Blackwind

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Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com Copyright ©2002 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

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BLACKWIND By CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO ~~~ Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

Also By Charlotte Boyett-Compo At Grandma's Knee BlackWind BloodWind DarkWind In the Heart of the Wind In the Teeth of the Wind In the Wind's Eye NightWind Prince of the Wind ShadowWind Shards Anthology WindChance WindFall The WindLegend's Saga Book I: Windkeeper Book II: Windseeker Book II: Windseeker Book III: Windweeper Book IV: Windhealer Book V: Windreaper Book VI: Winddreamer Book VII: Windbeliever Book VIII: Winddeceiver Book IX: Windretriever Book X: Windschemer

DEDICATION To the wonderful and understanding Emergency Room staff of the Grinnell (Iowa)Regional Medical Center: Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your professionalism, your kindness, and most of all your tender mercies when YE OLDE MIGRAINE comes to visit. I truly appreciate each and every one of you. —Charlee CHAPTER 1

Albany, Georgia, September 1979 He followed the little girl's every movement with hungry eyes. He had been watching her for three years now. At his sides, his hands were clenched so tightly the fingernails dug bloody arcs into his palms. His body posture was tense as he watched the child from his hiding place at the corner of the building. Every trill of laughter from her creamy white throat, every shriek of delight as she soared higher and higher on the swing, drove a spike of hurt through his brain. Staring at her pretty smile made him clench his teeth, grind them together so strongly his jaw began to ache. “Higher, Davy!” she demanded. “Push me higher!” His fevered gaze shifted momentarily to the little red-haired boy who stood behind her, his freckled face beaming as he pushed the swing seat. Every ounce of hatred in his body became directed at the boy. Every vile epithet he had ever heard was hurled silently at the head of the child. A grimace of a smile began to relax his tight face as he watched the boy suddenly turn pale. “Davy!” the little girl protested, turning to look back at her friend. The recess bell blared. The watcher jumped, since he was standing almost directly under the mechanism, but he did not remove his angry stare from the boy. If anything, his look intensified. The red-haired boy faltered, stumbled back, his hand to his forehead. He went to one knee on the playground sand. “Davy?” the girl questioned. The concern in her voice brought the eyes of her watcher back to her and away from the target of his rage. She twisted around in the swing seat, her worried eyes locked on her friend. “Bronnie,” the boy called as he lowered his other knee to the ground. “I don't feel so good.” “What's the matter?” she asked and tipped forward to drag her sneakers in the dirt, slowing the swing. Her face was turned toward him, her eyes troubled. “Davy, what's wrong?”

He knew what she was going to do a second before she acted. “No,” the watcher hissed, venturing out from his hiding place. With a gasp, he stared in horror as the girl let go of the swing's chains and leapt out of the seat to land on both knees in the gravel. He groaned as he saw the flash of pain cross her pretty features as she stood and limped toward the boy. His gaze dropped to her knees; he winced when he saw the flesh scraped and peppered with welling blood. "Aye, you caused it,”the voice inside his head whispered. “See what you did?" He stood trembling as she squatted beside her friend and put her hand on the boy's shoulder. The blood rushed so thickly and loudly through his ears, he could not hear what she said. But it didn't matter; he didn't want to know. He when he started to turn away, her words stopped him dead still in his tracks. “Hey, Sean!” He turned to gawk at her. “Could you help us?” she asked, her pretty green eyes fused with his demon-dark orbs. He shook his head in denial. “Please?” she beseeched. She cocked her head and repeated the word. He looked around, realizing they were alone on the playground. There was no one to see what was happening, no one to help. “Please?” she repeated, and he realized she was close to tears. Without fully realizing he was doing it, he began moving toward her. He didn't speak as he stopped about two feet away. His heart was beating so quickly, he thought it might burst from his ribcage. “I can't pick him up,” she said. Her right arm was behind the boy's back, her left hand entwined with his. “Will you?” Seeing the two holding hands sent a ripple of fury through him. He was experiencing such murderous rage he wondered that the girl did not sense it. “Sean?” His name on her tongue brought him out of the dark place into which he wanted to descend. He mentally shook himself. “What?” “Can you help me get him up?” He shrugged and stepped forward. With a grimace of distaste, he took hold of the boy's arm. “What's going on here?” an imperious voice demanded. The watcher turned to see an overweight man bustling toward them. He let go of the boy's arm and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches, backed away, lowering his head against the heat of the older man's glower.

“Sean Cullen. I should have known I'd find you causing trouble. What have you done now?” The girl snapped up her head. “Sean hasn't done anything, Father Goodmayer. Davy...” “Be quiet, Bronwyn,” the priest ordered. “I was not speaking to you, young lady.” Fr. Henry Goodmayer's beefy face above the priestly collar was framed in a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. His dark eyes squinted against the glare of the hot sun as he turned his angry glare to Sean Cullen. “Go to Sister's office and wait for me.” “He was only trying to...” the girl began. “I said to be quiet, Bronwyn!” Fr. Goodmayer snapped. “Or would you like some of what he will be getting?” The girl's chin came up. “You whip that boy for something he didn't do and I'll have my father on you like white on rice!” The priest's mouth flew open. His beady eyes narrowed. “Howdare you!” “I dare because my father is the Grand Knight and the president of the parish council and...” Bronnie McGregor yelped as the priest brutally grabbed her arm and started dragging her toward the school. A second after that, Goodmayer was on the ground, with Sean Cullen, a crazed eleven year-old boy, straddling his back. “Don't you hurt her!” Sean bellowed as he slammed his fists into the back of the priest's head. It took two nuns and the gym coach to pull Sean Cullen off Goodmayer. Sean was so filled with rage, Sisters Mary Pat and Agnes Louise were obviously grateful for the strength in Coach Rubin Herndon's brawny arms. “Be still, Cullen!” the coach hissed, his thick forearms locked around Sean. Goodmayer struggled to his feet, his florid face even more infused with anger. He pointed a stubby finger at Sean. “Take that little hellion to my office and keep him there!” He swung his gaze to Sister Mary Pat. “And you take that rude little chit toyouroffice and give her the paddling she deserves for her disrespect!” “No!” Sean shouted, violently twisting to get free. Sister Mary Pat sighed heavily. “Come along, Bronwyn,” she insisted, taking the girl's arm. “I've no choice but to do as Father demands.” As if sensing another outburst from his ward, Coach Herndon tightened his grip on Sean and leaned down to snarl in his ear. “She won't lay a hand on Bronnie. Now, be still!” Sean stared into the coach's periwinkle blue eyes and knew the man was being truthful. He stopped struggling, allowing his shoulders to droop. “But you, young man,” the coach grumbled, “won't be able to sit down for a week when Father is through with you!”

Sean didn't care about himself. His concern was entirely on Bronwyn as she walked dejectedly beside Sister Mary Pat. When she turned and gave him a hopeless, apologetic smile for getting him into such a fix, he shrugged nonchalantly. A shrug Fr. Goodmayer did not miss. **** “Pete and Mike Thomas said they heard the pops from that paddle all the way to the sacristy!” Bronwyn complained to her father. She swiped angrily at the tears streaking down her cheeks. “They know all about that paddle, Daddy. They've seen it. They say when Father came here he had holes drilled in it so it would hurt worse when he used it on one of the boys! Daddy, you've got todo something!” Dermot McGregor stroked his daughter's trembling back. “Bronnie, it isn't up to me to speak to Fr. Goodmayer about this. It's up to the boy's father.” “Fr. Goodmayer should not have manhandled our daughter, Derm,” Bronwyn's mother Deirdre put in. “I think you should find out all you can about what happened, then take this latest outrageous behavior before the Council.” “Oh, I fully intend to have a talk with Goodmayer,” Bronwyn's father snapped. Bronwyn buried her face in her father's neck. “I'm worried about Sean, Daddy. Will you call and see how he is? Pete said Sean was limping when he left the rectory and got in his daddy's truck.” Her father looked at his wife. “What do you think?” “I think the young man should be commended for trying to protect our daughter,” his wife replied. “Don't you?” Dermot sighed. “I guess you're right. What's his name, Bronnie?” “Sean Cullen,” she said with a hiccup. When her father stiffened, she lifted her head and looked up at him, surprised to see his face tight with disapproval. “What's the matter, Daddy?” “Cullen. Are we talking about Tymothy Cullen's son?” She ran the sleeve of her blouse under her nose. “I don't know. I guess so. Do you know his father?” A muscle worked in Dermot's lean cheek. “I knowof him.” “Is that the man who runs the butcher shop over on East Broad?” Deirdre asked her husband. “I believe so.” “I've heard he beats his—” “I'll handle this, DeeDee,” her husband interrupted with a stern look. He dipped his chin toward his daughter, then away in a silent message to his wife.

Deirdre nodded. “Bronnie, will you help me with supper?” “But I want to know how Sean is, Mama!” “Your father will tell us after he's spoken to the boy's father.” Deirdre stood and held out her hand. “How about you making some of your great tasting deviled eggs tonight? I've got four boiled eggs just waiting for you to work your magic on them!” Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her teeth. She was torn between staying to hear the conversation between her father and Sean's and her showing off the only thing she knew how to make. She shrugged. “Okay.” “And put some minced celery in for me,” her father said. Bronwyn smiled. “And dillweed?” “Well, of course!” He chuckled. “What good are deviled eggs without dillweed?” **** When his daughter was out of earshot, Dermot McGregor ran a weary hand over his face and sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with Tym Cullen, a man the entire town despised. With effort, he pushed out of his easy chair and went to the phone. His frown deepened as he looked up the number for the Cullen residence. By the time he ended the telephone call, his frown had become a grimace. **** Deirdre looked up as her husband came into the kitchen. The look on his face concerned her. “Is he all right, Daddy?” Bronwyn asked. She was too young to understand the tight white line around her father's lips and the steely glint in his gray eyes. “His father assures me he is, Bronnie.” He came to stand beside his daughter, who was mixing pickle relish, finely minced onion and celery into the cooked egg yolks. He folded his arms as she ladled a dollop of mayonnaise into the mix. “Not too much.” Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “Iknow , Daddy!” she said with exasperation, reaching for the shaker of dillweed. Deirdre dried her hands on a kitchen towel as she studied her husband of fifteen years. His forbidding looks made her feel the heartbeat in her throat. “You finish up here, Bronnie,” Dermot said. “I need to speak with your mother.” Bronwyn looked up. “About what you're going to say to Father tomorrow?” she inquired with a grin. He nodded, then gently cupped her cheek. “Do you know how much I love you, Bronwyn Fiona McGregor?” She blushed. “Uh, huh,” she whispered. Her soft green eyes tracked between her mother and father,

then lowered to the task she was performing. Dermot smiled and turned away. Deirdre followed him from the room. “What happened?” she asked when they were in the living room. “I got Cullen on the phone and introduced myself,” Dermot said in a tight voice. He stood before the large picture window that looked out onto the front lawn. “Did he know who you were?” “He said something smart like, ‘Oh, yeah. You're the big wig out at the nut house.’ Then he asked what I wanted.” Deirdre sat on the arm of the sofa that flanked the big window. “And?” “I asked if he knew about what happened at St. Teresa's this afternoon and he said he did. I asked him how his son was and he said, ‘The little bastard got what he deserved for stepping in where it weren't none of his business to be stepping.'” Deirdre blinked. “You're joking!” Plowing a hand through his crop of thick black curls, Dermot let out a snort. “Do I look like I am? Not only did Cullen not care that his son had tried to defend our daughter, he said he—and I am quoting him verbatim—'Beat the crap outta the little punk for causing me to close up shop and go get his scrawny little ass.'” “Oh, Derm,” Deirdre groaned. “Surely he didn't.” He turned to look at her. “You've heard the rumors about Tym Cullen, DeeDee. Half the town has heard them, and the other half has seen some of his doings! No one goes into that shop who doesn't come out talking about what a son-of-a-bitch he is. How many times have people told us they've been to his store and seen Mrs. Cullen with a black eye and bruises all over her face? People know he cheats his customers and beats his wife and nowI know he beats his boy, too!” “What are you going to do?” “There isn't anything I can do where Cullen is concerned, but by the good Lord I intend to do something about Hank Goodmayer! St. Teresa's doesn't need a man like him at the helm of our ship!” Deirdre smiled. Her husband's father was retired Navy and, after years of traveling the globe with his father, Dermot's liberal use of nautical terms was a habit he could not break. “We could report Mr. Cullen to the department of welfare,” she suggested. “That would be about the best we could do.” “And hope it will help.” ****

From her place beside the crack of the kitchen doorway as she eavesdropped on the conversation, Bronwyn allowed the door to close all the way. She stood with her head on the doorjamb and her eyes squeezed shut. “I'm sorry, Sean,” she whispered. She opened her eyes and stared at the woodwork. “I didn't mean to get you in trouble.” Hearing her parents moving toward the kitchen, she hurried back to the counter and finished arranging the deviled eggs on a platter. When supper was finished and she had helped her mother clear away the dishes, she asked to be excused so she could do her homework. In her room, she stretched out across the bed and pulled her favorite gray and white teddy bear into her arms. “Sean,” she sighed, pressing her face into the soft fake fur. She knew he watched her. Just as she watched him when he wasn't aware she was around. Like on the day she had first seen him. Bronwyn had been waiting for Sister Mary Pat to sign her absentee slip when Sean and his mother entered the office. “May I help you?” Mrs. Cureton, the school secretary, inquired. “I'm here to enroll me boy,” the thin woman with the paisley print dress and small white hat replied. She had a thick Irish brogue. “Me name is Dorrie Cullen. His name be Sean Daniel Cullen.” “Hello, Sean. Welcome to St. Teresa's.” When the boy did not reply, the secretary looked at his mother. “What grade will he be in?” “Third.” Bronwyn was very aware of the slim boy with the curly blond hair standing beside his mother. For an instant, his gaze swept to her, then he looked quickly away, but in that fleeting moment, Sean Cullen's pale blue eyes had mesmerized Bronnie. “Are you folks new to Albany?” The woman nodded. “My husband bought the meat shop across the river.” “Oh, yes, Mr. Sutton's place. If I remember correctly, the shop was bought by folks from over in Savannah.” “Aye, Savannah,” Sean's mother replied. “Let me get the paperwork started. You are Catholic, of course.” “There is no other true religion,” Mrs. Cullen pronounced softly.

“I agree completely,” Mrs. Cureton said. “Naturally you'll need to register with the parish to get parishioner tuition rates.” “Aye. We can do that.” “Are his shots up to date?” Sean's mother reached into her purse. “Aye. Here is the documentation.” Each time his mother spoke, Sean Cullen winced. To Bronnie, whose grandmother still bore the lilt of the West Country, she understood his embarrassment. She was about to speak to him when Sister Mary Pat called her into her office. With a smile of encouragement the boy seemed to ignore, Bronnie left him standing awkwardly at his mother's side. Though she did not see him again until a few days later, she thought of him constantly, for his good looks had fired her girlish imagination. By the time she laid eyes on him again, she had developed a strong crush on the boy with the blue eyes. It was a crush that had only grown stronger over the years. Because Sean was two years older, Bronnie only saw him when he passed her in the hall or as he sat in church during daily Mass. Though he never spoke to her and she was too shy to talk to him, the only contact they had was when their eyes met. It was during those brief times Bronnie thought she saw deep sadness in Sean Cullen's cobalt gaze. Now, she thought she understood why. “I love you, Seannie,” she said and sighed, pulling the bear tighter against her. **** Sean turned over in bed and winced. He felt the pull of his shorts against the broken flesh on his backside and knew the crusted blood had glued the fabric to his flesh. Though he had taken a shower and his mother had salved the lacerations caused by the priest's diligently wielded paddle, the abrasions must have opened again. Gently, he reached behind him to tug away the material. The sting made him draw in a breath and mentally curse Goodmayer to the Abyss and beyond. “You are evil, Sean Cullen!” Fr. Goodmayer had snarled with each slap of the paddle. “You are evil!” Bent over the priest's desk, with Goodmayer's hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, Sean had been able to see the man's legs and the thick bulge between them that gave evidence to how much the priest was enjoying the punishment. The harder the hits, the firmer the bulge, until with one last brutal pass of the wood, the cloth covering Goodmayer's crotch darkened in a spreading stain. “Evil!” Goodmayer pronounced one final time, then stalked to the window, his back to Sean. “Return to class, and as you walk, think on the sins you have committed. I will talking with your father about your misconduct.” His rump on fire with the pain, Sean straightened. He hurt so badly he could barely hobble to the door. Not bothering to look back at the sadist who had inflicted such savage punishment, Sean went into the foyer and leaned against the wall, his head down, and his legs trembling.

“Don't let him come out here and find you, Sean,” Mrs. Harold, the priest's housekeeper, warned. She had come down the hallway, drying her hands on a towel. “Get going now. You don't need another paddling, son.” Later, when Tym Cullen arrived to escort his son home, Sister Mary Justice had come to Sean's classroom to get him. She looked at him with pity as he walked down the corridor beside her. “He doesn't look pleased, Sean,” Sister whispered. “He never does,” Sean said quietly. One look at his father's face and Sean knew he would pay dearly. He had to grit his teeth to climb into the cab of his father's pickup because he did not want the man to witness his pain. “This is a hell of a note!” his father snarled as he slammed the truck into reverse. “Being called down here to get your ass in the middle of the day!” Sean knew he should not speak. His father's hands were wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles were white. From the way those huge hands squeezed the plastic, Sean knew his father was itching to lash out at him. “When we get home, I'll teach you to embarrass me like this!” Sean kept his eyes straight ahead. His bottom throbbed with the cuts left by Goodmayer's beating. It was all he could do not to shift on the seat or to cry out as the vehicle bumped over the roadway. “Well, you won't be coddled in that Papist resort after today.” Slowly closing his eyes, Sean knew what that meant: public school. It wasn't that he cared one way or another where he got his education, but St. Teresa's was where Bronwyn McGregor was. “I'll teach you,” his father growled, turning to give him a steady look. “You're nothing but trouble and never have been from the day you was conceived. Well, I'll make a man of you if it kills me!” The beating he'd been given at the unholy hands of the priest was nothing compared to the strapping he received from his father at home. Despite his mother's pleading from the other side of the locked door not to inflict further punishment on their child, Sean's father had made good his promise to teach him a brutal lesson. His blood flowing from lacerations caused from the barber's strop his father wielded savagely, Sean finally slipped into unconsciousness as the vicious pain continued. He awoke to find his mother kneeling beside him, his hand held protectively in hers, and one of her eyes swollen and already turning black from Tym Cullen's fist. Now, lying in bed, staring at the wall, Sean knew that one day Tymothy Cullen would meet his rightful end and, when it came, it would be a violent end to a violent, brutal life. “One day, I'll kill you, Tym Cullen,” he vowed. “Before God, I swear I will kill you.” In the adjacent bedroom, he heard his mother cry out as she did nearly every night.

“I don't sleep so good, Seannie,” she had told him once. “Your Da thrashes about and he accidentally hits me sometimes.” “One day there will be no more beatings, Ma,” he said softly. “No more black eyes or broken arms.” As he had grown older, Sean tried to stop his father from abusing his mother and the results had been disastrous. The one time Sean tried to physically restrain his father, Tym Cullen had beaten him so savagely, Sean stayed in bed for three days. But the brunt of that fury had fallen on Sean's mother, and she had wound up in the hospital with a fractured jaw, a broken arm, and a ruptured spleen. “Fell down the stairs, she did,” his father told the doctors at the hospital in Savannah. Unable to prove otherwise and incapable of getting Dorrie Cullen to press charges, the authorities were forced to drop the matter, though one burly black officer had warned Tym Cullen that they would be watching him. “Go ahead, Sean,” his father said later. “Stand up for your Ma and see what I do to her next time!” So, through the years, Sean had been forced to watch his mother's abuse and endure his own. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. “You are a dead man walking, Tymothy Cullen,” he declared as he drew his pillow closer to his chest. He buried his face in the clean scent of ozone that permeated the fabric. As he drifted into sleep, the soft material beneath his cheek became the creamy flesh of Bronwyn McGregor's shoulder and he nuzzled against that phantom sweetness. He sent his mind out into the night and his thoughts moved gently into the cheerful lavender bedroom where she slept. In his incorporeal state he stood there and watched her sleeping for a moment, then laid his spectral hand against her cheek. “Seannie,” she sighed and turned to rub her cheek against his ghostly palm. Her words erased the pain in his body. He relaxed, giving in to the closing arms of sleep, and withdrew to his own dismal room and lonely space. His lips moved against the fabric of his pillow. “Goodnight, Milady,” he whispered. “I love you, too.” CHAPTER 2

Albany, Georgia, September 1983 The halls smelled stale and old as Bronwyn stopped beside the library. The bustling corridors of Albany High School seemed intimidating. There were too many students jostling past her, eyeing her as though she were an alien creature dredged up from the muck, and none seemed inclined to ask if she needed help. She shifted her French II, Geometry, and Biology books to her left hip and let out a snort. Just as she started forward again, a rowdy boy ran past and hit her arm. Her books went flying, skidding across the floor before her.

“Thanks, you little creep!” she yelled, and was astonished to find herself on the receiving end of the boy's middle-finger salute. Exasperated by the rudeness, angry at being thrust into this new and unsettling experience, Bronwyn clenched her jaw and stooped to grab her notebook. “Need some help, Princess?” The smirk in the voice did nothing to improve Bronwyn's state of mind so she ignored the speaker. Grumbling to herself, she picked up her textbooks and slammed them on top of the notebook on the floor at her feet. “Suit yourself,” the speaker said. After lifting the heavy stack of books into her arms, Bronwyn stood. As she did she took in the faded jeans and rundown sneakers of the young man who had spoken. Her gaze moved up his chest, past a plaid shirt that had seen much better days, to his expressionless, thin face. Despite the lack of the light blue shirt and dark blue twill pants that had been the uniform at St. Teresa's, Bronwyn would have recognized him anywhere, although he had grown taller. “Sean?” He shrugged, but didn't reply. “How are you?’ she asked, smiling. He shrugged again. “Okay.” The day after Fr. Goodmayer had punished Sean, the boy's father had enrolled him in public school. Bronwyn hadn't seen him since that day on the playground at St. Teresa's, but she had never forgotten him. Her dreams were often of him. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him what she never got a chance to tell him that day three years before. She wanted him to know how sorry she was about what had happened. “Sean, I—” she began. “What class are you looking for?” he asked. “Mrs. Browne's English.” “It's upstairs.” “Oh. Thanks.” “Don't mention it,” he said and turned to go. “What do you have for sixth period?” she asked, falling into step beside him.

“Why?” “Just asking.” He stopped and looked down at her. His stare was intense. “Do you ever dream about me, Bronnie?’ he asked in a silky voice. She blinked, her face flaming. “W...what?” The heat of his body, the pleasant smell of him, was overpowering and made her legs tremble. She stared into his lean face, into the lightness of his green eyes. “I don't know what you mean.” He leaned toward her. “I think you do,” he whispered. She took a step back. When she did, he grinned. He chuckled. “Go to class, Princess.” She watched him walk away, his hands deep into the pockets of his old jeans. Fleetingly, she wondered why he carried no books. **** The next time she saw him, he was sitting outside Coach Barton's office, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Reclining on the bench as though he owned it, he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. It had been four days since their encounter in front of the library. Each day, she had diligently searched the halls for him during class changes and became increasingly frustrated when she could not catch sight of him. She had not been able to get him out of her thoughts, though she hadn't really tried. “Hey,” she said. He opened one eye. “Hey, yourself. How're things in the kingdom, Princess?” She arced her chin toward the Dean of Boy's Office. “Are you in trouble?” she asked in a teasing voice. “I'm always in trouble.” He grinned. “I'm a bad boy, or haven't you heard?” “What did you do?” “I punched Dave Cox in gym class,” he replied, staring into her eyes as though he dared her to rebuke him for what he'd done. “Dave Cox,” she said in a flat voice. “My Dave Cox?” Something evil moved in his eyes; his mouth tightened. “I wasn't aware he belonged to you,” he snapped and drew in his legs to push erect on the bench. “He's my friend, and I know you know that.” “Aye, I have the scars on my ass to remind me.”

She flinched. “I'm sorry about that. I never—” “Don't apologize, Bronwyn. Don't ever apologize to me for anything.” “But—” The door to Coach Barton's office opened and the Dean of Boy's stuck his head into the hallway. “Let's go, Cullen,” he said, his round face hard as flint. Sean sprang up from the bench and, without a backward glance at Bronwyn, walked past Coach Barton and into the Dean's office. The door closed behind him with a snap. Bronwyn stood there a moment longer, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. She wanted to wait, to be there when Sean was released from the Dean's office, but she knew she couldn't. She'd been on her way to the restroom and if she dallied much longer, Mrs. Gentry would send someone to look for her. She was about to turn away when she heard the popping sound coming from the office. She stilled, her hand going to her mouth. The unmistakable sound of the paddle being applied was one every student recognized. Not immediately realizing she was doing it, she counted the hits: eight, nine, ten. The door opened and Sean walked out, his jaw clenched as tightly as the fists at his side. He seemed to look right through her as he walked past, but when he got about five feet away, he stopped. “Meet me at Burdette's after school,” he said without turning to look at her. When she didn't answer, he jerked around. “Did you hear me?” She nodded. Her heart thundered. “I'll be there.” Her palms were suddenly sweaty, her legs weak. She watched him until he entered one of the classrooms at the end of the hall. It was the detention class and she had a feeling he was going to be there for a few days—if not weeks—to come. The rest of the school day passed in a blur. As the hands of the big clock on the wall of her Biology class crept slowly toward 3:15, she grew more and more restless. She had licked her lips so many times they were fast becoming chapped. Her skirt was wrinkled from the repeated drag of her sweaty palms against the fabric. When the bell rang, she nearly jumped out of her seat. Without taking time to think, she hurried out of the classroom to the school's west entrance, where she knew her mother would be parked, waiting for her. “I gotta go to town,” she said when she got into the car. “Not today,” her mother replied, starting the engine. “I promised your Aunt Doris I would—” “Mama, please! Ihave to go to town!” “To do what?” “I gotta go to Burdette's.”

“Again, to do what?” She locked eyes with her mother. “To see a boy.” Deirdre McGregor's eyebrows shot up into the thick chestnut of her bouffant hairdo. “Oh, really?” she drawled. “And just who is this young man?” “He's my soul mate,” Bronwyn said fiercely. “The man I am going to marry one day!” Her mother sat back in the seat. “I see. Is this someone of whom you believe your father and I would approve?” Bronwyn's face puckered in a frown. “Probably not, but it doesn't matter.” “Oh, I'm quite certain itwill matter to your father.” “Mama, please! I have to meet him. I swore to him I would. I have to keep my word!” Deirdre shook her head. “I'm not ready for this,” she said with a long sigh and put the car in gear. She cast her daughter an exasperated look. “You'd better tell me who he is.” Bronwyn crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “Sean Cullen.” Deirdre pulled out into the traffic. “The butcher's son.” “I love him, Mama.” Her mother made no comment, but Bronwyn couldn't overlook the tightening of Deirdre McGregor's hands on the steering wheel or the look of shock in her hazel eyes. “Mama, please?” Bronwyn beseeched. **** Deirdre chewed on her lip for a long moment, remembering something her older sister had once said about her own daughter:"When I forbid Siobhan to do something, she always finds a way to do it anyway. Saying no is like waving a red flag at her, like you're daring her to do whatever the heck she wanted to in the first place. Teenage-girls are like that, DeeDee, especially where boys are concerned. Forbid them to see a boy she thinks she can't live without and she'll end up pregnant just to spite you! I've learned to let her date whomever she wants and just hope he does something to show her his true colors before it's too late." “Mama?” Bronwyn pressed. “This is against my better judgment,” Deirdre said. As she pulled in front of the ten-cent store, Deirdre clenched her jaw. She was not good at parallel parking and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she managed to angle her car into the slot. Bronnie leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you!”

She was out of the car before Deirdre could reply. **** He was sitting at the lunch counter when Bronnie entered. He did not look at her as she took the seat beside him. “We'll have trouble with your mother and father,” he said, poking his straw up and down in his Cherry Coke. Bronnie nodded. “You may be right.” “I know I am and you know it, too.” She swiveled her stool to faced him. “How does that make you feel, Sean?” He turned his gaze fully upon her. “It doesn't matter. I'm used to people telling me what I can and can't do. What I can and can't have.” “What is it you want?” He smiled. “To be with you.” Bronwyn blushed and ducked her head. “I want to be with you, too.” “We'll be together one day, Bronnie. I swear.” She looked at his unsmiling face. “Do you believe in destiny?” He leaned his arms against the counter. “I believe what is meant to be will be.” “So you think you and I were meant to meet?” “As surely as the wind blows, aghrá mo chroí." Bronnie grinned. “That's Gaelic.” “Aye. Do you know what it means?” “Chroímeans heart,” she replied, proud of her knowledge. “Ghrámeans love,” he said softly. “The phrase is ‘love of my heart.'” Her eyes widened. “Love of my heart.” “As you will always be,” he said, holding her gaze. She folded her hands in her lap. “I love you, too.” He looked down the counter and his eyes narrowed. “Hey!” he called out. “You have a customer down here. You think you can tear yourself away from lover boy long enough to take her order?” The waitress turned away from the uniformed Air Force serviceman with whom she was flirting. “Hold

your water, sonny. I'm coming!” “Did you hear me?” Bronnie asked, a little embarrassed by his rudeness to the waitress, but exhilarated by his show of authority. She was not prepared for his answer. “I have loved you from the moment I saw you. You are mine, Bronwyn McGregor.” A chill went through Bronnie; she shivered. “You think so, do you?” “You understood that long ago.” He glanced at her. “Didn't you tell your mother so?” “Soul mates,” she agreed, liking the sound of the words. “Destined to be together.” She didn't question how he knew what she had told her mother, even though another chill traveled down her spine. He reached out to cup her right cheek. “Never fear me, Bronnie. For as long as we draw breath, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.” “What can I getcha?” the woman behind the counter asked as she sidled up. Popping her gum, she pulled the order pad from the pocket of her apron. “A Cherry Coke to go,” Sean answered for Bronnie. He wasn't looking at the waitress, but through the front window of the variety store. “Is my mama staring at us?” Bronnie asked. “If looks could kill, I'd be a pile of ashes,” he said and turned so he faced the back of the counter. “Daddy will no doubt have a talk with me tonight,” she sighed. “About the unacceptable company you won't be allowed to keep.” “I don't care what they say, Sean,” she said fiercely. “If we have to hide our love, then—” The waitress came back with Bronnie's drink. “You got a real anxious boyfriend here, sweetie,” she said. “He ‘bout wore a hole through the glass lookin’ for you.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the counter and affording Sean a good look down the front of her white uniform. “'Course if I had a boy as cute as this one a'waitin’ on me, I'd make sure I hurried up to get to ‘im.” She flicked her tongue across lips. “Get out of my face,” Sean sneered. “Care to try a woman instead of a little girl, handsome?” the waitress cooed. Sean glared at the woman, but she just winked at him, laughed, and headed back to her serviceman. “That's what my mama calls a brazen woman, I guess,” Bronnie said, her face flaming. She took a long sip of her Cherry Coke. “That is what your mama would call a whore,” Sean countered, digging into the pocket of his jeans for money to pay for Bronnie's drink. He slapped the coins on the counter.

Bronnie didn't reply. She sat there sipping her Coke, her eyes glued to the ice in the glass. “If I gave you a token of my love for you, would you wear it?” he asked. Bronnie was stunned, completely unprepared for the question. She stared at him. “Are you serious?” “Aye, I'm serious, woman.” She turned to look at the nearby jewelry counter, where several rows of friendship rings twinkled in the glass case. “Not one of those,” he said irritably. “This.” She looked down at his outstretched palm. Nestled there was an octagonal silver disk, its edges braided with intricately intertwined Celtic knot work. At the top of the pendant was a trinity triangle: three triangles interlaced into one. Below that were symbols that looked familiar to her. “It's called a Claddagh,” he told her. “This is a very special Celtic wedding amulet.” She cocked her head. “I think my granny has a ring with these symbols on it.” “She most likely does. But this one is one of a kind. It belonged to my grandmother. Her husband was a silversmith and he made it for her for their Joining day.” “What do the symbols mean?” She reached out to trace the engraved hands, heart, and crown on the charm. “Will you accept it?” She looked into his eyes, her finger still on the charm lying in his palm. “Yes.” “And all that it means?” “Which is?” “Put your trust in me, Bronwyn. And know I will never do anything to harm you.” She took a deep, quivering breath. “All right. Yes, I will accept it and all that it means.” “The amulet is silver, for that is the metal of purity to designate love in its purest form. The intertwined knot work around the edges represents eternity, the linking of our lives through the ages. It was placed there to remind the one who wears it that the love of he who gave it would never end. The unbroken lines of the Trinity Knot triangle symbolize spiritual growth, eternal life, and never-ending love. It also symbolizes the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Celts believe all life is reincarnated, that we are continually re-born after we leave this world. If you love a woman in this life, you will love her in the next.” He took her wrist, turned it, and placed the amulet in her palm. He closed her fingers around it. “I have bared my heart to you, Bronwyn Fionna McGregor. From my hand into yours do I place it, crowned with my eternal love and devotion.” He squeezed her fingers. “Wear my heart close to yours and we will never be apart, for where my heart goes, so will I.” Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it.

“Let love and friendship reign,” he whispered. Tears filled Bronnie's eyes. She could feel the warmth of the amulet tingling in her palm. When he released her hand and turned away, she wanted to throw her arms around him and press her mouth to his. “And have your mother come in here and drag you out by your hair? I think not,” he muttered. “How do youdo that?” she asked, her eyes wide. He turned his head toward her. “I want you to remember something, Bronwyn,” he said, his face grave, his eyes boring into hers. “They might be able to take you out of my arms, but they will never take you out of my heart. No matter what. No matter where you go, I will find you. I will remove anything that gets in the way between us. Don't ever forget that.” She lifted her chin, thinking of one of the songs her mother had sung to her as a child. “'You choose the road, love, and I'll make a vow that I'll be your true love forever,'” she quoted. He stared into her eyes for a long time, then smiled. “My Celtic warrioress.” “I like that!” He laughed and it was the first time she had heard him do so. It transformed his stern face, and she thought he was the most handsome boy to ever walk upon the face of the earth. A stray curly lock of flaxen hair dipped low over his forehead and she ached to reach out and push it back. She wanted to run her fingers over the mole on his right cheek and trace the faint white scar under his chin. She wanted to slip into his arms and have him hold her against his chest, a chest that had filled out nicely over the years. His look softened. “You'd better go.” His eyes left hers as he stared through the window. “She's getting antsy.” Bronnie scooted off the stool. “I'm going to the show with my friends Marti and Jean this weekend. Meet us there?” He shrugged. “If I can. Which one?” “The Albany.” She blushed. “We can sit in the balcony and have some privacy.” He nodded. “We'll see.” She tucked her lip between her teeth, wanting to say more, but not knowing what. “Go,” he said, shooing her away with his left hand. “She's waiting to read you the riot act.” He grinned. “Don't disappoint her.” Bronnie giggled and started out of the store. “Hey, little witchling?” he called to her. She looked back at him. “What's that?”

Sean was holding up his right hand, the thumb, index and little fingers extended, the middle and fourth tucked under. “It's the American Sign Language symbol for I love you.” Bronnie imitated the sign and held it out to him. With that, she turned and hurried out, her gay laughter following. CHAPTER 3

Tift Park, Albany, Georgia, May 1984 He pushed her higher. “You did it on purpose,” she scolded. “I never was good at math,” he responded. “You're good at everything you do.” “Not everything.” “You did it so you'd have to repeat the year.” “Maybe.” “No maybe about it, Cullen,” she said, pulling hard on the swing's chain to propel her body higher. She dug her heels into the air. “I know you.” He stepped from behind her and leaned against the swing set's front leg. “Are you complaining?” “You betcha,” she snapped. “I don't like having an ignoramus for a boyfriend.” He chuckled, folded his arms over his chest, and stared at her. “I've been called worse.” The smile slipped from her face. He had been called worse—mostly, she thought, by her parents. She lowered her legs to slow the swing. “You know it doesn't matter to me what they think,” he told her. She had long since given up asking him how he seemed able to read her mind. Each time she asked, he either grinned, wagged his thick brows, or simply ignored the question. “It matters to me,” she said, dragging her feet against the ground. He reached out to grab the chain of her swing seat. He stepped in front of her, grunting as her knees struck his, but bringing her to a stop. With his hands wrapped around hers, he leaned forward. “Stop obsessing about it, Bronwyn,” he demanded. “Let them think whatever they want. You and I know we will be together, so what they think doesn't count.” “They'll know you failed so you could stay behind and be with me.”

“But they can't prove that I'm not just a retard.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, that, I might agree with them about.” He smiled, crossed his eyes, comically twisted his lips, and sent her into gales of laughter. “You goofy nincompoop,” she said. He drew her from the swing and into his arms, arms now thick with muscles from his daily workout with the weights at the school gym. “But I'm your goofy nincompoop.” She circled his neck with her arms, laid her head against his chest, and sighed. “That you are.” He looked about them. Bronnie knew that prying eyes was something about which he constantly worried. Not only prying eyes, but wagging tongues that would carry tales to both her father and his. Seeing that no one was watching them, he put his finger under her chin, lifted her face, and bent down to claim her lips. Sean's kisses—so few and so far between—were precious to Bronnie. They were intoxicating moments in which their two souls seemed to blend through the pressure of their lips. The taste of his tongue as it slipped gently, tenderly, and possessively into her mouth was a mating of their souls and sent shivers of ecstasy through her body. Unconsciously, she pressed closer against him, needing the feel of his masculine length against hers. He released her lips and stepped back, putting distance between them. As her eyes fused with his, he shook his head. “One day, little one,” he promised. “I'm a woman.” “Not quite yet. You're going to have to wait a while for that to happen.” “I don't want to wait.” “But we will,” he said firmly. “When this...” He hooked a finger under the chain around her neck and pulled out the amulet she had not removed since the day she put it on. “When this can be replaced with a ring to signify our lawful Joining as bondmates.” She groaned with frustration. “You're a beast, Sean Cullen.” “I'm a good Catholic boy even if you're a wicked Catholic girl,” he teased. “Stop trying to seduce me. You're giving me sinful thoughts. I'm gonna wind up confessing to Father Mike tomorrow.” “I take it back—you're not a beast, Sean Cullen, you're a priest in training!” She pouted. “You will thank me when you're able to tell our grandchildren their granny went to her Joining bed as pure as the white gown she was entitled to wear.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He chuckled, cupped her cheeks, slanted his mouth brutally across hers for a moment, then set her

aside. “Takethat to your dreams this eve, Milady!” She lifted her hand to swat him, but he danced away, wiggling his fingers toward him. “Come on, witchling! Give it your best shot!” She ran at him but he skipped away, darting around the merry-go-round and setting out for the cages where the zoo animals were kept. She chased him, dodging between the tall pines and occasional park visitor. “Be careful!” one elderly man warned, drawing Bronnie's attention to him and away from Sean. “Sorry,” she said, blushing. When she turned around, she didn't see Sean. She slowed to a walk, knowing full well where he would be. She found him at the manatee tank. His shoulders were hunched, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. She went up to him and put her hand on his back. “It isn't right,” he said. She looked down into the tank and felt her heart ache. “I agree. It isn't.” The huge creature was barely able to move about the tank as it swam in an aimless, awkward circle. “Sometimes,” he said, “I wish it would die. At least then it would be free.” She slipped her arm around his waist. “I know.” They had had this conversation before. “The gods didn't mean for wild creatures to be caged out of their element,” he said in a hard voice. “She's safe here,” Bronnie said, laying her head against his shoulder. “She is in agony here,” he protested, shrugging her away. “She misses her own kind. That is worse to her than not having freedom. Being able to commune with your own kind...” With his face set and hard, he turned and stalked off. Bronnie took one last look at the sea cow, wondering if, in his fey way, the man she loved so desperately could somehow communicate with the creature. If he could, it would not surprise her. He had always seemed capable of reading her thoughts at will. She hurried to catch up with him, falling silently into step beside his tall frame. He did not acknowledge her presence. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders still hunched. They walked to the Teen Center at the western end of the park without speaking. “It bothers me,” he said finally. “I know.” He stopped beside her car. “She is so lonely and doesn't understand why she is where she is. She doesn't understand torture but she understands grief. She grieves for those she left behind when she was

captured.” Bronnie stood beside him, wishing she could take him into her arms and make the sadness leave his eyes. “They all feel that way,” he said softly, looking back toward the zoo. “They were taken from their homes and shipped thousands upon thousands of miles away to a place so unlike what they are used to. They spend the rest of their lives locked in a cage, looking out at the humans who can come and go at will, dreading the little boys who come to taunt and torment them.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wish they could all go to sleep and never wake.” Bronnie understood how he felt. She hated zoos as much as he did. “They are safe,” she said lamely. “Safe but unhappy. As miserable as you or I would be if such a thing was done to us.” He shuddered and turned his back on the zoo. “Let's change the subject.” She smiled gently. “Fine by me.” He leaned against her car. “I got a job.” She arched her eyebrows. “Other than with your dad?” He nodded. “Over at Griffin Motors.” “Doing what?” “Detailing cars, changing tires. That sort of thing,” he said with a shrug. “Tym Cullen doesn't pay me for working at the butcher shop and I need the money.” “So what do you need money for, Cullen?” “To take you to the prom.” Bronnie's mouth dropped open. “Get outta here!” Sean narrowed his eyes. “You don't think I'd let some other guy take you, do you?” She clamped her lips together. They'd had similar discussions over the years. “Not if I don't want you to punch the poor boy in the face.” “So it's settled.” “No,” she drawled, drawing out the word. “I don't remember youasking me if I wanted to go to the prom.” “Every girl wants to go to her proms, Bronwyn. It's a right of passage.” Sean was big on rites of passage, she thought. Although she had always dreamed of going to her junior and senior proms, she had given up on the notion because she knew he'd never let her go with someone else and she thought such things would bore him to tears.

That and the fact she also knew he did not have the money to rent a tux. “Well?” he queried, one thick brow arched. “Well, what?” “Is it settled or not?” “Are you going to ask me or not?” Sean sighed, dropped his head, shook it in what could only be exasperation, then drew in a breath. He raised his head and released the breath with his words. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the prom, Milady?” Bronnie put her index finger on her cheek and pretended to think. “Well, I'll have to check my social register. That's almost a year away and...” She got no farther, for he stepped in front of her and pinned her against the car, deliberately pressing his lower body against hers. He did not speak, but the heat in his blue gaze said more than words ever could have. He ground against her and, at her gasp of shocked breath, grinned brutally. “Aye,” she said on a breathless note. “T'would be my pleasure to have you escort me, Milord.” He stepped back. “Then it's settled.” “Did I have a choice?” she muttered, looking around to see if anyone had been a witness to her capitulation. “No,” he answered and started walking backward. “See you next Tuesday?” “Of course.” She laughed. He gave her the deaf language sign that had become their special goodbye, winked, and headed toward the bicycle he had chained to an oak. She sighed as she watched him throw a long leg over the seat. The muscles against his light green T-shirt rippled and her eyes fell of their own accord to his tight derrière in the torn, faded jeans. “Hey, aren't you going the wrong way?” she yelled. He looked back. “Going to Aunt Lou-Lou's!” He stood on the pedals and pumped hard, the bike cantering from side to side as it sped beneath his powerful legs. She laughed again, shaking her head. “I should have known,” Sean had one addiction and that addiction was hot boiled peanuts. The best place in town to get them was at a roadside stand run by a cheerful black lady named Lou-Lou Rainey. Packed in little brown bags wet from the salty water, the green peanuts were Sean's favorite treat. To Bronwyn, his militant craving for the peanuts was an endearing trait. To Sean, they were nectar from the gods.

**** Deirdre McGregor looked up from the kitchen sink when she heard the car door slam under the carport. She stared out the window, not seeing the lush lawn Dermot had spent thousands of dollars to landscape earlier that spring. She did not see the pretty white latticework gazebo or the glider and Adirondack chairs that formed a quaint seating arrangement on the old brick-paved patio. “Is that you, Bronwyn?” she called as the door to the mudroom opened. “Yes, Ma'am.” Girding herself for the talk she had been instructed to give her daughter, Deirdre pushed away from the sink and took a seat at the breakfast table. “I'd like a word with you, dear,” she said as her daughter entered. “Wanna drink?” Bronnie asked as she made a beeline to the fridge. When Deirdre didn't answer, she turned with a cola bottle in her hand, wobbling it from side to side. “Mama? You wanna drink?” “No thank you, sweetheart.” Bronnie shrugged, fumbled in the catchall drawer for the bottle opener, popped the cap, then tossed the opener back in the drawer. “I don't see why Daddy won't let us buy drinks in the can.” “'They don't taste the same,'” Deirdre quoted her husband. “I can't tell the difference,” Bronnie said. She looked at Deirdre, who was sitting with her hands clasped tightly together. “Is something wrong?” “Sit down. We need to talk.” “Okay. What's up?” Deirdre closed her eyes for a moment, then squared her shoulders. “Bronwyn, your father and I have come to a decision. We know it isn't going to set well with you, but under the circumstances, you have given us no alternative.” “Alternative to what, Mama?” Bronnie asked. “We know you have been seeing the Cullen boy. We—” “You've never forbidden me to see Sean.” “Not in so many words, but you are perfectly aware of how we feel about him.” “You don't know him,” Bronnie reminded her. Deirdre threw out a negligent hand. “That is beside the point. We know about his parents and—” “His parents have nothing to do with the kind of man Sean Cullen is, Mother!” “Bronwyn,” Deirdre said, annoyance rife in her tone, “he is not of your class.”

Bronnie sat back in her chair, her face hard. “You mean he isn't a doctor's son or the grandson of a state senator, don't you, Mama?” “The boy failed his senior year of high school! What does that tell you about his ambition? He comes from a very unacceptable class of people. I mean—look at what his father does for a living, for Christ's sake! And I know perfectly well you are privy to the gossip bandied about concerning what that odious man does to his wife.” “And his son,” Bronnie stressed, her teeth clenched. “Or did you forget what Sean's father did to him when he defended me to Father Goodmayer all those years ago?” Deirdre shook her head. “I haven't forgotten, but it doesn't matter.” “It matters to me!” Bronnie said, coming to her feet. “I love Sean Cullen, Mama. I've loved him for a long, long time!” “You are too young to know what love is.” “He said you'd do this one day. He knew you would!” “Then he isn't as stupid as he acts.” “There is nothing stupid about him!” “Don't you dare raise you voice to me, Bronwyn Fionna!” “I won't have you talking about Sean like that.” “You watch your tone, young lady. We've never had to ground you before, but there is always a first time.” “Then do it! It won't stop me from loving Sean Cullen and it won't stop me from seeing him every chance I get!” “He'll be eighteen next month,” Deirdre said. “I checked with his homeroom teacher, Mrs. Daniels, to make sure when his birthday is.” “What has that got to...?” “And you are still underage. In the eyes of the law, he will be an adult and you are a child. He could be arrested and charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” “You wouldn't.” “Try me.” “He hasn't done anything wrong,” Bronnie said, tears welling in her eyes. “You are not to see him again. Is that understood?” When Bronnie did not reply, Deirdre stood up. “If you do, he will be the one to pay for it. We will have him arrested and hewill go to jail. That, I can promise you.”

