whispered. "I am here, you bitch!"

He would not run. He would not stumble amongst the thorns and pitch headlong down the levee. He would not tear open his flesh on rocks and rough bark as he strove to outdistance her.

"Riain!"

"Here," he said, his voice only a little louder, and he walked faster toward the river.

The ground shook as the sky split apart; small hail fell from the heavens. The ice stones landed on the gravel path, jumping like corn popping on a hot griddle. He was all but oblivious to the small discomfort of hail hitting his head and shoulders. So intent was he on the matter at hand that nothing short of an earthquake would have had meaning for him.

"RIAIN!"

The wind began howling like the banshees of his homeland. The force of the blasts rocked him, tugging at his clothing, but he lowered his head and plowed into the teeth of the wind, his head turned aside to keep the swirling debris from blinding him.

Her stench was stronger in his nostrils as he made the river. He looked over the swirling waters, seeing the white caps frothing in the flare of the almost-constant lightning. He forced himself down the embankment, the water lapping at his booted feet as his heels sank into the red mud.

"RIAIN!"

He could almost feel her hot breath on his neck. The flesh at his throat tingled as he remembered the feel of her blade caressing him in his dreams.

A violent clap of thunder rolled overhead; a loud hiss of wind started off to his right. He looked that way, his eyes widening as he saw the cyclone dipping down from the brightly-lit sky.

"You can not escape me!"

She was there, on the embankment above him, her skirt whipping in the severe breeze. In her hand, he saw the flash of the dagger.

"Come on," he said, his jaw clenched. He doubled his hands into fists, pleased with the sensation that nicked at his flesh.

Obviously mindless of anything save her revenge, Suzanna de Viennes started down the embankment, her slippers crunching over the gravel.

He pretended to slide into the water, lowering himself enough so that the churning waves washed over his legs and waist. The feel was awful, the revenant worm screaming at him to get up, to flee. He dug his hands into the thick red mud.

He did not look up at her as she knelt beside him.

"Did you really think you could escape? You should have known better."

He felt her hand in his hair and slowly relaxed his fists.

"You are mine, Riain Cree."

He closed his eyes and tensed.

"You are mine and mine you will stay."

She dragged back his head, her fingers so tight in his hair the pain began to register.

"You have always been mine," she hissed, her anger so strong it was like a beacon in the stormy night.

"No," he said, allowing her to drag back his head. "I am death, bitch!"