Tears streaked down Bronnie's pale cheeks. “Why are you doing this?” “He is nothing more than a passing fancy. A teenage rebellion your father and I should have put a stop to long before now.” “I love him!” Bronnie sobbed. “Youthink you love him. I'll concede he is a handsome young man, but the world is full of handsome young men. When you go on to college—” “I'm not going to college!” “Yes, dear, youare going to college,” DeeDee emphasized. “And you'll meet a young man whom you will be very proud to bring home to introduce to your father and I. When that happens, you will know what true love really is.” “You might take me out of Sean's arms, but you'll never take him out of my heart! I will love him with my dying breath! If I can't be with him, I won'tever be with another man!” “Then you'd better prepare yourself for the Carmelites, sweetie, because I'd rather see you spend your life in a convent than shackled to a nobody like Sean Cullen!” **** Bronnie fled the room before she could say something she might later regret. As much as she loved her mother, she neither respected nor liked her at the moment. Flinging herself down on her bed, she pulled her old teddy bear to her and buried her face in the slick fur. Her sobs shook the bed. **** Deirdre went to the phone and dialed the hospital. It was rare that she had an argument with her daughter. Those times when she had, the argument had been over the Cullen boy and Bronwyn's obsession with him. Such arguments brought on migraines and now Deirdre felt one pulsing over her right eye. “Sylvia, let me speak to Dr. McGregor, please,” she told the switchboard operator. “I'll see if he's available, Miss DeeDee,” the operator replied, recognizing Deirdre's voice. Lighting a cigarette while she waited for her husband to come on the line, Deirdre fanned the smoke out of her face and massaged the pain over her eye with the heel of her hand. “What's up?” her husband asked when he picked up. “You have got to do something about that boy.” Dermot didn't need to ask whom Deirdre meant. “Did you talk to her?”

“I did and I got the reaction we expected.” “So?” “I received a call from Frannie Wilson this afternoon. She was driving by the Teen Center and saw our daughter being...she was...thatboy was...” “What were they doing?” “He wasrubbing against her, Dermot! Luckily it was Frannie who saw such a disgusting thing! We can count on her to be discreet.” “I wish I had a dollar for every time I rubbed against you before we were married.” Dermot chuckled. When Deirdre hissed, he reminded her that nothing had gone beyond that touching and he was positive it hadn't with their daughter. “I don't like it, but she's going to experiment, DeeDee. That's the way things are today.” “She won't experiment with that Cullen bastard!” Deirdre shouted. “Just let me handle it. I'll go have a talk with him.” “And if he won't listen?” Dermot's voice turned hard. “He'll listen, Deirdre. Believe me, he will.” “But what if he doesn't?” There was a moment of silence, then Deirdre heard her husband take a long breath. “I have people who owe me a favor or two,” he said. “If I need to, I'll call in those favors. The Cullen boy won't be allowed to be a problem for us.” CHAPTER 4

Tymothy Cullen was just closing the doors to his butcher shop when Dermot pulled into the parking lot. Seeing the fancy car and the man with the expensive suit who exited the pricey foreign job, Cullen unlocked the door and opened it. “Need a few lamb chops for the grill tonight, sir?” Dermot stepped into the shop, his nostrils quivering from the sharp aroma of meat and animal blood. He looked at the white porcelain meat counter with its array of sliced and diced flesh. “Thank you, no. I'm looking for Sean. Is he here?” Cullen narrowed his eyes. “You're looking for my boy?” His mouth tightened. “Why?” “I am Dr. McGregor,” Dermot informed man, knowing that should be explanation enough and it was. Cullen folded his brawny arms over a thick, barrel-like chest. “I wondered when you'd get around to coming after the little idjut. I told him he ought not to be messing with no doctor's kin.” “Is he here?” Dermot inquired. He was ill at ease in the presence of a man he considered one step up

from Neanderthal. “No, he ain't. He's over at Griffin's, I'm guessing.” Dermot took out his handkerchief and covered his nose. “You should do something about the odor in here. It is very offensive.” Cullen grinned. “You one of them vegetarian people, Doc?” “No,” Dermot snapped, “but the stench is overpowering.” “Sean, now, he's one of that kind. Wouldn't eat meat if you pinned him down and pried open his mouth. Reckon he'd as likely choke on it as swallow it.” He shrugged. “Been that way all his life. Ain't that a helluva note for a butcher's son to be a candy-assed vegetarian fool?” “Perhaps he finds this odor as putrid as do I. I can certainly see why a person would abstain from eating meat if he or she got a whiff of this every day!” “A man what don't eat meat ain't much of a man to my way of thinking,” Cullen sneered. “Got that silliness from his Ma, he did. She don't eat meat, neither.” He shook his head. “It ain't right and I've told them so many the time. I've tried to show them the error of their ways, but neither one seems inclined to listen.” Dermot glanced at the red-haired man and shuddered. He could well imagine how a man as coarse and uneducated as this one would go about trying to indoctrinate his family into eating meat. “You say he's at Griffin's?” he asked, wanting desperately to get out of the shop. “Griffin Motors,” Cullen snorted. “He's working over there in the afternoons.” “I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Cullen,” Dermot said through clenched teeth. He turned to go. “Don't want him near your baby girl, do you, Doc?” Cullen laughed. There was something nasty in the way Cullen asked the question that rubbed Dermot the wrong way. He stared into the man's lined, beefy face. “I'm sure you understand how a father would like to protect his child.” “Sean can protect himself, but I reckon you need to protect your baby girl from him, now, don't you?” Dermot's back stiffened. “What is that supposed to mean?” Cullen's lips twitched. “Reckon you heard he is of a mind to Join with your girl.” “Join?” The word sent a chill down Dermot's back. “Aye, as in the Joining of bondmates and all that.” Cullen's grin turned to a hateful leer when he realized Dermot did not understand. “You know, Doc—as in wedding your soul mate.” “Most certainly not!” Dermot declared, his eyes going wide. “There could never be a marriage between my daughter and your son!”

“Then you'd best tell him that ‘cause he's been telling me and his ma how Bronwyn McGregor will be his bride at the Summer Solstice of her eighteenth year. He's been a'planning on that Joining from the first day he laid eyes on your baby girl.” “No!” Dermot snarled, shaking his head fiercely. “That is totally out of the question. I will not allow it!” “Can't always stop what's destined to be, Doc. Sometimes when you do, destiny sorta rears up and bites you on your boney ass, you know?” His temper flaring, Dermot did not reply. He snatched open the door and strode out, his face as hard and set as granite. As he pulled his car door open, Cullen stepped out of the shop. “You'll have to do more than just tell Sean Cullen no, Doc. It ain't never worked for me and it won't work for you.” Dermot ground the gears of his Italian sports car as he peeled out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of Cullen laughing uproariously as he went back inside his shop. **** Andy Griffin winced as the squeal of tires took his attention from the carburetor he was tuning. He looked out the garage bay opening and saw the low-slung black sports car braking to a stop in front of the showroom. Picking up a rag, he began wiping his greasy hands as he went to see what this late customer might need. He was already forming his response in his mind because his shop wasn't equipped to work on foreign cars. He never got a chance to ask what was needed, for the enraged man who climbed out of the sports car came at him like an avalanche. “Where's Sean Cullen?” Griffin took in the rigid posture, set face, and glaring eyes of his visitor and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out back,” he replied and barely had time to step aside as the man pushed past him. The black man who was changing the oil under a station wagon stopped what he was doing and stepped to the back door of the garage. “Sean!” he yelled. “You gots company!” Griffin nodded. He appreciated Zeke giving the boy some warning that he was about to go toe to toe with, who might well be, Sean's girlfriend's father. “Ten to one he done got that girl in the family way,” Zeke said in a low voice. “Lord help him if he did,” Griffin quipped as he joined his employee. “That man looked mad enough to spit nails.” “Yassir. Mad enough to crucify dat boy,” Zeke agreed, pulling off his baseball cap to arm the sweat from his brow. They stood in the doorway and watched the angry man march over to where Sean was washing a new trade-in. Sean twisted the nozzle of the hose to turn off the water, then turned to face the man storming toward him.

**** “I want you to stay the hell away from my daughter!” Sean looked past Bronnie's father to Andy and Zeke. He knew whatever was said here would be all over Albany by morning. Zeke would tell the patrons of the Satin Kat bar down in Harlem and every black woman there who had a job as a maid would tell her white employer. Andy would tell his wife, Harriet, who would tell everyone in her beauty shop. By midday tomorrow, there wouldn't be many people of consequence in town who wouldn't know Dr. Dermot McGregor had called out his daughter's suitor. “Dr. McGregor, I—” he began, but Dermot's infuriated shout stopped him. “If you think you willever be a part of my family, Cullen, I suggest you think again! I have no intention of allowing Bronwyn to take up with the likes of you!” “What exactly is thelikes of me, Dr. McGregor?” he asked, his voice tight. McGregor leaned into Sean's face. “Uneducated, conniving, poor white trash.” Sean lifted his chin. “I have an IQ of one-sixty, Dr. McGregor. I—” “I doubt that. You failed your senior year of high school. Even a blind man could see you're a worthless deadbeat looking for an easy meal ticket.” “A meal ticket?” “Do you think everybody is as stupid as you are?” McGregor punched Sean in the chest with his index finger. “Don't you think I know what you're after?” Sean stared into McGregor's eyes. “What is it you think I want, Doctor?” “You want to continue seeing my daughter and that's not going to happen. I certainly would never allow someone like you to court her! Just the thought of you wanting to marry her makes my flesh crawl!” Though he knew the hurt likely flickered across his face, Sean held his ground. “Does it matter that I love her and that—?” “And that you want her daddy's money?” “I don't want your money,” Sean replied through clenched teeth. “I will provide for us.” “Oh, really?” McGregor drawled nastily. He jabbed his finger into Sean's chest again. “And just how the hell do you think you could ever provide for my daughter washing cars?” Sean flinched, but didn't move back from the painful jab. “I won't always be washing cars, Dr. McDermott. I will be able to support us.” “Doing what?” Dermot scoffed, his upper lip curled. “I haven't decided yet, but—”

“You are nothing more than a shanty Irish con man, Cullen, and the chances are good you'll end up in a prison somewhere.” Sean winced at the prediction. “I'm not that kind of man, Dr. McGregor, I—” “Stay away from my daughter,” McGregor warned, his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Because if you don't, I'll have you arrested.” A muscle jumped in Sean's jaw. “On what charge?” “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I have friends in law enforcement, and believe me when I tell you, I'll see they throw the book at you and keep you locked up for as long as possible!” Sean stared into the enraged man's eyes. He could read the fury boiling in McGregor's mind and had no doubt that Bronnie's father would make good on his threat. The thought of being put into a cell, locked in, confined, brought sweat to his brow and nausea to the back of his throat. He ran a trembling hand across his mouth. McGregor smiled brutally. “I think we understand one another, don't you?” “I love her,” Sean said, ashamed that his voice broke on the words. “How much?” McGregor asked as he pulled out his checkbook. “I don'twant your money.” McGregor ignored him. He filled in the check, stripped it from the book, and extended it toward Sean. “Beggar's can't be choosers, you know. Take it. I think you'll find I've compensated you quite well for defending my daughter that time at St. Teresa's.” Sean glanced at the check, but did not reach for it. He turned his back to Bronwyn's father and picked up the water hose. “I'll mail it to you,” McGregor said, stepping back from the spray of water Sean directed at the automobile. Sean did not reply. He plucked a sponge from a galvanized bucket near the car's fender and bent to the job of washing the hood. “Remember what I told you, Cullen! Come near her again and I will go to the authorities!” McGregor waited a moment to see if his words would get a rise out of Sean. When they didn't, he shrugged, pocketed the check, and barely glanced at Andy and Zeke, who moved out of his way as he entered the shop. **** Deirdre met her husband in the garage. She opened the car door for him. “Well?” “I went to see him.”

“And?” Dermot put his arm around her. “It's taken care of, DeeDee. We won't be having any more trouble from the Cullen boy.” “Are you sure?” A fierce gleam entered Dermot McGregor's eyes. “I'm damned sure!” **** Bronwyn slipped out of the house and went to their neighbors, asking to use their phone. When Sean's mother answered, she debated whether to hang up and try again later. “Who's there, please?” Mrs. Cullen inquired in her thick brogue. “I...is Sean there?” “He hasn't come home from work, yet. Is this Bronnie?” Bronwyn swallowed. “Yes, Ma'am.” “Would you like me to have him call you, dear?” “No!” Bronwyn gasped. “I mean, I'm not at our house right now.” There was a moment of silence. “I see. Is there something you would like me to tell him?” “You know, don't you?” Bronwyn asked, tears forming in her eyes. “About my father going to see him?” “Tym told me your Da stopped by the shop and was headed up to Griffin's. I take it he told Seannie he could not see you again.” Bronwyn swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks. “I love him, Mrs. Cullen. I'm not going to ever stop loving him, so nothing my parents say makes any difference!” “Ah, but it does, dear,” Dorrie sighed. “Until you're of age, you have to do what they say.” “They can't stop me from loving him!” “I'd imagine not, but they can cause my boy a heap of trouble. Do you want that?” Bronwyn's whimper of guilt was all the answer she could give as her tears escalated into deep sobs. “Bide your time, Bronnie,” Sean's mother advised. “Let ‘em think they've won. If you and Sean are meant to be together, you will be.” Bronwyn listened to Dorrie Cullen's words of encouragement as she warned her son's girlfriend not to endanger Sean's freedom. “I won't let them hurt Sean, Mrs. Cullen,” Bronwyn vied.

“I know you won't, dear. Now run home before your parents come looking for you. I'll tell Seannie we had a good long talk.” “Tell him...tell him...” Bronwyn could barely get the words out, for her heart was breaking. “Tell him I love him.” “I will do that.” Bronwyn hung up and turned to see Mrs. Betty Turner, her neighbor, standing in the doorway. “Good luck, Bronwyn,” Mrs. Turner said. “I know exactly how you feel and I wish you better luck than I had.” “Did your parents dislike Mr. Turner, too?” Bronwyn asked, accepting the tissue the older woman held out to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Mrs. Turner walked with her to the front door. “My daddy hated my boyfriend with a purple passion, Bronnie. He went to the base commander and had George reassigned to a base overseas.” Bronwyn paused at the screen door. “You were in love with someone else?” Mrs. Turner's lined face grew wistful. “His name was George Franklin and the sun rose and set in that boy for me.” She sighed. “I've often wondered what happened to him.” “I'm sorry, Miss Betty.” “So am I, dear,” Mrs. Turner said, her voice breaking. “I won't let them keep us apart. Somehow, some way, Sean and Iwill be together!” “From your mouth to God's ear. I would not want you to be as miserable as I've been all these years.” As Bronwyn slipped into her parent's home and tiptoed silently down the hallway, she began to think of ways to thwart her parent's plan to tear her from Sean's life. **** Andy Griffin stuffed his bandana into the pocket of his overalls and sat across from Sean at the picnic table by the storage shed. The young man's head was propped in his hands and he was staring at the scarred tabletop. “Life can be a bitch sometimes, Seannie.” “Why can't they just leave us alone?” From the sound of Sean's voice, the young man had been crying. Andy sighed. “Well, it ain't in some people's polography to mind their own bee's wax, son.” Sean looked up at the mangling of the word he knew should have been “prerogative.” Andy had a habit of mispronouncing certain words—he said “indentify” for “identify” and “confisticated” for “confiscated.” It was a habit that endeared him to Sean and he often found himself drawn to his boss, needing the father

figure Andy seemed happy to provide. “He told me to keep away from her,” Sean said. “Reckon you might better do as he says,” Andy ventured. When Sean started to argue, Andy raised his hand. “For a while anyway. You don't want that gal to get in trouble with her daddy, now, do you?” “We love each other, Mr. Andy.” “Yep, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet, Sean, and be a man about these things. You ain't the only one who's ever been told to stay away from a woman, son.” He grinned. “When I was about your age, I had me a gal named Ludie.” He sighed wistfully. “Prettiest little critter this side of Hotlanta, lemme tell you.” He sighed again. “But she come from the wrong side of the tracks, you know what I mean?” “Across the river,” Sean supplied. Andy nodded. “Her pa ran shine for the Colter boys outta Miller County.” He shook his head. “That was one mean bunch, them Colter boys. Men who worked for them had to be just as mean to survive, and Willis Tyler was as mean as they come in southwest Georgia. He had fathered nine boys by the time Ludie came along. All his boys have spent time in prisons.” He chuckled. “The joke in that family is the Tylers has seen the inside of more penitentiaries than any other clan in the South.” “Bad men.” “Very bad men, son. But old man Tyler had one redeeming quality—he loved his daughter more'n he loved a good jar of moonshine and that was saying something, lemme tell ya!” “He didn't approve of you?” “Sure didn't. Said I come from a line of yellow-bellied grease monkeys and he wanted better for his baby girl. Said if I didn't leave her alone, he'd make me wish I'd never been born.” “Did you do as he told you?” Andy looked across Broad Avenue. “Yeah, I did. Sometimes I wish I hadn't, but I did.” He smiled crookedly. “I was jimmy crack-corn afraid of that old man and still am to this very day, though he's been in his grave nigh on twenty years.” Sean lifted his foot to the picnic bench and tugged at the laces of his untied sneaker. “What happened to Miss Ludie?” Andy drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. He lowered his head. “She went up to Augusta to live with one of her aunts. She married some engineer up there.” “Do you ever think of her?” “Every day of my life, son. Every single day of my life.” Andy gripped Sean's arm. “Don't let the same thing happen to you, Seannie. Don't you be sitting here a lifetime from now telling some wet-behind-the-ears kid how much you loved Bronwyn McGregor but weren't man enough to fight to keep her. Don't be a yellow-bellied grease money like me and lose the one woman who might have made you happy!”

“I'm not going to lose her. I won't let them keep me and Bronwyn apart, Mr. Andy,” Sean said forcefully as he finished tying his sneaker. “I won't allow anything to break us up.” Andy locked gazes with his companion. “Won't be easy to keep that vow, son. Her pa seemed downright set on making sure you stay away from her.” CHAPTER 5

“I ought to have my head examined,” Dave Cox complained. He opened his geometry book, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Bronwyn. “What's this?” Bronnie asked, unfolding the note. She glanced at the signature at the bottom. “Sean gave you this?” “With instructions that, if I didn't, he'd beat my ass.” She leaned against her locker and scanned the note. As she did, her eyes filled with tears. “Did you read this?” Dave gasped. “And have that crazed gorilla come after me?” He shook his head. “Hell, no, I didn't read it!” The sheet of composition paper rattled in Bronnie's hand as she clasped it to her chest. “He says we can't see one another for a while.” Dave exhaled loudly. “That's the best news I've heard so far this school year.” “Because my father threatened him,” Bronnie said with a sob. “Well, that was to be expected, wasn't it? You know damned well they didn't want Cullen hanging around you.” “That's not their decision to make!” she hissed, running her hand under her chin, for tears were falling down her cheeks. “Yeah, well, crap happens, you know?” Dave quipped. “Mine don't want me going in the Marine Corps, either, but when I'm old enough, I plan on enlisting.” He put a hand on Bronnie's shoulder. “That's the key to the whole thing, McGregor. When you're old enough, they can't stop you from doing what you want.” Bronnie leaned her head against the locker. “But I've got two more years before I turn eighteen.” “If it's true love, it'll wait.” He squeezed her shoulder. “If it ain't, it won't.” “Sean says we can't be seen together and he doesn't think we should call one another, but we can pass notes through you.” “Ah, hell's bells!” Dave fumed. “Don't put me in the middle of this!”

She grabbed his arm. “You are my friend. I trust you.He trusts you. You're all we've got! You have to do this for me. You have to!” “Yeah? And what happens if your mama finds one of those notes? Then what?” “I'll keep them here,” she said, opening the padlock and putting the note inside the locker. “Jesus Christ on a stick,” Dave groaned. “I don't like this. I don't like it one damned bit!” “It'll be okay,” Bronnie said, sniffing. “You two are gonna get my ass in a sling, you know that?” “I'll give you my note to him after third period,” she said, not listening. She looked at her watch, then snapped the padlock shut. “I'll see you then.” Before he could respond, she was gone, walking quickly toward her first class of the day. **** Sean scowled at Dave's look of annoyance and tucked Bronnie's note into the pocket of his torn jean jacket. “Did she say anything?” “You're going to get her in deep crap with her parents, dude,” Dave pronounced. Ignoring the remark, Sean locked eyes with the shorter man. “Did shesay anything?” “No!” Dave shifted his books to the opposite hip. “I hope you two know what you're doing.” “We do,” Sean said, looking toward the parking lot. “Her old man'll crap a brick if he finds out this thing between you two ain't over,” Dave remarked gloomily. “He'll be expecting her to date and I got a feelin’ she ain't gonna.” “Did she say she wouldn't?” “Ah, hell, Cullen. You know she won't!” “Watch out for her, will ya, Cox? If guys start hassling her, just let me know.” “I've always protected her.” Dave lifted his chin. “Ever since pre-school and long before you ever showed up on the scene. Some dude bothers her, I'll take care of it even if it ain't me she'd rather come to her rescue.” Recognizing the love mirrored in the other boy's eyes, Sean nodded. “It's different between me and her.” “I wouldn't know,” Dave lamented, “and I don't guess I ever will. Not now, anyway.” Sean's lips twitched in what he knew passed for a smile for everyone but Bronnie. “You can't lose what was never yours, Cox.”

“Screw you, Cullen.” Dave turned away. “I don't fly that way, Cox.” Sean chuckled when Dave flipped him the bird. Still laughing, he walked to his bicycle and unlocked it from the stand. He pushed the bike a few feet, stepped on the right pedal, swung his leg over the seat and raced out of the parking lot before Dave ever reached his rusted-out jalopy. **** Dave opened this car door, wincing at the loud shriek. He threw his books inside the moldy-smelling interior. The interior of the twenty-year-old coupe was like an inferno, but he paid no heed as he settled behind the large steering wheel. For a long time he stared unseeingly at the fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view mirror. When the blare of a nearby horn brought him out of his self-imposed catatonia, he swiped at the moisture running down his face, then wrapped his hands around the steering wheel. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he knew anyone passing by would do a double take; his normally pleasant features were distorted with anger. **** The park was quiet, the shade of the stately oaks cool as Sean entered. He pedaled to one of the picnic tables, dismounted, and rested his bike against a nearby pine. Going to the table, he sat, pulled Bronnie's note from his pocket, and bent over to read. **** I am sorry Daddy threatened you, Sean. Mama threatened me, too. I wasn't surprised he came to see you and not surprised at all that he tried to bribe you. I heard him and Mama talking last night. He called your father a beggar because he heard that radio spot Mr. Cullen did last week. My Dad thinks anyone who advertises on the radio and TV has to beg to make a living. He said people like that would do anything for money. I am so proud of you for not taking that check even if you did want to tear it up in front of him. I don't know what makes them so mean, but it doesn't matter. Although my heart is breaking, I will do as you suggest. It will be the hardest thing in the world to pass you in the halls and not speak. It will be torture not to be able to pick up the phone and call you. I will be miserable not being able to talk with you at the park or meet you at Burdette's for a Cherry Coke. **** Sean paused, staring at the clean, elegant sweep of Bronwyn's handwriting. He lovingly touched one of the little circles she used to dot her “Is,” then turned the sheet over to read the last page. **** I will keep the letter you wrote me in a safe place, but the poem you wrote I folded and placed in the locket you gave me for Christmas. I will wear it with the Claddagh for as long as I live, my love. Next year, as soon as graduation is over, I will be ready to leave with you. No one will know I've left until it is too late to do anything about it. We'll go up to South Carolina and get married. Until

then, know I love you. Bronnie **** He read the note twice more, then slowly folded the sheets and put them back in his pocket. With his hands clasped on the tabletop, he stared across the park at the caged animals. McGregor's threats made him feel as though he were one of those helpless creatures, no longer in control of his life. He had not planned on leaving Albany until he could take Bronnie with him, but now he had no choice. As soon as he graduated in June, he would enlist in the service and hope, if they sent him overseas, he'd live to come back for the woman he loved. When Sean arrived home that evening, his father was sitting on the front porch steps, a bottle of beer clutched in his meaty hand. The older man was clad in a pair of worn shorts and a sleeveless undershirt stained heavily under the arms. “You're late,” he accused. “I had two details to do.” Cullen grunted, then reached into the back pocket of his shorts. “This came for you today.” He threw an envelope at Sean's feet. Sean laid his bike on the ground and bent to pick up the envelope. He frowned when he saw it had been opened. “I asked myself why do you reckon that fancy doc with his expensive foreign car would be writing a letter to my addle-brained son,” Cullen commented. “Couldn't be nothing good, I answered.” Sean spread the flap of the envelope and glanced at the check inside, which he had expected to find. “Then I asked myself why under God's blue sky this fancy doc would be giving my son five thousand dollars.” Cullen took a long swig of beer. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he pointed the bottle at Sean. “Know what I answered myself that time, Seannie, me boy? I says to myself—that fancy doc don't want no Cullen wigglies a'growin’ in his little gal's belly and I can't say that I blame him. Seems to me, though, it's worth more'n five grand to see that don't happen, don't you?” “I have no intention of cashing this.” “You don't want it, I'll take it.” “I'll be sending it right back to Dr. McGregor.” Cullen's mouth turned hard. “You ain't gonna do no such thing.” With a speed that surprised Sean, the older man leapt to his feet and snatched the envelope from him. Sean's hands doubled into fists at his side, but he knew it would be useless to argue with his father. When Tymothy Cullen drank, he got junkyard-dog mean and usually either his wife or son paid the price for that anger. Sean also knew that would not always be the way things would work. “This will help pay for next month's bills,” Cullen asserted as he stuffed the envelope into his pocket.

“Do whatever you want with it,” Sean said, knowing full well his father would forge his signature on the back of the check and cash it. He hoped Dr. McGregor would find out and have the fool arrested. “Good boy,” Cullen sneered. He sat on the step and stared up at his son with one eye squeezed shut. “How come you're so agreeable?” “I didn't ask for the money and I don't want it.” “Stupid little bastard,” Cullen said. “Throwing away perfectly good money.” Sean shrugged, picked up his bike, and wheeled it under the carport where he locked it to one of the wrought iron roof supports. He walked to the carport door and went into the house. Inside, the aroma of meatloaf filled the kitchen. He grimaced and went to the stove to see what his mother had prepared for herself and him. Lifting a pot, he was relieved to find succotash, a stewed tomato, okra, onion, and corn mixture that was one of his mother's specialties. “There is baked macaroni and cornbread in the oven,” his mother told him as she came into the small room. “Fix me some tea, will ya, laddie?” Sean's lips moved into the smile he reserved for his mother and Bronnie. “This stuff is gonna give you diabetes one of these days,” he said as he poured her a metal tumbler of the thickly-sweet brew. “At least I'll die a happy woman,” his mother countered, taking the tumbler from him. She looked deeply into his eyes. “You all right, laddie?” “Aye, Ma,” he lied. Dorrie Cullen sighed. “As all right as you're gonna be, I'm reckonin'.” She turned to the stove. “Call your Da in and let's hope he don't find no fault with my meatloaf tonight.” “How long's he been drinking?” “Since he closed up shop early and came home.” Sean tensed. The last time his father had closed the shop early. a savage punch had sent his mother to the hospital with a broken jaw. That had been when Sean was nine. “What brought this on?” he asked, glancing worriedly at the back door. His mother lifted her thin shoulders. “He's been gamblin’ again with them darkies what run the barbeque place two doors down. Shootin’ the craps, I suppose. Lost a hundred dollars or more.” Sean's jaw tightened. “Did you give him the letter from Dr. McGregor?” He knew that wasn't the case, but wanted to know how his father came in possession of the missive. “You know I didn't, laddie,” his mother answered in a hurt voice. “He went through your room lookin’ for loose money and that's when he found it.” She twisted her hands together. “It came this morning and I put it in your room knowin’ you didn't want him to see it. I asked him not to open it, but you know how your Da is.” “That I do.”

“When he opened it, he let out an almighty whoop.” “I'll bet.” “What was in that letter, Seannie?” “The solution to his problem, Ma. At least for the time being.” She pulled open the oven door, took up a pair of potholders, and reached for the meatloaf, the sight of which made Sean queasy. “Call him on in, now.” Sean went to the screen door. “Supper's ready!” “Put this ungodly concoction on the table for him and I'll get us the macaroni,” his mother ordered, placing the sizzling meatloaf on a hot pad on the counter. Sean retrieved another set of potholders from the drawer and, with his lips pursed tightly, he carried the meatloaf to the table and placed it in front of his father's plate. He avoided looking at the gray-brown meat. “The succotash smells great, Ma,” he said as he watched her ladle their main course into a soup tureen. “Smells like crap to me,” Cullen grunted. He let the screen door slam behind him as he plopped down at the table. “Get me another brew, boy.” Sean exchanged a glance with his mother, but he did as he was told. After fetching the ice-cold bottle for his father, he brought the cornbread to the table for his mother, pulled her chair out for her, then took his seat, ignoring the snort of disgust from his father at the courtesy. “Always puttin’ on the Ritz, ain't you, Seannie? Where does such highfalutin’ crap getcha?” Cullen popped the cap from the bottle with a church key. “He's just showin’ his Ma some respect,” Dorrie said quietly. Sean tensed. It was such innocuous remarks that, for whatever reason, set his father off. But the old man seemed not to have heard, for he was swilling down a long drag of beer. He grimaced as the man gave a loud belch, then another for good measure. “Will you say Grace, Tymothy?” Dorrie asked. Cullen shook his head. “Let His Holiness do it.” Dorrie reached for her son's hand. Her tired, sad eyes locked with Sean's and she lowered her head. “Bless us, Oh Lord,” Sean prayed, “and these thy gifts that we are about to receive from thy bounty.” “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy grits that we are about to receive from the county.” Cullen giggled as he ladled a big slice of meatloaf onto his plate. Dorrie's mouth tightened at the sacrilege, but she made no comment. She passed the macaroni to Sean.

“Would you slice me a piece of cornbread, laddie?” “Just a minute,” Sean said, realizing he would have to leave the table to get a knife. Before he could, a powerful backhanded blow from his father's left hand slammed into his face and knocked him out of his chair. He hit the floor hard on his left hip, his nose gushing blood. “When your Ma tells you to do something, you'd best hop to it,boy !” Cullen shouted. Dorrie gasped and started to get up, but her husband's furious bellow kept her in her seat. “Leave him be, Dorrie!” Sean lay where he landed, attempting to staunch the flow of blood with the heel of his palm. He knew his nose was broken and his upper lip had been split from contact with his father's heavy signet ring. “Get your lazy ass off the floor and clean up that mess,” Cullen demanded, “before I have to drag you up.” His nose throbbing, the smell of the blood, and the taste of it in his mouth making him sick, Sean pushed up from the floor. He knew if he made one sound, said one word, his father would be on him like a tiger on a wounded gazelle. He dared not even look the older man's way for fear the vicious temper would erupt and someone would suffer the consequences. “Lily-livered little pantywaist,” Cullen mocked. “Not man enough to stand up for himself and too damned stupid to even try.” He stabbed a chunk of meatloaf and crammed it into his mouth. Stumbling to the sink, Sean pulled a handful of paper towels from the rack and, with his nose still bleeding, went back to clean up the splatters on the floor. Sean sensed his mother wanted to help him, but she knew better than to try. Things would be worse for him, and more so for herself, if she dared. She sat still, her head bowed, her lips trembling. “Eat your damned food, woman!” Cullen demanded. Dorrie reached for her fork and gently slipped the utensil beneath a pile of macaroni. She moved the pasta from one side of her plate to the other. “Good meatloaf for a change,” Cullen pronounced around a glob of the mixture. “Thank you, Tym,” Dorrie said automatically. She flinched and her eyes went wide when he grabbed her hand. His strong grip tightened brutally around her wrist. “I said eat your damned food, not push it around!” “Aye, Tym,” she agreed, her head bobbing. She lifted a forkful of macaroni to her mouth. “When you get that floor spotless, go to your room,” Cullen told Sean. “No food for you tonight, boy.” **** Sean lay staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He could hear his father's angry mumbles as he

moved about in the bedroom next door. With the scrape of a chair across the wooden floor came a piercing yelp. Sean knew the man was falling-down drunk again. He turned his head and looked at the clock. Ten o'clock—unnaturally early for Tym Kullen to take to his bed. The man liked to sit in front of the television and curse the eleven o'clock news team. That he had forgone his nightly ritual meant the old man had consumed more than normal and hopefully would pass out before too many more minutes ticked off the clock. When a light scratching came at his door, Sean sat up. “I'm awake,” he said softly. His mother opened the door and stood there, her work-reddened hands gripping the door's edge. “He won't be conscious too much longer,” she whispered. “I left you a plate in the oven.” Sean nodded. “Go to bed, Ma. I'll be all right.” She looked at Sean's bruised face, the dark circles that had formed under his eyes. “Is it broken?” she asked, her eyes tearing as she took in his swollen nose. He shrugged. “Probably. Don't worry about it. There ain't much that can be done.” Tears slid slowly down her face. “I am sorry, lad.” "Dorrie! Where are you, woman?" The bellow startled her. She jumped, stepping back to shut Sean's door before her husband realized what she was doing. As the latch engaged against the strike plate, Sean stretched out on his bed. He knew before Tymothy Cullen passed out, he would subject his wife to another round of degrading sexual demands. Turning to his side, Sean pulled the pillow over his head to blot out the sounds of rutting that would soon echo through the small house. CHAPTER 6

The next morning at school, Bronnie was not close enough to speak to Sean when they passed in the hallway, but she was close enough to see the livid bruises across his nose and under his eyes. Her mouth fell open, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clenched into fists. She would have gone to him, but the slight shake of his head warned her away. She lost sight of him when he went into his chemistry class. “Looks like old man Cullen did a number on lover boy,” David remarked from her side. She trembled. “That bastard!” “I'll be damned if I'd let my father beat the hell outta me like that,” Bobby Thompson, Dave's friend and Bronnie's cousin, scoffed. “And just what would you do to stop him, Bobby?” Bronnie demanded. “Uncle Mike's twice your size and three times your age! How would you stophim ?”

“I'd handle it.” Bobby jerked his chin toward the chemistry lab. “Cullen could, also, if he was of a mind to!” Bronnie stepped close to cousin and glared at him. “Is that so? And after he beats the crap outta his father, where does he go after that? Who will take him in to live with them?” He shrugged disdainfully. “I dunno.” “You sure don't! And what do you think would happen to his mother if he went after his father? Who would protect her after he left? Where wouldshe go?” “He's afraid of what could happen to his mother?” Dave asked. “No, he knows whatwould happen to her,” Bronnie insisted. “That's why he takes the beatings and doesn't fight back. But one day, that will all end!” The bell rang, cutting off Dave's rebuttal. He looked worriedly at Bronnie. “Cool it, McGregor,” he whispered, but she was already striding away. **** “Uncle Dermot is mad enough as it is about this whole situation,” Bobby commented as the two young men walked to their first class. “He wouldn't like Bronnie defending Cullen like that.” Dave sighed. “I don't like it, either.” “Then what are we going to do about it?” “I don't know that there's anything wecan do.” Bobby looked into the chemistry lab as they passed. His eyes were hard and his mouth tight. “Oh, I don't know about that...” **** Sean frowned when he saw Bronnie walking purposefully toward him. He lifted his bike out of the rack and angled it away from her. Determined to leave before she could reach him, he threw his leg over the seat and pedaled only a few feet before her angry shout brought him to a stop. “I'll follow your ass to work, Cullen! Weare gonna talk!” Cursing beneath his breath, he slid his feet from the pedals and stood bracing the bicycle between his legs, waiting for her to join him. He turned an annoyed face to her. “Why don't you tell the whole school, Bronwyn?” he snapped, his nasal tone making his voice sound mean. She ignored his waspish remark and reached out to touch his injured face. When he jerked his head away, she lowered her hand. “Why are you mad at me?” she asked, embarrassment clouding her face. He sighed heavily. “I'm not mad at you, but you know we can't be seen talking together! You know what your father said.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what Daddy said!” “Well, you won't be the one going to jail, will ya?” he returned with more heat than he intended. At the look of hurt on her face, he cupped her chin in his hand. “This isn't good, Sweeting.” She smiled at the endearment. “I had to talk to you. I had to see how you were.” She scanned his battered face. “You look awful.” “Hey, don't mince words, now,” he teased, letting go of her. “Tell me exactly how you feel.” She rolled her eyes. “Will you be serious?” She extended her hand to his face once more. When he didn't pull away, she lightly touched his swollen nose. “That looks like it hurts.” Sean looked past her and saw Bobby Thompson watching them from the corner of the gym. He met Thompson's narrowed gaze for a moment, then looked at Bronnie. “It looks worse than it is. I gotta go. I'll be late for work.” “You're sure you're all right?” she asked, biting her lip. “Yeah.” He glanced at Thompson again, then lowered his voice. “Don't do this again, okay? We're being watched.” Bronnie turned and snorted. “I can handle Bobby.” Sean didn't reply. He could feel Thompson's open hostility like a slimy wet coat plastered to his back. He absently shrugged, the feeling wearing on his nerves. “Gotta go.” “I like that shirt,” she said, as if stalling for time, trying to keep him there. “Is it new?” He looked down at the pale yellow shirt. “Yeah, I bought it myself.” “It looks good on you.” “Coach Hie said only queers wear pastel shirts.” “Most of your shirts are pastels, aren't they?” “I like light colors,” he defended, glancing around. “Doesn't make you queer, though. So why do you wear blue and yellow shirts? He stared at her. “Because dark colors depress me. Where is this going, Bronwyn?” “Grownups say a lot of things that make no sense. Just ‘cause they're grownups doesn't mean they're always right.” “Oh, I see,” he said with a grimace. “We're back to not paying any attention to what your father said.” “Remember what I said, Sean. Try to come up with a way we can see one another without prying eyes being there to spy.”

He nodded. “That's all I ever do.” “Don't forget you promised to take me to the prom.” “Ah, Bronnie, no. That wouldn't be...” “You promised!” she said, her eyes flashing. “And I'm holding you to that promise!” “We'll see.” He glanced one last time at Bobby Thompson. “I gotta go, Bronnie.” **** Before she could say anything else, Bronnie watched the man she loved pedal away. He didn't turn to wave or acknowledge her presence in any way. With her heart aching, she headed for the gym. Bobby was leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed over his wide chest. At his cousin's approach, he cocked his head to one side. “Living dangerously, eh, Bronwyn?” “You tell Daddy you saw me talking to Sean and I'll tell Uncle Mike about the girl over in Colquitt.” His face paled. “You won't if you know what's good for you.” She smiled nastily. “Stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours.” She waited for him to say something else, and when he didn't, she headed for her car. **** Bobby pushed away from the building. His head throbbed with anger, but it wasn't directed at the little cousin for whom he had a vast amount of affection. His rage was aimed at Sean Cullen. To Bobby's way of thinking, few men would ever be worthy of Bronnie's hand and Cullen was on the lowest rung of the ladder. With a brutal look of vengeance, Bobby hunched his shoulders and headed across the parking lot to football practice. But before taking his anger out on the tackling dummies, he had a few words to discuss with a couple of his teammates. **** It was dusk before Sean finished vacuuming the last car on Griffin's lot. He was sweaty and tired and his nose ached miserably. Zeke had left for the day and Andy was making sure the cars were locked. When Andy came out back to lock the storage shed, he found Sean inside, putting away the shop vac. “You need a ride home, son?” Andy inquired. “You can stick your bike in my trunk.” “No, thank you, sir,” Sean replied as he left the shed. Andy followed Sean outside and turned to padlock the shed. “I live only a couple of blocks from your house. It ain't no bother.” “I appreciate the offer, but I kinda like the solitude.”

Andy looked at him. “Seems to me you have more solitude than you need, son.” He smiled sadly. “Or that's good for you.” Sean ducked his head. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged. “Well, any time you wanna talk or such, you just let me know,” Andy said gruffly. “Okay?” Sean nodded. “Yes, sir.” Andy patted him on the back. “See you tomorrow.” “Yes, sir.” As Andy backed out of the car lot, the sweep of his headlights played over the tree where Sean had padlocked his bike, then left it in darkness. Sean wished there were security lights illuminating that section of the lot. As it was, he had to strain to see the barrel lock. Just as the last pin disengaged, he heard a rattling in the bushes that bordered Griffin's property and the empty lot behind it. Straightening up from his crouched position, Sean looked into the shadows. He stood still, listening, but there was no further sound. Still, the hair on the back of his neck stirred, and there was a tight sensation in the pit of his stomach, the taste of lead filling his mouth. All his life Sean had felt and heard things he could not explain. Able to “read” other people's minds had at first frightened, then confused, then later irritated him. Most of the time he pushed aside the thoughts and ignored them. With Bronwyn, he often gave in to listening to her inner thoughts, but always hated himself for doing it. On rare occasions, the ability had served Sean well when his father had made up his mind to take his frustrations out on him. At times like that, Sean was quick to put distance between himself and Tymothy Cullen. Rarer still were the times when Sean sensed danger heading his way from an unknown source. Just as he sensed it now. Never taking his eyes off the bushes at the edge of Griffin's property, Sean backed his bike away from the tree. He never saw the person behind him, but he heard the swoosh of air a second before something hard connected painfully with his spine. He fell sideways, over his bike, gasping with agony as the right pedal jabbed into his groin. **** Bobby Thompson watched from the protection of a huge live oak as his buddies went to work on Sean Cullen. He grinned as they jerked Sean up from the ground and hustled him behind the storage shed so no passers-by would see what was happening. “Don't hit him in the face!” Bobby hissed. Two burly linebackers held Cullen's arms while two other members of Bobby's team took turns using the helpless prisoner as a punching bag. The sound of fists landing brutal blows, then sneaker-clad feet slamming into unprotected flesh as Cullen dropped heavily to the ground, could not be heard over the homeward-bound traffic that passed out front on Broad Street. Cullen's grunts were drowned out by the soft, vehement curses of his assailants as he lay curled on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself from the savage beating.

With one last vicious kick, his attackers ran, leaving him in the dirt behind the storage shed. Bobby joined his teammates as they ran past, laughing with them at the carnage they had left behind. **** Sean moaned as he tried to push up from the ground. Though they had landed no blows to his face, he hurt in a dozen places and was sure a rib or two was cracked, if not broken. He wretched, his body shuddering with the effort, as pain flowed through him. His groin was on fire; his kidneys throbbed with terrible agony; his back hurt so badly he could barely move. He tried once more to get up, but the pain proved too much to bear. He pitched over into the darkness that reached up to embrace him. **** Bronwyn pushed open the door to the church, then walked to one of the middle pews, genuflected, and took a seat. She sat for a moment, staring at the huge crucifix behind the altar, then lowered the kneeler. Slipping to her knees, she made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands together. With elbows braced on the bench in front of her, she lowered her head to her hands. “Hail Mary, full of Grace...” **** From his place beside the statue of Joseph, Father Felix Connelly watched the young woman. Her family had been among the first to welcome him as the new priest of St. Teresa's a few months earlier. The kindly priest had sensed the girl's turmoil and had been trying for a week to have a private talk with her. A meeting of the C.Y.O. board of officers that evening had given Fr. Felix the opportunity; but Bronwyn had left the meeting as soon as it was over. He had not expected to find her in the church when he came from the rectory to lock up for the night. **** Bronwyn looked up as she felt a presence beside her. She smiled. “Hi, Father.” “May I sit with you, dear?” “Yes, sir.” Bronwyn slid over on the pew. Fr. Felix took a seat beside her. “Is everything all right at home?” “More or less.” “Typical home with a teenager in it, eh?” She grinned. “Yes, sir.” He sat in silence for a moment. “How do you like your junior year in high school?” Bronwyn shrugged. “It's okay,” she said, looking down at her hands clutched in her lap.

“Grades good?” “Straight A's.” “I heard you're president of the junior class. I'm sure you have a lot of friends who voted for you.” “I do.” “Your teachers like you, I'll bet.” “I hope so.” “Not having a problem with one of them, are you?” Bronwyn shifted in the seat so she could look at his gentle face. “I'm having boy trouble, Father.” Fr. Felix sighed. “Nothing serious, I hope.” His pale blue eyes searched hers. Her face turned hot when she understood his silent question. She looked away from that probing stare. “We're waiting until we're married, Father Felix,” she said, instinctively knowing his thoughts would be running along those lines. “He isn't pressuring me or anything like that. He believes in waiting.” “That is always encouraging to hear in this day and age, Bronwyn,” he said gently. “It's my parents.” “So they don't approve of your young man? Do I know him?” “It's Sean Cullen, Father.” “A courteous young man and a devout Catholic. He comes to early Mass with his mother on Sunday.” He cocked his chin toward the front pews. “Sits up there and sings every song as loud as can be.” He laughed. “Well, Dorrie sings. Seannie tries, but he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it.” Bronwyn smiled. “He is awful, isn't he?” “Yes, but a terrific kid.” The priest frowned. “What do your parents have against him?” “Who his father is and what he does for a living.” “Ah, I see. It's the old story of the lace curtain Irish looking down their noses at their poorer countrymen, eh?” “Exactly. Daddy calls them ‘shanty Irish.’ They don't know Sean and they don't want to get to know him.” “They've forbidden you to date him?” “Yes, sir, and they've threatened to have him arrested if I do.”

The priest shook his head as though lamenting the news. “Well, I imagine they believe they are protecting you, dear.” “I don't need protection from Sean!” Father Felix took Bronwyn's hand. “My instinct tells me you're right. Do you love him?” She met the kind priest's gaze. “With all my heart.” “And does he love you?” “Yes, sir.” “You're sure?” “As sure as I am of anything in this life, Father.” “Then God will provide a way for you two to be together, Bronwyn. You must trust His judgment and rely on His ability to set things to rights. It might take a while, but if your love is pure and destined to be, He will see that it endures.” “Even if my parents are so against Seannie?” she sobbed, swiping at the tears falling down her cheeks. “We have to trust that our Lord knows what's best for us, dear.” “I don't want anything to happen to Sean. My parents aren't going to change their minds.” “Your parents are good people. They want what they feel is best for you.” “Sean is best for me.” “Then perhaps one day they'll see your way of thinking. You just have to hope and pray they do.” “Will you say a prayer for us, Father?” Bronwyn asked. “For Sean and me?” “Tell you what—let's pray together,” he replied, sliding to the padded kneeler. Bronwyn knelt beside him and added her heartfelt prayers to his. **** It was well after midnight when Dorrie Cullen heard the back door open. She lay as tense as a coiled spring beside her snoring husband, holding her breath until she was sure it was Sean coming home at this late hour and not a prowler. Long after Sean's bedroom door closed, she lay staring at the ceiling. Finally, she carefully eased back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, then crouched beside the bed, her hands clasped in prayer. “Hail Mary, Full of Grace,” she began, tears sliding down her wrinkled cheeks. ****

In his room, Sean gingerly stretched out on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothing. He hurt so badly he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Slowly, he pulled his knees up to his chest and lay in a fetal position, his torso a mass of throbbing and his spine on fire with an agony all its own. He had recognized the boys who had beaten him. He had also gotten a glimpse of Bobby Thompson standing off to one side, watching. His last thought before he allowed welcoming sleep to claim him was one of unadulterated vengeance. If it were the last thing he ever did, Sean would make all five of his attackers wish they'd never been born. CHAPTER 7

Dorrie looked around as Sean entered the kitchen the next morning. She frowned. “Where were you last night?” “I fell asleep at the car lot,” Sean answered. He glanced at the oatmeal she had prepared for him and looked away. “I ain't hungry.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Dorrie stepped away from the sink. “You're working too hard.” Sean shrugged and wished he hadn't. He knew his pain flashed across his face. He grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to keep his knees from buckling. “Sean?” she questioned, reaching out. “I'm okay,” he managed to say through clenched teeth. “Just stiff.” Her eyes full of concern, Dorrie lowered her hand. “You sure, boy?” “I'm sure.” He barely glanced at her before he turned to go. “I'll be really late coming home, Ma. Just leave me something in the oven.” With his jaw set, he pushed open the screen door. He stood on the step for a moment, looking for his bike, then realized it was still at the car lot. He had walked home. Sighing deeply, he didn't relish the thought of having to walk to school. If he hurried, he might be able to catch the bus at the middle school two blocks away. His body aching, his temples pulsing with a vicious headache, he stepped onto the carport slab and headed down the driveway. **** Dorrie watched her son from the kitchen door. “May the road rise up to meet you, Seanie,” she whispered. “May the Wind be always at your back.” “What are you babbling about?” Tym snarled from behind her. She jumped, turning to face her husband's glower. “Just saying a prayer for our son,” she admitted, lowering her eyes. Cullen snorted. “Our son,” he sneered as he took his place at the table. “Yourson, you mean. He ain't mine!”

Dorrie flinched, but made no comment. Instead, she hurried to the stove to ladle up his breakfast of grits, scrambled eggs, and patty sausage. “Where's my toast and apple jelly?” he demanded. “I ain't had time to make the—” Tym leapt to his feet. With a backhanded blow, he sent her reeling across the kitchen. Dorrie banged into the counter, cried out with pain, then landed on the floor in a crumpled heap. “You got time to stand there spouting mumbo-jumbo to that bastard son of yours, but you ain't got time to take care of my needs?” Cullen kicked her in the hip. “Get your lazy ass up and make the damned toast, bitch!” Dorrie screamed with pain as the pointed toe of her husband's boot again connected with her hipbone. “Get up!” he demanded. When she didn't move fast enough, he grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her to her feet. Ignoring her whimpers, he forced her toward the toaster and shouted in her ear. “Fix my toast!” He let go of her hair with a cruel push that cracked her head against the upper cabinet door. “Aye, Tymothy,” Dorrie moaned, shuddering violently. Her hands were trembling as she untwisted the tie on the loaf of bread. She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, then hurried to the refrigerator for the butter and jelly. “Useless slut,” he pronounced as he sat at the table. “Just as useless as her good-for-nothing son. Maybe I ought to tell him what kind of bitch he has for a ma.” Tears sliding heedlessly down her cheeks, Dorrie stood at the counter and stared at the block of knives. Her gaze fell on the thick handle of the butcher knife, then to her husband. She stared at him until the twang of the toaster shook her from her revelry. Methodically, she opened the container of butter and began spreading it on the toast. All the while, her gaze kept straying to the knife block. “What's taking you so long, woman?” “I'm ready,” she whispered. She carried the buttered toast and jar of apple jelly to the table. “You want anything else?” He opened the jar, slathered a huge dollop of jelly on one of the toast slices, and bit into it. Dorrie walked back to the counter and placed two more slices of bread into the toaster. Once more, her gaze slithered to the knife block. “You said you would never tell him.” He grunted. “Time he knew the truth. He'll find out sooner or later, anyways.” The toast popped up. Dorrie laid her toast on another plate and began buttering it. “Youpromised never to tell him.” “Shut the hell up. I may, or I may not. Depends on my mood.” She reached for the butcher knife. After drawing the wicked blade from the block, she lowered it to her

side, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. She turned, watching her husband cramming food into his mouth. “He thinks you are his father.” Not bothering to look at her, he continued to eat. His chin was greasy with butter; specks of grits clung to his red mustache. He answered around a mouthful of sausage. “Ask me if I care what the little bastard thinks. I'm tired of folks thinking that piece of crap is any kin to me!” The knife handle was hot in Dorrie's hand, the thickness of it reassuring. She started toward the table. She felt the wicked point jabbing into her leg, but she welcomed the slight nick of pain. “He's a good boy,” she whispered as she came to stand beside her husband. “He's a coward.” Cullen glanced up at her. “I don't need nothin’ else. Get the hell away from me.” He looked down at his plate, dismissing her. “I think I'll have a talk with him when he comes home this evening.” Dorrie raised the knife and struck. Years of battering gave her unerring aim and enough power behind the force of her movement to nearly decapitate her husband of seventeen years. The bright red arterial blood that gushed from the brutal wound in Tymothy's neck washed over the pale blue tablecloth, mixed with the white grits and gray sausage and creamy yellow scrambled eggs on the green dinner plate, and sprayed into the cup of black coffee. The colors ran and blended and changed hues as Cullen slumped in his chair, clutching his wound between fingers that were soon scarlet. Dorrie leaned against the wall, the coppery smell of blood making her nauseous. She could not take her eyes from her husband until he gurgled his last bubbling breath and his powerful hands fell palm up in his blood-soaked lap, the fingers twitching occasionally until all movement ceased. The last spurt of blood squirted onto the table, landing in the jar of apple jelly. “You promised you'd never tell him.” Dorrie dropped the butcher knife, yet did not flinch when it hit the linoleum with a clatter. “And you'll keep that promise, Tymothy Cullen.” The only sounds were the soft patter of blood dripping down the tablecloth to splatter on the floor, the tick of the clock, and the hum of the refrigerator as it kicked on. For several moments, she stared at her husband, hating him with every fiber of her being. She turned, shut and locked the kitchen door, lowered the blind over its window, then padded carefully through a widening pool of blood to pull down the blind above the sink. She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped the spattered white linen into the trashcan. Her skirt followed. After removing her blood-saturated slippers, she added them to the trash. Clad only in her slip, bra, and panties, she went to her bedroom, threw on a freshly-ironed house dress, stepped into a pair of canvas sneakers, then walked through the living room, out the front door, and around the house to the shed in back. When she returned, she was carrying a long black case that held her husband's chain saw. **** He found them in the lunchroom that day.

Unconcerned that he knew who they were and not afraid he'd tell, Bobby Thompson and his four teammates sat together at the table where all the jocks convened, laughing at their night's work. Now and again they would turn and stare openly at him, grinning hatefully, then burst into uncontrolled laughter. Sean, sitting two tables over from them, his pimento cheese sandwich, barbeque chips, and chocolate milk untouched, watched the football players with an intensity that undoubtedly unnerved those who noticed it. His unwavering stare locked primarily on Thompson, but shifted now and again to the two who had beaten him so viciously: Brad Forrester and Garret Dawes. When the athletes finished their lunch and clamored up from the table, Sean tensed, hoping they would not take it into their heads to start something here. He wanted the confrontation beyond the eyes and hands of those who might interfere. His breathing quick and shallow, he watched the five young men leave the lunchroom without so much as glancing at him, obviously seeing no threat in his presence and wanting him to know it. Sean smiled brutally. Though he was sore to the point of barely being able to move, he stood, lifted his lunch tray, and walked to the garbage can where he dumped his uneaten food. **** “That was a waste of good money, Cullen,” Bronnie said as she joined him. He barely looked at her. “How afraid of your father are you, Bronwyn?” “I'm not afraid of him at all.” He locked gazes with her. “Do you love me?” She nodded slowly. “You know I do.” He grabbed her arm. “Do you want to be with me?” Bronwyn's heart thudded hard against her ribcage. She had trouble swallowing. “Ah, yeah. You know I do.” “Inthat way?” he asked, staring hard into her eyes. Sweat broke out on her face. “Yes...” “I'll be leaving here this weekend. If you mean what you say, meet me in the usual place at the park. I'll be there by six.” “Leaving?” she questioned, but he had already moved away and she dared not call out to him. Bronwyn spent the rest of the day nervously chewing on her lip, her pencil, and her cuticles. She kept watching the clock, alternately wishing the minute hands would speed up or slow down. When the last bell rang, she shot out of her seat like a cannon. She shoved past the departing students and hurried out to the bike racks, but did not see Sean or his battered bicycle. A quick circuit of the parking lot showed he hadn't parked the rusted wheels elsewhere. Finally giving up her search, she ran to her car. She began making the circuit of streets between the

school and downtown where she figured he would have gone. “Damn!” she finally pronounced, realizing she'd missed him altogether. She hadn't thought to check the football field, and would not have dreamed of venturing into the boy's locker room to search for him. If she had, she would have found three of Sean Cullen's attackers: Brent Spivy and Harold Gleeson in the locker room with bloody noses and black eyes, and Bobby Thompson sprawled near the ten-yard line with a fractured jaw. **** When the phone rang at 5:00 that afternoon, Bronwyn nearly jumped out of her skin. Grabbing the receiver, hoping against hope it wasn't Sean canceling their meeting, she was stunned when Dave gave her the news about the three ballplayers. “But that's not all!” Dave told her. “Brad Forrester is at Albany General with two broken arms, and they found Garrett Dawes unconscious in the Burger Joint's restroom. Somebody beat the crap outta him!” “Who did it?” Bronwyn asked breathlessly. “Don't know. They say the ones who jumped ‘em were wearing stocking masks.” She laughed. “You're kidding! I bet they know who did it, or else got a good look at them. Who do you think it could have been?” “We're playing Stanfield this weekend. Maybe some of their students. Who knows?” “Are they going to be all right?” she asked, not really caring. She had never liked any of the five jocks. “Oh, yeah, they'll be okay, but none of them are gonna be playing ball for a while!” Bronwyn giggled. “That's a fate worse than death for those five.” Dave's answering chuckle let her know he agreed, even though he and Bobby Thompson were friends. “Anyway, it'll be the talk of the town for a long, long time. Hey, you wanna get a shake at the Dairy Treat? I bet everyone's down there gabbing about it.” She looked at her watch, gasped when she realized it was ten minutes to six. “Can't. I...I got something to do.” “Like what, McGregor? Wash your hair?” “Like homework.” “Yeah, right.” “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said and hung up before he could answer. “Who were you talking to, dear?” her mother asked.

Bronwyn looked up, angry that her mother had been eavesdropping. “Davey. Did you hear about what happened to the football players?” “Yes, and I think it's awful!” Deirdre shook her head. “What is the world coming to when our young men have to do things like that over a silly school rivalry?” “I'm going to meet Davey at the Diary Treat and go to the hospital to see some of the guys. He's gonna buy me a burger, so don't hold supper for me.” Her mother frowned. “Well, don't be gone too long. Your father will worry.” “I'll be back by eight.” **** Sean was sitting on one of the picnic tables when Bronnie drove up. As soon as he saw her, he walked quickly to her car. “Let's go,” he said as he got in, his face tight. “Which way?” “Head north up Slappey,” he replied, slumping down in the seat. Her heart beating furiously, Bronwyn drove out of the park. She cast him a look and frowned. “What happened?” “I've tried to behave like I know I'm supposed to,” he said as though talking to himself. “It's been hard, but I've managed to do what was expected.” He turned on the radio, flipping through the stations until he found one with, what Bronwyn had termed, “Old Man's Stuff.” “Ugh,” she said, hating the strains of supermarket music. “Anyone following us?” She bit her lip and looked in the rear view mirror as she pulled onto Palmyra Road. They weren't that far from the hospital, and she was nervous, half expecting to see her father's car in hot pursuit. She knew if they saw her with Sean, her parents would be furious. She hated to think what her father might do. “I don't see any one, but if Daddy...” “I said I'd protect you, and I will,” Sean said in a harsh tone. She looked at him. “I wish you'd stop reading my mind, Cullen!” He grinned nastily. “That talent might come in handy one day,mo Chroí .” He shrugged. “Too bad it doesn't always work when it should with other people, or I'd have known what I was in for last night.” “Something happened and I want to know what.” He twisted in the seat until he faced her. “There's an old saying that fits this situation. It goes, ‘Ná bac le mac an bhacaigh is ní bacfaidh mac an bhacaigh leat.'”

“Which means what?” “'Don't bother with the beggar's son and he won't bother with you,'” he replied, then turned to stare out the windshield. “Well, the trouble is, they messed one time too damned many with this beggar's son!” Bronwyn stopped at the intersection of Palmyra and Slappey, looked south, then headed north on the busy highway. She threw him a look of surprise. “You beat the crap outta Bobby and his friend's, didn't you?” When he didn't answer, she looked at him. “You did, didn't you?” “I heard it was five masked men from Stanfield.” He chuckled. “Yes, well, none of them are about to admit it was a lone man who did so much damage!” “Five on one sounds better, huh?” he snarled. “There's real honor in that, right?” The anger in his tone made her wince. “They jumped you? All five of them?” She didn't expect him to answer. His steady look as their eyes met needed no words. “Sons of bitches. I'm glad you beat the crap outta them!” “Fillean meal ar an meallaire.” “I know that one—'Evil returns to the evil doer.’ That's one of my grandma's sayings.” “I can't prove it, but I'm willing to bet your father had something to do with it.” Bronnie snapped her head around. “Oh, Sean, no!” “He warned me, and I sure as hell wouldn't put it past him. Would you?” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I don't want to believe he would stoop to something so mean.” “Why would anyone else come after me, Bronwyn? Who else would care?” “I don't know,” she whispered, feeling the threat of tears burning her eyes. She loved her father, but she knew he had a bad temper. It was not inconceivable that he would ask Bobby to help take care of the situation. Her shoulders slumped. “Where are we going?” “To Mosby's.” She felt the blood begin to pound thickly in her ears. A strange heaviness formed between her thighs. “T...the motel.” “Aye.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you have an objection to that destination,mo Chroí ?” “No.” After a long moment of silence, he tightened his grip on her. “Are you sure?” Slowly, she nodded. “Yes.”

“You know what will happen if we go in there.” She nodded again, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Sweat made her palms slick on the steering wheel, so she wiped her right hand on her pant leg. “Tell me what you're thinking.” She glanced at him. “You're so good at reading my mind,” she said, turning back to the road. “You tell me what I'm thinking.” “I want you to say it aloud.” For a few ticks of the dashboard clock she said nothing, then shrugged. “I'm wondering why you want to do this now.” “You think I want to make love to you to get back at your father?” They were only a mile from Mosby's Dew Drop Inn, so she took her foot off the accelerator, slowing the car. “Is it?” “No.” “Then why?” He pointed to the side of the road. “Pull off here.” She didn't question him, but nosed the car onto the shoulder of the road. Putting the gear into neutral, she made sure it wasn't going to roll forward, then twisted in the seat to face him. “Okay, let's hear it.” “I told you I was leaving. I'm going to enlist in the Air Force.” “I think that's stupid, but go on.” “They'll draft me anyway,” he snapped. “The war is going to escalate whether we like it or not.” “You're probably right, but I don't like you putting yourself in harm's way.” “Better I enlist than be drafted into a killing unit, don't you think? The thought of taking a life, human or otherwise, makes me sick to my soul, Bronnie.” The thought of him killing another human being made her ill, too, but the thought of someone killing him sent a shaft of pure terror through her heart. She reached out to him, taking his hand. “I would die if anything happened to you!” He smiled. “No, you wouldn't.” “She snatched back her hand. “How can you say that?” she demanded, tears flooding her eyes. “I love you!” “I love you, too,” he said softly. “And because I love you, I want us to be together. I want to remember

how it feels to have you in my arms,mo Chroí . I want to make you completely mine, to seal the bargain between us. I want you to remember you are my bondmate and I want to know you will be waiting for me when I come home. I have to know you belong to me and no other.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, but Bronwyn ignored them. She turned, put the car in gear, and pulled onto the highway. Her heart pounding furiously, she said nothing until the garish motel sign came into view. As she clicked on the blinker, she threw him a look. “I hope you brought protection,” she said in a firm voice. He patted the right pocket of his jeans. “I did.” She pulled into the oyster-shell driveway of the seedy “no-tell motel.” CHAPTER 8

Dorrie was panting by the time she finished. The bathroom was thick with the copper smell of Tymothy Cullen's blood and the pink and black ceramic tile speckled crimson from the spray thrown up by the chain saw's track. She sat on the toilet seat to rest and wiped the back of her slick arm across her blood-splattered forehead. Tym's dismembered body lay cooling in the bathtub, the shower washing away what remained of his congealing blood. On the floor sat a box of plastic lawn bags into which Dorrie intended to pack his remains for disposal. In the living room, the stereo was playing. She had turned it on louder than normal to drown out the harsh sound of the chain saw. It had been difficult moving Tym from the kitchen to the bathroom, but once she had pushed him from his chair onto an old quilt, she managed to drag him the ten feet down the hall. Having taken down the shower curtains from both bathrooms, she had sandwiched the vinyl under the quilt so no blood would seep onto the hall carpeting. Once inside the bathroom, she strained to get him into the tub. Careful not to allow the chain saw track to dig into the porcelain, she began sawing his limbs into foot-long pieces, humming an old Patsy Cline tune as she worked. His torso she attacked with a vengeance, the blood splatters from his ruptured organs making her grimace with disgust. Now, her butchering finished, she was bone-tired, but knew her work was just beginning. Tym's remains had to be double-sealed in the bags and carried carefully to the car trunk. The bath and kitchen would have to be scoured, all signs of the murder scrupulously removed. She kept a close eye on the clock, knowing Sean wouldn't be home until supper. It was a just past 2:30 when she began carrying what was left of her husband to the car. By 4:00, the kitchen was as pristine as it had been before she cut Tym's throat. By 5:00, the bathroom had been returned to order, although the tub was minus its shower curtain and there was a small knick in the porcelain. Dorrie shrugged. No one would know what had caused the nick. After taking one last look at the bathroom, she went into the bedroom, got her pocketbook, and headed for the car. As the grandfather clock in the living room chimed 6:00, she backed out of the driveway. Soon thereafter, Dorrie Cullen tossed the first of Tym Cullen's remains into a dumpster outside the Lee County high school. “You always wanted to finish high school,” she said as she got back in the car. “Well, leastways you'll

finish up in one or two.” Her next stop would be the dumpster at the high school up in Americus, 30 miles away. “Or three.” She giggled. **** Bronwyn kept her eyes averted from the motel's office while Sean was inside registering them. She was too afraid—and too ashamed—to do more than stare resolutely across the rundown parking lot. When Sean skirted the front of the car and got in, she could not look at him. “Number eight,” he said quietly. She nodded and cranked the car. Her face hot, she drove to the shabby brown door and winced when she parked. The metal sign had lost one of its screws, for the number hung sideways, looking like the infinity sign from a popular medical drama of a few years earlier. Sean touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I love you.” She took a deep breath and turned off the ignition. “I love you, too.” “I know it's not the place you dreamed about, but it's all I could afford,” he said. Bronwyn could hear the hurt in his voice. “And...” She turned to look at him. “It's safer than the motels in town.” She wondered if by “safer” he meant “physically” or “health-wise.” When he smiled sadly, she cocked her shoulders in helplessness. “I can't help thinking it,” she said, growing used to him picking her thoughts from the ether. “Despite its reputation, they do have to keep the place clean. If it doesn't look clean, I'll get another room.” She nodded, trying to smile, but her lips felt frozen. She looked away and could not stop the shudder than ran through her. The thought of going inside the motel room terrified her. “Bronnie.” She hung her head. “I'm sorry.” He slid across the seat and took her into his arms, cradling her head in the hollow of his shoulder. When she began to sob, he tightened his grip. “Shush.” “I can't go in there, Sean.” She was trembling, her hands clutching at his shirt. “I just can't!” He kissed the top of her head. “Then we won't.” She pushed back from him and looked into his face. Her eyes were thick with teardrops. “I...”

“No,” he said, putting a finger across her lips. “You don't have to explain. I understand.” “But you paid your money and...” she said, her lips quivering. He placed a soft kiss on her lips to silence her. “It doesn't matter.” “Yes, it does!” she said and shoved him away. Before he could stop her, she was out of the car and standing in front of the marred door. He got out to join her. “We don't have to do this,” he said, but she was shaking her head. “I don't want you to do anything that's going to bother you so much.” “Open the door, Cullen.” He started to protest, but she hit him on the arm. “Open the damned door before I lose my nerve!” Her entire body trembled. She wrapped her arms around herself and stamped her foot. “Please open the door!” she sobbed. He slammed the room key into the lock and shoved open the door. A blast of stale, cigarette smoke-laden air washed over them. The stench made him gag. “No,” he said, his face set and hard. “Get back in the car.” “Sean...” “Get in the car, Bronwyn. I'll drive!” Relieved that she didn't have to step foot inside the foul room, Bronnie hurried back to the car. Climbing behind the wheel, Sean started the car and whipped it into a u-turn through the pothole-ridden parking lot. He turned south onto the highway. **** Felix Mosby let the curtain fall over the window of the motel's office. He made a clicking sound with his ill-fitting dentures, then walked to the counter and picked up a pencil and pad. He jotted down the tag number of the car that had just left his establishment so he wouldn't forget it. He added the make and model of the car. “Damned kids,” he complained as he turned the desk phone toward him. He lifted the receiver and dialed the Dougherty County police. When the dispatcher answered, he gave her the tag number and the particulars on the car. “Not a day over sixteen, if you ask me,” he said, describing the girl in the car. My guess is the boy is from the Air Force base.” Mosby listened, nodding. “That's right. Yes, Ma'am. I don't want that sort of thing goin’ on out here.” He listened some more, thanked the dispatcher, then hung up. He walked to the door, opened it, and

breathed in the late afternoon air. “Jail bait,” he said, then hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat. “Nothing but jail bait.” Glancing at the lowering sky, he shook his head and went back into the office, satisfied he had helped to end the indecent behavior of at least two rebellious youths. **** Sean sat hunched over the steering wheel as he drove toward town. “I'm not ready to go back,” Bronnie told him. “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Kinchafoonee Creek. Where everybody else goes. I'll show you.” He shot her a glance. “And just how the hell would you know?” he asked, his voice tight. “Everybody knows where to go parking, Cullen. Doesn't mean I've ever gone. Just means I know where togo.” His hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “Have you ever come out here with someone else?” She turned to him. “You tell me.” He took his eyes from the road, stared at her for a moment, then snapped his head back around, furious with himself that he had drifted into the northbound lane. The highway was notorious for fatal accidents and the thought of something happening to Bronwyn made him sick. “Turn up there,” she said, pointing. She guided him deep into the pine thicket that ran along the waterway. Above, scrub oaks formed scraggly arches over the car. Spanish moss snagged on the antenna as they drove under the oaks, festooning the hood with silvery lace. The dirt path she indicated was edged with a rusted barbwire fence that kept honeysuckle and banana vine from wandering too far to the road. “Park anywhere here.” He nosed the car beneath a tall live oak and turned off the engine. The sound of water and the chirp of crickets filled in the silence. Dusk wasn't far away, and fireflies appeared along the banks. Sean grunted. “This place looks like a photograph Ma has of the woods near Killarney where she used to visit a maiden aunt during the summer.” “Well, that sure ain't the Boyne,” Bronwyn grumbled. “Creeks around here don't get much muddier than the Kinchafoonee.” He shrugged. “Aye, but it has a certain charm, don't you think?”

“About as much charm as any, I guess.” She looked at him. “What now, Cullen?” Sean smiled softly. “Are we on a schedule?” She took a quick breath. “I've got a blanket in the trunk,” she said and reached for the keys. He snaked out a hand, gripping her wrist harder than he intended. “And why would you have a damned blanket in your trunk?” She grinned. “On the off chance you decided one night to bring me out here to neck. Have I ever used it before?” She shook her head. He swept his gaze over her face, then snorted at her hoot of laughter. She snatched the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. “You're going to be the death of me,” he complained as he joined her at the back of the car. She pulled out a red and blue plaid blanket from the trunk. “Aye, I might kill you with love, Cullen.” She headed for a fairly flat piece of ground. “Watch out for snakes.” Bronwyn stilled, her eyes going wide. “S...snakes?” He grinned and made a hissing sound. “Don't do that!” Sean laughed, grabbed her up, and swung her around. He stopped with her held above him, her hips imprisoned in his strong grasp. “Would I let some slimy, slithering reptile near my lady?” “I don't like snakes,” she said, twisting in his grip to look around them. “I don't, either,” he said, sobering. “I loathe the sneaky things.” He set her down. “They're about the only thing I'm afraid of.” Bronwyn looked out over the water. “There might be cottonmouths out there.” The creek was swollen from recent rains and the waters were running faster than normal. Driftwood bobbed on the muddy surface. “There aren't any in the car,” he reminded her. She tossed the blanket at him. “Then let's see if the backseat is as comfortable as it looks!” He made a grab for her, but she dodged him and ran laughing to the car. He dove into the car after her, sliding his body over hers, pushing her down into the softness of the seat. Almost instantly, the laughter left both their faces. Sean was stretched out over her, his feet outside the door. He was braced above her, his arms to either side of her shoulders as he stared at her. She was so soft beneath him, her shapely hips and silken limbs

hidden by the folds of her full skirt. He wanted to drag up her skirt and touch the satin smoothness of her leg and to run his fingers over the arch of her hipbone. He looked at her parted lips, the gleam of her teeth very white against the dark pink lipstick. He saw a vein throb wildly at the base of her throat and felt her erratic breath as she struggled to breathe with his weight pushing down on her. He shifted his body so he wasn't lying completely atop her, but at her groan and the instant restriction of her arms as she enwrapped him, pulling him down to her once again, he lost all thought to her comfort and lowered his mouth to hers. **** To Bronwyn, the weight of him was sheer bliss; she reveled in the solid feel of him. She felt the insistent hardness between his legs stabbing against her thigh. It throbbed in rhythm to the vein pulsing in his throat and she had to tear her eyes from that suggestive sight. She swallowed hard, her eyes locked with his. Sean's kiss was unlike any other he'd ever given her. His lips were hard as they slanted brutally across her own, his tongue determined as it slipped past her teeth and delved deeply into the warm recesses of her mouth. He tasted of butterscotch candy, and his breath was sweet in her nostrils. When he flicked his tongue over her upper teeth, she shuddered and tightened her hold on him. He groaned deep in his throat and thrust his tongue deeper still. Aching with a need she could not explain, Bronwyn arched herself lower from the seat cushion, straining to feel the heat of him, the rigid steel of him jabbing into her thigh. She shifted so that intruding member could strike at the very core of her. When it did, she gasped, her harsh breath drawing his tongue as deep as it would go into her mouth. **** Sean tore his mouth from hers, moved so he was wedged against the back of the seat. Bringing his knee up between hers, it was all he could do not to ravage her when her swift intake of breath told him she was excited by the invasion of his knee against the juncture of her thighs. He eased his hand to her breast and gently cupped it. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she whimpered and grabbed his hand to mold it harder to her. “Slowly!” he cautioned, feeling the tension in his loins straining to be set free. **** She pressed the palm of his hand against her, closed her eyes to the heat of it, the weight of it plying her. She kept a tight grip on his wrist as he tenderly squeezed her, kneading her flesh. When his thumb moved over her nipple, she lunged upward with a squeak of desire that made him chuckle. “Brazen little hussy,” he teased. “You like that?” He moved his thumb over the hard little nub again. “Sean!” was all she could say. She strained against him. He tried to take his hand from her, but she held on. “Bronwyn, I want to touch you.” “You are touching me, nitwit!” she managed to choke out.

“I want to touch your bare breast,mo Chroí ,” he whispered and lowered his head to kiss the hollow of her throat. She released his wrist. He undid the first three buttons of her blouse. Gently sliding his hand inside, he angled it under her bra and cupped her breast. “Ahhh,” she sighed. His hand was warm, dry against her flesh. He kneaded the firm mound, then ran his fingertips over her turgid nipple. Bronwyn gasped and shuddered violently. She grabbed his wrist once more. When she did, he withdrew his hand, ignoring her moan of protest. He took her hand and lowered it to the straining bulge between his legs. He molded her around him and rubbed her palm over the hardness pushing against his jeans. “Feel how much he wants you,” he whispered against her cheek. “Yes.” “Unbuckle my belt,” he said and released his hold on her wrist. She looked into his face. Her pulse raced at the red glints in his passion-glazed amber eyes. She shivered when he ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. “I want you to touch me,” he said. Bronwyn's right arm was wedged between her lover and the back of the seat. She started to tell him it would be nearly impossible to work his belt free of the buckle, but he pushed up from her, one knee on the seat, the other on the raised hump on the floorboard, giving her room to maneuver. She unbuckled his belt, tugged down the zipper. He wore no underwear. She firmly gripped his manhood and pulled it free of his jeans. **** “Go slow, Bronnie!” he pleaded, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from shaming himself. His arms quivered, the muscles straining as he arched over her. He stared into her face, watching the need building, and the sight was nearly his undoing. “Tell me what to do,” she said, holding him so tightly it was becoming painful. “Ease up,” he managed to croak. “Don't...don't... Just ease up.” Sweat drenched his face. His jaw was clenched; his entire body was as rigid as steel. She released her death-grip on his turgid member, but kept her fingers around him. “You are so big,” she whispered. “Don't say that!” he begged, hearing the tension in his voice. “Why not?’ she asked, obviously unsure what she should do.

He had to touch her. His fingers burned to stroke her flesh. Firmly nudging her hand away from him, he insinuated his own between their bodies. He tugged up her skirt, ran his hand over her thigh, and dipped his fingers under the elastic of her panties. "Sean!"she screamed as his questing fingertips touched her nether lips. He pushed his thumb inside her moist heat and cupped her pubic bone with the rest of his fingers. She came off the seat as though she were attached to a puppeteer's strings. Her shrill cry of pleasure was again almost his undoing. She clamped her muscles around his hand. “Bronnie...” "Now, Sean! Now!" He knew he was forgetting something, something vitally important, but couldn't remember what. All he wanted was to bury himself deeply within his lover's straining body. He wanted to make them one. He wanted to put his brand on her, to claim her, to mark her forever as belonging to him. She was his mate and he wanted nothing more than to possess her for all time. **** When he pushed into her, Bronwyn made note of the discomfort, the slight pain, then filed them away, savoring them as payment for becoming a woman. She gave herself to him—body and soul—and reveled in the possessive heat of his manhood pulsing deep within her. She clung to him, her hands buried in his thick hair. She wrapped her legs around his hips, laughed as his fingertips dug into her rump as he held her. She tightened her thighs around him and laughed again when he grunted with the effort of ramming his flesh into her. “Mine,” she heard him say, and felt the first itching vibrations in the core of her. “Yours,” she whispered in return, and twisted beneath him, searching for a release for the building sensation in her loins. “Mine!” he bellowed, throwing back his head. She stared at the pulse beating thickly, rapidly, in the column of his strong neck. She felt his quivering arms as he braced himself atop her. When he lowered his head to look at her, moonlight shone on his golden hair. Her heart swelled, thinking him the handsomest man she had ever seen. “I love you,” she said, reveling in the feel of him inside her. “I pledge before God and man that I will love you for all time.” She squirmed against him, his words thrilling her. Her eyes widened when the itch in her nether regions became a blast of liquid fire that washed over her and threatened to drown her in its power. “Sean?” **** Sean felt the muscles of her vagina tighten around him. He tensed, striving with every ounce of his strength to hold back his release until he was assured of her pleasure. As the pulsing tattoo of her

attainment vibrated around his shaft, he let go of the hold he had on his own flesh and poured his love into her. **** Bronwyn's squeal of passion silenced the crickets chirping outside the car. It stilled the rasp of the cicadas and the thrump of the bullfrogs on the far shore. Sean's bellow of release frightened away the hoot owl in the tall cypress twenty feet away, and sent a family of raccoons and a lone ‘possum scurrying for cover. CHAPTER 9

Deirdre didn't look up from mending a pair of her daughter's gym shorts when her husband came back to the den. “Who was that, dear?’ “Put that down,” Dermot said. “I'm almost fin...” “I said to put it down!” His shout frightened Deirdre so badly she jammed the needle under her thumbnail. She gasped, dropped her sewing, and pulled the needle free of her flesh. “What the hell's the matter with you?” she hissed, bringing her thumb to her mouth. As she did, she looked at her husband, and her blood ran cold. Dermot McGregor's face was rock hard, his eyes blazing hellfires of fury. His fists opened and clenched so powerfully, the muscles in his forearms bunched. “Dermot?” she whispered. “What's the matter?” His glare latched on to her like an arrow driven through a target. “I want you,” he said, his jaw tight, his words clipped, “to get up and come with me.” “W...where?” she asked, terrified of the unholy gleam in his enraged eyes. She thought he wasn't going to answer, but when he did, Deirdre knew a moment of absolute shock. “To the police station,” he spat, the words sounding vile as they shot from his lips. “Why?” Then Deirdre McGregor felt her face drain of color. “Bronwyn? Has something happened to our daughter?” **** Dermot stared at his wife for a long moment, striving to get his rage under control. He barely heard the panic in Deirdre's tone, hardly noticed her flesh turn as white as chalk. All he saw before him was a semi-circle of zigzagging light in his right eye that always signaled the onset of a migraine. The aura darkened and sizzled in his line of vision, flowing over that portion of his sight as though he were sitting under water. He could feel the nausea lurking at the back of his throat and knew this was going to be one

hell of a headache—a condition shared by his wife and daughter. Deirdre leapt to her feet and grabbed his arm. “Tell me!” she demanded, dragging on him. “Has something happened to Bronnie?” “I'm going to kill that little bastard.” Dermot squeezed his right eye shut, but the aura was still there, disrupting his equilibrium. “Oh, God! What has he done to our child?” “Lying, degenerate, shanty Irish bastard!” Dermot bellowed, jerking his arm from his wife's grip. “Dermot, what did he do?” “He took her to Mosby's.” Deirdre's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!” “ToMosby's !” Dermot repeated, the word a curse. “Did he...did they...?” Deirdre could not voice the question. “Mosby called in her tag number,” Dermot said, running a rigid hand through his hair. “Said that boy rented the room.” “Sean Cullen?” “Who the hell else would it have been?” “Where are they now? Was he arrested?” Dermot grabbed his wife's arm and shook her so hard her head bobbled. “Why do you think we're going to the police station, stupid?” “Is she all right?” “The policewoman said she was bawling her eyes out, begging them not to arrest him. They've got her in a room waiting for us to pick her up!” **** Detective Gail VanLandingham recognized Dr. Dermot McGregor the moment he came through the door. The man bearing down on her desk had murder in his dark eyes, and the woman walking a few feet behind looked as though she'd been trying to keep the man's murderous intent in check. “Dr. McGregor?” “Where is our daughter?” he demanded. “We need to talk first.” Gail held out her hand. “I'm Detective VanLandingham—”

“I demand to see my daughter!” he snarled, ignoring the gesture. “We can talk later!” Gail shook her head. “We'll talk now and you'll get that temper firmly under control.” She met his furious look with a calm one and pointed to a room. “We can talk in there.” Dermot stalked to the door and flung it open. He strode inside as though he owned the room. His wife threw Gail an apologetic look. “I'm used to dealing with irate fathers,” she told the wife. “Is my daughter all right?” “She's just fine.” Gail motioned the women into the room. **** “I want the book thrown at that son-of-a-bitch,” Dermot snapped as VanLandingham closed the door. “Dr. McGregor, you need to calm down so we can discuss this.” “What's there to talk about? It's statutory rape, isn't it? And don't think Felix Mosby is going to get away scot-free just because he reported it! I'll have his goddamned license!” A sob broke from Deirdre. She had not allowed herself to think of what might have gone on inside one of the vile rooms at Mosby's Dew Drop Inn. “Your daughter never entered the room Mr. Cullen obtained, Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said. She folded her hands on the table. “Would you please sit down?” Deirdre tugged on her husband's arm. He batted her hand away, but stormed to the table and grabbed one of the chairs. Sitting down heavily, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at the detective. “Did he rape her or not?” “They both deny there was any sex.” “Thank God,” Deirdre sobbed, burying her face in her hand. The detective pushed a lock of ginger-colored hair behind her left ear. “We are concerned about your daughter.” Deirdre wiped at her tears and looked at the thin woman across from her. “Why? You said she was all right.” “She is, but your husband is very angry right now and...” “Damned right I am angry! I'm furious! If I could get my hands on that little peckerwood I'd...” “Be quiet, Dermot!” Deirdre yelled at him, though she kept searching the detective's eyes. “She's afraid you might hurt our daughter.” “What?” Dermot shot to his feet. “I've never laid a hand on my daughter!”

“There's always a first time,” VanLandingham suggested, her blue eyes steady on him. “No, there isn't!” “She's never disappointed you in this way, though, has she? Made you this angry before?” Dermot opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of what he had been about to say. He clamped his lips shut, sat down, and seemed to be making a conscious effort to control his emotions. When he rubbed at his right temple, Deirdre assuemd he was fighting a horrible headache. “We've never spanked our daughter,” Deirdre said, “if that's what concerns you. We don't believe in corporal punishment. We won't start now.” “This sort of thing is hard on a parent,” VanLandingham said. “Especially when the child involved is an only child.” “We love our daughter,” Deirdre said. “I'm sure you do, but in a situation like this, it is difficult for a parent not to overreact.” Dermot sat forward, squinting. “I'm not angry at my daughter,” he said forcefully. “I'm mad at the man who damned well could have defiled her.” “That is understandable, Doctor. It's my job to make sure that anger doesn't spill over to Bronwyn.” “As I said, it won't,” he said, locking gazes with her. The detective studied him for a long moment, then nodded, apparently convinced of his sincerity. She sat back in her chair. “We have another problem you need to be aware of.” “You think they're lying?” Dermot demanded. “We've no reason to believe so. When we found them, they were sitting in the front seat of her car, kissing. Both were fully clothed.” Deirdre let out a long, shuddery breath. “I'd like to think Bronwyn's upbringing prevented her from doing something she'd regret.” “So what's the problem?” Dermot snapped. “I haven't told the young man this yet, but the Sumter County police have his mother in custody up in Americus.” Dermot frowned. “His mother? What does that have to...” “She was observed throwing a trash bag into the dumpster behind the high school.” “So?” “The track coach who saw her became suspicious. Considering she seemed to be having a tough time

lifting the bag into the dumpster, combined with a license tag from two counties away, the situation sent up a red flag for him. He copied down her tag number, then went to see what she had thrown into the dumpster.” “What was it?” Deirdre asked. “A body. Or, at least, a portion of one.” Dermot snorted. “Of an animal from their butcher shop, no doubt.” Of her husband.” Deirdre gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. Dermot slumped in his chair, obviously stunned. “She murdered her—?” “Right after breakfast this morning. She admits she sliced him into several pieces with a chain saw in the bathtub.” “Holy Mary, mother of God!” Dermot whispered. “Did they...were they able to...” “When she was pulled over by the State Trooper, he found seven more bags of body parts in her trunk. We've found everything except the head. She won't tell us where she put it.” Deirdre squeezed her eyes tightly closed, as though, by doing so, she could shut out the ugly picture her mind had formed. Dermot drew in a long breath, then slowly released it. His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Well, the man used to beat her. Everybody knew it.” “His son, too,” Deirdre added. “I'm sure her attorney will plead temporary insanity,” Dermot suggested. “Most likely,” VanLandingham agreed. Deirdre opened her purse and took out a handkerchief. She blotted her forehead and neck, then used the cloth to fan her heated face. “Surely they won't send her to the electric chair. After all, he did abuse her. The poor woman probably couldn't take any more and just snapped.” “We don't execute prisoners, Mrs. McGregor,” the detective said. “Not anymore.” “I imagine I'll be seeing her at my clinic,” Dermot said. VanLandingham nodded. “I'm sure you will.” “Where is the poor thing now?” Deirdre asked, tears misting her eyes. “In Americus. We'll be sending up a deputy to get her.” The detective clasped her hands on the tabletop. “My concern is how to tell her son.”

“At this point, I could care less about—” “You are a physician, Dermot!” Deirdre snapped. “You swore an oath, or did you forget?” “What is it you think I should do, DeeDee? Give aid and comfort to a hooligan who might well have molested our daughter?” VanLandingham laughed softly. When Dermot's glower slid to her, she shook her head. “Sean seems like a nice, respectful young man. I would imagine the two of them let their emotions carry them away for a moment or two, but since neither of them went inside the motel room, one or both of them thought better of doing what they went there to do.” “That doesn't excuse the fact that he took my daughter to that roach-infested, disease-ridden—” “How doyou know what those rooms are like, Dermot?” Deirdre interrupted. When his head snapped toward him, she narrowed her eyes. “Everyone in a five county radius knows about that no-tell motel, DeeDee.” “I'd appreciate you going in with me when I speak to Sean, Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said. “In your capacity as a psychologist and not an irate father. If you can't do that, then would you suggest someone else better suited?” Deirdre held her husband's angry stare. She lifted her chin. “Neal Hesar is one of the finest—” Dermot pushed up from the chair. “Where's the Cullen boy?” VanLandingham smiled and stood. “Thank you for your help, Doctor.” “Don't thank me,” Dermot grumbled, looking away from Deirdre's smug grin. He started around the table, but Deirdre took his arm in a light restraint. “Remember—our daughter cares deeply for this boy. It doesn't matter how you feel about him. Treat him as you would any other patient.” Dermot pursed his lips, but made no comment. **** As Dermot and the detective walked down the hall, he spied his daughter in one of the rooms. He stopped at the doorway, meeting Bronwyn's worried look. He smiled faintly. “You okay?” “Yes, sir.” She was seated in a chair, twisting a tissue in her hands. Her eyes were red and her lips were quivering. Dermot looked at the detective and lifted a brow in question. When VanLandingham shook her head, he understood his daughter did not know about the senior Cullen's ghastly demise. “I'll be back in a minute, Bronnie,” Dermot said. “Everything will be all right.” “We didn't do anything, Daddy!” she insisted, coming to her feet. “I swear we didn't.”

He nodded. “I believe you. I'm just going to talk to your friend.” “I love him, Daddy,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don't—” Dermot held up a hand. “Just calm down. We'll talk later. Right now, Detective VanLandingham needs to talk to Sean.” “He didn't do any thing!” VanLandingham looked to an officer standing nearby. “Would you get Mrs. McGregor? I'm sure she'd like to see her daughter.” “Your mother will explain things to you,” Dermot said. “Explain what?” Bronwyn demanded. When he turned away, she ran to the door. “I know what you had Bobby do!” Dermot looked around. “What are you talking about?” “I know you told Bobby Thompson to have some of his friends jump on Sean,” Bronwyn spat. “Did you think just ‘cause they beat him up he'd stop loving me?” VanLandingham's brows shot up. “Is that true?” she asked Dermot. “Certainly not!” He looked at his daughter. “I didn't tell your cousin to do anything of the sort. If he and his friends went after Cullen, it was something between them. Is he the one who put them in the hospital?” “Five on one, Daddy. Two of them held him while the others beat him. Do you blame him for getting back at them?” VanLandingham whistled. “Tough kid.” “Like father, like son,” Dermot snapped. When Bronwyn started to say something, he waved her away. “We'll talk later.” Bronwyn met the policewoman's gaze with pleading eyes. “Don't worry,” VanLandingham said. She patted Bronwyn's shoulder, then motioned Dermot to follow her. “Don't you threaten him again, Daddy!” Bronwyn called after them. “I mean it. If you do, I'll never forgive you!” Dermot clenched his jaw as he walked alongside VanLandingham. His hands were fisted, his shoulders rigid. “Have you threatened the boy in the past?” the detective queried. “I told him to keep away from my daughter or I'd have him arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

VanLandingham chuckled. “You don't know much about the law, do you, Doc?” She stopped in front of a closed door. “Or young love.” Before he could respond, she opened the door, indicating he was to precede her. **** Sean was staring out the window, his fingers hooked in the wire mesh that covered the panes. When the door opened, he looked around, then stiffened. “I think you know Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said. Sean nodded cautiously. His eyes were locked with the physician's, and neither man made a move to greet the other. “I want you to sit down, Sean,” the detective said quietly. With his gaze glued to Dermot McGregor's, Sean asked how Bronwyn was. “She's fine,” VanLandingham replied. “She's just down the hall.” “Did he hurt her?” The doctor lifted his chin, a muscle in his jaw working, but he did not speak. “No, Sean,” VanLandingham answered. “Did he make her cry?” “Sean,” she said, trying to gain his attention. “We have some matters that need to be discussed.” Sean ignored her. He moved away from the window, his eyes hard on Bronwyn's father's face. “I don't care what you do to me. You can lock me up and throw away the key, but if you lay one hand on Bronwyn—” “I amnot Tymothy Cullen!” the doctor spat, taking a step toward Sean. “I don't hit women!” “Sit down, Doctor,” VanLandingham said. When he made no move to follow her command, she told him again, her voice raised a notch in volume. “If you ever hurt her,” Sean declared “I swear before God and man, I will come after you, McGregor, and I will make you sorry.” “You gonna break my jaw, too, like you did Bobby's?” “That's enough!” VanLandingham shouted. She took Dermot's arm and propelled him into one of the chairs, then stepped up to Sean. “Sit your ass down. Now!” Sean stared into the angry woman's face, then shrugged. He pulled out a chair and sat, his attention latched on Bronwyn's father, who glared back.

“Sean,” VanLandingham said. “Sean, look at me.” Reluctantly, he tore his stare from the doctor. “Something has happened to your father.” For a moment, Sean did not respond. Then he slowly closed his eyes. “He's dead?” “Yes. I'm sorry, Sean.” “Don't be. I'm not.” “Even so, he was your father,” Dermot McGregor stated. “Why is he here?” Sean demanded. “Dr. McGregor is a psychologist and—” “I know what he is. I want to know why you brought him in here?” For a moment, Sean stared into VanLandingham's face, then the blood drained from his face. He stood so suddenly his chair fell, crashing to the floor. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No!” **** Dermot walked beside the detective, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He was subdued, quiet. “I almost feel sorry for him.” VanLandingham sighed. “You should. I'm sure he hasn't had an easy life.” “Doesn't excuse what he tried to do to my daughter.” She put out a hand and stopped him. “What is it you think he meant to do, Doc? Something different than what other teenage boys have been doing since Adam and Eve left the Garden? Wake up and smell the coffee. My gut tells me your daughter loves that boy and I know damned well he loves her. Keeping them apart isn't going to get you anything but a rebellious daughter and a more determined future son-in-law!” “Like hell!” Dermot roared. “Over my dead body will I allow that hoodlum to marry my little girl!” VanLandingham rolled her eyes. “She'll probably dance at your funeral, then, If you force her to chose between you and Sean, I can tell you who the winner is gonna be.” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with a click. He walked purposefully to the room where Bronwyn and his wife were. “Let's go,” he told them. “How is Sean?” Bronwyn asked. “I said let's go! We'll discuss this on the way home.” Bronwyn looked to VanLandingham. “Is he okay?”

“He will be. He's a strong young man.” “He's a good man,” Bronwyn said, her eyes on Dermot. “Is there anything you want me to tell him?” the detective inquired. “No!” Dermot took Bronwyn's arm and pushed past VanLandingham. “Come along, Bronnie.” Bronwyn tried to break free of his grip, but he held on tight. She turned as he pulled her toward the exit. “Tell Sean I love him!” CHAPTER 10

Even though it was close to eleven in the evening, people continued milling about on the sidewalks on both sides of the street. They pointed at Sean as he got out of VanLandingham's car. “Vultures,” he said. “You got that right,” VanLandingham said. “Just ignore them.” They had come to the house to pick up a few things for Sean and his mother. He would not be allowed to stay in the house until the forensics team was through, and that might not be for several days. After slipping under the crime scene tape and nodding to the policeman on duty at the front door, VanLandingham ushered Sean inside. “Where are the suitcases?” she inquired. Sean led her out of the living room and to the coat closet in the hall. He took a large suitcase from the shelf. “There are two other bags inside this one.” He put the suitcase on the floor, hunkered down, and opened it. He pulled out the first of the two inner bags and handed it to VanLandingham. “Which room is your mom's?” He pointed to the adjacent room. “Let's get her stuff first.” When VanLandingham had gathered some underwear and a few clean dresses, she asked Sean to show her to his room. The smell of blood still hung in the air and sickened Sean. He studiously avoided looking at the bathroom door as he passed. Besides making him ill, the stench caused an odd sensation in his chest. He found it difficult to breathe normally. His hands trembling violently, he threw some of his clothes into the suitcase as VanLandingham looked about his room. “You okay?” she asked. He nodded, but left the room as soon as he shut the suitcase. Not bothering to wait for his escort, he rushed outside and onto the front lawn. He dropped the suitcase, bent over, clasped his knees, and drew in long, shuddery breaths. He barely felt the gentle hand patting his back and rubbing slowly up and down his spine.

“It's rough, I know,” she said, “but things could be worse.” “How?” he asked, his voice strained. “He could have killed her instead of the other way around.” **** They had reserved a room for him at the Albany Motor Inn. VanLandingham stopped the car before the building and asked if he needed any money for food. “I've got some of my paycheck left,” he said, taking the key she held out to him. “If you need anything, here's my card.” She handed that to him as well. “Thanks.” “Those boys won't admit it was you who beat the shit outta them,” VanLandingham said with a grin. He stared at her. Her smile faded. “I don't want any trouble brewing between you and her father, though. You understand?” “Not unless he starts it.” “Sex between a man your age and a girl her age is a misdemeanor, but it can still get your ass into a whole pile of doggie do, son.” He opened the car door. “Thank you for the ride, Detective,” he said as he climbed out. “He's going to protect her, Sean. If you get in his way, bad things could happen.” He bent down to look at her. “Yes, Ma'am, I understand that.” She sighed. “Be careful, okay?” He smiled for the first time since she'd met him. “I'll do my best.” He straightened and shut the car door. She waved and left him standing outside his room. In the rearview mirror, she saw him staring across the courtyard at the dumpster. An old saying came unbidden to her mind—good riddance to bad rubbish. She smiled grimly. What a fitting end to a bastard like Tymothy Cullen. **** Although Sean was worried about his mother, he knew she would be all right. Her attorney would argue diminished capacity or—most likely—temporary insanity. Since abused women received no special privileges in the state of Georgia, she would be found guilty of manslaughter. Of that, Sean had no doubt. She would be sentenced to Milledgeville, the state mental hospital. How long she would remain there

would be up to the judge, but Sean doubted it would be for life. At least he hoped it wouldn't. Gripping the suitcase, he turned to the door and stopped. He thought of the other motel room door he'd stood at earlier that day. Then he thought of the lies he and Bronwyn had told. And hoped there would be nothing to come of those lies. **** Bronwyn had been quiet all the way home from the police station. Her parents had been equally silent. When they turned into the driveway, she knew the reprieve was about to end. But when her mother spoke, her words surprised Bronwyn. “It's late,” Deirdre said. “Why don't you take a shower and go to bed, Bronnie. We'll talk in the morning.” Bronwyn looked to her father, sitting rigidly behind the wheel. At his curt nod, Bronwyn opened the door and got out. **** “Are you sure about this?” Deirdre queried her husband as she watched her daughter enter the house. “As sure as I have ever been about anything.” He was staring straight ahead, his hands kneading the leather steering wheel cover. Earlier, while en route to the police station, they had discussed what must be done. Deirdre had initially argued against her husband's plan, but in the end, she had agreed—Bronwyn must not be allowed to throw her future away on a boy like Sean Cullen. “Go on,” he said. “I'll be in, in a minute.” “About Neal Hesar...” When Dermot turned to look at her, she shrugged helplessly. “I didn't mean to insult you.” “I know what you were doing, DeeDee,” he said, his voice tight. “You also know how I feel about the man.” “Don't you think it would be better to assign him to Mrs. Cullen's case anyway?” “I certainly can't treat her, given the circumstances, can I? It will have to be Hesar, charlatan that he is!” There had always been bad blood between the two men. Both had grown up in Albany; both had attended Harvard medical; and both had courted Deirdre Siobhan Brell while she was a sophomore at Radcliff. Even though Dermot had won Deirdre's heart and hand, Neal Hesar was still a sore point in their relationship. It was unfortunate that both men had found work in the same hospita,l for their ongoing antagonism often landed them on the carpet before the institute's board of directors. Since neither was

willing to leave the job and settle elsewhere, the battle seemed destined to continue. “If the bastard would only take that job with Wynth Industries!” Dermot fumed. “Why don't you? It would mean a huge salary increase and—” Dermot pounded the steering wheel. “I'm not going anywhere. Let Hesar take the damned job!” Deirdre clamped her mouth shut. They'd had this same discussion numerous times since the offer from W. I. had been extended to Dermot from Dr. Brighton Wynth, the Executive Director of Operations. She felt Dermot was being irrationally stubborn, but dared not tell him. “Who the hell wants to live in Iowa, anyway?” he snapped. “I wouldn't mind. I like the snow.” He glared at her. “Well, I don't!” Knowing further talk would make Dermot only more determined not to accept W. I.'s offer, she opened the car door. “You're sure you want to go through with this?” she asked, wanting confirmation once last time before setting his plan into motion. “Yes.” Without another word, she got out of the car and went into the house. When she walked past the laundry room and into the kitchen, she heard the shower going upstairs. Showering before bed was a nightly ritual Bronwyn had established at an early age. The habit annoyed Deirdre, herself being a morning shower person. But the nightly routine was something that seemed to relax Bronnie and help her sleep better. It also took a long time. Her jaw set, Deirdre climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. In her bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet. She pushed aside several pale orange medicine bottles until she found the one she was looking for. She shook two tablets into her hand and returned the bottle to the cabinet. Dermot was closing the laundry room door when she returned to the kitchen. He barely glanced at her as she took the mortar and pestle from the shelf where she stored spices. “Grind them as finely as you can,” he instructed. Deirdre dropped the tablets into the mortar. With more force than necessary, she began to crush the 100-mg. tablets of secobarbital with the pestle. He poured her a glass of soda pop and brought it to her. As Deirdre reached into the silverware drawer for a spoon, Dermot poured some of the soda pop into the mortar. When no residual flakes of barbiturate could be seen floating, Deirdre took the glass upstairs and exchanged it for the glass Bronwyn always took to bed with her each night. Though it was another one of Bronnie's rituals that annoyed Deirdre, tonight, she was thankful.

**** Dermot lifted her to a sitting position as Deirdre knelt on the opposite side of the bed and placed a robe around her shoulders. He helped to thread her arms through the sleeves, then laid her down, rolled her toward him so Deirdre could pull the robe over her flanks. After rolling her onto her back, he tied the robe's sash around her waist and put the fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet. As Deirdre finished packing, Dermot gently lifted Bronwyn into his arms and carried her downstairs. The door into the garage stood open, as well as the back door of the car. Carefully, he placed his unconscious child into the back seat, put a pillow under her head, and shut the door. He opened the trunk and waited. **** Deirdre brought two bags into the garage. There would be time later for Dermot to pack additional items, to send them on to their destination, but for now, they had enough to sustain them for a few days. She also knew they could always buy more. “You have the passports?” “Yes.” “Her birth certificate?” “Yes, I have everything we will need.” After putting the bags in the trunk, and shutting it, he looked at his watch. “The plane should be ready to roll when we get there.” Deirdre did not reply. There was nothing to say. She went to the passenger side and got in. “We are doing what is best for our little girl,” Dermot said. She remained silent as he cranked the car, pushed the button on the garage door opener, and put the car into gear. “Everything will be all right,” he told her. And still, she said nothing. Her mind was not on what they were doing, the right or wrong of it. Her mind was not even on her lovely daughter lying so still and peaceful in the back seat. Her mind was on the young heart she knew would break, and—for a reason she could not explain, though she sought hard to do so—she wondered why Sean Cullen's feelings should matter to her at all. CHAPTER 11

The hearing went exactly as Sean sensed it would. Though he had argued with her against it, his mother waved a trial by jury and agreed to a bench hearing. After hearing the evidence, studying incriminating pictures of a dismembered Tymothy Cullen, and listening to several experts convey opinions on the temporary insanity of the defendant, the judge looked at Dorrie Cullen with pity, but found no reason not to find her guilty of manslaughter. Though Sean was certain the judge's empathy was genuine, it had not

been allowed to sway Bible-belt belief in the sin of murder. “Yes, Dorrie Cullen had been abused throughout her entire married life. Yes, her husband was a vile, violent man, whose cruel tendencies spread to his son. Yes, he deserved to be punished for the terrible things he did to his family, but he didnot deserve to pay for his crimes with his life.” The judge's words rang in Sean's ears. He sat behind his mother, separated from her by the thick wooden rail. He kept his attention on the back of her head, his gaze passing over her graying hair and the meek way she held her neck. Occasionally, he'd look away, watching the observers. He had denied himself the privilege of listening to the thoughts of his mother's peers—he really did not want to know what they thought of her...or him. Their gazes shifted to him now and again and, when they did, he felt like a microorganism plastered between two slides of glass under a microscope. He saw pity directed at him, which hurt more than the openly hostile stares of some of the spectators who had come to witness his shame. His scrutiny shifted to Bobby Thompson's younger brother, Jerry, sitting opposite him across the aisle. Thompson smiled nastily, cocking a chin toward him in acknowledgement of his attention. Sean delved into the thoughts of the burly junior varsity football player, but there was no hint of Bronwyn's whereabouts in that murky, masturbatory mind. Entering Thompson's head was like slipping into the semen-stained pages of some vile pornographic magazine. It made Sean queasy, and he withdrew, feeling soiled by the contact. He turned in his seat, searching for some other face behind which the knowledge of Bronwyn's disappearance might be imparted. But there was no one he recognized. A light sweep of the room picked up only stray thoughts of how tragic was the trail and how frail the defendant appeared. He frowned, and was about to turn around when a single word brought him bolt upright in his seat:"Seannie." He surveyed the room, seeking the mind that had whispered the word. He searched each face—some looked away as though he had caught them doing something obscene; some looked back at him as though they feared he might be about to cause a commotion; most simply stared. No face revealed the culprit. Deciding the worry about Bronwyn and his lack of sleep—her disappearance two months earlier had caused his mind to play tricks on him—he slumped in his seat, although his body stayed as tense as a coiled spring. He felt sweat between his shoulder blades, and a cold, clammy sensation in the small of his back. He shifted, the feeling not quite painful, but not comfortable, either. He rubbed at a sudden throbbing over his right eye. The judge's words brought Sean's head up. “Where she will be remanded for a period of not more than fifty, not less than ten years.” Sean frowned.Remanded where? He had not heard. “Milledgeville,” came the words, in a thick Irish brogue. Violently twisting around in his seat, Sean saw a tall, blond-haired man exiting the courtroom. Though he did not view the man's face, he knew it had been this man's thoughts that had come so unbidden and unwelcome.

Unable to follow his tormentor, he stood, turning to look at his mother, being supported by her attorney. He reached for her across the rail. She came briefly into his arms before the bailiff pulled them apart, dragged her arms behind her, and handcuffed her wrists. “I'll come see you,” he said even as she began shaking her head. “Why not?” “Go on with your life, Seannie,” she said, her thick brogue raspy and breaking. “Join the service. Make somethin’ of your life, son. Forget about me.” “Never!” He tried to get past the guard at the rail, but the man held him back. He watched his mother being led away and could do nothing to stop it. “Find your lady, Seannie,” she said. “Don't ever stop lookin’ for her, lad!” “Ma!” he called, his frustration hurt festering. “Find her, Seannie. She's your lifemate. Don't forget that!” Those were the last words his mother said as the door closed, shutting out her tired, worn face. He stood, staring at the portal as though by sheer will he could fling it open. Jerry Thompson chuckled when he bumped—most likely, deliberately—into Sean. “You have about as much chance of finding Bronwyn as your old lady has ever getting out of the loony bin!” Sean's fist caught Thompson on the point of his chin. Jerry lurched backward, though one of his friends kept him from falling. Guards seized Sean before he could leap on his enemy. They dragged him away, bucking and plunging in the strong hands of his captors. Held as he was, Sean could not escape Thompson. With a roar, Jerry drove a vicious fist into Sean's belly. As he doubled over with pain, another blow came—this time to the side of his head—before guards subdued Thompson and yanked him away. “Arrest that man!” the judge demanded, returning to the courtroom, his robe half-off one shoulder. He pointed at Sean. “You'll never see her again, you shanty Irish bastard!” Thompson shouted, spitting blood. “The family will see to it!” “Him, too!” the judge ordered. “She's beyond your filthy reach!” Thompson laughed. “Uncle Dermot won't ever let you near her again!” Sean roared, trying desperately to break free of the restraints on his arms, but the guards had none of it. They hustled him behind the rail and through the door his mother had exited. **** VanLandingham tapped her college class ring on the bar. “Hey, there.”

Sean was sitting on his bunk, his elbows on his knees. “Hey.” The detective chuckled. “That's one helluva mean right cross you got, Cullen. You knocked out three of Jerry Thompson's front teeth.” “Too bad. I meant to break his damned jaw.” “Yeah, well all that display of temper got you was thirty days in here, son.” When Sean looked up, his eyes wide, VanLandingham nodded. “You're damned lucky I was able to convince Judge Woolery you aren't a menace to society. He wanted to give you six months hard labor on some shitty road gang.” Sean's shoulders slumped. His head fell to his chest as he buried his hands in his hair. “I screwed up royally, didn't I?” “The good news is Gerard Thompson is gonna be with you. Fighting in Vince Woolery's courtroom is a definite no-no.” She thrust her arms through the bars and leaned her elbows on the crosspiece. “Now, I have to make sure the two of you stay the hell away from each another so you don't spend another thirty days in here.” Sean sighed heavily, then swung his legs up on the bunk. He stretched out with an arm over his face. “What difference does it make? I've got nowhere to go, nothing to do. Might as well get a free meal while I can.” VanLandingham grunted. There was a long silence before Sean slid his arm to his forehead and glanced at her. “What?” “I spoke with your mother's attorney.” The detective clasped her hands through the bars. “She doesn't want you to see her in there, so has put herself on the list for ‘no visitation.'” Sean stared at her for a moment, then covered his eyes again. “I thought she'd do that.” “Can't say as I blame her. Milledgeville is not a place conducive to pleasant visits.” She cleared her throat. “And I thought you might like to know—I found out where Bronwyn is.” Sean was off the bunk as though a rocket had gone off beneath him. His movement startled VanLandingham. She jumped, stumbling back from the cell. Coming forward, Sean wrapped his hands around the bars. “Tell me!” VanLandingham breathed heavily, her face turning red. “God, you move fast, boy!” “Tell me!” “Hold your water!” Sean pulled on the bars. “Lady, come on. Where is she?” “In Ireland.”

“Ireland?” he repeated, his voice filled with disbelief. “Her mother and father enrolled her in a private Catholic boarding school in northern Ireland. I think it's named Galrath Academy, but it's really a nunnery on the outskirts of the town Rostrevor, in County Down.” “When I went to the clinic to find her father, they said he'd taken a leave of absence. They didn't say anything about him leaving the country.” “Maybe they didn't know. I've learned he's taken a position with a research center in Iowa and has terminated his position here.” “Iowa?” Sean asked in a tone that suggested he'd never heard the word. “I've had the rent-a-cops at Wickergate keeping a watch on the McGregor's place. One called this morning to tell me there was a moving van at the house. I went and questioned the driver. I asked where they were taking the furniture. They said a place called Grinnell, Iowa. I found it on the map. It's about fifty miles from Des Moines. A little more investigating came up with the place McGregor is now working for Wynth Industries—a place called Baybridge.” “What is it?” Sean inquired. “A private maximum security prison for the criminally insane. You know—serial killers, psychopaths, that kind of thing. That just damned sure gives me the creeps, you know?” The detective shuddered. “Mrs. McGregor is working there, too.” “They left Bronwyn in Ireland—alone?” “It would seem so. The van driver said Mrs. McGregor was with them for the walk-through yesterday, but only the real estate agent was there this morning. I spoke with her. Ut seems Wynth Industries bought the house from the McGregor's as part of the deal—the real estate people will sell it for the corporation.” “Galrath,” Sean said, laying his forehead against the bars. “I did some checking on it.” “And it would take a company of Navy SEALS to break into it, right?’ Sean queried in a hard voice. She sighed. “Might take a platoon of Green Berets, Army Rangers,and SEALS. It's more or less a cloistered community of nuns—what was described as a ‘maximum security lockdown boarding school for recalcitrant rich girls whose parents couldn't control them.'” Sean squeezed his eyes shut. “Mother of God...” “They can't keep her forever,” VanLandingham said, touching one his hands gripping the bars. He looked at her, tears glistening in his eyes. “You know they'll do everything they can to make her forget me.” She rubbed his hand. “The girl I talked to that evening was very much in love with you. Love like the kind I saw in Bronwyn McGregor's eyes, and heard in her voice, doesn't fade. It never dies. She won't

forget you.” He turned toward his bunk, sat, and hung his head. “She is my heart. She is everything to me. What else have I got?” “You've got me, son. If you need a friend, someone to talk to, someone you can count on, give me a call. I'll be there for you.” Sean tried to smile, but only a grimace touched his mouth. He stretched out on the cot. “I appreciate that,” he said, turning his back to her and pulling up his knees. As if unable to think of anything helpful to say, the detective left, her heels making hollow sounds on the concrete. Sean heard the door slam at the far end of the corridor. Never had he felt so alone. He buried his face in his pillow and wept. CHAPTER 12

“Cullen!” the guard yelled. “You got a visitor!” Sean crowned Joey Petersen's queen, then ran the checkerboard, taking all his opponent's men. He grinned at the black man. “Damned lucky Mick,” Joey grumbled. He took up the checkerboard, folded it, and stuck it under his left arm. “I ain't playing with you no mo'!” He got up from the bench. “Same time tomorrow?” Joey threw up a hand as though dismissing the notion, but nodded as he ambled away, his right arm swinging and his head moving in rhythm to a beat only he heard. “Cullen! Did you hear me, boy?” Sean sighed and pushed up from the bench. He had less than a week to go on his sentence. He knew he wouldn't miss the harsh tones and insulting attitude of the guards. “Hurry up yo’ lazy ass,” the guard, Bob Powell, snapped. “That man don't look like he's got much patience.” Sean halted in mid-step. “What man?’ “Some uppity doctor.” A jolt ran through Sean. He looked toward the door leading from the exercise yard. The only doctors he knew were Bronwyn's father and the court-appointed psychologist, Dr. Neal Hesar, who had examined his mother. “Will you get on in there?” Powell snarled, shoving Sean. “I ain't got all day to wait on you!” Stumbling forward, Sean's mind raced. He couldn't believe it would be McGregor, but that was a

possibility. If Bronwyn's father had learned Sean would be released soon, he might have come to toss around some more threats. “Or try to bribe me...” “What?” Powell demanded. Sean shook his head. “Just talking to myself.” “You getting to be as crazy as that mama of yourn.” Sean dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from lashing out at the overweight guard. He clenched his teeth and kept walking with slower-than-normal steps toward the visitor's room. He was worried. If it was Dr. Hesar, he might have bad news about Sean's mother. Could something have happened to her? Had one of the other inmates done something to her? Sean stopped before going into the room. His heart pounded. “Ah, for cryin’ out loud!” Powell reached around Sean to open the door. “Get the hell in there! You act like you going to an execution!” He put his hand in the middle of Sean's back and shoved him through the doorway. Stumbling into the room, Sean had to put out his hands to keep from falling onto the long table in the room's center. The tall man standing in the shadows was neither Dr. McGregor nor Dr. Hesar. He was too brawny to be one, and too tall to be the other. Though he couldn't see the man's face, Sean had the impression he knew him. “Leave us,” the man commanded. Without a word, Powell stepped back, shut the door, and locked it. Sean straightened and squared his shoulders. “Do I know you?” “Sit down.” A spark of anger shot through Sean, but he did as he was told. He'd learned the hard way that ignoring orders in jail could be a painful enterprise. “Painful as well as foolish,” the man commented. He spoke with a thick brogue. Sean flinched. His heart began to thump as the man stepped from the shadows. “And you are not a foolish, Sean. You're a smart man. Very intuitive.” “You were in the courtroom.” “That I was.” The man took a seat across from Sean. He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and cocked

his head to one side. “Can you guess who I might be?” The answer came too quickly. “No.” “Ah, now,” the man said with a click of his tongue. “Don't play stupid with me, Seannie. You know damned well who I am.” He unfolded his arms and sat forward. He rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together, and stared Sean in the eye. “Tell me who I am.” “My father,” Sean whispered as though the words were being torn from his throat with hot pincers. The man nodded, his slow smile like a seal of approval. “Aye, I am indeed.” Sean gazed at the thick blond hair combed back from the man's high forehead. He took note of the emerald green eyes, the strong jaw and full lips, the thick eyelashes and curving slash of brow. He stared at the mole on the man's lean cheek and reached up to finger a similar one on his own face. It was like Sean looked into a mirror, imagining his own appearance thirty years down the line. In one way it was comforting, but in another, it was unsettling. The man chuckled. “At least you know you won't wind up looking like Tymothy Cullen—fat, with a gut hanging over your belt and a neck the size of a bull's.” “Why didn't she tell me about you?” “Ah, but she couldn't, you see.” “No, I don't see. Did he know about you?” “Tym? Unfortunately, he did. I am sure his decision to tell you about me cost him his life. She would not allow it.” He took a deep breath. “Shecould not.” “Why?” “It would be best if I start at the beginning and tell you the whole of it. It's time you knew anyway.” He leaned back in his chair. “My name is Brian O'Shea. Dr. Brian O'Shea. I am a generic engineer. But what I do and why I do it is not important. What is important is how I came to know your mother.” Sean watched the older man's face. A sheen of perspiration formed on O'Shea's forehead, while a darkness in his gaze held Sean in thrall and made the hairs on his arms stir. “She lived down the road from the institute where I worked in Roundstone. From the window of my laboratory, I used to watch her going through the pasture to feed her father's animals.” He smiled wistfully. “Aye, but she was a beauty with her long blond hair swinging against her hips. Shapely, she was, and what you would call buxom. I knew I had to meet her. So I did. It was like a thunderbolt struck us both that day.” O'Shea didn't speak again for a long time. When he did, his voice became a near whisper. “I wasn't supposed to have anything to do with the local girls. The people I worked for brought prostitutes in on occasion for us. They were never the same ones twice. You see, once they came to Fuilghaoth, they were never heard from again.” He looked at his hands. “The rumor was they never left the grounds.”

Sean frowned. “What kind of place was this?” “Is,” Brian corrected. “Fuilghaoth is a large research center.” “I don't remember my mother mentioning any institute near where she grew up in Clifden,” Sean said, suspicious. “She wouldn't have talked of it, lad. No more than any of the locals will talk of it today. To do so is to risk terrible vengeance from the Stalcaires.” Sean shook his head. “I don't—” “It means ‘stalker’ in Gaelic. That's what the security men at the institute are called. You might call them a modern-day Irish Gestapo. With their black uniforms and paramilitary training, they are so quiet no one ever knows they're about. Not until somebody winds up in the river, face down with his throat cut. The locals pretend Fuilghaoth isn't there. It's safer for them that way.” “So you lusted after my mother, putting her in danger, knowing what might happen to her.” “What wouldyou do to be with your Bronwyn?” O'Shea asked, his gaze locked on Sean. When Sean only shrugged, O'Shea nodded in agreement. “She was all I could think about, Sean. I wasn't doing my job because I was watching her, plotting ways to meet her near the creek. I was so intoxicated with her, all I could do was dream of us being together. Of lying in that pasture, holding her, making love to her.” Sean shifted in his seat. It was uncomfortable hearing his mother described in such a way by a stranger. He looked away from the intense verdant stare aimed at him. “I don't need to know that.” “Each of us goes through a period when we can not think of our parents being anything but our parents. We don't want to admit they have sexuality. There was nothing dirty about what she and I had together. We were very much in love. Just as you and Bronwyn are.” “Then why didn't you marry her?” “I wanted to, Sean. More than anything in this world, but they wouldn't let me.” Deep pain shook Brian O'Shea's voice; his hands trembled. Looking into the face so like his own, Sean recognized true anguish. Instinct made him reach out. O'Shea took his son's hand, gripping it fiercely. “I loved her, Sean. I love her still, but I had to stand by and watch them give her to one of the Stalcaires. Even knowing what the brute might do to her, I had no choice. I couldn't let them kill her!” “Cullen was the Stalcaire?” Brian nodded, a muscle working in his jaw. “And the worst of his kind, I was later told. He took her to Dublin and found a priest to marry them. A day later, they boarded a ship for America. I never saw her again, until the day of her trial. Had I known what would happen if they found out about her and me, I

would have never laid a hand on Dorrie Burke. I would have kept the walls of Fuilghaoth between her and I!” “She was pregnant with me when she left. And they found out?” “Aye, and threatened to kill her. I was valuable to them. More valuable than even I knew, so they dared do nothing to me. But they knew they had leverage they could use against me, to keep me in line for the rest of my life. When I was brought before the Breithmh, the Tribunal, I was given a choice. I could either watch them murder Dorrie and her unborn child, or I could do as they wanted and she would live. All they had to do was hint they'd hurt her and I'd move heaven and earth to do what they wanted.” Sean tried not to wince when the man's fingernails dug into his hand. He placed his free hand over O'Shea's. “You're hurting me.” O'Shea groaned. He let go of Sean and sat back. Closing his eyes, he ran a hand over his face. “Forgive me, lad. That is something I never meant to do.” He opened his eyes. “You've been hurt enough.” Sean shrugged, embarrassed. “It's okay.” “No, it isn't. And what I have to say will hurt you even more, but there's no way around it. You have to be told.” Sean cradled his hand against his chest, rubbing away the pain. He sensed great sadness in O'Shea. Knowing it would be best to say nothing, he leaned back in his chair and waited. “As I said, an intuitive man,” O'Shea said gently. “Did I inherit that ability from you?” Sean asked, knowing O'Shea would understand what he meant. The man shrugged. “In a matter of speaking. You get me, you get the gift.” He smiled crookedly. “Or the curse of it, depending on how you view it, I suppose.” The door opened and a guard appeared. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Time's up.” Brian O'Shea never raised his voice. He simply locked eyes with the guard. “Do not disturb us again.” His tone was firm, gentle, but there was steel beneath the softness. The guard smiled. “Yes, sir.” “And see that no one else bothers us, either.” “Yes, sir.” The guard stepped back through the door and closed it. Neither Sean nor O'Shea spoke for a few ticks of the clock hanging on the wall. The silence was deafening and it wore on them like a wet wool coat. Both squirmed in their seats at the same time, then laughed together. O'Shea took a deep breath. “Have you tried things like that?” Sean shrugged. “A few times. It usually doesn't work.”

“You have to practice. I'll teach you a thing or two about controlling others’ minds.” “That would have come in handy on test days.” O'Shea grinned. “Aye, but try not to use it for cheatin', lad. Evil begets evil, you know?” “I'll try to remember that. So go on with your story.” “Here is the way of it, lad,” O'Shea said in a voice that had suddenly turned hoarse. “In 1956, an Irish-American surgeon and amateur botanist named Daniel Dunne went to Ireland to study the plant life in the bogs of the Iveragh and Beara peninsulas. He rented a rather isolated farmhouse out in the Connemara countryside and set up a small laboratory. Accompanying him were two assistants—Louis Lutz and Helen Bryan. Dunne also hired a local man named Seamus MacCarthy, somewhat of an odd bird even by Irish standards, to be their guide and erstwhile protector. Why Dunne felt he needed a bodyguard has never been explained, but they say MacCarthy was a man few messed with. Today, he is in charge of the Stalcaire Unit.” “He sounds like the kind of man who might take his job very seriously.” “The man is a flaming lunatic,” O'Shea grumbled. “He enjoys hurting people and watching ‘em being hurt.” Sensing there was a lot of history between Brian O'Shea and Seamus MacCarthy better left untold, Sean asked his visitor to continue. “It was on the evening of March Twenty-ninth when Dunne and his team, plus MacCarthy and three other men, were finishing up taking samples at Roundstone Bog. The sun was going down and the fog was drifting in. Dunne spotted a promising looking area he wanted to explore and headed there. In the fading light, he somehow managed to lose his balance and fall into the bog. Since falling into one of the bogs was always a distinct possibility when they were working, they carried with them a long length of rope. MacCarthy ran to where Dunne was floundering, but before they could reach him, Dunne sank beneath the surface.” Sean shuddered. “I hate the water. I never learned to swim.” “I used to be a right good swimmer, but I don't do it any more.” “I take it Dunne didn't drown?” “Unfortunately not. Fearing the loss of probably the first decent-sized paycheck he'd ever had, MacCarthy tied the rope to his waist and dove in after his boss. The others held on to the rope. Many minutes passed before they felt a tugging on the line. The men pulled MacCarthy and Dunne out of the bog, but Dunne was shouting that they'd found something down there and wanted it brought up.” “Found something?” “A body, it was.” “Some poor fool who'd also stumbled into the bog?” “Well, they've been finding bodies in the bogs of Ireland, England, and Denmark for a long time, lad.

Many of them the scientists think were Druid sacrifices, but no doubt many were murder victims. What better way to rid youself of an unwanted corpse than dropping it into a bog? The bodies they've discovered have been pretty well preserved, thanks to the composition of the peat, and some of them date back to 8000 B.C.” “That's incredible!” “Aye, but when MacCarthy dove back in and they brought up that body, I'm sure none of them was expecting what they saw.” Sean grinned. “One of the bog creatures, eh?” “It was surely that. A creature unlike any they'd ever seen. It was covered in thick black fur, with sharp fangs and talons, but it had the build of a man. Well over six feet tall, it was barrel-chested with long, powerful legs and arms. The thing's face looked more like that of a wolf, but the body was fashioned more after a gorilla. It had eyes the color of blood, and fangs hooked like that of the old pictures of sabertooth tigers.” “What was it?” “On the creature's chest, right about here"—O'Shea put his palm over his left pectoral muscle—"burned into the flesh, was a tattoo that looks like the grim reaper, complete with the bloody sickle. Dunne labeled it a Reaper, not knowing that is exactly what the creature was called.” “How did he find that out?” O'Shea sighed. “I'll get to that. Right now, let's just concern ourselves with the discovery of the Reaper.” “Okay. Do they know how long it was in the bog?” “When they did the carbon dating, they decided the creature had been in the bog at least five thousand years.” Sean whistled. “Considering what a find that was, why hasn't the world been told about the creature?” “When I'm finished with the tale, you'll know,” O'Shea admonished. “Stunned but excited at having found something so alien, Dunne loaded the creature's body into the boot of their car and took it back to the farmhouse. Once there, Dunne swore them all to secrecy. No one was to learn of the creature's existence until after it had been studied at length. I would imagine Dunne had visions of making a name for himself with the discovery of this ape-like man. He was a learned scientist and no doubt had read tales of the Yeti in the high Himalayas and similar creatures such as the North American Sasquatch. I am sure he thought he had found just such an animal in West Ireland. “They began taking pictures of the body from every conceivable angle. When they turned the creature onto its belly to take pictures of its backside, another astonishing fact greeted them.” “What?” Sean whispered. “Something was moving around under the skin.” Sean's mouth fell open. “No way.”

O'Shea smiled. “Aye, something was very much alive inside it.” “A rat or something like that?” “It wasn't anything that had crawled inside the corpse. It was something else. Something that had been inside the body when it went into the bog.” Sean sat up straighter. “Something else? You mean like an offspring?” “No, it was very much a male. The genitalia on that thing would make any porn star envious!” “How could something live that long inside the body?” “Will you let me tell the tale, lad?” Sean clamped his lips shut. “Dunne and his team discussed it for a long time, all the while watching whatever was under the leathery skin squirming around. I've read Lutz's notes, and she said the sound it made as it moved was like a field mouse scurrying under a dry cornhusk. Finally, Dunne made the decision to do an autopsy.” “Wouldn't that have been against the antiquity laws?” Sean injected. “What did Dunne care if it was? He had a discovery unlike any other. Knowing him as I do, I'm sure all he saw was the glory, the law be damned!” “So they cut it open,” Sean said, disgusted. “Aye, and discovered something even more bizarre. The creature's blood was as black as tar. And, although the body was perfectly preserved on the outside, the inside was something else again. All the internal organs were shriveled and dried up.” “How could they know the blood was black, then?” “Lad,” O'Shea said with exasperation, “stop interrupting and let me finish! Just take my word for it that the blood was black as a moonless night and let it go at that, will ya?” Sean bit his tongue. Though he had hundreds of questions, he realized he had to bide his time. He nodded his agreement and forced himself to sit back and relax. “Good lad,” O'Shea mumbled. “So they did the Y incision, but when they folded back the skin on the creature's chest, Dunne and Bryan nearly went through the roof. What they found was an eel-like abomination with green flesh covered in hard scales. It was about a foot in length, and the tip of its tail was forked and covered with sharp spines. The thing had red eyes, elliptical in shape like a viper's, and fangs that dripped a noxious, highly acidic fluid, which burned a hole through the wooden examination table. They could not believe anything like that could exist inside another living creature without destroying it.” O'Shea watched his son's face. “All right—ask.” “How did it get inside the creature?”

“Well, now, that's the question they've been trying to answer since that day. No one knows how it got there. They know it's a form of parasite that feeds off the blood in the kidneys of the host body. They also know it can go into an extended state of hibernation.” O'Shea shuddered and looked at his hands. “And that it wasn't alone in the creature's body.” Sean drew in a harsh breath. “There were more?” “The thing they pulled out of the creature was the ‘queen’ of a whole nest, or what Dunne called ‘a hive,’ for there were dozens of the worm-like things in a honeycombed sac attached to one of the creature's kidneys. Most of them were no larger than your little fingernail.” “W...were they dead?” O'Shea looked him in the eye. “Five of those malevolent little beasties were still squirming. Dunne harvested them and put them in a jar with a piece of the creature's kidney. The trouble was, it wasn't the meat the parasites needed.” “The organs were dried up,” Sean said with a frown. “That means they were feeding on what—the queen?” “As I said—a very intuitive young man,” O'Shea stated, obviously pleased. “Two of the worms died before Dunne realized what you just did. Once he did, he sliced his finger, dropped some of his blood into the containers, and the parasites perked right up like a Fleet Street hooker with a new tattoo on her tit.” He chuckled. “You understand my meaning.” Sean grinned at the analogy. “I do.” O'Shea's face turned somber. He shifted in his chair to get more comfortable. “Dunne and his assistants began experimenting with the parasites. They put a laboratory mouse into a beaker with one of the things, but the mouse wouldn't go near it, and it wouldn't go near the mouse. Next they sacrificed one of the parasites, shoving it down a mouse's throat. Nothing happened, so they realized the mouse's stomach acid did the thing in. Next, they killed one of the mice, gutted it, and put it in a beaker. This time, the thing swarmed over the mouse and began to feed on the rodent's blood.” “Where was the mother creature, the queen?” “Placed in a beaker of its own. Dunne drew blood from each of his team members and began feeding it. When new workers are hired on at Fuilghaoth, it is the next thing they want to see after the creature itself. If seeing the Reaper ain't enough to put the fear of God in you, seeing that creature coiled up in the vat, glaring back at you, sure as hell is!” “It's still alive?” Sean gasped. “As alive as you and me, lad.” Sean ran a hand through his thick hair. “Did he name those things inside the Reaper?” he asked, his voice raspy. “Aye. He learned the thing inside is called a ‘revenant worm’ and that it had a physic bond to its host.” “A symbiotic relationship?”

“Precisely. You are a bright boy, you are.” “So they needed to know what effect these things had on the creature. They began to experiment.” “That they did, but it wasn't until Bryan had the idea to surgically implant the parasite into one of the mice that they learned what the relationship between hose and parasite was.” “What happened to the mouse?” “It changed,” O'Shea said, holding Sean's avid gaze. “Into what?” “Into a creature twice the size of the one it had been before the surgical intrusion. Twice the size, with four times the speed, and a hundred times the strength. It was able to knock over its container and scamper away before they could catch it. And not only was it faster, stronger, and bigger, it was also smarter. Sometime during the night, it managed to release the other lab mice. The next morning, they were nowhere to be seen.” “Oh, my God...” “Dunne knew he'd happened on something more important than just the discovery of that beast. And he wondered what putting one of those parasites inside a human would do. At that moment, hell opened on Earth—Fuilghaoth was born.” “He experimented on humans?” O'Shea shrugged. “Not at first, mind you. For a year or two, he and a team of like-minded scientists he'd gathered from all over the world experimented with animals. By then, Dunne had bought land and built the compound near Derry Bryne. You won't find that town on any map of Ireland, I'll tell you right now, but it's there and right smack in the middle is the Fuilghaoth compound.” He cocked his head to one side. “Do you know what that means in Gaelic, lad? Fuilghaoth?” Sean shook his head. “It is Gaelic for ‘blood wind.'” He looked at his watch and frowned. “That's enough for one sitting. I've given you more than enough to think about.” He stood. “I'll come back tomorrow and we'll talk more. There's a whole lot you need to know.” Sean stood also. Although he wanted to plead with the man to stay, to go on with the tale, he instinctively knew it would do no good. Brian O'Shea would tell his tale in his own time and in his own manner. “Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, putting out his hand. “What you've told me is incredible.” “Lad,” O'Shea sighed, taking Sean's hand, “you've only been shown the tip of an iceberg deadlier than the one what sunk the Titanic. When you hear the whole of it, you may curse the day you met me.” CHAPTER 13

She had seen him now for three nights in a row. Like a will-'o-the-wisp, he had suddenly appeared just after moonrise on Sunday, on the brow of the hill where the cromlechs stood sentinel to the Goddess Aine. His arms akimbo, his legs apart, he stared at her. With his face blurred by distance and the milky mist floating in from the bogs, she wished—not for the first time—that she had a telescope. In her heart, she gave him a name, though her brain told her he could not be the one she so longed to see. This man's build was not the same as her lover's. This sentinel, as she thought of him, was taller, heavier in stature, with long dark hair that cascaded over his shoulders and fell to the middle of his back. He seemed powerful, even dangerous, and he moved with a stride that seemed to shake the earth. She lifted her hand to the window, pressing her palm to the glass and—as he had done on the two nights previously—he lifted his hand, too. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand against hers. “Who are you?” She smiled sadly when he cocked his head to one side as though he were trying to understand her words. A sound in the hallway made her turn to look at the door. When she glanced back around, he was no longer on the hill, seeming to have vanished in the fog. Bronwyn sighed deeply and rested her forehead on the cool glass. Her fingers arched against the glass in a hopeless gesture. Her breath caught on a wretched sob. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she sank to the floor, her cheek scraping along the rough stonewall. “Sean,” she whimpered, wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, Sean, I miss you so!” From the distance, the howl came, reverberating through the fieldstone walls. It was a lonely sound, a pitiful cry, and it brought her head up. She looked out the window, not surprised to see him on the hill once more. He seemed to be reaching out to her and she drew in a shocked breath. “Sean?” she asked, coming to her feet. She slapped at the locked window. “Sean!” He threw back his head and bellowed. A shiver of surprise and expectation ran through her. She grabbed the handle, knowing she could not open the portal, but trying anyway. She pulled on the offending metal, straining to break it, to pull it free of its housing. “Sean!” she cried and watched as the sentinel started down the hill. Her heart raced faster with every foot of ground he covered in his mad dash to her. She pounded at the tempered glass with her fist. He was only a hundred feet away, loping pell-mell toward her with his arms pumping like pistons, his feet digging into the earth. She saw his eyes—silver-hued in the moonlight. “Sean?” she questioned, knowing,now, it was not her beloved she had conjured. One moment he was a few yards away, the next he sprung from the ground in an aerial leap no human could have made. He cleared the fourteen-foot high walls of Galrath Convent and sprinted toward the tower in which the good sisters had imprisoned her. Terrified, Bronwyn ran, shrieking as she lurched for the door. Behind her, something hit the wall. The entire room shook. She spun around and saw him clinging to the outside wall, three stories high, his face

pressed against the glass. She screamed—a blood-curdling sound that outwardly startled the sentinel. Afraid to turn her back lest he break through the glass and come after her, she stared at him. He cocked his head to one side, while his silver eyes became wet with cinereous tears. The heartbreaking sound of his low groan was so pitiful, so grievously wounding, she put her hands over her ears. “Go away! Leave me alone!” The sentinel whimpered. He clawed gently at the window, long talons dragging down the glass. Then she heard her name on his thick black lips—"Bronnie.” With a gasp, she sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, eyes wide, as she snapped her head toward the window. A dream. Nothing more than a dream! Throwing back the cover, she rushed to the window. She flung back the curtains and stared out from her tower room into the murky mist that crept in from the sea and spiraled over the crest of the hill. There was no cromlech to Aine. No sentinel standing watch. Only the low banners of fog dancing over the ground and the moonlight pulsing through the cloud cover. For a long while she stood, staring, trying to conjure the shape of a man on the brow of Sleivemartin, a foothill of the Mourne Mountains. She waited—hoping, longing, needing, but receiving nothing save the ache that destroyed another small part of her lonely heart. She went back to bed and curled into a fetal position, her hands thrust between her thighs. She shivered with the cold seeping in through the old fieldstone walls, but made no move to lift the coverlet over her. It was, she thought, the wild tales other girls told after supper that had caused the dream. The girl from London had brought up the legend of the Bugul Noz. “He is so hideously ugly, so repulsive, that even animals fear his appearance,” Sheila had said in a wide-eyed stage whisper. “He lives in the Brittany woodlands, deep underground, and only comes out when the fog is so thick no one can see his loathsome face. He hates the way he looks and is said to be the last of his race. But...” She lowered her voice. “Because he is so lonely, so desperately in need of human companionship, he will offer you anything, do whatever you ask of him, in exchange for your company and compassion.” Bronwyn groaned. Though the tale was nothing more than an old talespinner's yarn, a legend from a time when faeries and banshees and the Green Man held sway over the Celtic people, the thought of any creature—mythical or otherwise—suffering so touched Bronwyn's heart. She cried for the Bugul Noz's loneliness. She cried for her own heartbreaking aloneness, and she cried for Sean and the solitude he, too, had been forced to endure because of her parent's narrow-minded, bigoted beliefs. She pressed her face into the starched stiffness of her pillow and screamed as loudly as she dared. Not because she was afraid of the bogeyman who had visited her in the dream. Not because of the hopelessness that was hers from sunup to sundown.

It was for the years of such wretchedness she knew would be hers to bear. **** The ages-old Nightwind stirred, snatched from his centuries-long slumber by the Call of one more powerful than he. He listened, frowning at the intrusion. His name on the tongue of He Who Calls was a long, low wail of command as it wove its way to him once more. Sighing with impatience and bone-deep weariness, he lifted himself from the warm nest he had made from driftwood and petrified-forest branches and floated in the darkness of his lair. The smell of sulfur drifted under his nostrils and he inhaled the aroma as a connoisseur of fine wine will smell a cork. He opened his eyes and surveyed the barren cave he called home. The rough, thick walls dripped with noxious fumes he found comforting to the senses. No light made its way this deep into the cavern system, but no light was needed. His nocturnal vision was as sharp as ever. Once again, He Who Calls made bid for his attention. The awakened sleeper growled with annoyance. As he did, the air within his lair—as chill as the deepest reaches of the megaverse—became laced with a heavy blanket of fog. The mist surrounding him took on a pinkish cast from the crimson glow of his angry eyes. With one last snort of disgust, he levitated up to the ceiling and passed through. His corporeal body transformed to pure energy as he sped into the ebon limitedness of space. Like a shooting star, he sped through time and millennia, weaving his way to He Who Calls. Though his black heart was not in the summons, his blood began to stir. CHAPTER 14

Sean hurried behind the guard the next afternoon, eager to talk to Brian O'Shea. He had not slept, and was bleary-eyed and tired, a brutal headache making him wince at loud sounds. He thought the headache might well be because he hadn't eaten much since his incarceration. His jailers had laughed at his request to have vegetarian meals, and it seemed the vegetable servings were smaller than they should be and the meat portions larger. As a result, he had lost ten pounds. But the headache might have come from the odious stench that had nearly suffocated him. Yet when he had asked his fellow inmates if they smelled the ghastly odor, no one seemed to know what he was talking about. They looked at him as though he had lost his mind. Realizing he had been alone in his perception of the being, Sean decided to say no more about the nocturnal stench. Opening the door for him, the guard stepped aside. Sean entered the visitor's room. Brian was seated at the table, a Styrofoam container in front of him. “Hello, son,” he said with a smile. Sean took Brian's proffered hand. He could not seem to think of the man as his father and wondered why. “It's all new to you,” Brian said with a laugh. “You'll get used to it in time.”

Sean sniffed. “You brought food?” He spied a paper bag on the table. “I went by Mama Vivian's. I heard the food there was decent.” Sean straddled his chair and sat, reaching eagerly for the container. When he opened it, his eyes widened. Fried okra, Crowder peas with boiled okra, rutabaga, fried eggplant, and fried summer squash—all the vegetables he loved. He looked up. “Thank you,” he said, his voice breaking. “Eat.” Brian reaching into his pocket for a plastic fork and extended it to Sean. “Enjoy it, although for the life of me I don't see how anyone could! Give me a rare steak and a hunk of bread any day and I'm content.” Sean dove into the food with relish, eating as though he were starving. When he looked up and saw Brian's ugly frown, he stopped eating, the fork halfway to his mouth. “What's the matter?” “Gobshites have been starving you, haven't they?” Sean shrugged, forking the rutabaga into his mouth. “They just won't cater to someone who doesn't eat meat.” Brian's jaw clenched. “You've only another day or two here and you can eat what you damned well please!” Sean sighed as he chewed. “I miss Ma's cooking.” “I drove up to see her this morning.” Sean blinked. “Theylet you see her?” Brian arched a thick brow. “You think they could have stopped me, lad?” Grinning, Sean shook his head. “I guess not, if you had your mind set on it.” He ladled some peas into his mouth. “How is she?” “As well as can be expected. I told her I would be seeing to you from here on out.” Astonished, Sean lowered his fork. “Seeing to me in what way?” Brian put his elbows on the table and threaded his fingers together. “I told her I'd be taking you back with me to Fuilghaoth.” A shiver ran down Sean's spine. “Ireland?” “Aye, lad. To Ireland.” Sean swallowed. “My lady is there, Brian.” “And I know you won't be able to get to her no matter how hard you try.” “Don't underestimate me.”

“Don't go looking for trouble until its time to meet it head on, then,” Brian countered. “What does that mean?” Brian drew in a long breath. “You'd best let me finish my tale before you decide if you'll be going after that little gal in Belfast.” Sean put his fork in the container and closed the lid. “Why aren't you finishing your food, lad?” “Let's get something clear between us,” Sean said, pushing aside the container. Brian folded his arms over his chest. “What is it you feel we should be clear about?” Sean locked gazes with him. “Bronwyn,” he said, his tone hard and unyielding, “is my bondmate. I—” “I am aware of that. I'd have it otherwise, but that wasn't my choice to make.” “No, it sure as hell wasn't!” “Lad,” Brian said in a warning tone, “don't read meanings into my words that aren't there. There is a good reason I said what I said.” “I intend to marry Bronwyn McGregor.” “That may or may not happen. Only time will tell. But for now, she's as far out of your reach as are the stars.” “That may be true fornow , but they can't keep us apart forever. She is my lifemate.” “Again, I am aware that she is, and I am also aware that she will be the only one for you for as long as you live.” “Don't patronize me!” Sean snapped. “I wasn't! I know you took her that night up at the creek. I'd venture to say her parents will learn of it soon enough. That will make them all the more determined to keep you away from her.” Sean threw out an angry hand. “She won't tell them. We will be together. No one will stop that from happening.” Brian sighed. “Would you be so anxious to be with her if you knew you would be putting her in grave danger?” “From what?” Sean scoffed. “From you.” “I wouldnever hurt her!”

“Not intentionally, no. But you don't know all there is to know about you, yet, do you? About your heritage and genetic makeup.” “I—” Sean stopped. His eyes widened. “Are you trying to tell me Dunne put one of those things inside you ?” A slow nod was Brian's reply. Pure terror drew its sharp nails down Sean's spine. He stared at the man, his heart suddenly pounding. “Before or after you got my ma pregnant?” Brian stood and walked to the mesh-covered window. He turned his back and looked into the parking lot. “Before, though I didn't know the deed had been done until after they sent your mother away.” He glanced around. “And what is in me is also in you. The spores of the parasite are passed through the sperm.” Horrified, appalled, Sean couldn't speak. His chest felt as though a ton of weight pressed against it, and he felt cold, colder than he had ever been. “Your ability to read minds, your quickness, your strength, all of it comes from the parasite.” Brian turned back to the window. “I haven't tried to read your thoughts about your night with the McGregor girl, but I hope and pray you used protection.” Sean's breath caught in his throat. “What if we didn't?” he asked, his question barely above a whisper. “Then you had best hope your seed didn't take within her. If it did, pray the seed was a girl child, because the spore would kill that before an embryo could form.” He chuckled mirthlessly and faced Sean. “The revenant worm wants only male offspring.” Sean stared at his father, watching the man's eyes narrow and a crease form in his forehead. “Ah, Seannie,” Brian sighed. “This is not good.” Sean buried his face in his hands. “What have I done?” “That was a grave mistake.” “I didn't know.” “This is why you might want to think twice about the girl you've chosen as your mate,” Brian said gently. Sean shook his head. “Bronnie couldn't have gotten pregnant.” “Let's hope she didn't, lad. Had I known what Dunne did to me, I would never have laid a hand on Dorrie.” “How did they implant you without you knowing?” “As best I can figure, someone slipped something into my food or drink one night at supper. All I remember was waking up one morning feeling like I'd been run over by a lorry. My back hurt so bad I could barely climb out of bed. I stumbled into the bathroom, gagging and heaving like a man coming off a

three-day drunk, but all I had was dry heaves and a terrible thirst water couldn't satisfy. There is a reason why that was, but I'll go into that later. “When I glanced into the mirror, I looked somehow different. Oh, no physical changes, but I just didn't look like the man I'd been shaving for all them years. My back was paining me so badly I turned around, tried to see it in the mirror, but it didn't look any different. No cuts, no bruising, no welts or the like. I just thought maybe I'd slept crooked and pulled a muscle or two. “I took my shower, then decided I'd do a few laps in the pool, hoping to work the kinks outta my back. I swam every morning, never missed a day, and I was looking forward to relaxing for thirty minutes or so before I had to report in to work.” Brian shuddered, then flexed his shoulders, as if to throw off a feeling that had overtaken him. “When I got down to the gym and got a whiff of the chlorine in the pool, I started getting this strange feeling. It was a dread unlike anything I'd ever felt before, like something bad was about to happen. The closer I got to the water, the worse the feeling got.” His words trailed off as he stared at the table. Sean said nothing, giving his father time to gather his thoughts. After a moment, Brian shook himself and looked up. Misery filled his eyes. “I could not make myself get close to the water. The more I tried, the more intense the feeling of dread grew. I stood shivering, wondering if I had suddenly developed an aversion to water. I knew that was possible, but having grown up on the seacoast, living my life like a porpoise in the waters of Galway Bay, I couldn't fathom not being able to jump into the pool.” He sighed. “I finally left, not understanding my fear at all.” “Did you talk about it with anyone?” “I was too ashamed of my weakness to make anyone privy to it. I just kept going back, trying to enter the water, but every time, the same terror overcame me. By then, I had seen your mother, and my obsession with her replaced any thoughts of the pool.” “How did you find out what they'd done to you?” A mirthless laugh hissed from Brian's tightly clamped lips. “On the day I transitioned for the first time.” “T—transitioned?” Sean muttered, his voice trembling. “Changed. Into a semblance—although not as drastic—of the creature they found in the bog.” “I don't believe that.” “Believe it. It happened, andwill happen again.” “How is it possible? It's against the laws of nature!” “Nature as you know it, aye, but not the place that creature came from. I won't candy-coat it, son. The first time scared me something fierce. I didn't know what was happening. No one told me I was going to become like the bog man, and if they had, I'm not sure I would have believed them. You see, I didn't know Dunne had decided to implant humans with the parasite, and sure as hell didn't know I'd be the one

receiving it.” “Oh, my God. What did you do when you...when you...” He could not say the words. “When your ma was taken from me, I went a bit crazy and tried to leave Fuilghaoth. I wanted to stop her marriage to Cullen, to get her back. They locked me up in one of the containment cells, and it was while I was so furious that the full Transition began. I'm sure Dunne knew it might happen and that was why I was caged. As soon as the godawful pain began in my back, I knew what they had done to me. I nearly went mad with the thought of that evil inside me. The terrible thirst water couldn't quench was satisfied by the beakers of blood passed through a small door into the cell. I guzzled the stuff like it was nectar!” Sean covered his mouth with his hand. “When I reverted back to being human, Dunne sent for me. He was curious to know what I had felt during the Transition.” Brian ground his teeth. “I'd never wanted to kill anyone as much as I wanted to kill him that day. I demanded to know why he'd done this terrible thing to me.” “What did he say?” Brian flung out a dismissive hand. “He said names were drawn and mine was the first. On the luck of a draw, I was the lucky recipient of the revenant worm. How, he asked me, was he to know I'd impregnated a village girl with my tainted sperm? As soon as he said that, I knew I'd fallen right into his plan. He knew, Sean. Heknew what Dorrie and I had been doing and he knew I'd more than likely get her with child. He could have put a stop to it, but didn't. It was the impregnation that fascinated him. He wanted to see what would happen to the babe when it was born. He knew I'd created another like myself.” “I...I'll turn into an animal? A beast?” Sean's eyes widened. “A beast that could hurt people?” Brian shook his head. “No, no! You will be put in a containment cell to keep you from hurting yourself or others. It's not so bad, really. Transition lasts for only a few hours, then you change back.” Sean felt hopeless. “Thiscan't be happening!” “I'm sorry, lad, but it is all too real. And about to change your life forever.” “What will happen to me?” Sean sobbed, barely aware of the tears cascading down his cheeks. “When will it happen?” “In the chimps they experimented on, Transition generally occurs at puberty in males that have had the parasite implanted. Of course, with older males, Transition starts within four to six weeks. In my case, it was delayed for more than two years because I was a strict vegetarian. I think the pain over losing your mother, the fear of worrying about her, the anger over having her taken away from me, brought the Transition on earlier than it might have come had those things not been factors. Three days after she was sent to America, I went into full Transition. Once they saw the correlation between vegetarian and meat diets, they knew what had to be done with you. They sure as hell didn't want you going into Transition outside their control.” Sean looked up through the screen of his fingers. “Did my mother know any of this?” he asked in a shuddery voice. “Does she know what is inside me?”

Brian shook his head. “They saw no reason for her to know. What they did, though, was bring her into Fuilghaoth before she was sent to America and program her with certain instructions she was to follow to the letter, as was Tymothy Cullen.” “Instructions?” Brian held up his hand and ticked off his reply. “First, you were not to be told who your real father was. “Second, under no circumstances were you ever to be taken to a doctor and examined. The doctor might take a blood sample and that was to be avoided at all costs since the blood would contain antibodies beyond that doctor's experience. Any records needed for you to enter school would be provided—falsified, of course—by Fuilghaoth. “Third, you were not to be coddled, cosseted in any way. They wanted you to grow up tough and determined. With Tym Cullen as an example, I'd venture to say that was a given. “And fourth, you were never to be given meat of any kind—you were to be fed only vegetables. There is no blood in vegetables, lad. The parasite thrives on blood, remember? Animal or human, doesn't make any difference to it. Dunne knew from his experiments that, if you received no meat, your Transition would be delayed.” Sean glared at the man, delving with ease into his mind. What he found made him recoil, and he stumbled back against the wall, shuddering. “I'll never eat meat, so there isn't any chance I will—Transition,” he declared, spitting out the word as though it were filth. Brian shrugged. “You won't have any choice in the matter.” “Yes, I will!” Sean shouted. “By Dunne's time clock, you have another month, at most, before your first Transition. Prior to that, your blood will begin to change. You will feel it as the parasite starts to awaken. Once that happens, once it begins to feed upon you, the byproducts it throws off will turn your red blood to a black, tar-like consistency.” “That is disgusting!” “That parasite is what has kept you from getting all them childhood diseases the other brats got. Did you never wonder why you were so damned healthy?” “I just thought I was lucky.” “Luck had nothing to do with it. The parasite attacks an illness and devours it. Once you Transition the first time, it will heal you"—he snapped his fingers—"like that! You'll never have to worry about cuts and scrapes again. The flesh heals in the blink of an eye. That is why Dunne sent me to fetch you. Imagine Transitioning over here and having someone see it! That would be bad enough. But imagine getting a cut on your arm that seals itself up quicker than you can strip the backing off a band-aid and you can see why it was imperative I come get you. I wasn't counting on your ma having filleted Cullen, although it couldn't have happened to a more deserving man.” “There has to be a way to keep me from—”

Brian interrupted in a stern voice. “As soon as your time is up in this wretched place, we'll be leaving for Fuilghaoth. You need to be in the facility when you Transition for the first time. You must be where those who know what to expect can care for you.” Sean shook his head savagely. “I'd rather die than live my life like that!” “There are only two ways a Reaper can die, lad. By being burned or being drowned.” He cocked a brow at his son. “Which would you prefer?” Sean, reading the truth of Brian's words, slumped against the wall. “I'm terrified of either.” “That's because the parasite is terrified of being destroyed in those ways. What's your feelings on snakes, lad?” Sean flinched. “I hate the damned things!” “Aye, well, there is a viper called a ghoret that Reapers fear almost as much as fire and water. I'll tell you about them evil little reptiles one day.” Sean slid down the wall and hunkered there with his head buried in his arms. Squatting beside Sean, Brian put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I will be beside you every step of the way, lad. I swear I will do all I can to make it up to you for this.” “You didn't know what would happen.” “But I regret every day of my life that I didn't let the Stalcaires murder your ma.” Slowly, Sean raised his head. “Why?” “To keep her from Cullen's brutality all those years, for one thing,” Brian said between clenched teeth, “and to keep you from having to go through the agony of Transitioning every four months.” “But you loved her.” “Ilove her,” Brian corrected. “That hasn't changed. But it would have been better for us all if I had had the courage to let her go back then.” Sean stared into his father's eyes and saw his own guilt. “If I had known what was coming, I would never have laid a hand to Bronwyn, either.” “I know, and I regret not having come earlier. Blame me, if you want.” Sean looked at the floor. “I've no one to blame but myself.” “Now you see why it might be best to keep away from her.” With shoulders sinking in defeat, his heart breaking, Sean lowered his head to his arms once more. “Aye, I understand.”

CHAPTER 15

Bronwyn refused to look at the nun who had entered her room without knocking. She detested the wiry woman, whose body odor was acrid and sharp within the folds of her long black habit. “The physician is here to examine you,” Sister Mauveen snapped. “Be up with you, girl.” Bronnie's fingers tightened around the pencil in her hand, but she gave no other sign that she had heard the nun's words. “If you wish to be dragged down to the infirmary, that can surely be arranged.” When Sister Mauveen clapped her hands, two larger nuns appeared at the door. Her lips pursed tightly, Bronwyn got up from her desk. She barely looked at Sister Mauveen as she passed. “The wages of sin are pain and death,” Sister Mauveen pronounced, folding her hands into the sleeves of her habit. She lifted her pointed chin. “The Lord will provide both for those who disobey His commandments.” The nuns at the door parted as Bronwyn walked toward them. She stepped into the hall, expecting them to fall in behind her, and was not disappointed. Bringing up the rear was Sister Mauveen, the rosary beads at her waist clacking together as she followed. Dr. Liam Darby was waiting for them at the door to the infirmary. He smiled encouragingly and ushered Bronwyn inside with a gentle pat on the back. He stepped in front of Sister Mauveen as she tried to join them. “I have a nurse to assist me,” he said in a firm voice. “You won't be needed.” Sister Mauveen's nose twitched and she twisted to see inside the infirmary. Her beady eyes swept the room, her upper lip quivering. Upon spying the nurse talking to Bronwyn, she sniffed and straightened up to look the doctor in the eye. “Mother Superior will expect a full report from you on the girl's condition.” “Naturally,” Dr. Darby replied. “I give a full report when I do physicals, Sister.” Sniffing again, Sister Mauveen tossed her head. Spinning on her heel, she clapped her hands and her entourage fell into step behind her. “Bloody vicious old penguin.” Dr. Darby shut and locked the door behind him. “Well, Bronnie, how are you feeling today?” Bronwyn liked the tall, rawboned physician. He had a kind face and understanding eyes. “I've got a cold. I've been coughing like crazy. “It's this rainy Connacht weather. Well, I'll leave you with Miss Moher. She'll help you get into the gown.” He patted Bronwyn's cheek. “Let's see if we can't do something about that cough.” Bronwyn smiled and started undoing the buttons of her uniform blouse. She stopped to cough. The sound was wet, filled with congestion, and lasted a long time. She was grateful when Miss Moher handed her a tissue.

“That doesn't sound good, now does it?” Miss Moher said with a cluck of her tongue. “I had bronchitis a few years ago,” Bronwyn said, “and I think I've got it again. That's why they sent for the doctor.” Miss Moher took Bronnie's blouse and folded it carefully before placing it on a bench. “Me Da got that once. Didn't it put him in the hospital for a fortnight?” “Where is the hospital here, in case I have to go?” “Isn't it down in Belfast?” Miss Moher asked. “But wouldn't you be kept here if you had to be hospitalized?” Bronnie sighed. “I should have guessed that,” she said in a disgusted voice. “Wouldn't we take as good care of you as the hospital in Belfast, now, lass?” “I'm sure you would,” Bronwyn mumbled. One of the things she found annoying about the Irish was the way they constantly asked questions instead of stating fact. “Don't you be worrying none ‘bout having to go to the hospital. Won't we be curing you of that nasty cold right here?” She turned away as Bronwyn stepped out of her slip, panties and bra. Holding up the gown so it blocked Bronwyn's nudity, the nurse waited until Bronwyn had stuck her hands through the armholes before looking around. “Aren't you ready now for Dr. Darby?” “I am.” Bronwyn turned around dutifully for the nurse to tie the gown in back for her. “Won't you be sitting on the examination table now, lass?” Miss Moher went to the door behind which Dr. Darby had disappeared. She rapped lightly. “Aren't we ready now, Doctor?” Bronwyn frowned as she sat on the paper-covered vinyl seat. Despite being the daughter of one, she hated doctors. Having grown up being inflicted with chronic bouts of tonsillitis, her blood had never coagulated fast enough to undergo surgery to remove the offending appendages. Despite copious amounts of vitamins and tonics to build up her iron level, as well as injections of penicillin and bottle after bottle of streptomycin, all the medicines had done was instill in her a morbid fear of hospitals and men in white. “Well, now, let's take a listen to your chest,” Dr. Darby said as he came into the room. He took a position slightly behind and to Bronwyn's right and warmed the bell of his stethoscope between his palm. “You're from the States, aren't you?” “Yes, sir.” “Georgia, is it?” he asked as he untied the top string on her gown. “Yes, sir. Albany.” She flinched as the stethoscope touched her back. “Breathe.” Bronwyn fought the urge to cough as she took a deep breath.

“Let it out.” He moved the stethoscope further down her back. Her breath wavered as she released it, and the tickle at the back of her throat grew worse. “Again.” The instrument slid across her back to the other side. This time as she took a breath, the cough got the better of her. She spent several ticks of the clock hacking into the tissue. “How long have you had the cough?” Dr. Darby asked. “Three, four days,” Bronnie managed to say. She wiped her lips on the tissue. “I've had bronchitis before.” He looked in her eyes, her ears, and her throat. He listened to her heart, checked the glands in her neck, under her arms. “I think you've got the flu. It's been going around school.” “I take classes by myself,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I don't see much of the other girls.” “Umm. Scoot up on the table and lie down, lass.” She did as she was told. Dr. Darby looked at Miss Moher. “Would you get me the gynecological tray?” Miss Moher blinked, cast Bronwyn a quick glance, and looked back at the doctor. At his curt nod, she hurried to get the tray. Bronwyn nervously twisted the sides of her gown. She met the doctor's kindly gaze. She was trembling, her lips skaking. Dr. Darby put his hand over hers. “Everything will be all right, lass.” “You know, don't you?” she asked in a scared voice. “The Mother Superior asked that you be examined, Bronwyn. Sister Mauveen voiced her suspicions and I was asked to confirm or deny them.” He pulled a rolling stool to the side of the table, sat, and took Bronwyn's hand. “How far along do you think you are?” Tears welled in Bronnie's eyes. “I've missed two periods.” “About three months? That's how long you've been here.” She whimpered. “Well, let's be sure about it, all right? It could be something other than what you think.” **** Mother Mary Joseph, the Mother Superior of the Galrath Convent of the Poor, was having a cup of tea when Sister Mauveen knocked on her office door. She frowned, sighing deeply at the interruption, and

bid her visitor enter. Upon seeing who had come to call, her frown deepened. “And?” she asked, setting aside her cup. “She is in the family way,” Sister Mauveen reported with more supercilious glee than the situation warranted. Another deep West of Ireland sigh wheezed from the Mother Superior's lips. “Have Sister Rosalyn place a call to America. Dr. and Mrs. McGregor will need to be informed.” Sister Mauveen inclined her head. “What of the child?” she asked, rubbing her hands together, her eyes bright. “What will become of it?” Looking up at the bird-like woman hovering before her desk, the Mother Superior had an unkind thought about Mauveen Hotchkin. The image of a buzzard, its long neck stretched forward to sniff a fresh road kill, flitted unbidden through the Mother Superior's mind. That Mauveen bore a striking resemblance to a vulture still did not make the uncharitable thought any less sinful in the Mother Superior's eyes. She reached for her rosary and spoke sharper than was her usual wont. “Pray do not concern yourself on that account. Let me worry about what will become of Bronwyn's illegitimate child.” “We can't allow her to keep it here!” The Mother Superior narrowed her eyes. “Did I ask you to see to the matter of the transatlantic phone call, Sister?” Sister Mauveen took a step back, obviously realizing she had angered the woman behind the desk. She bowed. “Aye, Reverend Mother, you did.” “Then see to it!” The stick-thin nun backed out of the room, bowing and scraping as though to a potentate. Her quick, nervous smile was no doubt meant as an apology, but the Mother Superior saw it in an entirely different light. “Meddling old hag,” the abbess of Galrath snorted with uncharacteristic spite. She turned her chair around and stared out the window at the light snow falling on the grounds of the convent. Sighing, she laid her head on the back of the rich leather upholstered chair and closed her eyes. She knew things would be difficult in the coming months. Difficult and painful for Bronwyn McGregor and the bastard child growing in her belly. **** The Nightwind sat by the campfire and stirred the blazing logs. Beyond the roaring fire, the night was black as onyx with nothing save the leaping flames to cast off the gathered gloom. Rain clouds hid the moon and, in the distance, spirals of lightning hurled themselves against the mountains. Banks of thick fog crept closer, the dampness settling on his flesh like unseen insects. “Come, sit a while,” he said quietly, not bothering to look up at the one who lurked just beyond the feeble circle of light.

The visitor came closer, but stayed hidden in the shadows. “I am lonely, too,” the Nightwind admitted. Shuffling nearer to the outer rim of campfire light, the visitor looked about, searching perhaps for a trap. “It's just you and me, friend,” he said and looked over his shoulders. His eyes locked with the visitor's and he smiled gently. The visitor ambled to a log that lay beyond the flare of light and hunched down. “Going to rain,” the Nightwind commented. “Aye,” came the gruff reply. “It's the rain I miss most when I am Beyond.” “Beyond?” “My lair is not unlike yours. It, too, is underground. But it is not on this world. It is—” “Beyond,” the visitor growled. “Aye. Beyond.” For a long time, the two sat in comfortable silence, listening to the distant thunder reverberating from the mountains to the west. At last, the builder of the campfire cleared his throat and spoke. “I have a favor to ask.” He stood and walked to where his visitor sat on the log. “Do not come so close!” was the shocked command. “I am not afraid of you, friend.” “You have not seen me!” “Nor you, me.” He stopped a few feet from his visitor and shook himself like a dog fresh from a pond. When the shaking stopped, he knew he bore a strong resemblance to the astounded being sitting on the log outside the reach of the fire. “What are you?” the visitor asked in a hushed tone. “I, my gentle Bugul Noz, am a Nightwind, a shapeshifter.” He sat on the log beside the creature. The Bugul Noz frowned, which made his already hideously ugly face look worse. “I have not heard of your kind.” “But I have heard of you, and what is more,she has heard of you.” The large head of the Bugul Noz dipped, the sparse gray hair revealing a cranium pebbled with oozing

warts and rippling lumps. His oversized hands rubbed together, creating a dry husk sound, for his flesh was mottled with calluses. “I did not mean to frighten her,” the Bugul Noz explained. “I know you did not. Her heart was breaking and you sought to help.” “I should never have shown myself to her.” The Bugul Noz sobbed, his black lips trembling. “I know better. Humans fear me.” “She believes it was a dream, friend. But it would not be wise to show yourself to her again.” He laid a comforting hand on the repulsive arm of his companion. Silver eyes lifted to fuse with crimson orbs, and an understanding formed. The oversized head cocked to one side, the long ears swinging. “She is with child,” the Nightwind sighed. “Ah, his child—the one she calls for in her thoughts,” the Bugul Noz added, his warty chin dipping as he bobbed his head. He reached up a hand tipped with long talons and flicked away the tears staining his wrinkled cheeks. “Aye, him,” he said and his tone was filled with disgust. “What is your favor, Nightwind?” the Bugul Noz queried. “I have sent for another of my kind, but he has yet to arrive. He likes the Abyss more than he fears my Call.” “There is more of your race?” the Bugul Noz questioned. “Hundreds dwell in the Abyss.” For a moment, the Bugul Noz was quiet, then he hung his head once more. “I am the last of my kind. I am alone.” “But you have a friend in me and in any of mine.” At that, the Bugul Noz proudly lifted his head and smiled for the first time in likely a thousand years. Though the smile was ghastly and would have stopped the heart of a passing human, his companion returned the gesture and reached out a hand. “Let us seal our friendship.” The Nightwind took the hot, calloused paw offered to him. “I am your champion for as long as time is,” the Bugul Noz declared. “Ask of me what you will and I will offer you whatever you want. I will do whatever you ask.” “All I ask is your help in keeping our lady safe. In exchang,e I will teach you the art of shapeshifting. You can look as you wish, my friend.” Chiaroscuro tears slipped down the Bugul Noz's pitted cheeks, but they seemed no longer tears of

loneliness—they were tears of gratitude. “Tell me what I need do.” “My desire is to keep her from Sean Cullen. I have claimed her as my own and am doing all that I can to see they stay apart.” “How can I help?” “Run interference when I need it. One day I will call upon you. All I ask is that you be there on that day.” The Bugul Noz placed his giant misshapen hands against his thick chest. “I swear it!” The Nightwind nodded and settled comfortably beside the hideous creature. It was well within the realm of possibility to teach his companion to shapeshift. He wondered that none of his kind had thought of doing so before now. Despite the mood in which he was steeped, his pity went out to the creature at his side and he was happy he could help. He, himself, had often known the greatest of loneliness during his millennia of life. And there was a side benefit, he thought, as he half-listened to the Bugul Noz talking about his lost tribe. If he could but do one great boon for a lost brethren—as he was doing for this poor being—perhaps the One Who Listens might take pity on him and help him rid himself of the curse that had turned him into a Nightwind so long ago. He knew that was the only way he could ever be with Bronwyn McGregor, and being with her was his deepest desire. CHAPTER 16

Sean had been quiet during the flight to Ireland from New York City. He seemed not to notice the bright lights of the big city or the luxury of the private jet that had whisked him from the soil of his native land and into the wide expanse of night-darkening sky. He had declined the steward's offer of food and drink and curled up in his seat once the jet reached its cruising speed. He slept all the way to Shannon International Airport. When he was awakened, he remained silent, allowing himself to be led to the helicopter standing by to take him to Fuilghaoth. Banking away from the sprawling airport at Shannon, Sean stared out the window, watching the myriad shades of green speeding beneath the helicopter's runners. Under normal circumstances, the bright blue of the Atlantic and the wild beauty of his ancestral land probably would have taken his notice. That morning, though, all he noticed was the darkness of the craggy rocks over which they flew, the jutting rows of stone fences dotting the foreign soil, and the forbidding wind that pushed at the craft, making it rise and fall. Feeling detached from his surroundings, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. He was sleeping too much, he thought. More than he ever had, but, to his way of thinking, what difference did it make? He had nowhere to go save the institute. He had no one to go to. Being with Bronwyn, now that he knew what lurked inside him, was out of the question. He had nothing to look forward to except years of turning from man to beast and back again. And for what purpose?

Although he longed to question Brian, he had not. The last night in jail, he had spent a restless time staring at the floor, unable to accept the things he'd learned, but understanding the truth of them. Morning's light had brought with it a realization that his life was now in the hands of a stranger and he had no more say over it than a lab rat. “I called to ask her if she'd like to say goodbye to you,” Brian had told him when Sean left the jail. The man was waiting at the curb, a black limousine at the ready. “She said to tell you to mind your manners and make her proud.” It was on the tip of Sean's tongue to ask how he would do that. He wanted to know if his mother had been told what would happen to him in Ireland, but staring into Brian's eyes, he'd had his answers. He simply climbed into the luxurious interior of the limousine and stared out the window. “Nothing is ever as bad as we think,” Brian said as the limo pulled into the MacAfee Airport on the outskirts of Albany. “There are always good things in everything.” He put a hand on Sean's knee. “Do you want me to tell you about the second time I Transitioned, lad?” Sean looked at the man, saying nothing, then turned back to stare at the hanger they were approaching. “Well, if you ever do, just let me know.” Now, the helicopter lurched, dropping altitude suddenly. Sean opened his eyes. He wasn't unnerved or frightened. If anything, he began to entertain the thought that, if they crashed, the chopper might burst into flames, trapping them inside, and his worries would be over. He chuckled at the morbid thought and felt Brian's gaze on him. “Don't think things like that, lad,” Brian admonished. “That's tempting fate. Burning to death is a horrible way to die.” To Sean, dead was dead and, at the moment, it didn't seem to matter how it was accomplished. He knew he'd never be able to take his own life, even had he been able to or the thing inside him allow it. Brian had told him—"I know of a man who tried to kill himself once the revenant was implanted, but the parasite kept him from doing it. Dying by your own hand is no longer an option. That is the reasons I can no longer swim. I can no longer even put a toe in the water. The parasite keeps a tight rein on me..." “Stop dwelling on such things, Sean,” Brian ordered. “We'll both live to a very ripe old age.” Sean knew he had to find a way to shield his thoughts from Brian. He hated that every random idea, concept, observation, and notion he had was plucked with ease from the ether and turned back on him. He now realized how annoying it had been for Bronnie when he read her thoughts. “Sean.” He turned toward Brian. “This is your life from now on, lad. Make the best of it.” Sean looked away. To his way of thinking, he no longer had a life.

**** A ten-foot-high electric fence plastered withWarning: High Voltage signs in several languages, and a guard post, were the first things Sean saw as the limousine rolled to a stop outside the town of Derry Byrne. He craned his neck to look through the windshield as two guards left their kiosk and blocked the entry to the large gate. In their arms they cradled machine guns. The limousine driver, Ciarán, hit the button on the electric window and the darkened glass rolled down. “Dr. O'Shea returning,” he told a guard. He lowered the window on Brian's side of the limo. The guard saluted. “Welcome home, Doctor.” Brian waved a negligent hand. “Has Dr. Saur returned?” “He came in this morning, sir.” As the guard spoke, he turned to his companion and motioned for the gate to be opened. He stepped back, saluted again, then with his gun clutched to his chest, walked back to the kiosk. “The guards are not Irish, as I'm sure you noticed,” Brian told Sean. “They are ex-Israeli commandoes. The one on the right has a kinsman who will be competing in the Olympics next year. Wrestling, isn't it, Ciarán?” Ciarán glanced into the rear view mirror. “I believe so.” “When his competition days are over, we hope to recruit him, as well.” The gate closed behind them. Bogs lined both sides of the long road ahead. The rugged Twelve Bens mountain range to the north rose in the distance like sentinels. “You will find we have a rather eclectic ensemble. Our cooks are Cordon Bleu chefs from France, although, for variety, we have a few from Italy. The gardeners—Dr. Dunne still enjoys puttering with his flowers—are from Japan. The housekeepers are German. We have some Spanish and a few Greek laborers, but most are from the Netherlands. They seem to possess a superior work ethic. There are no blacks and no Chinese, and with the exception of Andrei Barinsokhov, no Russians.” “And there's only a handful of us Irishmen,” Ciarán put in. “Lazy sods that we are,” Brian quipped, and the two men exchanged a laugh. “In all, there are about three hundred inhabitants of Fuilghaoth.” “What about the Stalcaires?” Sean asked, clearing his throat to get rid of the rust of disuse. “He speaks!” Brian exclaimed, slapping a hand to his chest. He grinned at his son, but when Sean did not return the gesture, he rolled his eyes. “Lighten up, lad.” “What about the Stalcaires?” Sean repeated, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “They are Reapers,” Brian answered in a sober tone. “Therefore, they are of Gaelic extraction. Some Irish, some Scots, and one or two Welshmen.”

Sean frowned. “Tym Cullen was—” Brian waved away the suggestion. “If he'd stayed here, he would have become one, given time. No, he was not a Reaper, otherwise Dorrie would not have been entrusted into his not-so-gentle care.” “Celtic killers,” Sean mumbled. “No worse that IRS hit men or Provisional bully boys,” the driver snorted. “Fuilghaoth,” Brian said, pointing to Sean's right. The building was larger than Sean expected. Made of a dark colored stone, it appeared to squat on the land like a feudal fortress, the Ballynahinch River flowing past as though it were a redirected moat. There were no windows on the front of the building, and the thick iron doors that opened to admit the limousine were the only break in the forbidding façade. Looking back as the wide doors closed behind them, Sean shuddered. The land disappeared with the shutting of those iron portals. Above, around, and beneath him was the mud-colored stone. Facing forward again, he saw a long tunnel lit with what looked like flickering torches. He frowned. “Dr. Dunne likes high drama,” Brian observed dryly. “He had the lights crafted to look like burning rushes. It lends a certain atmosphere to the place and rather sets a mood, don't you think?” “It's creepy as hell,” Sean grumbled. “I imagine the imagery is just what the architect Dillon Butler envisioned when he helped Dr. Dunne design it.” At Sean's look, Brian shrugged. “Remember what is written at the entrance to Hades in Dante's poem?” Ciarán laughed. “Fits, too, don't it, Doc?” Sean couldn't remember the tenth grade mythology he had learned in Mrs. Browne's English class. “'Abandon all hope ye who enter here,'” Brian reminded him. “You might say Ciarán, here, is our very own Charon, the boatman who ferries the souls of the dead across the River Styx.” “We even got what Dr. Dunne calls the Cerberus,” the driver joked. “Indeed we do. Just as the underworld had its three-headed dog to keep those who Charon rowed across the River Styx from leaving, we have three of the most lethal guards in the Stalcaires posted at the main entrance to Fuilghaoth. No one can get past them. Anyone attempting to leave the facility without permission is automatically exterminated.” “Tell him how, Doc,” Ciarán insisted. “Fuilghaoth can't take chances of letting those who have been implanted—either by choice or by chance—out amongst the general population. If someone tries to get out without permission, it is assumed they have been implanted. The Cerberus’ have flamethrowers and simply incinerate anyone trying to leave. No questions asked.” “Charming,” Sean commented. He began to wonder how long the passageway was and grew unsettled

when he realized it was cantering downward as the limo crept over the fieldstone cobbles. He looked at Brian. “Are we going underground?” “Aye. There are five levels above us and two below. General offices are on the first floor. The living quarters, recreation areas, and dining halls are on the second floor. Third floor is the health center—sickbay, the gymnasium, sports complex, etc. The fourth floor is where the labs are located and the fifth floor belongs entirely to Dr. Dunne. The containment facilities are subterranean. Along with the parking garage and station workshops.” Sean shifted in his seat, the walls of the tunnel seeming to pulse toward him. “I don't like closed-in places.” “That is your parasite. I never had a problem with claustrophobia until I was implanted.” There was a bridge ahead of them with a gate blocking the way. A tall man, holding what could only be a state-of-the-art flamethrower, stood directly in front of the gate, the weapon held across his chest. “The first of our Cerberus,” Brian said. “There is another on the bridge and one at the other end.” “Reapers can't cross water, so that's the purpose of the bridge,” Ciarán said. “And the chances of them getting past even one of the Cerberus is slim to none, eh, Doc?” Brian chuckled. “Indeed.” Bringing the limo to a stop, Ciarán lowered his window. “Afternoon to you, Risteárd. Bringing Dr. O'Shea and his son into the facility.” The burly guard nodded. He stepped back, waved a hand to the guard at the other end of the bridge, and the gate began to lift. “Three-hundred amps of electricity are running through that gate,” Brian remarked. “Not enough to kill a Reaper, but enough to stun him long enough for one of the Cerberus to do his fire dance.” Sean gaped. “Not enough to kill him?” “Only complete incineration will kill a Reaper. I told you that already. You can decapitate one and kill the human body, but the revenant will survive and crawl out and look for another host. Might be animal, might be man, but the parasite will do all it can to stay alive.” Sean shuddered. “The more I hear, the worse it sounds.” Brian patted his knee. “It's not as bad as you're imagining, lad.” The bridge was made of corrugated metal, and the tires sang as the limo moved over the surface. Halfway across, Ciarán slowed down. “Afternoon, Angus,” he said as they passed the ugliest man Sean had ever seen. His face was a mass of scar tissue and puckered flesh. “Looks like someone put his face through a meat grinder, eh?” Brian laughed. “What happened to him?” Sean asked, turning to look at the man they'd passed.

“Chemical burns. Happened when he was a mere child. He was making a bomb and it went off in his face.” “Too bad it didn't happen after he was implanted,” Ciarán declared. The driver braked before the second gate as the obstruction began to lift. A younger man stood guard at this final entry point. “That one's name is Myles O'Rourke,” Brian said in a low voice. “He has killed nineteen men who have tried to leave without permission.” “About as mean as one of your timber rattlers,” Ciarán quipped. He eased forward off the bridge, nodding instead of speaking to the guard as they passed. “Don't like to have nobody messing with him.” “You'd do best to stir clear of O'Rourke,” Brian suggested. “He's about as evil as they make ‘em.” Although the limousine windows were darkly tinted, Sean had the feeling Myles O'Rourke was staring right into his eyes. Despite his dark good looks, O'Rourke gave off an aura of violence and fury that made Sean recoil against the seat. “Aye, he could see you, lad,” Brian told him. “He just memorized what you look like.” “Just in case he ever has to come lookin’ for you,” Ciarán said solemnly. Brian leaned over and whispered to Sean. “Reapers track their quarries through the generic makeup of the quarry's blood, through the DNA, but Ciarán doesn't need to know that.” The limo was passing under a low archway upon which was carved the words—Imeacht Gan Teacht Ort. “What does it mean?” Sean asked. “'May you leave without returning,'” Brian answered. “It is an old Celtic curse.” Ciarán chuckled. “In other words—Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” Sean had an impulse to open the limo door and flee, taking his chances with the guards. “You wouldn't get past O'Shay,” Brian said softly. “No one ever has.” Sighing deeply, Sean slumped in his seat, his body cold and numb as the limo cleared the archway and entered a brightly lit parking garage. He paid little attention to the fleet of limos nestled along the low granite walls, or the dozen or so black SUVs angled into slots close to a bank of elevators. Four military all-terrain vehicles, though, caught his eye. “Perimeter patrol,” Brian explained. “At any given moment, there are four such conveyances roaming the fence line.” Sean stared at the machine guns mounted on their passenger sides. He looked away, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

Stopping before the elevators, Ciarán put the car in park and got out, coming around to open Brian's door first. As soon as the older man stepped out, Ciarán ran around to open Sean's door. He smiled crookedly. “Thanks,” Sean said. “Go raibh an Ghaoth go brá ag do chúl,” Ciarán said with a salute. Sean nodded. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans, wondering what the Gaelic words meant. “One of the things you'll master is the language,” Brian said as he joined Sean. “What did he say?” Sean asked after Ciarán climbed into the limo and pulled away. “May the Wind be always at your back.” Brian pushed the button on the far right elevator. The door pinged and the stainless steel portals slid open with a soft rush of pneumatic air. The cage's interior was also stainless steel, polished to a high sheen. On the floor was thick black carpet. Overhead, a wide wire mesh covered the light. Brian pushed the first floor button. “We'll get you signed in, then I'll take you to meet Dr. Dunne.” “Can't it wait?” Sean complained, putting the tips of his fingers to his temples. “No, it can't. What's the matter?” “My head hurts.” “A headache?” Brian repeated, frowning. “When did that start?” “When we entered the elevator.” Brian's frown deepened. He stared at Sean and made no move to exit the elevator when the doors opened on the first floor. “How bad is it?” “Bad enough that all I want to do is lie down.” Sean squeezed his eyes shut, for the harsh overhead light was causing him acute pain. “You have to be signed in,” Brian insisted, taking Sean's arm. “I'll get you an aspirin while you're registering.” Leading Sean to a semicircular desk just to the left of the elevators, Brian reached into his breast pocket with his free hand and took out their passports. “Sean Daniel Cullen,” he told the man behind the desk. The man, dressed in a dark brown uniform, opened Sean's passport, looked at it, then walked into an office. In a moment, he returned with another man, clad in a green uniform. “Welcome home, Doctor,” the second man greeted Brian. “So this is your son?” “Aye,” Brian replied. “He's tired, so let's hurry this up.”

“Understandable.” The man held out his hand. “This way, please, Mr. Cullen.” Sean followed him into the office. “Please have a seat.” Sean sat in a chair beside the desk. “We have several sets of papers for you to fill out.” At Sean's grown, he smiled apologetically. “Most you can worry about tomorrow, but I do require some information before you can be allowed upstairs.” Sean sighed as three pages were laid in front of him. He could barely see the writing his head hurt so much, but he took the pen extended toward him and began filling in the information. He looked up as Brian came in with a glass of water. “Here, take these,” Brian said, opening his palm. “What are you giving him?” the man behind the desk inquired. “Aspirin. Long flight and bright lights. Wicked combination.” The man nodded and wrote it down in a chart. It was all Sean could do to answer the questions on the three sheets, rubbing at the agony over his right brow as he wrote. When he finished, he slid the papers across the desk. The man scanned them briefly, then looked at Brian. “I've told him we can hold off on the in-depth questionnaires until he's rested.” “I appreciate that.” Brian laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. “Let's go, lad. Dr. Dunne is waiting upstairs.” Sean wearily pushed himself from the chair. He wobbled for a moment, grateful to Brian, who snaked out a hand to steady him. “I detest jet lag,” the man behind the desk commented. “It's a bitch,” Brian agreed. “His first plane ride, wasn't it?” “Aye.” “He'll get used to it.” “That he will.” “You might want to delay taking him in to see the Reaper until after you meet with Dr. Dunne,” the man suggested. “Aye, I think I will.” Brian laughed. “Don't want him puking on me, you know?”

The elevator ride to the fifth floor was an excruciating experience. The higher the cage rose, the worse Sean's pain became. When the cage settled, he groaned and clutched his head as though it were about to explode. He sank to his knees on the dark carpet, bending over with the agony, just as the elevator doors opened. “When did this start?” a man demanded and stepped into the cage. “When he entered the elevator in the parking garage,” Brian replied. The stranger hunkered down beside Sean. “Son, I'm Dr. Lutz. Where does it hurt?” “Over my right eye,” Sean gasped, pressing his fingertips against the spot. “Have you had headaches like this before?” “N...no,” Sean whispered, swallowing the nausea that had suddenly bubbled up his throat. “Call down and get a hundred milligrams of tenerse sent up,” Lutz told Brian. “STAT!” Brian reached for the elevator's phone and punched in the sickbay's number. “Let's get you to a couch,” Lutz said, putting his arm around Sean and helping him to his feet. He staggered with Sean's heavier weight, but managed to walk him out of the elevator. “Lights, dim!” Lutz commanded, and the overhead lights lowered dramatically. Leading his charge to a long gray suede couch, he helped Sean to lie down. He glanced around as Brian joined them. “Did you take him to see the Reaper?” Brian shook his head. “As soon as he said he had a headache, I knew that wouldn't be a good idea.” “You're right,” Lutz agreed. “I want a full neurological workup done on him as soon as possible,” a new voice said. “Yes, sir,” Brian replied. He laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. “Sean, this is Dr. Daniel Dunne.” Sean tried to get up, but Lutz held him down. “Just rest, son.” “Call down and ask Helen how things are there,” Dunne told Lutz. He leaned over the sofa, one hand on the back and one on the arm. “Nice to meet you, Sean.” “Hello,” Sean mumbled, forcing himself to meet the doctor's gaze. Dunne straightened. “His pupils are dilated.” “I noticed,” Lutz responded as he took out his cell phone and punched in a number. When the elevator door opened, Brian walked over to take the syringe from the nurse. “Tell them to get one of the containment cells ready just in case.” The nurse flinched, looked past him, then spun on her heel, hurrying into the elevator as though the

hounds of hell were nipping at her shoes. “Helen?” Lutz said into the phone, then glanced quickly at Dunne. “How bad?” “Get some Reapers up here,” Dunne said. “Yes, sir,” Brian acknowledged, then went to the phone on a nearby table. Lutz rang off and turned to Dunne. “She says there was minor agitation noted about thirty minutes ago. Five minutes later, there was a fluctuation in the readings, increasing steadily. It has changed dramatically within the last ten minutes. At the moment, there is a vast disturbance.” Dunne drew in a long breath. “Give him the tenerse and let's see what happens.” Sean hurt so badly he hardly noticed the alcohol being swabbed on his neck. Nor did the sting of the needle entering his carotid artery make much of an impression. But as the thick liquid began to spread through his artery, he gasped with the burn of it and slapped a hand over the area. “Mother of God!” “I know it hurts,” Brian said, squatting beside Sean, “but it will help, Seannie. Just hold on.” Sean stiffened as though someone had driven a steel rod through his spine, then sighed deeply as the drug took control of his system. He relaxed, his limbs loosing their rigidity. His lids fluttered, his eyes rolled, and he slipped into unconsciousness. **** “I remember the first time I was given that stuff,” Brian stated. “It was like I was drifting on a cloud.” “It's a hundred times more potent than heroin,” Lutz said as he punched a number into his phone. “And just that much more addictive, too,” Brian said soberly. “Watch what you say,” Dunne cautioned in a low voice, though Brian knew Sean could not have heard his comment. “Helen? How are things now?” Lutz inquired. He listened a moment, nodding. “Okay. Keep us informed.” He ended the call. “Calm?” Dunne asked. “As though nothing had happened.” When two Reapers stepped out of the elevator, Dunne turned to look at them. “Take him down to C-Mod. I don't think he's near Transition, but I don't want to take a chance.” One Reaper came to the couch and scooped Sean into his arms as though the young man weighed little more than a feather. He turned and carried Sean into the elevator. “Are we to lock him in, Doctor?” the other Reaper asked. “That would be a wise precaution,” Dunne replied. “Make him comfortable before you leave him.”

“Aye, sir.” The Reaper punched the button to the lower level and the elevator doors slid shut. Brian looked to Dunne for orders. “First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to give him twenty-five milligrams of tenerse, then take him to The Room. Let's see what happens then. I don't want him to see the Reaper just yet.” Brian bowed and walked over to wait for the elevator's return. Dunne and Lutz went into Dunne's home office and closed the door. The sound of their voices, though not the actual words, came to Brian. He closed his eyes, put a trembling hand to his head and, for the first time in years, began to pray. CHAPTER 17

Bronwyn sat at the window and stared across the night-laced hillside of Sleivemartin. She was waiting for him and she knew he would come eventually. Just as he had every night for the last few days. She shifted on the uncomfortable chair and pulled the wool shawl closer around her shoulders. A slight draft came in from the window's frame and with it the smell from the waters of the Carlingford Lough. She inhaled deeply, longing for the freedom to stand on the shore and watch the waves roll in. “Freedom,” she said, and the word had a bitter taste. With the bitterness came frustration, which eventually turned to acute hopelessness at her situation. Then she saw him silhouetted against the sky, his long hair blowing behind him like a cape. She moved to the edge of her chair and put her hand on the windowpane in greeting. He held out his hand in reply. Bronwyn felt the warmth of his touch, the texture of his flesh against her cheek. She cocked her head into the phantom embrace and fancied his thumb smoothing over her lips. Closing her eyes to the sensation, she gave herself up to his offered comfort. “Bronwyn...” She opened her eyes and stared at him. Though distance and mesh-laden glass separated them, she heard his soft voice as clearly as though he was in the room. “Take heart, Beloved,” he whispered. His voice was infinitely sad. As sad as her own, of late. But it was his strength, his support, he sent to her, upon which she had come to lean. “I am so lonely,” she told him. “I know.”

She lowered her head, tears filling her eyes. “Don't cry,” he beseeched. “Your tears hurt me.” She put her hands over her face and gave way to wretched sobs that made her shoulders shake. “Beloved,” he moaned. “Please don't cry.” She got up from the chair and crawled into bed. Curling into a fetal position, she grabbed her pillow and buried her face in the starched fabric. Pressure moved along her back, a gentle stroking sensation that was meant to console, to give succor. The pressure moved to her hair with a deft stroke that sought to soothe. The sound of a key turning in the door lock banished the gentle touch. Bronwyn whimpered, feeling more alone than ever. “You may join the other girls for social hour if you wish, Miss McGregor,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said as she opened the door. When Bronwyn gave no answer, the diminutive nun padded to the bed. “Are you all right, dear?” Bronwyn liked “Sister Mary Liz,” as she was affectionately called. She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Sister.” Sister sighed. “You've been crying again,” she said in a voice that said she understood. “It's just so lonely here.” “That's why you should join the other girls. Danielle has agreed to play some Broadway tunes for us and Catherine Leigh will sing the songs fromSouth Pacific .” “I don't feel much like listening to music tonight.” “Well, then, come play Scrabble with Sheila, Destiny, and Aryn. I know they'd love to have you join them.” Bronwyn sat up, wiping tears from her eyes. “You aren't going to let me sit here and cry myself to sleep, are you, Sister?” “Not by the hair of your future chinny-chin-chin!” Sister Mary Liz chuckled, pulling at the stray coarse hairs that seemed to pop up overnight on her own chin. Despite her misery, Bronwyn laughed and swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed. “You ought to pluck those, Sister.” Sister gasped. “What? And have them grow back worse than ever?” She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Bronwyn went to the armoire and retrieved her shoes. Slipping her feet inside, she caught sight of her

profile in the mirror and stopped, reaching up to smooth the shapeless jumper over her blossoming belly. “Bronwyn,” Sister warned, clucking her tongue. “Don't dwell on your condition.” The slight mound of her belly was not shameful to Bronwyn. The babe growing inside was a product of her love for Sean. To her, it was not something dirty or sinful. It was a source of pride, but she dared not say so to the Sisters. And especially not to Sister Mauveen, who took great delight in condemning her for her unchaste condition. “It will be a boy,” Bronwyn said. “I will name him Sean Patrick McGregor.” “Come along. You mustn't be thinking these things.” Bronwyn stiffened. By order of the Mother Superior, she was not to talk about her condition to the other girls—as though they were both ignorant of her condition and blind to her changing body. Neither was she to discuss her pregnancy with the Sisters. The only time she was permitted to make any reference to the upcoming birth was with the physician who examined her each week. “If I don't talk about it, will that make it go away?” she had asked bitterly. “One must be humble,” she had been advised. “Humble and repentant. One does not brag about having committed a grievous sin against Our Lord Jesus Christ.” “I am not ashamed of my child! I love my child as I love his father!” Bronwyn's outburst had assured her several hours of kneeling before the Blessed Mother to beg for forgiveness. It was a forgiveness Bronnie neither asked for nor needed. The sorrowful look on the statue of Mary only added to her growing sense of despair. **** Sheila McPherson and Destiny Ward were already at a small table by the window when Bronwyn entered the social hall. Aryn Mooty was talking with another girl, a cousin of hers, from Connemara. Aryn waved, obviously pleased Bronwyn would be joining them. “Grab a chair, McGregor,” Sheila said gruffly. “Take a load off.” Destiny groaned, glancing at Bronwyn. “Don't pay her no nevermind.” “She knows I meant nothing disrespectful,” Sheila complained as she rummaged through the Scrabble game tiles. “Not like that uppity Sinclair bitch who stuffed a pillow under her jumper and strutted about in the hall last week.” “Aye, well, she got her comeuppance.” Destiny grinned. “I'll wager she didn't enjoy scrubbing the floor of the loo with a toothbrush!” “Serves her right for being such a snob.” Sheila sniffed and pushed one of the wooden racks toward Bronwyn. “Try not to beat the bloody bloomers off'n me this time, will ya, Yank?” Bronwyn smiled. “I'll try not to.” She reached into the box to draw out some tiles.

Aryn joined them, taking a seat next to Bronwyn. “How you feeling?” she whispered. “Okay.” “Have you felt him kick yet?” Bronwyn shook her head, casting a look around to make sure none of the nuns were close enough to hear. “I thought I did last night, but I'm not sure.” “Well, my sisters tell me you'll know when he starts to move. They say it's like the wee one is playing soccer in your tum!” Aryn giggled. “Lovely.” “Morning sickness passed, has it?” Sheila asked. “No,” Bronwyn said on a long breath. “If anything, it's worse.” “Next to the labor, that's the most awful part of it,” Destiny put in and shrugged. “Or so I've heard.” “Guess I'll be finding out.” “Well, my sisters always complained of heartburn and their feet swelling,” Aryn injected. “And hankering for things they wouldn't normally eat and haven't eaten since the wee one was born.” She cast Bronwyn a look. “Been fancy somethin’ odd, have you, lass?” Bronwyn shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she replied, then thought about it for a moment. “Although I have been craving kumquats.” Aryn grabbed Sheila's arm. “Don't you say it, McPherson!” “Say what?” Sheila asked, her eyes wide with what the other girls knew was mock innocence. “Go on with you,” Destiny accused. “You know you was thinkin’ something dirty.” Sheila rolled her eyes. “I don't always think dirty thoughts.” “If you didn't, you wouldn't be here,” Aryn snorted. “She done more than thinkin',” Destiny chimed in. Bronwyn rearranged her word tiles. “I saw him again,” she said softly and became aware of the other girls’ instant quiet. “On the hill?” Destiny questioned. “What happened?” Aryn asked. “He held out his hand to me.” “You think it's himself?” Aryn asked in a wistful tone.

Bronwyn shook her head. “No, I don't know who he is, but...” She looked up, glancing at each girl. “I felt him.” Sheila sat back in her chair. “Whatcha mean, you felt him?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed. Bronwyn looked down at her tiles. “It was almost as though he were in the room with me. I felt him stroke my back.” She reached up to touch her hair. “My hair and...” She bit her lip, not knowing how to tell them what else had happened. “Go on,” Sheila insisted. Her eyes were locked on Bronwyn's face. Bronwyn's voice was a mere whisper. “I heard him call my name.” “From way up there?” Destiny said with a shriek that had others looking their way. “Tell the whole bloody nunnery about it, will ya?” Aryn hissed. She cast a look about the room, as if daring the other girls to continue staring. Her look made the watchers hastily look away. When she was apparently satisfied no one was observing them, she leaned over the table. “Go on, dearie.” “That's all. I just heard him.” “You heard him,” Sheila stated. “Yes.” “What did he say?” Aryn queried. There was a dreamy expression on her square-jawed face as she tugges at a lock of her long red hair. “Dimwit,” Destiny snorted. “She just told you he called her name.” “He did more than that,” Sheila stated. “Didn't he, Bronnie?” Bronwyn looked past Aryn's shoulder to the darkness beyond the window. “He called me his beloved and told me not to cry.” “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Bridget!” Sheila gasped. She reached for the Celtic cross dangling from her neck. “Do you even know what it is you've gone and summoned, Yank?” “Summoned?” Aryn questioned, her eyes as wide as saucers. Mouth tight, eyebrows slashing together, Bronwyn snapped, “I didn't summon anything.” She had little patience for Sheila's ridiculous belief in the supernatural. “You might not have meant to call him, but somehow he heard you,” Sheila said. “What?” Destiny asked. “What did she summon?” “He can't come onto hallowed ground,” Sheila said, ignoring Destiny's query. “You'd best be thanking the whole legion of the saints for that, McGregor.”

Bronwyn ran her fingers through her thick hair. “I don't believe in your mumbo jumbo, McPherson. Let's just drop it.” “He couldn't have come without you calling him,” Sheila insisted. “In some way, you conjured him from his lair.” “Stop it!” Bronwyn hissed. She remembered her earlier dream of the monster plastered to her window. Goosebumps prickled her flesh. “You're full of crap.” “Ah, that I may be, but you're lucky you're in here and the Nightwind is out there, McGregor, is all I'm gonna say.” “What's a Nightwind?” Destiny asked, but Sheila ignored her. The older girl was staring at Bronwyn, who refused to look at her. She turned to Aryn to ask the same question, but stopped when she saw how pale the girl from Connemara had become. “What's your problem, Mooty?” “I heard tell of them creatures,” Aryn said with a visible shudder. “Witches and the like bind them to ‘em and such.” “Do more than bind ‘em,” Sheila mumbled. “What is it you're trying to say, McPherson?” Bronwyn demanded, glaring at the girl from London. “Tell me and get it the hell over with!” Sheila remained silent for a moment, then sat forward. “He came because you were lonely. He could feel it. Maybe you were crying and he heard you. Maybe you wished himself would come for you, anybody would come for you, and he left his lair to look for you.” “Can't just up and do that without the witch what owns him giving permission,” Aryn said with a shake of her head. “Some can,” Sheila disagreed. “Some what's been granted their freedom after thousands of years of service or such can go and come at will.” “You're talking about a creature that's over a thousand years old climbing up Sleivemartinand waving at me,” Bronwyn scoffed. “And you want me to believe that?” “I don't give a rat's hairy ass whether you believe it or not,” Sheila snarled. “But if you heard him calling you from over the distance to that hill and you felt him touching you, then you've got a Nightwind after you, Bronwyn McGregor!” “Which isn't necessarily a bad thing,” Aryn remarked. At Sheila's snort, she turned to the London girl. “Well, he does champion women who haven't had an easy time of it.” “Aye, and at what price?” Sheila asked. “Where the hell are these things supposed to live?” Bronwyn inquired. “Some say they live in lairs deep beneath the bogs,” Aryn answered. “Some say they aren't of this earth. Some say they are from beyond this universe, even.”

“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Bronwyn groaned. “Now you're talking about spacemen!” “Aye, like the one they have up at Fuilghaoth,” Aryn threw at her. Sheila stared at Aryn. “Where's that?” “Ain't no one supposed to know of it,” Aryn muttered. “Best not to be speaking of it.” “Then why'd you mention it?” Destiny asked. “Dunno,” Aryn replied with a dismissive shrug. “They got a spaceman there like the one at Area Fifty-One in the States?” Sheila questioned. “I done said too much.” Aryn folded her arms over her scrawny chest. “Ain't gonna say no more.” “Could they have captured a Nightwind?” Sheila asked, interest shining in her dark brown eyes. “Leave off, McPherson,” Aryn insisted. “Folks have been known to come up disappeared for asking questions of Fuilghaoth.” “You girls are full of it,” Bronwyn said. She picked up her rack and dumped the tiles back into the box. “I'm not going to listen to this crap.” She pushed back her chair and was about to stand when Sheila and grabbed her arm. “He's an incubus,” the London girl said. “Handsome as they come on the outside but as evil as sin on the inside. It's best you not encourage him.” Bronwyn jerked her arm from the girl's hard grasp. “Will you let it rest?” “He has laid claim to you and it won't be easy, if even possible, to be rid of him,” Sheila stated. “You might well be his for the rest of your life.” “Shut up!” Bronwyn shouted, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. “Has he whispered his name to you?” Sheila asked. “If you knew his name...” “Go to hell!” Bronwyn snarled, striding away even as Sister Mauveen bore down on her. Behind the bottle-glass spectacles she wore half-way down her thin nose, the nun had a fiery look in her eyes. “Miss McGregor! You will return to this room immediately!” Bronwyn paid no heed to the harsh bark. She rushed from the room, several nuns close behind. She heard their hard-soled shoes slapping against the marble floor and the clank of their rosary beads knocking against one another. “Miss McGregor!” Sister Mauveen brayed. “Stop this instant!” Bronwyn picked up speed, fleeing down the labyrinthian corridors of the old convent. Never without an escort, she soon lost her way amid the twisting and turning passageways. Coming to a dead end with a moisture-rimed wall blocking her way, she stamped her foot and pounded on the cold wall with both

fists. “Sean!” she cried. “Damn you, Sean Cullen for not coming for me!” “I am here,” a voice whispered. “You are not Sean!” “I would never leave you, Beloved.” “Who are you?” “Get up!” Sister Mauveen snarled as she advanced down the corridor toward Bronwyn. Not giving Bronwyn a chance to do as she was ordered, the nun grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. “Be careful of her, Sister,” one of the nuns warned. “You will rue the day you cursed in my social hall!” Sister Mauveen hissed, shaking Bronwyn. “Sister,” came the admonishment. “Remember her condition.” “Whoring little tramp,” Sister Mauveen ground out, her spittle flying into Bronwyn's face. “You are a disgrace to your family!” Bronwyn was dragged along in the nun's hateful wake like a recalcitrant child. She stumbled, her arm cruelly held in the nun's vise-like grip. “Where are you now, my protector?” Bronwyn asked under her breath and was not surprised that her unseen visitor did not answer. “Stop mumbling,” Sister Mauveen ordered. Her grip tightened and she smiled brutally when Bronwyn whimpered. “I will give you something to cry about!” When they reached Bronwyn's room and Sister Geraldine Marie made to enter, Sister Mauveen would not allow it. “Wait outside!” “I don't think...” Sister Geraldine Marie began, only to have the door slammed in her face. Bronwyn clenched her teeth as the ruler slammed into her opened palms. The stinging grew worse the longer Sister Mauveen gleefully applied her chosen instrument of torture. Avoiding looking at the glazed look of combined fury and pleasure stamped on the nun's wrinkled face, it was all Bronwyn could do not to cry out with the agony being inflicted on her. “Whore!” Sister Mauveen chanted as the heavy, metal-edged ruler descended. “Harlot!” The force of the strikes grew harder, the epithets louder. “Strumpet! Slut! Jezebel!” Bronwyn's lower lip trembled, her cheeks streaked with tears, but she made no sound as the ruler left vivid red impressions in her palms and on the tops of her upturned wrists. “Hussy! Floozy!” Sister Mauveen shrieked. She lifted the ruler as high over her shoulder as she could and brought it down with enough force to splinter the wood.

Bronwyn screamed as the ruler's metal edge sliced open the flesh of her left hand. Stumbling away from the demented nun who shouted at her to stay still, Bronwyn crouched against the wall, her back to an enraged Sister Mauveen. “Turn around! Give me your hands!” the nun demanded, pulling at Bronwyn's arm. When Bronwyn refused to budge, Sister Mauveen grabbed a handful of Bronwyn's hair and would likely have pulled her around in that manner had not Sister Geraldine Marie stopped her. “That's enough!” the nun shouted and stepped between Sister Mauveen and the object of her fury. She caught the other nun's wrist and dug her short nails into the mottled flesh. Yelping, Sister Mauveen snatched back her hand and turned to glare at the smaller nun. “How dare you interfere with this whore's punishment!” Bronwyn slid down the wall, cradling her bleeding hand against her chest. She whimpered; her shoulders shook. “What's going on?” someone demanded from the doorway. Sister Mauveen spun around to find Mother Superior just inside the room. She pointed a crooked finger at Sister Geraldine Marie. “This woman had no right to stop me from punishing this girl. I am—” “Go to your room,” the Mother Superior ordered, and when Sister Mauveen started to argue, she stepped closer. “Do you dare to disobey me?” Sister Mauveen looked as though she smelled something rancid. Her upper lips arched toward her aquiline nose and her chin puckered. “No, Reverend Mother.". “Then do as you are told!” Mother Mary Joseph snapped. With a curt bow that was less than respectful, Sister Mauveen spun on her heel and stomped from the room. “See to the girl,” the Mother Superior told Sister Geraldine Marie. Hunkering down, Sister put an arm around Bronwyn's shoulder. “Let me see, Bronnie.” Eyes swollen, Bronwyn looked up and held out her injured hands. At the nun's sharp intake of breath, she began to cry again. Sister Geraldine Marie looked at Mother Mary Joseph. “She is going to need stitches.” The Mother Superior's jaw tightened and her eyes became flint hard. “See to it, please.” Helping Bronwyn to her feet, Sister Geraldine Marie ushered her from the room. As she passed the Reverend Mother, their eyes locked. “I'll see to it,” Mother Mary Joseph promised.

**** In the infirmary later than evening, Bronwyn lay on a cot, her face turned to the dank wall. She had cried all the tears she had in her and now all that was left was terrible grief and lingering pain in her palms. “Bronwyn.” “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice as detached as an automaton's. “The nun will be punished. This I swear.” Bronwyn buried her face in the pillow and tried to drown out the insidious words coming to her from the night beyond the walls of Galrath. “I love you, Bronwyn,” he whispered. “I will always love you and one day we will be together.” “I don't want you,” she said fiercely. “I want Sean!” There was silence, then: “You will never have him.” Despite the pain in her hands, she covered her ears. “Go away!” she yelled. There was a soft pressure, a longing stroke along her left hip. She jerked, staring up into the darkened room, yet seeing nothing. “You are mine.” The pressure increased, then vanished. “Who are you?” Bronwyn sobbed, her lip trembling. “You will know soon enough...” CHAPTER 18

Sean opened his eyes, feeling as though he were wrapped loosely in a thick blanket of cotton. He swallowed and tried to turn his head, but when he did, his world cantered off to the side. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the nausea from rushing up his throat. “The feeling will pass,” Brian said. “Don't try to move for a few more minutes.” “W...what did they give me?” Sean asked, his voice husky, grating. “A drug called tenerse. Once you Transition, you won't be able to live without it.” Forcing his eyes open, Sean grabbed two fistfuls of the sheet beneath him and moved his vision to his father. “You get addicted to it?” Brian nodded. “In a manner of speaking. It's not a narcotic, though. Don't consider it in that light. Think of it as preventative medicine. Something like a drug to keep your blood pressure under control, or like

insulin for a diabetic.” With effort, Sean lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead. “I hurt.” “I would imagine so. That was one hell of a seizure you had, lad.” At the word “seizure,” Sean's brow furrowed. “What caused it?” Brian glanced at Daniel Dunne, who stood by the door. Dunne shrugged. “Tell him what he needs to know.” “Why don'tyou tell me?” Sean asked. Dunne smiled crookedly. “All right,” he said, advancing on the bed. “Where do you want me to start?” “What happened to me?” “We believe it was your close proximity to the revenant queen,” Dunne replied. “She grew extremely agitated the moment you started up here. The parasite within you felt her and began to wake. You can liken it to a lost child hearing its mother's voice and trying to get to her.” He locked eyes with Brian. “It's never happened before, so we were unprepared for the severity of Sean's reaction or the intensity of the queen's.” “The drug you gave me knocked me out,” Sean accused. Dunne sighed. “If it hadn't, you might well have experienced an aneurysm or gone into convulsions. We thought it best.” “Is that what Transition is like?” Sean asked. “Since I've never experienced anything like you did,” Brian answered, “I can't say, but from the sheer force of the reaction you had, I'd say Transition will be a piece of cake for you.” “That's not to say Transition will be easy,” Dunne put in. “It's a painful process.” “Something to look forward to,” Sean muttered. “The tenerse controls the severity of the change,” Brian told him. “And it also keeps us from Transitioning out of cycle. Without it, we'd have no way of controlling when we Transition or for how long.” Sean stared at the ceiling. “How does it feel to be a puppet master, Dr. Dunne?” he asked sarcastically. “To turn men into monsters on a whim?” Brian gasped. “Sean! Don't talk to...” Dunne held up his hand to silence Brian. “Let him have his say. He is entitled.” A snort came from Sean. His gaze slid to Dunne. “What good would it do to tell you how disgusting this whole thing is to me? How angry I am that, through no part of my own, I can look forward to a future of torment?” He turned away his head. “How much I ache because that future can't be shared with the only

person I've ever cared about?” “Ah,” Dunne said, sitting astride a chair beside Sean's bed. He braced his forearms on the chair's back. “That's the crux of the matter, isn't it? The girl?” Sean's jaw tightened. “You love this girl,” Dunne stated. “We are aware of your feelings and we know those feelings will never change.” “Fat lot of good it does me that you know how I feel!” “You've a lot to learn about being a Reaper,” Dunne continued as though he had not been interrupted, “but the main thing you need to understand is that Reapers bear a close kinship to what legend calls ‘werewolves.’ When you Transition, that is basically the kind of shape you will have.” Sean flinched; his grip on the sheet tightened. “If you know anything about wolves,” Dunne went on, “you know they mate for life. The male wolf will never mount another female after he has chosen his mate. Neither will you.” “Not only a freakish monster, but a celibate freakish monster,” Sean hissed. Dunne sighed. “Please don't consider yourself a monster. You are...” Sean turned a hard glower to the doctor. “What am I ifnot a monster?” “I'll tell you, if you'd let me,” Dunne snapped. “By all means,” Sean grated. “Tell me just how bad it really is!” Dunne let out an exasperated breath and clenched his teeth for a moment. “For centuries there have been legends in Ireland of the dearg duls. Do you know what they are?” “No.” “Celtic vampires. Every culture has its own version of the creature. The most written about are the ones from the Balkans region, from Transylvania, but Greece, China, Spain, even the Native Americans, have beasts that resemble the traditional vampire. Dearg duls are ours. Reapers are dearg duls, they—” “Not only a werewolf, but a vampire.” Sean guffawed. “There's no end to my talent, is there? Next thing you'll tell me is that I'm part brain-eating zombie, too.” “That's enough!” Brian shouted. “There is no reason to be disrespectful!” “Did he respectyou when he implanted that evil thing in you?” Sean countered, his voice equally strong. Dunne put a calming hand on Brian's arm. “Let me handle this. Take a walk. Calm down. I'll send for you when we're through here.” “But...” Brian began, but Dunne tightened his grip on his arm.

“Go,” Dunne insisted, then released his hold. Brian cast Sean an angry look, then threw up his hands and left. Dunne sighed heavily. “Brian accepted what I did long ago.” “How? By having one of your goons program him into accepting it?” Sean scoffed. “I've never had any Reaper programmed, and I won't start with you, if that's what concerns you.” “What concerns me is the beast I'm going to turn into when the damned moon turns full!” “Would it make you feel any better if I told you I am sorry I ever implanted the first revenant in a human?” “No!” “Why not?” “Because I wouldn't believe it! I think you enjoyed the hell out of it. You knew precisely what you were doing. You might not have known what would happen to the men, but you knew it would be to your advantage!” “How could it possibly be an advantage to me?” Dunne barked. “I've yet to figure that out, but I will!” “Well, whether you believe it or not, I do regret it. I've created beings that are hard to control and some that have gone rogue on me. I have three rogues locked up in the deep containment cells who would gladly tear me apart piece by bloody piece if they could. They are marked for execution at the end of this week.” Sean stared at him. “Just like that?” he asked, snapping his finger. “You just say the word and a man's life is terminated in the blink of an eye because he opposes what you did to him?” “Do you have any notion of what evil those three would do if they were let loose on civilization?” Dunne ground out. “They'd make your horror movie serial killers look like choir boys. We're talking mass slaughter here, and the violent impregnation of three innocent women whom those Reapers would keep filling with their contaminated sperm. There would be wholesale bloodshed until they could be stopped. Is that what you would unleash on society? Is that the kind of plague you would like to see replicating itself?” Sean seethed. “You know it isn't.” “Destroying the rogues is the only way to make sure that scenario doesn't happen.” “Stop making Reapers and you won't have to worry about it.” “We haven't ‘made’ a Reaper in eighteen years. You and nine others are the only second generation Reapers we have.” Dunne looked down at his hands. “When the three rogues are terminated, that will

leave seven of you.” “And how many first generation monsters?” Sean queried. “Five, your father included. There were ten, but three died trying to escape Fuilghaoth and two were terminated when they turned rogue. I suspect a third will be eventually going to the deep containment cells. He is the bloodfather of one of the rogues and is showing signs of turning.” “So no more Reapers, then?” Sean challenged. Dunne shook his head. “No more Reapers.” Sean narrowed his eyes. “You're a lying piece of shit, Dunne.” The doctor blinked. For a few ticks of the clock, he said nothing, then got up from the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Sean. “You are going to be trouble, Cullen,” he said, his gaze flint-hard, “but you can be controlled.” “The rogues are like me, aren't they? They rebelled against what you did to them!” “You want the truth? Okay, I'll take the gloves off. No more lies. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I'll give you the truth, boy.” He leaned over Sean's bed, bracing his hand on the headboard. His voice was hard as he spoke. “His name was Viraidan Cree and he came from a place far beyond our own galaxy, from a planet we have learned is called ‘Rysalia.’ What we've learned of him has come from the revenant queen when she is psychically linked to the men we've implanted with her progeny. “The Reaper's craft crashed somewhere near Clifden. You can imagine what the ancient Celts and Druids must have thought of this man falling from the sky in his chariot. “Though hurt badly, burned hideously, he survived, his parasite working to heal him. He was dead, then alive, perfectly healed as though nothing had ever scarred him. That must have stunned the natives. They fell to their knees and began to worship him as a god. They brought him women to ease his needs, and from one of them, he chose a mate, a woman named Chandra. “The natives feared him, were terrified of his ability to shapeshift. Though he sexually took no other women save Chandra, there were females whose blood he drank, draining them almost to the point of death. These women would walk dazed through the village, eyes glazed, pale as ghosts, and it was said they became undead creatures who feasted on the blood of small animals and babies to satisfy the alien urges Cree had instilled within them. “We know now there is a venom in the bite of a Reaper, a venom that causes the victim to become psychically attached to the Reaper. Inject enough venom into the victim and it will become immune to illness, to injury, even to death. No doubt this is the basis of the legend of the dearg duls—creatures who feast on the blood of others and turn them into undead beings like themselves.” Dunne leaned lower over Sean. “In time, Chandra bore Viraidan a son on whom he doted. He loved the boy dearly and began to teach him how to be a Reaper. When the boy Transitioned for the first time at puberty, the natives were horrified. They realized a whole race of savage beasts like Viraidan and his son could wipe them out. Their Druid priests began plotting a way to rid themselves of Cree and his

bloodson. Chandra overheard what was planned and warned her menfolk to flee. The revenant queen does not know what happened to Chandra, but I suspect she was slain. The Druids could not risk her bearing another Reaper offspring.” “Which one did you find in the bog?” Sean asked. “Viraidan. His son had been set upon by a dozen warriors and hacked to pieces with stone axes. As they struck his back, splitting it open, his parasite was revealed. It tried to slither away, but they picked it up with a stick and threw it into the fire. What was left of the boy was also thrown into the fire. Another group of warriors, however, chased Viraidan into the bog where he drowned.” “He drowned, but the parasite lived,” Sean mumbled. “It went into extended hibernation.” Dunne straightened up. “Until I drew its host from the bog and allowed it to live again.” Sean shuddered. “And began putting portions of it into humans.” “To make them stronger, quicker, more powerful.” Dunne grinned sardonically. “And deadlier.” A cold finger of fear scraped its talon down Sean's spine. His face crinkled with loathing. “But why would you do that? What purpose could you possibly see for turning men into monsters?” Dunne cocked his head to one side. “Reapers are supreme warriors, Sean Cullen. Unlike anything this world had ever known. Their ability to shapeshift, to read minds, to hypnotize with a look, to kill without thought, makes them the perfect tool. They are worth their weight in gold bullion.” “Tool?” Sean repeated. “Tool for what? For whom?” “For governments in need of invincible soldiers. Governments desiring the ultimate warrior without conscience, without pity, without remorse. A relentless, nearly indestructible operative who will do his assigned job, do it well, then never ponder on what was done.” He grinned. “In other words, the perfect killing machine for governments and businesses with deep pockets and the willingness to pay for what they want.” Sean stared at the man hovering over him. “You're talking about assassins. Terrorists.” Dunne nodded. “The most unassailable and invulnerable being in this galaxy and several others. An elite warrior without peer. Show him once how to do something and he will do it the second time a hundred times better than your more proficient expert. He can assimilate knowledge faster, more thoroughly than any genius ever could.” Sean thought back to a lifetime of never opening a book yet getting higher marks than any child in his classes. Of how easily learning came to him—almost without effort. He'd had to work at failing his last year of school so he could be with Bronwyn. “I can see the gears turning in your head.” Dunne chuckled. “You knew you were different from other kids. You just didn't know how different.” Sean winced and turned on to his side. “Go away.”

“Once you go through Transition the first time, you will be amazed at how much you will assimilate. I could put a book of Egyptian hieroglyphics in front of you and in a matter of seconds you would be able to decipher and read them. I could—” “I'm not going to do anything for you.” “Do you believe you actually have a choice, Sean?” “I won't become one of your puppet monsters!” “Oh, but you will,” Dunne said silkily. “No!” The one word was a harsh explosion of sound. “Look at me,” Dunne commanded. When Sean did not obey, the doctor grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on to his back. Sean glared at the man. The doctor's jaw was tight, his gaze hot. “I have three Stalcaires, three elite warriors, who are perfectly loyal to me. They will do anything I tell them to do without question. If I send one of them to Galrath, how long do you think it will take him to drain every last drop of blood from Bronwyn McGregor's luscious little body?” Sean drew in a hard breath. Blood pounded through his veins; sweat popped up on his brow. “How long?” Dunne repeated. “Don't,” Sean whispered. “Ten minutes? Five?” “Please, don't.” “Less than five?” Dunne pressed. “What if I told the Stalcaire to make her suffer before he drank her blood? To rip her apart while she's still living.” “No!” Sean tried to cover his ears with his hands, to shut out the loathsome words, but Dunne grabbed his wrists. “Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe I'll do what I say.” He studied the doctor's brutal glower and knew a defeat so complete, so merciless, it was like a living death. No doubt the man would carry out his threat without the first twinge of regret. “Well?” Dunne queried. “What's it to be? Do you go forth with your destiny or do you want the death of that precious little girl on your hands?” Trapped, Sean thought. With no recourse. As entangled as a dragonfly caught in the web of a spider. He could see no exit from the snare into which he'd been plunged, no escape from Dunne's savage clutches. “Do as I say and the girl lives, none the wiser about the young man she fancied who fell off the face of the earth,” Dunne vowed. “Fight me, oppose my will even once, and I will send a Reaper to Galrath. I assure you, your lady will feel the brunt of my anger. Balk at an order, fail to carry out a mission, and I'll have Bronwyn McGregor hurt in a way she will never recover. Challenge my authority by trying to

escape and I will have her torn apart.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do I make myself clear?” Sean closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said on a breath. “Yes, what?” “Yes...sir.” Dunne released his hold on Sean and straightened. “Good boy. I think we understand each other perfectly, don't you?” CHAPTER 19

Bronwyn sat in the pew and stared at the statue of the Blessed Mother. She was not listening to Father O'Malley, had turned out his thick brogue and singsong homily. Now and again, her gaze would stray to the coffin sitting in the aisle and facing the altar. No feelings of guilt plagued her at the death of Sister Mauveen. She had expected something to happen to the vicious old biddy, and had not been surprised that it happened so soon after the Nightwind promised to see to the matter. “The nun will be punished,” he had vowed. And she had—falling down the stairs, breaking every bone in her fragile body. “Let us pray.” Father O'Malley's voice rose and fell with the sending off of Sister Mauveen's malevolent spirit. Bronwyn looked down at her hand and stared at the stitches that ran parallel to her lifeline. The cut left by the broken ruler hurt, for it was right where she flexed her palm. Those around her came to their feet. Bronwyn followed suit as though someone else plied the strings that worked her. “The Lord be with you.” “And also with you,” Bronwyn mumbled. She felt nothing as the recessional began, the coffin being rolled down the aisle toward the narthex. She caught Father O'Malley's eye as he passed. He frowned at her. She didn't care; she detested the old man. It was difficult for her to genuflect as she left the pew, but she did out of respect for her beliefs. God had nothing to do with her being imprisoned in this vile place. Unlike the phantom voice that visited her nightly, He was a source of comfort. It wasn't right to take her anger out on Him. Rain was falling as the procession made its way to the gravesite beyond the chapel. Tombstones glistened in the grayish light. Lightning speared the clouds from west to east, then blazed again in a staggered arch across the sky.

“Well, that shoots my Da's theory all to hell,” Sheila whispered. Bronwyn glanced at the girl walking beside her. She raised her eyebrows in question. “Da says it always rains when a good person dies. Says it's the angels crying for the dearly departed.” She snorted. “Mauveen was meaner than one of your junk yard dogs. If the angels are crying, it's with happiness the mean bitch has turned up her ugly old toes!” “Not nice to talk ill of the dead,” Destiny whispered behind them. “God's listening, you know.” “No news to him,” Sheila shot back, “that Mauveen was a bitch, I'm sure!” Bronwyn tuned out the girls. She was rarely allowed outside, so despite the rain and the jagged lightning, she breathed in the smells of the freshly turned mound of dirt toward which they walked. To the south, just beyond the high wall separating Galrath from the rest of the world, a huge oak stood sentinel. None of its branches were close to the wall, but it was like a beacon to Bronwyn, drawing her attention. It was there she saw the cat. It was sitting on one of the highest branches, its blue-black fur seemingly untouched by the rain. Its piercing green eyes were locked on her, following her every step. As the Rite of Committal continued, Bronwyn watched the sleek creature. It never moved from its lofty position. Never seemed to blink, to look away from her steady regard. When Father O'Malley pronounced the last words over Sister's Mauveen's body and the casket began inching downward, Bronwyn mimicked the actions of the nuns and her fellow students, gathering a handful of sod to throw into the open grave. As she passed the coffin, absentmindedly tossing in the clod of dirt, she looked up and thought the cat was grinning. When the procession headed back to the school, Bronwyn turned and again looked to the high branches. She lifted her injured hand in farewell. The cat daintily raised its leg and pawed at the air in answer. **** Mother Mary Joseph walked into Bronwyn's room, a gentle smile on her face. “How are you feeling?” “I've had terrible heartburn since breakfast,” Bronwyn reported, standing. “To be expected,” the Mother Superior commented. “Or so I've heard.” “Did Father O'Malley send you?” Bronwyn asked quietly. The Reverend Mother sighed. “He believes you need to come to confession.” “What am I to confess that I haven't already?” “He didn't like your inattention during the funeral Mass this morning. He believes you were being disrespectful to Sister Mauveen.”

“I probably was. Not intentionally, but I couldn't have cared less what happened to her after what she did to me.” Mother Mary Joseph frowned. “We should all care about one another, Bronnie. We must pray for our enemies as we pray for our loved ones.” “As Sister Mauveen no doubt prayed for me?” The Mother Superior sighed again, heavier than before. “She was a troubled woman. We must ask the Lord to open His arms and accept her.” “If she's in heaven, Reverend Mother, I've no desire to be there.” The nun winced. “Well, I'm sure she'll be making a detour through a few years of purgatory before she reaches the Pearly Gates,” she muttered. Bronwyn smiled, but made no reply. “Father is expecting you. Don't keep him waiting.” She patted Bronwyn's shoulder, then left, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her habit. Bronwyn glanced out the window, looking to the place where she always saw the figure after sunset. She expected to see him standing on the crest of the hill, but he was not there. With a groan of frustration, she reached for her missal and rosary and headed for Father O'Malley's office. **** The rain had continued through the day and into the evening hours. A harsh storm raged across Northern Ireland, and wind skirled around the eaves of Galrath. In the night sky, lightning stitched storm clouds together with white-hot silk thread, patching up the ragged holes. Bright pulses of intense light lit the sodden countryside and spears of deadly energy pocked the land. Thunder reverberated the windows of Bronwyn's room as rain pecked at the glass. A light tapping at the door made Bronwyn scowl. She was in no mood for further chastisement from the nuns. After returning from Father O'Malley's office, two of Sister Mauveen's cohorts had come to complain of Bronwyn's lack of sufficient grief at the nun's sudden passing. Meekly answering their sneering reprimands, Bronwyn was fast approaching a saturation point and was afraid the next religious who lectured her would get a piece of her mind! Flinging open the door as the tapping came again, Bronwyn was relieved to see Destiny, which was highly unusual. She was allowed no visitors to her room from among the girls. “What are you doing here?” Bronwyn whispered. “Let me in and I'll tell ya!” Destiny snapped, pushing Bronwyn aside. Bronwyn stuck her head into the corridor to see if any nuns were lurking about, then shut the door. She had barely turned around before Destiny took her arm, led her to the bed, and made her sit with her.

“I can't stay but a minute, but I thought you might like to know what I overheard when I was dusting the Reverend Mother's sitting room.” Bronwyn's pulse rose. “What?” “Your Da called from the States. When I realized who it was calling, I ‘accidentally’ picked up the extension and listened in. At one point, the Reverend Mother must have thought I was eavesdropping ‘cause she told your Da to hold on. I hung up quick like and just in time, too, ‘cause she came to the door between her office and the sitting room and told me to leave.” Destiny frowned. “But I'd heard enough.” It was all Bronwyn could do not to shake the girl. She dug her nails into her palms. “What did they talk about?” “Himself?” “My Seannie?” “Aye.” Fear bubbled up in Bronwyn's throat. “What of him? Is he all right?” Destiny grinned. “Himself is over here.” Bronwyn grabbed the girl's arm. “In Ireland?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Came just this week, he did. Your Da don't know where he is, but he's got men searching. Told Mother Mary Joseph to be extra careful with you and if himself showed up, to call the coppers and have him arrested!” Tears formed in Bronwyn's eyes. “Sean is here.” “Thought you ought to know,” Destiny said, getting up. She padded to the door, opened it, and stuck out her head. “See ya.” With that, she was through the door, closing it gently behind her. As the storm raged outside, Bronwyn's thoughts grew just as turbulent. Knowing Sean was in Ireland, hopefully on his way to rescue her from this prison, made her heart soar with love for him. But fear of what might happen if he were caught dampened that joy. “I knew you would come, Sean,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I knew you wouldn't leave me here.” The pitcher and ewer, sitting in the dry sink by the door, sailed across the room and crashed against the far wall, splintering into fragments on the wooden floor. Her hairbrush followed, its handle putting a dimple in the plaster wall. Bronwyn's eyes grew wide as her comb, a jar of ointment for her cut hand, and a tumbler of water on her bedside flew across the room and hit the wall. “Stop it!” she shouted, scurrying from the bed and pressing against the wall by the window. The chair at her desk skidded to the center of the room, spun round and round, then flung itself against

the footboard of her bed. “Stop!” she yelled, knowing full well who—or what—was responsible for the destruction. Bronwyn's door opened and Sister Mary Pat came in just as Bronwyn's desk flipped to its top and began bumping up and down on the floor. “Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Sister Mary Pat gasped, crossing herself. She barely had time to jump back before two of Bronwyn's textbooks came flying at her head. She jerked the door closed behind her as the heavy volumes slammed into the portal. “Stop!” Bronwyn screamed, covering her ears to shut out the sound of the desk thumping against the floor. She stared wild-eyed as all the small things in her room began to churn in a vortex in the center of the floor. Once more Bronwyn's door opened. Sister Mary Pat, accompanied by another nun, came in, crucifix held high. “Be gone!” Sister Mary Pat shouted over the spinning whirlwind. As the din rose, Bronwyn heard harsh male laughter. She was barely aware of other nuns crowding into the room, staying well away from the dangerous tornado whirling before them. Even when one of the older nuns grabbed her arm and pulled her from the wall, tugging her out of the room, she was so shocked reality did not register. “Call Father O'Malley,” Sister Mary Pat demanded. “Tell him it's happening again!” The nuns hustled Bronwyn to the chapel and crowded around her in the pew, the older nun's arm firmly around her shoulder. “Don't think of him,” the nun cautioned. “Concentrate on the Holy Trinity, Bronwyn. Concentrate on the Holy Trinity!” Rain lashed brutally against the chapel windows, shaking them in their frames. The moan of the wind was so loud it drowned out all other sounds. Flares from the lightning striking ground all around Galrath made the old building tremble. The chapel filled with the inhabitants of Galrath. The girls, in their nightclothes, pressed into the pews as close together as space would allow. Their faces were pale, their eyes round, their lips quivering. “Pray the Rosary,” the Reverend Mother ordered. Hands trembled as her command was carried out. For three hours the storm threw its strength against the walls of Galrath. By the time the wind's howl had lessened and the rain had ceased its relentless downpour, nerves were frayed and the soft sound of sobbing could be heard over the creak of the overhead beams and the plink of twigs and leaves hitting the window. Voices were strained from the many decades of the Rosary that had been prayed aloud over and over again, from the prayers that had beseeched God, His son and the Blessed Mother to intercede in the evil that visited Galrath that night. When the last shriek of the storm faded and peace and calm were restored to the elements, Father O'Malley took to the lectern with a stony look of battle on his craggy features. “Satan, himself, paid a call on us tonight, ladies,” he intoned. “But he was turned away at the gate. He

found he had no welcome here!” Bronwyn felt the priest's eyes boring into her and she looked up. “He came for the weakest link amongst us, but that link stood strong, inviolate, and once again the Prince of Darkness was defeated.” The older nun, whose arm was still locked around Bronwyn's shoulder, leaned toward her. “You did good, Bronwyn Fiona.” Bronwyn turned to the old woman. “You know who he is?” Nodding, the nun squeezed Bronwyn's shoulder. “When I was a lass your age, he came for me, but I denied his seductive call. Just as many before you have denied him.” “He can not enter these walls,” another nun whispered. “But he can send his loathsome energy to wreak havoc. The destruction he has caused here over the years has been fearsome.” Bronwyn looked about to find every eye in the chapel on her. She shuddered, suddenly terrified of the nightly phantom that had helped to console her unhappiness for the last several weeks. That she had conversed with the demon, encouraged it, made the hair stand up on her arm. “Deny him and he will leave you,” the older nun said. “Cast him back into the Abyss from which he sprang.” Something heavy hit the chapel door. Shrieks filled the room. The girls jumped to their feet, terrified. “Deny him,” came the chant of the nuns. “Deny him.” The wind began to howl once more; the rain slashed savagely against the windows. “Deny him. Deny him.” The girls picked up the cadence of the chant as they left their pews and crowded around the pew where Bronwyn sat, the old nun's arm still around her shoulder. “Deny him. Deny him. Deny him.” Father O'Malley came down from the lectern, taking the crucifix from the stand by the altar and marching with it as though it were a battle standard. “Deny him!” For the first time, Bronwyn felt the babe inside her womb move. She gasped, her hands going to her belly. “Protect your child from the evil that longs to corrupt it!” Father O'Malley charged her. “Keep that innocent safe!” The babe twisted within her. Bronwyn cried out and leaned over from the pain in her belly. She felt hands on her, pulling her back against the pew. The room spun, the lights overhead circling her like a

kaleidoscope, the rays fractured and spinning off in myriad directions. “Deny him!” Outside the chapel, glass broke, wood splintered, and material ripped, but inside the sacred room, there was calm despite the labored breath of the frightened girls and chanting nuns. “Deny him!” Bronwyn grew hot. So hot, sweat coursed down her face and from between her breasts. She swept a lock of hair from her cheek. The sounds around her became muted, and though she could see the nuns’ mouths opening and closing, she heard no words. The room swirled around her; the lights fragmented; the air grew thick and cloying. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she passed out. **** The Reverend Mother was sitting at her bedside when she awoke, holding her hand. Around her, other nuns were stationed, their faces drawn and pinched. “You are safe, now,” Mother Mary Joseph said. “He's gone.” Bronwyn looked about her. The room in which she lay was unfamiliar; its walls darker than her own. Save for the huge crucifix on the cot above her, there was nothing else in the room. “W...where am I?” she whispered. “This is a special room where you are to remain until we are sure no further assault on you will be made,” the Mother Superior replied. The room bore a strong resemblance to a cell and when she turned her head, Bronwyn was not surprised to see bars across the opening in the narrow door. There were no windows. “Don't fret, dearling. You won't be here all that long. Just until we are sure he has gone back to his lair.” The word “lair” sent a shudder through Bronwyn. “Then it's true? There really is a Nightwind?” “Hush, child!” one of the older nuns cautioned. “Do not say the word!” “He is an incubus, Bronwyn. Every twenty years or so one of his kind comes to test us,” Mother Mary Joseph told her. “He comes for the lonely girls, those he feels he can tempt to his side. So far, we've only lost one to him.” “What happened to her?” Bronwyn asked, her voice quivering. The Reverend Mother made the Sign of the Cross. “She hung herself from the balcony rail.” “He...sp...spoke to me,” Bronwyn confessed. “We figured as much,” Mother Mary Joseph replied. “The poltergeist activity witnessed in your room

this evening and the chaos he caused in the main hall was a sure sign you had more than a passing acquaintance with him.” “Oh, God,” Bronwyn cried, burying her face in her hands. “It will be all right, now. Father O'Malley will see to it.” She smoothed the hair from Bronwyn's forehead. “Just place your trust in us and all will be well.” **** Bronwyn made her home in the cramped cell for a little more than two weeks, and at the end of the time went with some trepidation back to her room. It took all her courage to go to the window that first night back, pull aside the curtain, and look up to the crest of the hill. Though she willed him to appear, the Nightwind did not show. Neither did his phantom voice and ghostly hand reach out to soothe her. When she took to her bed that night, she wondered where Sean was and when he would come for her. CHAPTER 20

This was to be his first assignment. He had been placed under the watchful eye of Alistair Gallagher, the oldest of the Reapers. Sitting in the sedan car, waiting for their target to come out of the Dublin pub, Sean felt nauseous, more nervous than he had ever felt in his life. “Killing ain't hard,” Alistair commented as he ratcheted a hollow-point bullet into the chamber of his .45 automatic. “After the first one, it's all a piece of cake.” He eyed Sean, sitting in the passenger seat. “Ye will more than likely puke, though, and if ye feel like ye be gonna, don't ye dare do it on me shoes or I'll plug ye ‘tween them pretty blue eyes. Ye get me drift, laddie?” Sean nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak for fear his voice would break like a pubescent boy's. His palms were slick with sweat, his mouth dry. The Russian-made machine pistol sitting across his lap trembled from the quivering of his jittery legs. “What did ye think of her when ye first saw her?” Sean looked at the man who had been assigned as his partner. “What?” “The Queen, laddie,” Alistair snarled. “What did ye think of her?” Realizing the Reaper was talking about the creature in the Room, he shook his head. “I nearly shat my britches.” Alistair hooted with laughter. He slapped a hand on his bulging thigh. “I reckon that be what most of us felt!” Sean looked at his watch, wondering how long the Englishman was going to stay in the pub. He wanted to get this over with. His nerves were stretched so fine, he thought he well might start screaming and never stop. “What did she do?” Alistair asked, his eyes narrowed. “When ye waltzed in there?”

Sean knew the details of what happened when Brian had taken him to see the Queen revenant had been bandied about at Fuilghaoth within moments of their occurrence. There wasn't a soul at the complex that didn't know what had transpired in that sickening room. “I don't want to talk about it, okay?” Sean grated. Alistair twisted in his seat until he was facing Sean. “Why not?” Mustering a courage he truly didn't feel, Sean looked at the other man. “Just let it drop.” Shaggy red brows rose into the sparse bangs plastered limply to Alistair's wide forehead. The pockmarked face with its deep craters and thick blackheads hardened. “Don't forget who ye be talkin’ to, laddie,” he threatened. “Ye don't want to go makin’ an enemy of me just yet.” Sean looked away, his jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek. He stared out the window, trying to calm his frazzled nerves, but the more he tried not to think about what had happened inside the Room, the firmer the image became etched. Brian had come for him right after Dr. Dunne left, the doctor's threats still heavy in the air. Sean was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his stomach a twisted knot of misery. He was trying desperately not to cry, to give in to the hopelessness he was feeling. When the door opened, he didn't even look up. “Come with me,” Brian ordered, his voice a bit gruffer than usual. Sean lifted his head, letting his hands fall between his knees. He stared up at the man who had fathered him, a man he didn't think he would ever understand, then stood. He didn't ask where they were going. He didn't really care. Walking beside Brian down the corridor, he felt warm, too warm. He ran the back of his hand under his chin. “We have to stop in the lab first,” Brian told him, and they detoured down a long, windowless corridor. They were waiting for him in the lab. The technician stepped forward, hypodermic in hand, and told him to remove his shirt. Sean did as he was told. “Sit here,” the technician said, indicating a gurney. The alcohol on the cotton swab was cool against his flesh, but the sting of the needle penetrating his neck was excruciating, and it was all he could do not to cry out. He jammed his hands into fists at his side and willed the burning pain spreading through his veins to ease. “You'll never get used to the sting of the tenerse,” Brian said. Sean made no comment. He resisted the urge to reach up and rub the burning agony in his neck. The closer they came to the Room at the end of the corridor on the second floor, the warmer Sean got. His mint green shirt was soon plastered to his back and chest. His head began to hurt, but not with the same debilitating pain he had experience the day before.

“As I told you, the tenerse will help lessen the severity of your Transitions,” Brian commented. “Believe me when I say you wouldn't want to try changing without it on hand.” He shuddered. “I know from experience that can be brutal.” Sean kept his attention locked on the black door at the end of the white corridor. He sensed a faint vibration beneath the soles of his shoes and could hear an electronic hum that rasped along his nerve endings. “This is the first thing new recruits see when they come to Fuilghaoth,” Brian was explaining. “Most men...” Sean tuned out the words. He was feeling nauseous again. His face was so hot, he felt as if he was inside an oven. An irritating itch had developed along his shoulder blades and along the nap of his neck. One he scratched; the other annoyed him, but he would not ask his father to relieve the sensation. “One thing, though,” Brian said. “Don't stare at it too long. It does weird things to you.” They were at the black door. There was no handle. On the wall was a palm print sensor, its opaque surface in sharp contrast to the stark white walls. Brian pressed his palm against the PPS and the door slid open on silent pneumatic rails. He held out his hand. “After you.” Sean felt the hair stir along the base of his neck and wanted nothing more than to turn and run as fast and as far from this place as he could get. But the steady look emanating from his father's stern face made him all too aware of his predicament. He wouldn't get ten yards before being captured. “You know better than to even try,” Brian whispered. Walking into the 12 x 14 room was like walking under water. The pressure was severe, pushing down on Sean's shoulders like an invisible weight. He found it hard to lift his feet. Light played along the shiny walls in undulating waves, reflecting from the muted milky glow coming from a large glass case sitting in the room's center. There was a strong smell of sulfur and the room was so hot it was hard to breathe. “How's your head?” Brian asked. “It hurts.” “How bad?” Sean shrugged. “Just a dull ache.” “Good. That means the tenerse is working.” Brian put out a hand. “No closer.” Sean was looking at the eerie glow inside the glass case. The liquid inside it was perfectly still. As opaque as it was, he could see nothing at all. “She knows you're here,” Brian commented, shifting his shoulders as though something were perched atop them. He reached behind and massaged the area over his right kidney.

Sean became aware of a nagging ache in the small of his back. It wasn't painful, simply irritating. But the longer he stood there, the more intense the ache became until he realized he was acutely uncomfortable. “Your parasite is waking,” Brian told him. “The tenerse put it to sleep, but the call of its mother is too strong to resist. When it wakens fully, you'll wish it had stayed asleep.” He rubbed his back. “I wish I'd had a shot of the drug myself!” The pain grew until it became an agony that threatened to buckle Sean's knees. He moaned. When he did, the thing inside him squirmed under his flesh. He screamed and dropped to his knees as though he'd been poleaxed. “Steady as she goes, lad,” Brian said. Sean heard the pain in his father's voice. The older man was suffering, too. From his servile position on the floor, Sean thought he saw movement behind the glass. When the liquid appeared to ripple, his parasite bunched under his ribcage, then slithered over his spine and pushed against his left kidney. “God!” Sean yelped, falling sideways and curling into a fetal position. “Not good,” Brian hissed. The next thing Sean heard was the door opening and closing, and he knew he was alone in the room. And the Transition began. Now, looking back on it as he sat in the car with Alistair, he could think about it objectively. At the time, he had been too stunned, horrified beyond words. The pain had been unbelievable, the agony worse than anything he could have ever imagined. The sight of his fingernails arching into thick black talons had shocked him to the depths of his being. The howl that had issued from his throat as human speech fled and the animal inside him took over had been enough to freeze the bloods in his veins. But it was the hair on his arms multiplying, thickening, spreading into a coarse brown fur that sprang from his flesh like wiry tentacles; the shriek of his nose elongating into a wet black muzzle, the nostrils opening and dripping copious snot; his teeth sharpening, dropping into wicked fangs that cut his pebbly tongue; his eyes turning into rabid slits that cast a crimson glow on the milky fluid beyond the glass; the sound of his body bulging in places it shouldn't have, ripping his clothing to shreds as his spine arched, elongated, then fanned into wide haunches attached to powerful legs and long furred paws, that turned his world inside out. Inside him, the parasite had tried to break free of his flesh. At one point as he lay writhing on the floor, his body a mass of agony, he wished the vile thing would pop free. He could do nothing but lie there at the mercy of the creature and allow it to change him into a nightmare no sane mind would ever entertain. The horror was almost more than he could take. When the pain grew so intense he thought he would be ripped apart, he passed out, his blood so hot it bubbled in his veins and his panting so loud it echoed off the stainless steel walls. When he awoke, the milky liquid inside the glass had turned a sulfurous yellow. The stench was so vile, so overpowering, he thought he would pass out again from lack of air. Weakly, he pushed himself up, ashamed of his nakedness, looking about for the remnants of his clothing and realizing there was no scrap large enough to cover him.

The room had turned ice-cold. He was shivering, his breath pluming in the air. He sat up, wrapped his arms around himself, thankful he had returned to human form. He shivered uncontrollably. And She had come to the glass. At first he wasn't sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. From everything he had been told about the revenant worm found inside Viraidan Cree's bog-preserved body, it was a hideous, satanic viper with sharp fangs, slit tongue, and scaly skin. What he saw undulating behind the glass, though, was a long, willowy creature with stubby wings, a face like a cat, and a tail curled up like a sea horse. “My son,” She purred and her voice was soft, seductive, sultry, and low-pitched. He pushed up from the floor, aware he was no longer cold, but embarrassed at his nudity. He put his hands to the juncture of his thighs to cover himself. Her laughter was like the rippling in a pond. It washed over him, soothing him, making him smile. “Come, my lovely,” She bid. He walked closer, his gaze fused with her soft green eyes, chatoyant as they peered from the yellow liquid. “Mine,” She said. At her silent command, he dropped his hands to his side. He felt her heated scrutiny sliding over his manhood, yet was not in the least ashamed of the hard erection that came unbidden. “I have waited so long for you to come home, my child,” She whispered. “Now all my children are home with me.” He closed his eyes as an unseen hand stroked down his back and over his bare flanks. He swayed as that ghostly appendage spread over and cupped his member, assessing. “I am well pleased,” She said and the erotic touch slid from his body. Sean moaned, but did not move. His eyes were locked with her lovely green ones and he became lost inside their velvety depths. “You are Reaper,” She said. “And perhaps something even more. Come to me, my child...” When he left the room an hour later, both Brian and Dr. Dunne were waiting for him in the corridor. They stepped back, looking him over for any sign he might not have fared well from his first Transition. “You did well,” Dunne said, then turned to Brian. “Does he bear Her mark?” Now, Sean touched the tattoo on his left shoulder. He had no recollection of the symbol being burned into his flesh that day more than two weeks ago, but with all the pain he had experienced then, a brand such as he now possessed would have been a minor thing. “Does it hurt?” Alistair asked, his hawk-like eyes fastened on Sean's shoulder.

“Aye,” Sean said absently. “Now and again.” “Mine never has. I wonder why—” “Is that him?” Sean asked, blocking out his fellow Reaper's words. He nodded toward the chubby man who had stepped from the pub. Alistair nodded. “That's our bloke.” He straightened and dragged his red ski mask into place. “Let's do it.” Not giving himself time to think, Sean pulled down his own ski mask and opened his door. He stepped out the curb and rushed with Alistair toward the Englishman, who turned at the last minute to see them coming. There was no fight in the portly man. He didn't make a sound as they grabbed his arms and ushered him into the sedan. Sean pushed him into the backseat and slid in beside him. Alistair got behind the wheel and drove them away, yanking off the mask as he turned a corner and increased speed. “Don't kill me,” the man pleaded, his rheumy eyes filling with tears. “I've got a wife and—” “Shut up.” Alistair looked at the Englishman through the rearview mirror. “Do as ye are told and no harm will befall ye.” The man looked at Sean as he removed his mask. “Oh, Lord,” Sir Toliver Appleton whimpered, viewing his own death—and likely the unspoken apology—in Sean's eyes. “We'll make it quick,” Sean said, caressing the machine pistol. “Not in the face,” Appleton asked, trembling so badly his teeth clacked together. Sean nodded as the fat man collapsed and began to pray in the corner of the backseat. He met Alistair's smirk in the reflection of the mirror and looked away. CHAPTER 21

She strained, pushing with all her strength, then fell back against Sister Mary Pat's shoulder. She was panting, sweat oozing. Sister Henry Louise blotted her face with a cool towel. “Again,” Dr. Darby positioned himself between Bronwyn's thighs. “Push, Bronnie. Push!” She felt she was being torn apart. For the last twenty-odd hours she had lain in bed, the contractions coming harder and harder until she could no longer keep the screams at bay. “Damn it, girl, push!” the physician shouted. Sister Mary Pat braced Bronwyn, lifting her as she bore down, trying to push out the baby. “Just a little more,” Sister said. “I can see the head,” Dr. Darby announced. “A couple of more good pushes and you'll be done. Now, push!”

Bearing down with all her waning strength, Bronwyn felt something let loose inside her. Her scream reverberated through the room. She could not stop from pushing again, and when she did, she felt the baby slide out. “Glory be to God!” Mother Superior said. “It's a boy,” Dr. Darby pronounced. He held up the babe by its heels and whacked its bottom. The instant wail brought a sigh to every lip, including Darby's. Sister Henry Louise chuckled. “Got a set of lungs on him, don't he?” “Aye, he does,” Dr. Darby grunted as he laid the newborn on his mother's belly. Weakly, Bronwyn pushed herself up as far as she could, grateful for Sister Mary Pat's help. The sight of her squalling son, the smear of the birth liquids covering his howling face and trembling lower lip, brought it home to her that this was real, that she had actually delivered this child—Sean's son—and was now a mother. “Let me hold him,” she said, reaching down to touch his slimy cheek. “Not now,” Dr. Darby said. He had finished cutting the cord and lifted the babe for Sister Henry Louise to wrap him in a blanket. “Why?” Bronwyn asked. “We must see to him, Bronnie,” the Reverend Mother said. “He has to be weighed and footprinted,” Sister Mary Pat said, locking gazes with the Mother Superior. “Aye, and bathed, as well!” Sister Henry Louise put in. Bronwyn had only a fleeting glimpse of her child as he was taken away. She had rejoiced that his hair was blond like his fathers, and though his face had been screwed into a mask of protest, his eyes squeezed shut, she was positive those orbs would be cornflower blue like Sean's. “You need to rest now,” Dr. Darby said, drawing her attention. In his hand, he held a hypodermic syringe. Alarm sped through Bronwyn. And the first faint stirrings of understanding. She tried to get up, reaching for Sister Henry Louise, who was taking the baby from the room. She shouted and begged and pleaded and threatened and cursed, clawed and scratched and spit. But it was all in vain. When Bronwyn awoke many hours later from the drug-enforced sleep, she discovered her baby had been given up for adoption.

“That was your parents’ decision,” Mother Mary Joseph informed her. “We had no choice but to comply.” Turning her face to the wall, Bronwyn swore she would find her child if it was the last thing she ever did. Cursing her mother and father, she pulled the pillow over her head and wept bitter tears, wondering why Sean had not come to take her from this hell on earth. **** “What did you learn?” Sheila asked. Destiny swept her little bundle of trash into the dustpan. “They took him to Belfast, but I ain't been able to find out who the people are what adopted him.” She emptied the contents of the dustpan into the bag Sheila held open. “I'll keep at it.” Sheila shook her head. “She's lost nigh on fifteen pounds. Much more of this and we'll be laying her to rest up by old Mauveen.” “Don't say that!” Destiny gasped. “Well, it's true. The poor thing just mopes about, barely eating. Sleeping more and more every day. She's making herself sick.” “I heard Mother Mary Joseph say they've called her parents to come over to see her,” Destiny confided in a low voice. “Don't tell Bronnie, though. She might have another one of her conniption fits.” “It ain't right what they done to her,” Sheila grated. “Damned interfering penguins!” “Wish we could find himself,” Destiny sighed. “He'd take her from here in a heartbeat.” Sheila clucked her tongue. “I don't see how he could, but you're right. I wish we knew where he was.” Destiny leaned on her broom. “My brother, Liam, is one of the lads. You reckon if I write him he might be able to find himself where Bronnie's Da's men ain't been able to?” “Worth a try,” Sheila said, spying one of the nun's heading their way. She rolled her eyes. “Never a minute's peace.” She plastered a fake smile on her face. “Good morning, Sister.” Sister Eugene nodded primly as she passed. She cast Destiny an annoyed look, but said nothing. “Old biddy knows what we think of them,” Destiny quipped. “Knows every girl in here don't trust them no more than we can throw ‘em.” “Write your brother,” Sheila said. “Can't do no harm and it might even help poor Bronnie.” **** Since the birth of her son, Bronwyn had not spoken. She ignored the admonishments, the threats, and the cajolery of the nuns as well as the pleadings of her fellow students. She refused to do schoolwork, chores, and instead stayed locked in her room, sitting at the window, staring out. She ate one meal a day—at noon—and did not touch the other trays brought to her. She did not leave her room to go to the

social hall, nor could she be forced to go to chapel. Since she was not allowed visitors, she rarely saw the other girls except in passing as she walked to the shower. Even then, she passed them without a look or any sign that she knew they were there. Many trips were made to both Dr. Darby's office as well as Mother Mary Joseph's and Father O'Malley's. Nothing the adults said swayed Bronwyn McGregor, and her silence had began to concern them. **** A call to America was placed six weeks after the call announcing the birth of the child and the placement of him for adoption in Belfast. On the fourteenth day of November, 1985, Dermot and Deirdre McGregor arrived at Galrath's front gate. Haggard from the long flight across the Atlantic and concerned for their child, they were taken to Mother Mary Joseph's office straightaway. “How is she?” was the first thing Dermot asked. “She's lost more than twenty pounds and is down to ninety-four pounds,” the Reverend Mother reported. “Oh, my God!” Deirdre gasped, her hand to her mouth. “Is she refusing to eat?” Dermot demanded. “She eats the noon meal and nothing more.” “And she's still refusing to speak?” Mother Mary Joseph nodded. “Or socialize. The few times we tried to force her to Mass, she kicked and screamed and carried on like a person possessed. Dr. Darby had to sedate her.” “Oh, Dermot,” Deirdre groaned, tears gathering in her eyes. “What have we done to our baby?” “What we felt was right for her!” Dermot stood. “I want to see her now!” The Mother Superior held out her hand for the McGregor's to precede her into the hall. She then led the way to Bronwyn's room. “How is the baby?” Deirdre asked, eyeing a thin, gangly girl walking quietly behind them but obviously paying little attention to her. “Healthy and quite happy with his new family, the McDougals,” Mother Mary Joseph reported. “He's...” She noticed Destiny behind them and stopped. “Young lady, where are you supposed to be?” Destiny ducked her head. “I was on my way to the library.” “Then pray be about it!” the Reverend Mother snapped. Destiny bobbed a curtsy and padded quickly away.

“These young hellions will be the death of me yet,” Mother Mary Joseph sighed. “You must be on your toes at all times. That one is a blabbermouth and she's a friend of your daughter's.” “You think she overheard us?” Dermot asked, looking at the retreating girl. “I'm sure not,” Mother Mary Joseph replied, indicating an archway. “Through here.” **** The first thing Deirdre noticed about her daughter was the gaunt look on her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the burning hatred shooting from her gaze. When she tried to embrace Bronwyn, the girl stepped back, putting distance between them. Her angry glower went to her father and held. “We did what was best for you,” Dermot defended. “Go to hell!” Bronwyn said, her voice rusty and grating. “Bronwyn, do not speak to your father—” Mother Mary Joseph began, but the girl's fevered stare leapt to her. “And you can join him, you conniving, vicious old liar!” Deirdre gasped, turning for help to her husband. Dermot, accustomed to working with unruly and angry patients at Wynth, knew how to deal with such behavior. “I know you're angry and you have every right to be, but you are a child and—” “I am themother of a child,” Bronwyn hissed. “A child you stole. Don't think for one moment I will ever forgive you. When I can, I will go after him and get him back. God help you if you get in my way!” There was such fire in his daughter's eyes, such strong intent, that it obviously shocked Dermot. He was used to the malleable, gentle-spirited girl he had left at Galrath, not this wild-eyed termagant with the blazing temper. He tried to reason with her, but her shout of fury outwardly took him aback. “I want my baby! I want mine and Sean's baby!” “Now, listen here, young lady,” Dermot said. “You are underage and haven't even graduated. You will attend college and—” “The hell, I won't!” Bronwyn insisted. She took a step closer to her father. “You thought I was obstinate before you did this horrible thing to me? You haven't seen stubborn yet, Doctor McGregor. You can keep me here until I'm of age, but after that, this place, and you, will have seen the last of me!” “You don't know what you're saying,” Deirdre said, wringing her hands. “We are your family.” “No,” Bronwyn flung at her. “Sean and Tiernan are my family. You are nothing to me!” “Who is Tiernan?” Dermot questioned. “My son!” Bronwyn shouted. “The son you stole!”

Deirdre clutched her husband's arm. “We have to get the boy back for her, Dermot.” He shrugged away her hold. “Absolutely not.” “He's our grandchild,” Deirdre reminded him. “Flesh of our flesh.” “And blood of that pervert who raped our daughter!” Dermot bellowed. “Sean Cullen didn't rape me,” Bronwyn said, her attention fastened on her father's furious face. “I went willingly to him and Iwill go willingly to him again when I find him.” Dermot's lip curled. “Into the arms of an IRA assassin? Some husband he'd make!” Deirdre looked at her husband. “That's what Rory Brell found out and you wouldn't tell me?” Dermot waved a dismissive hand at her question. “Answer me, Bronwyn! Is that the kind of man you want to spend your life with? A murderer for hire?” “If that's what he is, then, aye!” Bronwyn answered, as if not believing her father for one moment. “I'll see him hanged first!” Bronwyn met her father eye-to-eye. “Hurt one hair on Sean Cullen's head, Daddy, and I swear before God and man I will make you regret it for as long as you draw breath!” “The man is a killer!” “If he is, he is what you and Tym Cullen have made him!” Dermot opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. His face was livid with rage, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He stared at Bronwyn for a long time, then threw up his hands. “Fine! You want Cullen? You can have him! I won't stand in your way, but you'll stay here until you're of age to ruin your life!” With that, he stormed from the room. Deirdre was torn. She knew she should follow him, but she wanted desperately to have things back to normal with Bronwyn. She reached out to her, but once more, her child stepped back. “It was not my idea to put the boy up for adoption,” Deirdre said. “I wanted to bring him to Iowa and raise him until you graduated.” “The boy,” Bronwyn said, “has a name—Tiernan!” “I believe his adoptive parents named him Cormac,” Mother Mary Joseph said. “They can un-name him!” Bronwyn sneered. “His name is Teirnan Cullen.” “Tell me what you want, Bronnie,” Deirdre said, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “I can't stand this estrangement.”

“I want my child and I want out of this hellhole! I want to find Sean and I want us to be married as we planned!” “If he is with the IRA—” “He isn't!” Bronwyn stated. “Sean isn't like that. Daddy's lying. I know it! Sean is one of the most devout people I know. He'd never join an organization like the IRA. He doesn't believe in what they stand for, and he'd never kill anything!” Deirdre's shoulders slumped. “All right. We'll find Sean. I suspect your father's known where he was all along. We'll bring him to Derry Byrne and talk. We're staying at the Flying Wench Inn. Tomorrow we can—” “Youwill take me out of here tonight!” Bronwyn demanded. Deirdre exchanged a look with the Reverend Mother. “Let me have a chance to talk to your father, Bronnie. This hasn't been easy for him and—” “And you think it's been easy for me? How wouldyou have felt if someone had snatched me out of your arms when I was born?” Deirdre's face turned hot, and her shoulders slumped. “Let me talk to your father. I'll make him see reason.” **** Dermot stubbornly shook his head. “No! I will not contact that bastard and I willnot remove Bronwyn from Galrath! The child stays with the McDougals. That is my final decision and nothing you can say will change my mind!” “Do you want our daughter to hate us for the rest of our lives?” Deirdre asked. “The baby is your—my grandchild! You know how I felt when you made the arrangements for his adoption. It wasn't right—it wasn't moral!” “Was it moral for our daughter to get herself pregnant out of wedlock?” he thundered. “Was it moral when you gotme pregnant out of wedlock?” she flung at him. Dermot went perfectly still. His face crinkled as though he were in pain. “We vowed never to mention that, DeeDee.” “Had he lived, our son would have been illegitimate. The stigma you've attached to our grandchild would've been attached to him. Would you have loved him any the less?” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think Bronnie loves her child any the less?” Turning away, Dermot raked his hands through his hair. “You don't play fair.” His shoulders slumped. “You never have.” “I want you to call the McDougals and tell them we'll pick up our grandchild tomorrow!” Dermot looked around. “Then what? I told you, Bronwyn stays where she is. What—”

“Wewill take Tiernan back to America. Wewill raise him until our daughter has finished her schooling. After that, wewill bring her home and hopefully she'll see the need to go on to college. I'll watch our grandchild for her while she does.” “What about the Cullen boy?” Dermot snapped. “Don't you think he won't try to intrude?” Deirdre raised her chin. “I don't care what happens to him. I told our daughter we would contact him—” “Hell, no, we won't!” “Will you let me finish?” “Go on, then.” “Contact Cullen and have him come to Derry Byrne. Once he's here, let Rory and his men take care of the situation. Get him out of our lives forever.” Dermot's mouth dropped open as he stared at Deirdre. “Killed?” “Of course, not! I was talking about turning him over to the authorities.” Dermot sat on the settee, pondering the matter, as Deirdre had expected. Her husband would likely see the merit of what she had suggested. The Brits would be overjoyed at getting an IRA hitman handed over to them, and there would likely be a speedy trial with Cullen, no doubt, hanged for his crimes. “As far as Rory can tell, there's no evidence against Cullen, but an informant swore to Rory the boy has killed six men.” “You don't think evidence will be found?” she asked. He looked up. “The Brits have been known to manufacture what they need to convict a man.” “Call Rory. Have him set the wheels of justice into motion,” Deirdre said, turning her back on him. She went to the window of their suite and looked out over the streets of Derry Byrne. “Let those wheels roll over Sean Cullen—and crush him.” **** Bronwyn opened her door, surprised to see Sheila standing there. “Don't let them catch you here. I'm more persona non grata than ever.” “Don't worry none about me,” Sheila said. “Destiny knows who adopted the boy.” Bronwyn pulled Sheila into the room, shut the door, and blocked it with her body, since there was no inside lock. “Who?” “Cormac McDougal. We have his address.” Sheila pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside of her uniform blouse. “Here.” Bronwyn took the paper, unfolded it, and read the Belfast address. “How did you get this?”

“Destiny overhead Mother Mary Joseph use the name ‘McDougal.’ She snuck into the office and called her brother, Patrick. He called Gerry and Gerry called Liam. Liam called his contacts from the lads in Belfast and, within twenty minutes, had the names of any family named McDougal what had an infant living with them. Only one that fit your Teirnan's age was Cormac McDougal.” “They named Tiernan after Cormac,” Bronwyn sneered. “Son of a bitch!” “I also got a way for you to get out of here.” Bronwyn, sure her mother would not extract her from Galrath, had every intention of getting out if she had to run through the corridors, meat cleaver in hand. “Tell me.” “Well here's the way of it...” **** When Bronwyn came up missing later that evening, the entire building was thoroughly searched. Wolfhounds were brought in from a neighboring farm, and when they picked up Bronwyn's scent from a piece of her clothing, they followed it to the wall beside the cemetery and to a long rope that had been tied to an upper branch of the oak standing sentinel beyond the wall. The rope dangled down the stonewall. “She's out there,” Sister Henry Louise said, looking at the rope. “Scaled like a spider, she did.” “She's not the only one out there,” one of the older nuns said. “He's out there, too.” The nuns hastily crossed themselves. “Who?” Martha Walsh, one of the new students, inquired. “The Nightwind,” a long-time student replied. “The Nightwind's out there.” **** She knew someone was trailing her, but she dared not slow down. She increased her walking to a slow trot, then went a bit faster until she panted with the effort. At one point, she stopped by a stream to rest, hid behind a spreading oak and listened. Around her, the hillside lay quiet, but she knew she was not alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and a cold chill enveloped her. “Leave me alone,” she said, her hand trembling on the bark of the oak tree. “I am only protecting you, Beloved.” Her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect “O” of fear, Bronwyn pushed away from the tree and ran as fast as she could. Yet she fancied she felt his hot breath on her neck. Too afraid to look back, terrified of what she would see, she ran until the pain in her side was so great she fell, crashing to her knees in the dew-laden heather. Struggling to get up, she felt a hand on her upper arm— And screamed.

**** When she came to, Bronwyn found herself surrounded by hay and lying in the back of a wooden cart. The steady clop-clop of horse's hooves let her know the conveyance was moving, and she sat up so quickly, her head swam. “Easy does it, lass,” an amused voice spoke from the high seat of the cart. She scrambled to her knees to see who had spoken. The bright full moon shone as clearly as a spotlight, allowing her to get a good look at her benefactor. He was at least eighty, with kindly eyes looking back at her from a weather-beaten face. The corncob pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth was unlit, but he chewed on it around a crooked grin. His gnarled hands gripping the reins shook, while his thin shoulders bowed with a slight hump. “I'm Cedric,” he told her with a Scottish burr. “I live over to Muckamore. Lost me lady of sixty-five years about two years back. I sorely miss her.” “I'm sorry,” Bronwyn mumbled. “As am I,” Cedric sighed and gently flicked the reins. “Old Bert, here, can go faster when he's of a mind to. I suppose he's tired this evening.” “You were following me?” “Not me, lass,” Cedric said, shaking his head. “I went down to the Six Mile Water to give Old Bert a drink and found you lying on the ground. I picked you up and put you in my cart. I'm on my way into Ballyclare.” “Ballyclare?” Bronwyn gasped. “That's heading back toward Derry Byrne! I can't go there! They'll be looking for me there!” Cedric hauled on the reins. He twisted in the seat, an expression of pain of his wrinkled face. “Are ye running away from that damned Galrath, lass?” Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her teeth and nodded, sensing the old man wasn't a promoter of the school. “Papist prison!” he said with a scowl. “I used to be an Anglican and neverdid take to that Papist mumbo-jumbo.” “Please, I have a son in Belfast. They took him away from me and—” “Enough said.” Cedric turned around, sharply snapped the reins. “Get your ass to moving, Bert!” Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief as Cedric turned about the cart and headed back the way they'd came. “Thank you...” “Don't mention it. Anything I can do to derail the Papists at Galrath is a privilege!” Bronwyn relaxed against the side of the cart and closed her eyes. Soon, she nodded off, the steady

sway of the conveyance and the gentle humming of its driver helping to ease her mind. **** Cedric craned his neck to see about his passenger. When he found her asleep, he smiled, his red-glowing eyes lighting a path on the roadway. CHAPTER 22

“His name is Rory Brell,” Alistair reported to Dr. Dunne. “Works for Wynth Industries. He be in charge of their security.” “I'm familiar with the man,” Dr. Dunne said. He looked at Sean. “You've been careless, my boy, in letting a spy follow you. Didn't you feel you were being watched?” Sean shrugged. “What difference does it make?” “The difference isyou can be identified andyou were instructed to see that didnot happen!” Dunne snarled. “You more than likely led him right to Fuilghaoth!” “So?” Sean drawled. “He can't get in and, even if he did, he wouldn't survive the getting out.” Dunne ground his teeth. “I will not sanction insubordination. Do you remember what I told you would happen if you do not behave?” Knowing he was treading on thin ice, Sean remained silent. He did not lower his eyes to Dunne, but his body posture made it obviously clear to the older man that he was sufficiently reprimanded. “Wynth Industries is a thorn in my side,” Dunne snapped. “I don't know anything about Wynth Industries,” Sean lied. “We will correct that oversight immediately,” Dunne growled, casting Alistair a hard look. Alistair ran a finger under his collar. “Ye want me to—” “Find out where Rory Brell is right this minute and report back to me. I want to know whom he is working under, why he is watching Cullen in particular, and—” “I think I can answer the who and why, doctor,” Brian said from his place at the far end of the room. “Bronwyn McGregor's father works for Wynth at Baybridge. He's in charge of the behavior modification unit in Iowa. He's also in Ireland, staying at Derry Byrne, near the Galrath School.” He cast his son a warning look that Sean seemed ignored. Dunne's lips peeled back from his teeth. “I knew that slut would come back to haunt us!” Sean stood, his hands curled into fists. “Call me whatever you like, do whatever you want to me, but leave Bronwyn out of it.” He took a step closer to Dunne's desk. “But don't youever call her that again.” Brian winced. He sped across the room. “Sean, think before you speak.”

“Let him speak. Every word he says is duly noted and remembered. The consequences of his temper and his tongue will be on his head.” “Sit down,” Brian hissed, pushing Sean into his chair. “And pray, watch what you say!” Dunne shot Alistair an infuriated look. “Why are you still here? Find Brell!” Alistair spun on his heel and exited the room. Sean shifted on the seat, his hot glare locked on Dunne. “If you didn't show promise, I'd terminate you,” Dunne said. “I'll have a talk with him,” Brian promised, shooting Sean a warning glance. “Explain to our hotheaded young fool who and what Wynth Industries is. Perhaps he'll be less apt to allow himself to be trailed by one of their operatives if he understands just how dangerous they are!” Brian up drew a chair beside Sean's. “Wynth Industries is run by Brighton Wynth. Headquarters is in Des Moines, Iowa. Don't you remember that lady cop in Albany telling you that was where Dermot McGregor went after he left Georgia? Part of their operation is a prison for the criminally insane.” Sean nodded. “I vaguely recall her saying something.” “Another part of their operation,” Dunne put in, “is a private research facility funded primarily by the American government. W. I. has developed several protocols that have benefited the psychiatric community, but they are a danger to our operation here.” “Why?” Sean asked. “W. I. has developed a program in which they can alter the psychotic tendencies of their research subject and turn him or her into a docile human being,” Brian explained. “'Docile’ if somewhat catatonic.” He shrugged. “A worthy endeavor, but should one of our Stalcaires fall into their hands, there would be onehell of an explosion. We can't risk having them know Reapers exist. Sure as hell, Wynth would send some of its operatives after us to shut us down.” “We can't allow that to happen!” Dunne stated. “They believe we are an arm of the IRA,” Brian put in, “and that we're a training ground for hitmen.” “And should Brell capture you—as is, no doubt, his intention,” Dunne grated, “and they take you back to W. I., you could compromise our entire operation. And that, we willnot allow to happen.” “Capture me for what purpose?” Sean asked. “As far as McGregor is concerned, if he's behind Brell watching me, he'd want to make sure I stay as far away from Bronwyn. Brell would turn me over to the Brits.” “We can't allow Brell or anyone else to take you,,” Brian said. “The Brits would create evidence to convict you, sentence you to death and, when they tried to carry out that sentence, you'd give them the surprise of their lives!”

Dunne chuckled. “That would almost be worth handing him over just to see the looks on their faces when they realize he can't die.” Sean leaned back in his chair. “So what do we do?” “Get rid of Brell,” Brian stated. “And the source of the problem,” Dunne added. When Sean turned a heated stare on him, Dunne rolled his eyes. “Not the girl, but the father! As long as he's allowed to plot against you, he unknowingly is plotting against Fuilghaoth. We need to make sure he cannot pose a threat to our existence.” Sean tensed. “Are you ordering me to kill Bronwyn's father?” “What do you think?” Dunne asked. “I won't do it!” “Father or daughter,” Dunne said with a yawn. “Take your pick.” When Sean said nothing, simply stared at him, the doctor cocked one shoulder. “Either the father dies or the daughter. I'll leave the decision up to you.” Icy hatred washed through Sean. He knew all too well that what Dunne promised, happened. If he did not agree to kill Dermot McGregor, another Reaper would go after Bronwyn, and her death would not be easy. “What's it to be?” Dunne pressed. “Think before you speak,” Brian cautioned. He put a hand on Sean's knee. Sean knew he had no choice. “When?” “As soon as we locate Brell. Chances are he's nearby.” “You want me to take him out, too?” “We'll have Alistair do it, unless he is with McGregor. If that's the case, you can kill two birds with one bomb.” “A bomb,” Sean repeated. “The preferred choice of the lads.” Dunne chuckled again. “If they think you are IRA, they'll not question the manner of assassination.” “I'll get what you need,” Brian remarked. “Plastique is the best medium for this kind of thing.” Sean looked at Dunne. “Is that all?” “For now.” The doctor leaned back in his tall leather swivel chair. “You may go.” Coming to his feet, Sean turned his attention to his father. “The gods damn you for ever laying eyes on

my mother.” That said, he stomped from the room. **** “Such an impressionable young man,” Dunne sighed. “And growing more difficult to control by the day.” He steepled his fingers. “I hope we won't have to terminate him.” Brian felt the gash of a warning scraping down his back. “I'll handle him, Sir. He'll come around. I'll see to it.” “He's due for his next Transition—when?” “The end of next month.” “No tenerse after the third week,” Dunne ordered. “Put him in a containment cell and see what happens when he goes against his masters.” Remembering all too well a similar lesson applied to him, Brian tried to dissuade Dunne from acting on his vengeance. “He will be brought to heel, or terminated!” Dunne vowed. “Either way, I'll have no more trouble from that whelp!” **** “Don't dawdle, laddie,” Alistair said, “and be careful ye don't blow yourself up.” Sean ignored his partner. He got out of the car, cast a quick look around the dark street in front of the Flying Wench, then dropped beside the car Dermot McGregor had rented. He scooted under the vehicle, attaching the box with the heavy-duty magnet glued to its top to the inside of the wheel arch. After making sure the wires sticking from the end of the box were exposed, he slid from under the car. Standing, he dusted the grit and dirt from his faded blue jeans and sauntered back to the sedan, where Alistair waited. He got in. “Good boy.” Alistair chuckled, looking down at his wristwatch. “We've got a while to wait, I reckon. Might as well take a snoozer.” His attention riveted on the death vehicle he had created, Sean crossed his arms over his chest to still his trembling. Though he had gotten used to dispatching the occasional Parliament member or loyalist, he knew he would never be able to justify the evil he was doing. Each successive killing made him ill. He had yet to finish an assignment without puking. “Ye ain't Transitioned enough to want to go for the blood,” Alistair had told him. “But it'll happen. Can't stop it.” Despite the two Transitions that had turned him into a slathering, howling beast, Sean had yet to crave the taste of blood that Brian insisted he would. He had yet to desire anything other than the vegetarian meal prepared especially for him. He thought perhaps his secretive nightly excursions to the chapel at Fuilghaoth and the hours he'd spent on his knees begging God not to allow him to change into a full-fledged blood beast had slowed the process.

But he knew the day was fast approaching when no amount of prayer, no humble entreaties to his God, would stop the inevitable. He feared that day when he would change into a creature, like the one he'd observed in a deep containment cell. The memory of that loathsome monster still gave him nightmares. “Thinking of Johnny, are ye?” Alistair inquired. Though he practiced trying to conceal his thoughts, Sean had not mastered the technique, and the occasional pondering filtered out for Brian or Alistair to read. “Johnny had a right-good case of the bloodlusts, he did,” Alistair snorted. “That's the worst of a Transition when you reach that point.” Sean looked at his partner. “Have you ever reached that point?” Alistair grinned. “Many's the time, laddie, and passed it.” His grin widened. “As will ye. Drove Johnny mad, though. Some can take it and live with it, and some can't—Johnny couldn't.” The thought of turning into the ravening animal he had seen in the deep containment cell set Sean's teeth on edge and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. “I pray every night that will never happen.” The older Reaper chuckled. “Praying is a waste of time, lad. Ain't a matter ofif , Seannie. It's a matter of when . Ye can eat all them filthy vegetables ye want and it won't keep the bloodlust from comin’ of its own accord. Ye be skating on thinner and thinner ice, laddie. Sooner or later, ye will break through and, when ye do, there will be no turnin’ back.” Sean scrunched down in his seat. He turned so he could keep watch on the entrance to the Flying Wench. “The tenerse is bad enough. I can’ t begin to imagine what the blood will taste like.” “Right salty, it is. Can't do without it on a daily basis once the bloodlust Transition occurs. Ye'll know soon enough.” Alistair reached under his seat and pulled out a pint flask. “Wanna sip?” Sean knew what he was being offered, so didn't look. “No,” he snapped, but as soon as his partner uncorked the flask, he inhaled the metallic stench of fresh blood and his mouth watered. He unconsciously licked his lips, even though the thought of consuming the vile liquid made him gag. “Ah, now that's a real pick-me-up, it is!” Alistair said, smacking his lips. “Sure ye don't want a taste, laddie?” “No!” Alistair's giggle made Sean dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from lashing out. “Might as well relax. It'll be a while ‘fore the show begins.” Sean laid his head against the window glass. He had felt jittery, wired as tight as the bomb under Dermot McGregor's car. A part of him was upset Bronwyn's father would die come morning, but another part of him rejoiced. It was that side of his new personality that he found the most disturbing. It bothered him to realize he was becoming immune to watching people die, blasé about ending a fellow human being's life. He worried about his lack of sympathy for the men he'd helped kill and the offhand attitude toward death

that was becoming a part of his psychological makeup. He brooded over his inability to dredge up a sufficient amount of guilt over the killings. He knew he was becoming as callous and unfeeling as the other Reapers. “Ye think too much,” Alistair mumbled. “That is the biggest problem with ye, laddie.” “I wasn't born to kill.” “Sorry to be the one to tell ye this, Seannie, but, aye, ye were. That is exactly why ye was born. No amount of going to that there church you kneel down in every week will help you, lad. You are marked same as us all. If there really be a heaven and hell, you know where you'll be going!” Sean knew that was partly true. But he had yet to come to terms with the inevitability of the ways things would be for him from here on out. “She'll hate me for this,” he said softly. “I told ye, I'd be the one to detonate the bloody bomb,” Alistair growled. “Ye be worryin’ the situation like a dog after a bone. Forget it!” “Not that I'll ever see her again.” Sean's voice was even softer. “Count that a blessing, laddie. Ye'd not want to and have to worry ye might jump her and make another of us.” Sean flinched. “That I do not want.” “Then, like I say—count it as a blessing that ye won't be seeing her.” Bronwyn's lovely face drifted through Sean's troubled mind. He ached with a need to hold her, press her sweet body to his. He longed to kiss her, stroke her sleek flesh, and plunge himself into the heat of her. “That's it,” Alistair grated. “Make yourself sick with wanting her and me horny as hell with the images ye be wafting around in the ether!” He punched Sean's arm. “Cut it out, now!” Tamping down on the thoughts running through his mind, Sean concentrated on the inn's sign—a witch astride a broom. He stared at the ugly, bulbous nose of the hag, the black pointed hat and stringy dark hair flying from under the grin. “That's more like it. Looks just like me ma.” Alistair laughed. “Mean old hag that she was!” Despite his turbulent thoughts and tight belly, Sean smiled. It would be his last smile. CHAPTER 23

Bronwyn woke to find the cart in which she'd been riding unmoving. She sat up, looked around, and frowned when she did not see Cedric. She called him several times and, when he did not answer, scooted out the back of the cart. The horse was munching on a mound of hay that had been dropped in

front of him; he was tethered to a hitching post before of a small, white-washed stone cottage. Thunder boomed, drawing her eyes to the heavens. Lightning flared, stitching across the horizon. The sky was a bruised color that boded ill for travelers in open carts. The wind picked up, bringing with it a cold wash of dampness. She looked at the cottage's closed door, tucked her lower lips between her teeth, and decided it would be prudent to see where she was and where Cedric had gone. Hitching up her courage, she walked up the short gravel path, stepped onto the shallow porch and knocked lightly on the door. When no answer came, she knocked again. “If you're looking for the McMahon's,” a voice called to her, “they've gone to Londonderry to see their daughter. They won't be back for another week.” Bronwyn turned to see a handsome young man standing by the cart. She came off the porch. “Have you seen the man who owns this cart?” she asked. “I own the cart,” he replied. Bronwyn shook her head. “I mean the man who was driving it. The man who brought me here.” “You mean Cedric?” “Yes! Do you know where he is?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Caught a ride home with the Daly boys.” “He said he'd take me to Belfast. He said—” “Cedric has never been to Belfast in his life.” The young man chuckled. “I have to get to Belfast,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “I have to find my son.” He cocked his head. “You're an American.” “How far are we from Belfast?” “Not all that far,” he answered, “but with a storm coming, I'd sure advise against trying to get there today.” “Then what am I going to do?” she cried, swiping angrily at the tears. “Well, you can wait it out with me.” When she gave him a disbelieving look, he held up his hands. “I am not a serial killer and I've not ravaged a pretty girl in—” He lowered his arm to look at his watch. “Oh, about twelve hours, give or take a minute of lust or two.” Despite her nervousness and disappointment, she smiled.

“You're welcome to come in and wait out the storm. They usually pass in an hour or so. I can make you some lunch.” Another vicious boom of thunder shook the ground. Bronwyn looked at the black sky. Lowering her gaze, she found herself staring into a pair of amber eyes that were kind and gentle. “How often do you do your ravaging?” she asked. He grinned as he walked toward her. “Every twelve hours or so.” “Comforting thought.” “Sometimes sooner,” he said, coming to stand before her. “It depends on how lovely I find the lady.” “Naturally,” she said, oddly at ease. He stuck out his hand. “Danny Hart.” “Bronwyn McGregor,” she replied, taking his hand. She was amazed at the strength in his grip and the heat of his flesh. “What's a Yank doing riding in the back of my cart?” he inquired as he opened the door for her. “Cedric picked me up near Galrath,” she replied, casting him a warning look. “Ah, running away from that hell-spawned school for wayward girls, are you?” He laughed, sweeping out his hand to indicate she was to precede him into the cottage. “I didn't know the cart wasn't Cedric's.” “A fact he fails to mention ninety-nine percent of the time. He borrows it on occasion and takes it up to Muckamore. Brings it back when it suits him. He had it about a month this time.” “I take it you have other transportation.” “A motorcycle and a German runabout.” “You don't mind him borrowing it, then.” “He's kin,” Danny sighed. “Getting a bit long in the tooth to be out and about ravishing the countryside's lovely ladies, but he can hold his own now and again.” He winked. “Like me.” The inside of the little cottage was spotless, with a warm peat fire blazing in the hearth and candles glowing softly on the mantel and kitchen table. The smell of bread baking mixed with the aroma of a stew bubbling on the stove made Bronwyn realize she was starving. “You can wash up through there,” Danny said, indicating a door. “Soup and sandwich sound okay?” “Heavenly.” Danny grinned. “Wouldn't call it that, but I think you'll not leave my table unsatisfied.”

The little washroom was as immaculate as the parlor with soft, with fleecy white towels draped over the shiny gold towel bars and the scent of gardenia potpourri in a lovely copper urn on the vanity. The wallpaper was a pretty ivy print border in mauve and the single window was draped with white eyelet curtains. In one corner stood a white claw-foot bathtub that looked as though it had never been used. Just for the heck of it, Bronwyn ran her hand along the rolled edge and was not surprised when no dust clung to her fingers. “Either you are an exceptionable man, Mr. Hart, or you have a maid,” she mumbled. Looking into the oval mirror above the sink, she arched her brows. “Or you're married to a terrific housekeeper.” Danny, ladling stew into a brown crockery bowl, looked up as she joined him. “Feel better?” Bronwyn nodded as the storm chose that moment to wash over the cottage. She had to raise her voice. “Do you live here alone, Mr. Hart?” “It's Danny, and, alas, that I do.” He brought the bowl to the table and placed it at the solitary setting. “You aren't eating?” “I've already eaten,” he said, holding her chair. “Please, sit down.” Rain slashed at the windows and onto the roof. Lightning sent harsh white flashes through the windows. Feeling awkward that she would be dining along, Bronwyn cleared her throat as he pushed her chair up to the table. “I'm sorry to have put you to this trouble. If I'd known you weren't going to—” “I don't get much company way out here,” he said, taking a seat across from her. “I am thrilled to have you visit.” “Don't you bring your women friends here to seduce?” “I usually go to them,” he said, putting his hands on the table and threading his fingers together. “I sneak into their bedrooms in the dead of night, do my dastardly work, then vanish before first light.” “Ah,” she said, unfolding her napkin. “I can see the wisdom in that.” He grinned. “How so?” “You go to them in the dead of night, when the moon is hidden behind thick clouds. They can't see your face to identify you to the authorities.” She looked at the table. “Then you leave before they can see your face when the sun comes up.” “Just as all respectable incubi do,” he said with a nod. A horrendous crack of lightning rent the heavens and the smell of ozone seemed to permeate the room. Bronwyn had been about to take up her spoon, but at his words, she froze, a chill going down her spine. She raised her head and stared at him. He was devastatingly handsome, with thick black hair combed straight back from his high forehead. His tawny eyes were bright with a slight almond shape that gave them a mysterious cast. He had a ruddy

complexion and firm physique that suggested he was accustomed to manual labor. Though his hands looked powerful, the nails were clean and well kept. She looked away from his penetrating gaze. “Joking about such things is not amusing.” “Who said I was joking?” he whispered. The hair shifted on her arms. She heard the blood rushing through her ears. “Bronwyn,” he said softly, “look at me.” She shook her head. “I won't hurt you.” “No,” she said, ashamed of the squeak that came from her closing throat. “You had to know I would come after you, Beloved.” Light from the flickering candle on the table danced in his golden orbs. It threw his face into a study of shadows, darkness accentuating his cheeks and throat. “W...what do you want?” she managed to ask. “You.” He reached across the table to take her hand. She jerked her hand away. He leaned over the table, arm outstretched, fingers bidding her to slip her hand into his. When she didn't move, he laid his palm flat on the tabletop, then slid it back toward him. “I mean you no harm, Beloved.” “Don't call me that!” she hissed. “It is what you are to me. I am blood-signed with—” “I belong to Sean Cullen!” His face turned hard. “And I told you that you would never see him again.” “He is the father of my child and—” “Who says he is?” “Go to hell!” she grated, standing. The chair fell over behind her. “Been there.” He chuckled. She ran to the door. Outside, the storm grew in intensity. Lightning speared the earth and the wind howled in cadence. As she yanked on the handle, she felt a slight shock from the metal and released it.

“Come back and sit down.” He was still sitting at the table, looking at the food he had served her. Again, she tried to open the door and felt the unpleasant shock travel from her hand up her arm. This time she yelped, for the shock had been stronger, more intense. “Let me out of here!” she cried. “Not until we've talked.” She backed away from the door, looking around for another avenue of escape. Through an archway, she saw a bed and dresser. Save the door to the washroom, there were no other doors in the room. With a groan of frustration, she used her skirt to wrap around the handle. This time, with the insulation of material between her and the metal, there was no shock, but neither did the door open. It was locked, with no bolt or button to release. “Open this door!” she shouted, pulling the handle. “When we have talked, I will take you where you need to go,” he said gently. “Until then, you stay here.” She spun around to face him, furious that he wasn't looking at her, that he expected her to do exactly as he ordered. She stormed over to him and pounded a fist on the table. “You don't own me!” He looked up at her. “But that hardly matters, does it?” “What do you want from me?” “You.” “Stop saying that!” she said, covering her ears. “You called and I heard you.” “I didn't call you.” “But you did, Beloved. Your heart was breaking and I came to ease your pain.” She slapped her palms on the table in front of him so hard, he blinked. “My heart was breaking for Sean. I was calling to him, not you!” “Calling to a Reaper is of little use to any woman, save one wishing for her own death,” he said, gazing up at her with a calm she wanted to swat from his face. Instead, she pounded the table again. “What the hell are you talking about? You're insane!” “Do you know where your precious Sean is at this minute?” The dishes in the cupboard rattled when a brutal boom of thunder shook the cottage. “Looking for me!” “He is sitting in front of your parent's inn, waiting for a bomb he set to go off.” He locked stares with her. “A bomb that will take the lives of two of your kinsmen.”

She went after him, then, trying to drag her fingernails down his face, to rake and scar, to inflict as much pain as she could. But he stopped her arched hands with a speed and ease that astonished her. He stood, dragging her to him, bringing her to his body in a snap that knocked the breath from her. “He is about to cause you untold sorrow, Bronwyn. He will inflict a pain you will find hard to overcome.” She struggled against him, bucking in his grasp. His strength was overwhelming. His hands, though tight on her wrists, were not hurting her, but the frustration made her howl as though she were in agony. “Listen to me, Beloved!” he shouted over her banshee-like trill. “What will be will be. Not even I can stop it, but I can help you! Let me help you, Bronwyn! Let me be your haven from the coming darkness.” She arched her body, striving to break free. She tried to knee him in the groin, to kick him, but he easily swung her away, molding her to his hip as she fought. “Bronwyn, accept me as yours and I will be at your side through the coming ordeal!” “Let go of me!” The sound from the storm grew intense. The rafters shrieked from the pressure, while the window glass bulged in the frame. The slate roof seemed to lift from its sheathing, while the plink of tiles hitting the ground as they were raked away sounded like rifle fire. “Sean!” Bronwyn howled, her hair flying wildly about her head, her eyes wide. “He is lost to you,” her captor decreed. “For all time, Sean Cullen is lost to you!” She sagged in his arms, her crying so loud it rivaled the skirl of the wind. She slid to the floor, holding onto his leg, her face pressed against his calf. He sank down beside her, gathered her into his arms, and rocked her. “Shush, now,” he said, cradling her. “I will take care of you.” She clung to him, despair so rife in her heart, she could do nothing else. **** Sean woke from a light doze when Alistair prodded him. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Looking at his watch, he saw it was ten minutes to eight. Nothing had changed outside the Flying Wench, although a dark red car was coming down the street toward them. He glanced at his partner. “Rory Brell, himself,” Alistair said, nodding toward the car pulling in front of the McGregor sedan. “The gods are good to us today, lad. We'll get two for the price of one boom!” Sean spared a look at the detonator Alistair held in his lap, then turned to watch the tall man climb out of the red car. He frowned as Brell opened the rear door, leaned inside, and seemed to take longer than necessary to retrieve whatever he was after. “Going after that damned Russian-made piece he always carries like a football,” Alistair quipped.

“Machine rifle, it is.” Brell backed away from the car and came to his full height. In his left arm was a white bundle he indeed carried like a football. “What'd I tell ye?” Alistair grunted. “And lookee who be coming out the front door right on time!” Sean turned his attention from Brell to the familiar figure walking down the steps of the Flying Wench. Dermot McGregor, his arrogant face and haughty stance sending prickles of hate through Sean, lifted a hand to greet Brell. “Got a surprise for you,” Brell called, shutting the back door of his car. “Get ready, lad,” Alistair warned. “I'll flip the switch as soon as the two of them are by the car.” Sean sat forward, reaching behind to touch the .38 he had tucked in the waistband of his faded jeans. Satisfied his weapon was at hand should he need it, he then withdrew a set of earplugs from the pocket of his flannel shirt. Alistair plugged his own ears and gripped the switch of the detonator. As Sean was about to screw the second earplug into his ear, he heard McGregor ask, “Is that the baby?” Sean paused, the earplug still between his fingers. “Aye, it is.” A haze of red flowed over Sean's vision. He was sitting a hundred yards away, but hearing Brell's words as clearly as the man was in the car with him. He looked at Alistair. “Brell has his child with him!” Alistair squinted. “What?” he asked, pulling one of the earplugs halfway out of his ear. “That's a child Brell's carrying!” Alistair looked across the street and shrugged. “So what?” He twisted the earplug back in place. “Don't make no difference whatsomever to me.” “I'll not be responsible for killing a child!” Sean flung open the car door. “Get your ass back here!” Alistair hissed, reaching for Sean as he scrambled out of the car. Sean ran across the street. Brell and McGregor stood on the sidewalk beside the car under which Sean had attached the bomb. Both stared at the bundle cradled in Brell's left arm. The inn's front door opened and Bronwyn's mother appeared. She lifted her arm, pointing at Sean. The two men turned in unison. Brell thrust the bundle into McGregor's arms, while his right hand dove under his coat, bringing out a weapon. “Get away from the car!” Sean shouted, waving his hands, motioning the trio back. “There's a bomb. Get a way from the car!”

Brell's first bullet hit Sean in the shoulder, slammed the left side of his body, but he kept coming, barely feeling the pain, more intent on saving the child. The second bullet went through his chest, exiting through his back. Sean stumbled against the impact, but managed to stay on his feet. He was almost to the car when Brell fired again. The bullet punched a hole in the center of Sean's forehead. **** From the inn's doorway, Deirdre McGregor saw Sean Cullen crash into the side of their car. Her hand flew to her mouth as the young man's eyes met hers before he slid down the side of the vehicle. Even as her shocked gaze slid to her husband, she knew what was about to happen. When the explosion came, knocking her backward through the doorway, the long scream of denial from her constricted throat hung on the air like a siren's wail. **** “Damn you, lad!” Alistair threw the detonator into the back seat, started his engine, and sped away from the carnage, from the bomb crater in front of the Flying Wench, and from the burning body of Sean Cullen, lying sixty feet away. **** Deirdre looked up as Bronwyn entered the hospital room. When her mother opened her arms, Bronwyn flew to her, wailing her sorrow. “Oh, Mama,” she sobbed, trembling. “It was quick. I'm sure they felt nothing.” Bronwyn moved back, searching her mother's eyes. “He said it was Sean, Mama. He said—” “Don't say that bastard's name in my hearing!” Deirdre snapped, jerking her hand from Bronwyn's hold. “He killed your father and your son!” Bronwyn staggered back from the fury in her mother's face. “My—my son?” “Rory Brell was bringing the baby to us. We'd heard you'd managed to get out of Galrath. We knew you'd go to Belfast, so wanted to have the boy to use as leverage to get you to go back.” Tears formed in Deirdre's eyes. “How were we to know Cullen would come after us? That he'd kill his own child?” Bronwyn stood in the center of the hospital room, her teeth chattering, her limbs trembling. She felt the blood drain from her face, and as she sank to her knees, the terrible scream tearing from her throat brought doctors and nurses running. **** Deirdre watched as the medical personal hovered over her daughter. She sat on the gurney, unfazed as the doctors administered injections to Bronwyn to stop the hideous shrieks of grief. As her child was wheeled away, limp and unconscious, Deirdre could not rouse herself to follow. Instead, she lay down,

curled into a fetal position, and stared at the wall. **** Following unseen in the wake of orderlies wheeling Bronwyn to her room, Danyon stopped dead in his tracks, frowning. He cocked his head to one side, listened, then sighed heavily. The woman to whom he had sworn his allegiance was calling to him and her tearful entreaty overrode everything else around him. “Not now, Aoife!” he hissed, digging his nails into his palms. “Danny, I need you!” came the clarion call in tones of misery. Torn between going to the woman with whom he had signed a Blood Pact and caring for the one who had captured his affection, Danyon growled with frustration. His shoulders drooped in defeat. Unable to do anything else, he closed his eyes, calling out to the world beyond the hospital's windows. In the space of four heartbeats, he opened his eyes. “Go to her,” he commanded. “Take her to confront the Reaper. Be my eyes and ears, Cedric.” He stared at the demon he had called from its lair months before. “Do not dare to sign a pact with her, old friend. That is a deadly mistake you dare not make.” **** Miles away, Cedric smiled. “I have been in this world too long, Danyon. I would welcome an end to my existence.” “Even Nightwinds as ancient as you can feel agony, Cedric,” Danyon warned. “Be careful how you tread with Bronwyn McGregor. The Bugul Noz will be my ears and eyes.” Cedric nodded. In a flash of pulsing light, he sped across time and distance. When his essence settled, he was standing in the corridor of St. Simon's hospital in Derry Byrne. Unseen, he walked to Bronwyn's room, then stood to one side as nurses and doctors finished their tasks and left the young woman lying still and as pale as death beneath the crisp sheets. Cedric went to the bed and put his hand on her cheek. “Wake, Bronwyn,” he whispered. **** Bronwyn opened her eyes and gazed up at the old man hovering over her. “Cedric?” she questioned. “What are you doing here?” “Danyon the Nightwind summoned me. He bid me look to you.” “You're like him—like Danyon.” “I am.”

“Go away,” she hissed. “He is here, lass. Just down the hall.” “I know where he is,” Bronwyn seethed. “He brought me here.” “I meant the other one.” “What other one?” she asked. “You're not making any sense.” “The man who killed your child.” “Sean is here?” she asked, her voice tearful. “Just down the hall.” Cedric held out his hand to her. “Do you wish to see him?” She hesitated, staring at his face. There was deep sadness in his watery gaze and a tremble to the hand he had extended toward her. “I am old, Bronwyn. Older than anything on your world. I have seen much sorrow and caused more of it than I care to admit.” “Then why are you here?” “Because Danyon summoned me to take you to Sean Cullen.” He moved his hand closer to her. “Will you go in to see him before it is too late?” Bronwyn placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. Her bottom lip quivered. “They said he died.” “They lied. He is alive and his parasite is striving to heal him.” He shook his head. “It will not be successful. It was burned too badly to rejuvenate his flesh. Sean Cullen will die before the evening is out.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you wish to see him?” “I don't understand...” “You don't need to. We must hurry if you are to see him before he leaves this world.” Her heart breaking, she walked beside the Nightwind, wondering why no one seemed to look their way as they passed. Even the burly guards who flanked room 105 never batted an eye as Cedric opened the door and ushered her inside. A horrible stench permeated the room, and Bronwyn realized it was the smell of burned flesh. It sickened her, and when she gagged, Cedric touched her forehead and the sensation passed. He led her to the bedside, where a nurse was adjusting the flow of an IV tube. “He can hear you and see you, but she will not,” Cedric said. The nurse took a seat across the room, picked up a magazine, and began reading. Fearfully, Bronwyn looked at Cedric.

“I am right here, Beloved,” the ages-old Nightwind said. “I will not leave you.” A groan from the bed drew Bronwyn's gaze. She shivered, her bare feet icy against the marble floor. “He doesn't have long to live,” Cedric insisted. “If you wish to speak to him, do it now.” The light over the headboard was low, casting shadows in the room, but bright enough for Bronwyn to see the gruesome spectacle. Had she not known who lay atop the stark white sheets, she would have sworn she had stumbled onto the set of a horror movie. The ravaged flesh—blistered, peeling away from bone, oozing fluids—seemed surreal. The shriveled holes where once there had been eyes made her stomach lurch in protest. So hideous was the apparition, so horrible the smell, it was all she could do to believe it reality. Only stray wisps of blond hair clinging to the bloated skull identified this awful sight as human. When the monstrosity tried to lift a withered, blackened hand to touch her, she jumped back, her gorge rising, despite Cedric's hypnotic suggestion. “Talk to him, Beloved,” Cedric pressed. He draped his arm around her shoulder. “Why, Sean?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Why did you do it?” “He cannot answer you, Beloved. His vocal chords are useless.” Bronwyn looked helplessly at the old man. “Tell him how you feel,” Cedric encouraged. “Let him know.” Turning back to Sean, Bronwyn dug her nails into her palms. She willed herself not to hear the pathetic attempts at speech coming from the bed. She steeled herself not to react to the trembling hand struggling to reach her, the sickening sight of the blistered flesh. “I will never forgive you, Sean Cullen.” There came a loud exhalation of air as Sean lowered his hand, palm up, to the bed. “Goodbye, Sean,” she said, swatting at the tears that threatened to choke her. She ripped the chain from her neck and dropped the Claddagh necklace he had given her so long ago into his palm, then flinched when his destroyed fingers closed over it. “Turn your back on him,” Cedric instructed. She did, burying her face in Cedric's chest. Sean gasped. The loud sound of the machine beside the bed brought the nurse to her feet, the magazine flying. Cedric pulled her back as doctors and nurses entered. He held her against him as the medical team applied paddles to the seared chest and the monitor flat-lined. The monitor's high-pitched squeal continued long past the doctors made several more attempts to bring the man back to life. “Time of death...” were the last words Bronwyn heard before she collapsed in Cedric's arms.

CHAPTER 24

Brian stood with his sweaty hands pressed against the glass of the observatory. Beside him, four other physicians stood attentively, watching the proceedings in Operation Room 4. “I can't believe you were able to get the body so quickly,” Dr. Felix Cramden remarked. “Be quiet,” Brian snapped. He was in no mood for idle conversation. Since he outranked them, he doubted they would balk at his command. If they did, he would personally toss them out on their rear ends. “Who's decision was this, Brian?” Dr. Gerard Mabry asked. “Dunne's,” Brian said through clenched teeth. When hushed mutterings came from behind, Brian turned to glare. The muttering stopped. The sight on the operating table was the most horrible thing he could have imagined. Upon seeing the condition of Sean's body when it was brought to Fuilgaoth, Brian thought he would pass out. There was nothing human left in the charred remains that could have been identified as his son. Dr. Dunne glanced up at the balcony. “Are you sure you don't want to be down here, Brian?” he asked, his eyes glittering behind his surgical mask. “No,” Brian grated. Dunne shrugged, then nodded at his assistants, who turned the burned body onto its stomach. The charred backbone shone whitely through the split flesh. “As you know,” Dunne said, speaking to his team, “Cullen's parasite barely survived the blast. Had its host maintained a desire to live, there is no doubt in my mind the parasite might well have managed to keep the body alive a bit longer.” He spread his hands. “At least until we were able to get the body back here.” Brian clenched his fists against the glass. “But Cullen lost the will to live and expired at ten-thirty-five this morning. It is now...” He looked up at the clock. “Two-thirty-five in the evening. The body is cold to the touch and the parasite has died.” “Get on with it!” Brian hissed beneath his breath. “We will now attempt to implant a fledgling parasite in order to re-animate the body.” “It won't work,” Brian growled. The door to the observation balcony opened and closed. A hand touched Brian's shoulder, but he shrugged it away. It returned with a firm grip. He turned to see Dr. Helen Bryan standing at his side. “I have something to show you,” she said urgently.

“Do you see what he's doing?” Brian snapped, cocking his head toward the operating table. “The man thinks he's God! He's trying to re-animate my son's dead body!” “Come with me,” Helen insisted, pulling at him. Brian shrugged away her grip. “Leave me the hell alone!” Helen grabbed his arm. “Dunne can't do a damned thing for your son, but there may be something we can do!” She looked around her. “Does anyone here remember what happened the day he was brought to Fuilgaoth?” Dr. Mabry stepped to her side. “I do.” “Well, She became twice as agitated when they brought him back this afternoon. The tank is rocking on its base.” “Could it be?” Cramden asked. “She's chosen him for her Prime,” Mabry breathed. “She has,” Helen agreed. Brian looked at Dunne, who was stepping back after having implanted a young parasite into Sean's body. He shook his head. “You know what will happen when he finds out,” Brian said. “He won't allow what you're suggesting.” “Does it matter what he won't allow?” Helen asked. “He's become a liability, Brian. The things he has done, the abominations he has created, are a sin each of us will have to help atone for. Can we allow him to continue perverting what could have been something used for the good of mankind?” “You're talking about doing the same damned thing!” Brian snapped. Mabry turned to the other two men who had remained quiet. “Colter, Devereaux. What do you think?” Dr. Henry Colter shook his head. “Do what you think best, but leave me out of it. I can't afford to have Dunne come after me.” “Dunne won't come after any of us if we have Her on our side!” Samuel Devereaux remarked. He walked over to the others. “Count me in.” “What do we need to do?” Cramden asked. “As soon as Dunne is finished and has gone back to his office, we'll wheel Sean up to the Room,” Helen responded. “The Queen will let us know what to do next.” “This is dangerous,” Colter insisted. “If you fail, you will all be terminated.” “Breathe one word of it to someone who might stop us and I swear we'll implicate you,” Mabry snapped. Colter held up his hand. “I want no part of this, but do what you have to. I won't interfere in any way.”

“They're finished,” Devereaux said. Braan turned to what was happening in the operation room. He watched Dunne walk out of the room with his chief assistant, Louis Lutz. “Give them ten minutes, then we'll get Sean,” Helen said. Brian took her arm. “Do you think She can bring him back?” “All I know is She put the thought into my mind. We can only do Her bidding...” **** An eerie ruby red light filled the Room as Sean Cullen's scarred body was rolled inside. The air was as frigid as the North Pole and there was a strange humming that jarred Brian's nerves. Inside the tank, the Queen was plastered to the glass like a giant leech, Her beady eyes as scarlet as blood. The fluid inside the tank violently agitated. Brian cast a fearful look to the Queen. The parasites inside his body squirmed, his own queen rolling within his kidney, making him grunt with the pain of her movements. “God, that hurts,” Cambry said, obviously experiencing the same. “What do we do now?” Devereaux asked. He was as far back from the tank as space would allow. Not being one of those implanted with the parasites, he was terrified of the creature. The humming grew in volume until those in the room had to cover their ears to blot out the painful sound. Brian could feel it in the fillings in his teeth, in the marrow of his bones. They all backed away from the source as the tank began to shake and wobble on its base. Brian's eyes grew wide as Helen pressed herself against him. He knew she would have preferred him to wrap his arms around her, could feel her need, but the sound penetrating the pressure of his hands against his ears was driving him insane. The glass tank burst. The liquid inside spread its fetid waves over those gathered. The Queen flung Her body atop Sean's, and before Brian's stunned eyes, sank into the ravaged flesh and disappeared from view. A sharp, sulfurous aroma saturated the air and sent Brian and the others into the corridor, gasping for breath, eyes stinging. Gagging, retching, Brian, Helen, Cramden, Devereaux, and Mabry slid down the wall, pulling at their clinging garments, trying desperately to pry the searing material from their bodies. Already Brian's flesh was turning red from the caustic intrusion of the liquid into his clothing. “What the hell is going on?” Dunne shouted as he and Louis Lutz came out of the elevator. They ran toward the group on the floor. “Lou! Check the Room!” Unable to speak, his lungs singed by the noxious fumes, Brian, along with the other physicians, kicked at the floor and tried desperately to drag oxygen into his rapidly depleting body. “The tank has ruptured—the Queen is gone!” Lutz reported. He was standing beside Dunne, a handkerchief over his mouth, tears running down his cheeks.

Dunne tried to enter the room, but backed out, coughing violently, and fumbling for a handkerchief. Covering his mouth, he attempted to enter the room again, but was driven back. “Get the biohazard team in here. Now!” he ordered. “Cullen's body is in there,” Lutz said. Dunne's mouth dropped open. “What?” “It's on the floor,” Lutz reported before turning to make the call to the biohazard team. Dunne dragged Brian to his feet and shook him, ignoring his gasping. “What have you done?” Brian's lungs felt baked, his flesh on fire. His vision was gone, the fumes having burned a hole through his retinas. He felt himself being shaken, but could do no more than groan. **** “What have you done?” Dunne screamed, shaking Brian so savagely, the man's neck snapped beneath the onslaught. Louis Lutz stepped back as Dunne let go of Brian's limp body and turned his attention to the others. The only one left alive was Helen Bryan. Dunne went to her, jerked her to a sitting position and demanded she tell him what had transpired. Through gasps and groans, Helen whispered that she had been far enough away from the tank when it exploded that she received a lesser amount of fluid on her. She was also the first to stagger from the room so her lungs were not as damaged. Dunne surmised she might survive the experience, but at the moment, all she could do was choke in between moans. A warning klaxon brought Dunne to his feet. “No!” he shouted, running for the elevator. But even as he reached the stainless steel cage, the doors slid shut, narrowly missing chopping off his fingers. He pounded on the door, demanding it be opened. “We're quarantined,” Lutz said uselessly. “Not even the bio team can reach us now.” Dunne threw back his head and howled in frustration. His lips skinned back from his teeth as he kicked Brian O'Shea's body. “Son of a bitch!” **** Lutz knelt beside Helen and used his handkerchief to wipe her face. Dunne hunkered down beside them. She gazed up at them through blurred vision. Her mouth worked, but she could no longer speak. “You brought him here for Her, didn't you?” Lutz asked. Helen managed a nod, feebly reaching up to grip his arm. Her eyes, though seemingly unable to focus, pleaded with him. “The gods help us, Helen,” Lutz said. “This may be the end of us all.”

“Did she tell you why they did this?” Dunne snarled. Lutz looked up, locked gazes with Dunne, and realized for the first time the man he'd worked with most of his adult life was staring at him with a lethality that bordered on the insane. “The Queen instructed them to bring him to Her,” Lutz said, holding Dunne's heated glower. “She chose him as Her Prime.” Dunne blinked, his lips parting. “Aye,” he said, realization obviously setting in. “She chose him. We knew that, didn't we?” Lutz nodded in reply, but remained silent. “She chose him,” Dunne said, getting to his feet and going to the door of the Room. “She entered him, didn't she? That's where she's gone.” “Aye,” Lutz said, shuddering as he looked away from Dunne's avid stare. “She devoured the fledgling you inserted in him and has taken residence in his body.” “We will have a Prime Reaper at last!” Dunne chortled, clapping his hands and hooting with unrestrained glee. “We will have an Assassin's assassin, at last!” Helen's grip on Lutz's arm tightened. She was trembling from her pain, but also, Lutz realized, most likely trembling with the realization that she may have helped bring something more monstrous than anything the world had ever seen into their lives. **** Several days passed before the first signs of healing began in Sean Cullen. On the fifth after his death, five days after the Queen invaded his body, the young man's heart began to beat. At 8:53 that morning, he took his first labored breath. “He is going to survive!” Dunne said, his grin wide. He looked at Brian O'Shea. “And you should thank whatever evil star under which you were born that that is the case.” Brian's parasite had healed his injuries. He was now as healthy as he had been before the incident. He was also, however, a virtual prisoner of Dunne and treated as an enemy. “He's thriving?” Brian asked. Lutz chewed on his lower lip. “Yes, he is.” Dunne stared at the ravaged flesh. “How long do you think it will take for him to completely heal?” Lutz shrugged. “No idea.” “You could be a bit more enthusiastic, Lou,” Dunne complained. Lutz ran a hand over his face. “I'm hungry and I've got a bitching headache. And I'm tired of being cooped up in here.”

“The quarantine won't last much longer,” Dunne snapped. “Be thankful there was any food at all in the break room on this floor.” Lutz exchanged a look with Helen Bryan. The physician pursed her lips and picked at the skin on her hands where the tank's liquid had burned her flesh. She was peeling but would likely have no scars. Dunne put his hands on his hips and drew in a long breath, held it, then exhaled. He flexed his arms. “I'm going for a walk,” he said, heading for the corridor. “Have fun,” Helen snorted and ignoring his irritated look. “Watch what you say to him,” Lutz cautioned. “He's a dangerous man.” “He's crazy.” Helen threw back the covers from her legs and sat on the sofa. “With any luck, She will remember him keeping Her imprisoned in the tank and make mincemeat out of him when Sean awakes.” Lutz frowned. “If Sean wakes...” Brian looked at him. “What does that mean?” “Come here. You, too, Helen. Look at him and tell me what you see happening.” Helen arched a thick blond brow. “What do you mean?” “Look at him.” Brian and Helen turned their attention to the body on the floor. “What is it I'm supposed to be looking at?” Helen asked. “His hair,” Lutz answered. “It's growing back,” she reported. “Growing back very thick—and very black.” Brian blinked. “But Sean has blond hair...” “Let me show you something interesting.” He pointed to Sean's blistered face. Brian swallowed, the sight unnerving. “He was such a—a handsome young man—” “With the palest blue eyes, huh?” Lutz hunkered down and slid up Sean's right eyelid. Brian gasped. The eye peering blankly back at him was a deep brown with amber striations. “Good lord!” Helen gasped, scrambling to her feet. “What's happening to him?” Lutz smiled sardonically. “The Queen is healing him.” “But he's changing!” she protested.

Lutz shook his head. “He's healing exactly as She knew him when he was alive.” Brian's eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, no!” Helen looked from one man to another. “I don't understand.” Brian staggered to a chair and slumped down. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Tears formed in his eyes. “He's—he's gone.” “Tell me what's happening!” Helen demanded. Louis Lutz sighed. “The Queen never knew the taste of Sean Cullen's blood, so therefore She did not have his DNA. There were no generic blueprints from which She could work to refashion his destroyed body. Everything had to be regenerated from memory. Exactly as it was on that—that last day.” Helen's mouth sagged open. “You mean...” Her eyes bulged with terror. Brian shuddered and looked at the body on the floor. “She is doing the only thing She could do—bringing back the man who landed in Ireland many centuries before. She is bringing back Viraidan Cree.” CHAPTER 25

Grinnell, Iowa, August 1995 There was a silver cast to the sky as Bronwyn turned off Highway 6 and onto the road her mother had marked for her on the map. Rolling hills of corn on one side of her car and lush green hay on the other dotted the Iowa landscape. Red-winged blackbirds stood sentinel on rickety old fence posts. Black walnut trees and red maples added their color to the tops of the higher hills. A lone redtail hawk soared on the wind, dipping its wings in greeting as Bronwyn passed. “I always thought Iowa was flat as a fritter,” she commented to the little dog reclining in the passenger seat. Brownie raised her golden brown head. The part-poodle, part-schnauzer arched one bushy brow as if to say, “That's what you get for thinking.” Getting to her feet, the “schnoodle,” as Bronwyn called her, looked out the window, then turned back to her mistress and yawned widely. Bronwyn laughed. “Oh, it's not going to be that bad!” The dog made a huffing sound, then lay down, rejecting the scenery. “Elitist,” Bronwyn accused. She twisted around in her seat. “How ‘bout you? What do you think?” The black cat, lounging on the backseat, blinked at her, then closed its eyes, dismissing the question and the woman who asked it. “Traitor.”

The road curved sharply to the left around a tall embankment. Bronwyn slowed, making sure she was directly in her own lane. It was a good thing she did, for at the moment she started into the curve, a motorcycle came roaring around the bend, the black machine directly in her path. “Damn it!” she yelled, jerking the wheels to the right and sending her car onto the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision. She slammed on the brakes to keep from going into a ditch. The tires skidded precariously on the loose gravel as the car ground to a stop within a foot of a leaning telephone pole. With a curse, she looked in the rearview mirror, watching the motorcyclist continuing on as though nothing had happened. The motorcycle's brake light flashed on for a second as the driver reached the main highway and turned East on Highway 6. “Crazy bastard,” Bronwyn snapped. Pulling back onto the road, she realized her hands were trembling from the near miss. She took a deep, calming breath. The road curved back to the right around another tall embankment. When it straightened again, the first thing Bronwyn noticed was the triple layers of high security fence, topped with razor wire and dotted with warning signs to indicate the inner fence was electrified. The fences stretched out from both sides of a small square building that sat in the middle of the road. Two sliding heavy-duty gates, also topped with razor wire, flanked the security kiosk. Above the brick structure were two rows of halogen spotlights, four to each side. On opposite sides of the road stood two tall guard towers, one on the outside of the gate, the other on the inside. As she came closer, Bronwyn saw men patrolling the towers, each carrying rifles. Two guards stepped out of the security kiosk when she braked to a stop. Both men wore side arms, their gazes hidden behind dark glasses. One wore a dark brown uniform; the other was clad entirely in black. She lowered her window, casting a look at the guard, who walked in front of her car and headed for the passenger side. “Welcome to Baybridge, Dr. McGregor,” the guard in dark brown said as he walked up to her window. “How did you...?” She turned to look at the black-clad guard, now peering into the passenger side window. “We've been expecting you, ma'am,” the first guard responded. “We have your photo, vehicle make, and tag number.” He smiled behind the mirrored surface of his sunglasses and extended his hand. “May I have your paperwork, please?” Brownie had gotten to her feet when the car stopped and was sniffing at the window. The second guard tapped the knuckle of his right index finger on the glass. “Hey, Cutie.” He glanced in the back and frowned. “I don't like cats.” “Could you pop the trunk, please?” asked the first guard, whose nametag labeled him Danforth. Bronwyn reached for the control box on her key chain, twisted it so she could see the lettering, and pressed the trunk button. “Is Dr. Hesar here?” she asked as the trunk opened and the second guard walked to the rear of the car. Brownie huffed and lay down again. “Yes, ma'am. He's waiting for you in the Admin building,” Danforth replied. “I'll be right back.” He went

into the building and picked up a telephone. Bronwyn glanced in her side mirror as she heard the second guard moving her luggage in the trunk. “Just a tad paranoid, wouldn't you say, Brown Stuff?” she asked. Brownie sighed deeply. She scraped her paw over her nose a couple of times before turning onto her back, paws in the air. “My God, girl, but you are a lazy piece of work!” Bronwyn chuckled. “I talk to my dog, too.” Bronwyn jerked around to see the second guard standing by her window. She smiled at him, although a bit nervously, since his black uniform intimidated her and he wasn't smiling in return. He wore the same dark sunglasses as the first guard and it was hard to read his expression. “What kind of dog do you have?” she inquired to be polite. He cocked his head to one side. “A Rottwieler. I don't like cats,” he repeated. “My dog doesn't either. Sometimes I...” “That's enough, Gaines,” Danforth snapped as he rejoined them. Gaines made no reply as he sauntered back to one of the buildings. Before he entering, he looked back at Bronwyn and gave her a mock salute. “Is he always that creepy?” she asked. “Their kind can be a bit intense.” “Their kind?” “When you go through the gate, follow the road to the top of the hill. There's a second security kiosk up there and they'll have your badge ready. You must wear it at all times when you're in the facility. Please don't lose it, because the process to get a new one takes about ten days to two weeks. You will not be allowed back in until your new badge is activated.” “In that case, I'll make every effortnot to lose it,” Bronwyn mumbled. “We would appreciate your diligence, ma'am.” Danforth pointed at a short post capped with a chrome box. “Those are security stanchions and you'll see them located every forty feet along the road to the second security kiosk. As a matter of fact, you'll see similar stanchions throughout the facility. They are tracking devices, and as your car passes each one, your speed is timed and reported to the security console in the main building. Should you stop for any reason between this guard hut and the next, we will be notified immediately and a security vehicle will be dispatched to see why. And please do not leave your car. Remain inside and someone will be along shortly to aid you.” Bronwyn frowned sharply. “The purpose for that being...?” “It serves several purposes, ma'am.” Danforth lifted his hand and ticked off the reasons. “Your car could break down and you might need assistance. There might have been a medical emergency. An inmate

trying to escape could waylay you. You...” “Does that happen often?” Bronwyn interrupted. “It's never happened, ma'am, but there is always the possibility.” “And that's why you wish for me to remain inside the car.” “Yes, ma'am. You will be issued a stun gun for your glove compartment. Please be sure you keep it in the car at all times. Also, I must warn you—there are ground sensors buried along the roadways, in the fields, within the ten-foot perimeter of all the buildings. You will see warning signs around the buildings, but not out in the field or along the road. Pressure will activate the sensors, and when it does, a strong current shoots up to incapacitate the intruder.” He shrugged. “Despite our safety precautions, perhaps some accomplices of an inmate might gain entrance to the fenced area and intercept your car. They could hide in the trunk or beneath the undercarriage of a truck. We've tried to research all possible scenarios to see that inmates do not escape nor their accomplices enter. This is one of the most secure super-max prisons in the world and we want to keep it that way.” Bronwyn looked about her. “I take it the perimeter is patrolled.” “We have guard towers located every half-mile along the property, Dr. McGregor. We also have guards, with dogs, who patrol on foot and in vehicles. Every hour, one of our helos makes a sweep of the area with heat-seeking equipment. The pilots will tell you they know every squirrel, raccoon, opossum, deer, fox, stray cat and dog by heat signature, and have even given the boogers names.” He smiled. “You will be well protected here. There are two clusters of buildings at Baybridge. The Eastern Complex houses the staff condos, shops, corporate buildings, and maintenance facilities. The Western Complex is where the inmates are housed. That five-hundred-eighty acre facility is entirely underground.” Bronwyn's eyes widened. “The prison is underground?” Danforth nodded. “Yes, ma'am. The farthest underground is Five North. That's where the worst offenders are kept.” “No one mentioned that little tidbit,” Bronwyn said dryly. “Anything else I need to know before I traverse the yellow brick road?” Danforth's smile faded. He stepped back and thrust his thumbs into the belt of his gun holster. “Just drive carefully.” Bronwyn thought of her encounter with the speeding motorcycle. “I'll keep that in mind.” For a moment, Danforth just looked at her, then shrugged lightly and lifted his hand. “Open her up!” The heavy sliding gate made a loud clanking noise, then began to slide away from the back of the kiosk. Bronwyn put her car in gear. “Have a nice day, now,” Danforth grunted. Bronwyn nodded and drove through the open gate, the rear of her car barely clearing the entrance before the heavy structure closed with a thump. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see Danforth and the returned Gaines staring at her.

“No doubt discussing what a bitch I am,” Bronwyn told Brownie. Brownie opened one eye but remained silent. From the back seat came a soft meow of agreement. At the top of the hill, the unsmiling black clad guard at the second kiosk handed her a laminated badge that held her photo, thumbprint, and signature. She stared at her photo, stunned to realize it had been taken back at the other building without her being aware. No doubt her thumbprint and signature had been lifted from the paperwork she had given Danforth, then transmitted here to the second kiosk. “You people don't leave anything to chance, do you?” she inquired as she clipped the badge to the lapel of her suit jacket. “We can't afford to, Doctor,” the guard, whose nametag read Cahill, replied. When she looked up at him, he held her gaze behind the polished surface of his dark glasses. “Baybridge is a maximum security facility. In the thirty-five years we've been in existence, we've never had an escape. We've never had anyone successfully breach our security, either. Some of our measures might seem harsh at first, but believe me, you will appreciate them once you've taken the tour of the prison.” “I'm sure I will,” Bronwyn said quietly. The guard reached into his pocket and withdrew a second badge. “This is for the dog.” Before Bronwyn could comment, he told her Brownie must have the badge clipped to her collar at all times. “We have a sample of the dog's DNA in case we ever need to identify her.” He glanced in the backseat. “We'll have to draw some blood from the feline, though, so we can get her a badge if you plan on keeping her here.” “It's a him,” Bronwyn said, “and yes, I do plan on keeping him here.” She shivered. “How did you manage to get a sample of Brownie's blood?” The guard smiled for the first time, but the gesture seemed awkward and stiff. “You were required to have the dog's records up to date before you could be allowed to bring it into the facility. We simply took what we needed from your veterinarian.” He looked at the cat again. “Didn't know about that one. Did you pick him up on the way here?” Bronwyn's jaw tightened. “No, he's been with me for more than nine years. Did you get Brownie's blood with or without my vet's permission?” “Does it matter? It's curious that we knew nothing of the feline, though.” Anger shifted through Bronwyn as she attached Brownie's badge to her collar. “Apparently the inmates aren't the only crazy people here,” she grated. “I can't believe my dog and cat need a security badge! Does someone think they will aid an inmate to escape?” “Take that paved road to your left, Doctor,” the guard said as though he hadn't heard her question. “You'll need to turn onto the first road you come to and keep following it until you reach the dead end. Take a right and follow that road to the main facility. Park in Lot A, slot Fourteen. Look for the large red letter A as you pass the statue of Justice; you can't miss it. That is your reserved parking and requires a permit. Don't worry about that—someone will place the sticker on your windshield before you're shown to your quarters this evening.” Her jaw clenched, Bronwyn nodded without speaking and drove forward, turning onto the road the

guard had indicated. She looked to her right, wondering where the winding gravel road led. As she wound her way toward the main facility, Bronwyn worried that she had made a bad mistake in coming to work for the people her late father had worked for. Despite Dr. Hesar's assurance that Bronwyn's degree in behavioral science, with a minor in criminology, was something Wynth Industries could use for a new program they were implementing, she had reservations. She had spent her externship at a major computer company, helping to design software for law enforcement agencies worldwide to aid in tracking down serial killers and child molesters. A month before her mother called to alert her to the job opening at W. I., Bronwyn had applied for a position with the F. B. I. Her dream was to work in the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, but since the agency's policy was to recruit from present employees, she would have had to get a foot in the door as a field agent. “Bronwyn, a glorified cop?” her mother had exclaimed worriedly. “I want to make a difference, Mama,” she'd tried to explain. “If I can help prevent what happened to Daddy and...” She stopped, unable to say her dead son's name. “I have to do this. I have to do what I can to help catch these monsters!” “I know that and that's why I will add my encouragement with Neal Hesar's for you to take this job at Baybridge,” her mother insisted. “They are as concerned about violence as you are. The facility out here is the best of its kind. Important, high-impact research is being conducted on what makes those monsters tick and how to stop them. W. I. is connected worldwide with every conceivable agency devoted to stamping out violent crimes. They have the contacts, you have the knowledge. You could benefit from one another.” After several weeks of long-distance phones calls and hours of discussion with her mother, Bronwyn had met with a representative from Wynth Industries, who had flown down to Ft. Walton Beach to recruit her. She had taken to Rebecca Woods instantly. “As a private company, we are able to offer you a great incentive package. We'll start you out at $125,000 a year with stock options, 401K, major medical/dental, the usual yadda-yadda-yadda packets,” Becca had explained. “You'll be working with some of the best minds in behavioral research.” “I'm impressed with your roster of staff members,” Bronwyn said, scrolling through the names, awards, and honors on the brochure Becca handed her. “I'll feel like the proverbial red-headed stepchild.” “You'll fit in nicely. Now, let's get serious for a moment.” “All right.” “Baybridge is a major mental hygiene facility,” Rebecca continued. “It is what is being touted as a super max prison. Housed within the facility are criminals the court system has declared either incompetent to stand trial for various reasons or too dangerous for regular prisons—spree and serial murderers, violent rapists/sexual torturers, pedophiles, people who fancy themselves human vampires, and those who have become cannibalistic. In other words, very sick people.” “So I gathered,” Bronwyn admitted. “We work closely with VI-CAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and with the F. B. I. in

general. Local, state, and government agencies across the U. S. have come to rely on Baybridge and Wynth Industries to house their worst inmates.” “A hodge-podge of the nation's most lethal, I take it.” “Worse than the average citizen can even begin to imagine.” “I would imagine some medical personal are loath to work in such an environment.” Rebecca nodded. “Indeed, and that is one of the reasons the incentive package is so lucrative. Especially to a newly-minted physician,” she added with a grin. “What about living facilities? How is the real estate market in and around Jasper County?” Rebecca shook her head. “I'm afraid living on the economy is discouraged. Because of security precautions, housing is on site, but you can decorate your condo—at W. I. expense, of course—in any fashion you find comfortable and relaxing. Dr. Wynth wants his employees to be surrounded by things they like and that will make them as productive as possible. There is, however, a cap on what you can spend to furnish your condo. Budget is equal to your annual salary, but you can charge your additional purchases at 9.34% interest per annum.” Bronwyn's eyes widened. “That's a helluva incentive!” “We even put it in writing!” Becca laughed. She pulled a pen from her briefcase, along with a preliminary statement of intent. She held out the pen to Bronwyn. “What do you say? Willing to take a chance on conquering the world with Wynth Industries?” Bronwyn had hesitated only a moment before shrugging, taking the pen, and signing away her future with a flourish. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she quipped. “You won't regret it.” Now, as Bronwyn caught sight of Baybridge's main building, she said, “Lord, I hope I don't.” Turning into the huge parking lot presided over by a six-story megalith of a building, Bronwyn felt perspiration ooze onto her upper lips and her palms grow clammy. The building was a marvel of glass and stone, with sweeping banks of dark-tinted, copper-colored windows that reflected the scuttling clouds lowering from the gray sky. In the distance lightning flared, and its image pulsed across the building's shiny façade as a few fat raindrops plunked against Bronwyn's windshield. “I don't like bad weather,” she said, an edge to her voice. She found Lot A and her parking slot as the rain increased in intensity and the wind began to buffet the vehicle. Brownie opened her eyes and sat up. She pressed her wet nose to the window glass and whined. “Yeah, I know,” Bronwyn responded. “And you know what I told you about Midwest storms.” The little dog looked around as if to inquire if one of those twister things might be in the offering.

“We just may regret having—” Lightning stitched across the sky with a horrendous crack, and both Bronwyn and her pet yelped. One threw her hands over her head; the other bolted into her mistress’ lap, wedging her pudgy body between the steering wheel and Bronwyn's flat belly. As the sky opened and the rain began pummeling the car, making it impossible for Bronwyn to see anything but the cascading sheet of water flowing down the windshield, she picked up her overweight pet, held it in her arms, and buried her face in Brownie's golden brown fur. CHAPTER 26

Dr. Sage Hesar stood at the window, reveling in the storm raging outside. He loved bad weather as much as his twin sisters, Thyme and Anise, hated it. Feeling exhilarated by the flare of the lightning and the howl of the wind, Sage took every opportunity to witness nature's spectacle. Iowa's ever-changing weather never failed to provide the Georgia-born psychologist with all the meteorological thrills he had time to enjoy. “One of these days, you're going to get toasted like a marshmallow at a Boy Scout Jamboree,” his father quipped from the doorway. “Get the hell away from that damned window, Sage!” Sage sighed, rolling his eyes to the heaving heavens. “The McGregor girl is here,” he said as he turned reluctantly from the window. Dr. Neal Hesar's forehead crinkled. “She hasn't checked in.” Sage jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “She's sitting in her car.” He sat at his desk and leaned back in the $20,000 chair that had been molded especially for his athletic 6 foot 3 frame. “Been there since the storm started.” “And you didn't see fit to inform anyone so they could get her?” his father snapped. “Well,” Sage drawled, “she's sitting clutching her dog, hiding her face against the mutt.” He braced his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers. “Does that suggest she'd be willing to venture out in that torrential fury, Dad?” Neal Hesar mumbled something under his breath, then plopped down on the sofa across from Sage's desk. “Have you spoken to the captain today?” he inquired, a look of disgust on his handsome face. “No.” Sage cocked his head to one side, grinning. “Have you lost your pet again, Dad?” A growl issued from between Neal's clenched teeth. “I know where he is.” Sage's grin widened. “But do you know what he's up to?” “I don't need to know,” his father grumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa arm. “He gets things done and that's all that matters.” “It never fails to amaze me that you prefer to call what he does ‘getting things done.’ That's like saying Jeffrey Dahmer had a good appetite.”

His father's quelling look failed to have the desired effect on the younger Hesar. The intercom buzzed on Sage's desk. “Yes?” he replied to the voice-activated machine. “Mrs. McGregor to see you, Doctor,” Sage's secretary informed him. “Send her in.” Neal sat up on the sofa, tightened the tie at his collar, and smoothed his lush brown hair into place. Sage chuckled. “You've already won her, Dad. The woman has seen you with bed head. Looking a bit crumpled at the end of the day isn't going to send her into shock.” “Watch your mouth!” Neal snapped, scowled, and stood as the door opened. His face softened as Deirdre McGregor walked in. “Hello, my dear.” “I'm getting worried, Neal,” Deirdre said. “She should have been here by now.” Neal took her hand. “She's in the parking lot, waiting out the storm.” “The parking lot?” Deirdre moaned. “Oh, Neal! She's terrified of storms. She has been since she was a little girl.” Sage saw his father glaring daggers at him and sighed. He pushed up wearily from his chair. “What if I fetch her, DeeDee?” “Would you?” she asked, her eyes lighting up. She eased her hand from Neal and walked over to Sage, enfolding him in a motherly embrace. “You are a godsend, sweetie.” Neal snickered. “More demon-sent than god-sent, DeeDee. Just ask his twin brother, Savory.” Sage wrinkled his nose at his father on the way out the door. “What's her name again? As I recall, you and Dr. McGregor weren't part of the Flower Child Movement when you named your daughter.” “Bronwyn,” DeeDee replied with a giggle. “Thank you, Sage. I know she'll appreciate it.” “Not a problem.” Sage closed his office door behind him, giving his father and future stepmother privacy. He took the elevator to the parking garage, nodding at the attendant in the glass booth. “I need to get someone from the parking lot.” The attendant unhooked a key from the board. “I hear it's pretty bad out there, Doc.” “Gotta rescue a fair damsel from the clutches of the Storm God,” Sage replied. “We Super Hero-types can't let a little inclement weather keep us from our appointed tasks.” “Better take the Ravenmobile, then. That always impresses them.” The attendant laughed as he tossed the keys to Sage.

Sage caught the keys and headed for a low-slung black sports car crouched in the front row. He climbed in, turned the key, and drew in a deep, satisfying breath at the sound of sleek power roaring from the car's ultra-expensive engine. Maneuvering the stick into first gear, he drove into the blinding plummet of lashing rain. Even with the windshield wipers on high, he could barely see the aisles between the rows of cars. If he hadn't known exactly where he was going, he might have bumped into something. As it was, he was able to judge his whereabouts by the flashes of lightning gleaming on the parked cars he rolled slowly past and found Bronwyn McGregor's navy blue sedan with little problem. He parked behind her and slightly to the left of her driver's door, leaving plenty of room so he could open his door to usher her inside his car. Not averse to getting out in the slashing rain, he made sure the passenger side door was unlocked, then exited the sports car. By the time he reached her side of the sedan, he was soaked to the skin. Lifting his hand to tap on her window, he thought he saw the shadow of someone sitting in the car with her, but when he called out, the shadow melted away. “Bronwyn?” he called again, this time louder. **** Bronwyn flinched, looking at the watery figure standing at her door. She turned her key in the ignition so she could lower her window. Rain splashed through the opening as it lowered. “Hi!” the soaking wet man said, leaning toward her. “I've come to bring you to your Mom.” Bronwyn wiped away the water stinging her face. “I can't leave my dog. She's afraid of the storm,” she said, licking at the moisture on her lips. “Bring her along. I wouldn't think of leaving her.” Bronwyn gave the stranger a grateful smile. She twisted in the seat to retrieve her purse from the backseat. “Can you take this?” she asked, thrusting the large shoulder bag toward him. “I don't know. It really doesn't go with my outfit.” A sharp shriek of lightning rent the air. Bronwyn screamed, dropping her pocketbook through the window as she covered her head with her arms. **** Sage felt the woman's absolute terror and made no effort to pick up her bag. He snatched open the car door, thrust his arms under her knees and behind her back, and lifted her from the vehicle. “Come on!” he commanded the fat bundle of fur crouched against her mistress’ leg. The dog didn't appear to need to be ordered again. She bounded from the car, following as close to Sage's heels as space would permit. She whimpered as he stood Bronwyn on the pavement, yanked open his car door, and ushered his charge inside. Before he could shut the door, the dog leapt into Bronwyn's lap and trembled. Sage ran back to Bronwyn's car, shut her door, and picked up her pocketbook. He cursed when he

realized some of its contents had spilled on the wet pavement. Scooping up what items he saw, he jammed them into the bag and sprinted back to his car. **** As the black sports car rolled carefully back into the underground parking garage, a hand snaked under Bronwyn's car to retrieve her wallet, lying behind the driver's side rear wheel. Wet fingers unsnapped the leather wallet and folded back the top section to reveal the recent driver's license. While thunder shook the ground and brilliant flashes of light scrawled child-like across the firmament, Bronwyn McGregor's driver's license was slipped from its plastic casing before the wallet was placed once more beneath the car. **** “Good Lord, you are soaked through!” Deirdre exclaimed as Bronwyn ambled into Sage's office. She laughed. “You think?” “She said she needed a bath anyway,” Sage observed. “Don't you have somewhere you need to be?” his father snapped. “Ah, if you'll notice, this is where I'm supposed to be,” Sage said dryly. “This is my office, I believe.” Neal Hesar ignored him. “I am Neal Hesar, this lout's father. Do you remember me from Albany?” “Yes, sir,” Bronwyn admitted. “Vaguely, though.” “I hope we'll get to know one another quite well.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to Baybridge and Wynth Industries. We are so pleased you decided to take the job.” Bronwyn wiped her wet hand down her equally wet suit jacket, then took his hand. “I'm happy to be here, although I swear I didn't bring this weather with me.” She grinned. “When I left Florida, it was sunny and bright.” “If you don't like our weather, just wait a few minutes and it'll change,” Sage advised. “Don't pay any attention to my poggleheaded son. His mother dropped him early on and he hasn't been right since.” “Mom saidyou dropped me. Wish you two would get your stories straight.” After casting his son an annoyed look, Neal looked at Deirdre. “I'm sure Bronwyn would like to get out of those wet things, DeeDee. Why don't Smart Mouth and I leave you two to chat?” He caught sight of Brownie and blinked. “Is this the lovely Schnoodle?” Bronwyn laughed. “That's Brown Stuff. Ask me how she got her name.” “Bronwyn Fiona!” her mother groaned, her face turning red.

“Glad to see I ain't the only one who makes ye olde parental units blush,” Sage whispered to Bronwyn. “Brownie for short, though, eh?” Neal asked with a twitch of his lips. He squatted and gave the dog a gentle pat. “My, but you are a precious little thing.” “The Terminator will love her,” Sage said. Bronwyn frowned. “Terminator?” Deirdre sighed. “That's what Neal named my Chihuahua.” “Her jealous suitor,” Sage corrected. “The blasted little booger chewed up a pair of Dad's best loafers.” His black eyes twinkled. “He shouldn't have left them under Dee Dee's bed—” “Out!” Neal said, shoving his son toward the door. He sent Sage staggering into the hallway, then firmly shut the door behind them. Deirdre put her hand over her mouth and turned away, her face infused with color. “Is there something I need to know, Mom?” Bronwyn inquired. Her mother went to the sofa to get her purse. “He's a very nice man and quite handsome, don't you think?” “He looked like a drowned rat to me.” “A drowned...” Deirdre shook her head. “I was referring to Neal, not Sage.” “Oh, him. He seems quite pleasant and, yes, he is very handsome.” “As is his son.” “I'll let you know when I see him without his hair plastered to his forehead, although...” She linked her arm through her mother's. “Those clothes he was wearing clung to all the right spots, you know?” Deirdre snorted. “Stop trying to embarrass me.” Bronwyn opened the door for her mother. “Then tell me about Dr. Hesar and the loafers.” Deirdre ducked her head. “You know we have been friends for many, many years.” She glanced at her daughter. At Bronwyn's nod, she took a deep breath. “He's asked me to marry him.” “Good. You're too young and vital to live alone the rest of your life.” She patted her leg. “Come on, Stuffie.” Brownie trotted out the door in front of them. “Is that your grandmother's old locket?” Deirdre asked, casting a look at her daughter. Bronwyn touched the locket that had somehow worked its way from beneath her blouse. She tucked the gold chain back where it belonged. “Yes, Ma'am.”

“It needs cleaning.” “I suppose it does, but I never take it off.” Bronwyn arched a brow at her mother. “And stop trying to change the subject. What about Dr. Hesar?” “Your father wouldn't have approved,” Deirdre said quietly as she stepped into the hall. “Yes, well, Daddy was jealous of Dr. Hesar, as I remember.” She closed Sage's door. “May I ask what happened to his wife? Rosemary, wasn't it?” “They've been divorced for four years. Neal took your father's job after—” She cut herself off. “Rosie didn't like Iowa. She gave him an ultimatum—her or the job. Since they hadn't been getting along for quite some time and didn't even share a bedroom, he chose the job and she got his parent's house at Doubletree in Albany.” “Wow,” Bronwyn said with a whistle. “That was some house. Is he gonna build you something like that? If so, I got dibs on an east-facing bedroom.” Deirdre stopped walking and looked at her daughter. “Do you have any objections to the marriage, Bronnie? Any at all?” “None whatsoever.” Bronwyn embraced her mother. “I'm thrilled for you. I wish you two all the happiness in the world.” The two women commenced walking. “East-facing, huh?” Deirdre asked. “It was a joke, Mom. I'm too old and too set in my ways to live with my mother ever again.” “Well, you'll have to bunk with me tonight at least. How much furniture are you having brought in?” Bronwyn shrugged. “I have about fifteen boxes of junk, an old overstuffed chair, and a futon. That's the extent of my household goods. Everything came from Goodwill, and most of it, including my dishes, went back to Goodwill when I left Pensacola. I figured I'd start fresh out here.” “Oh, good!” Deirdre exclaimed. “We're going to have a ball shopping!” Bronwyn grinned. “I thought that would make you happy.” “We'll get up early and zip over to Des Moines. There's an absolutely delightful furniture store out near Valley West mall.” Brownie padded down the long corridor and turned a corner, disappearing from view. “Wrong way, Goldfarb!” Bronwyn called. “Here's the elevator.” When Brownie didn't come trotting back, Bronwyn sighed and called her again. “I'll hold the elevator,” Deirdre said, pushing the button.

Bronwyn jogged to the end of the corridor, whistling for her dog. “Brownie, come on!” As she rounded the corner, she saw Brownie far down the hall, sitting in the middle of the corridor, staring up at a tall man unlocking one of the doors. “Brownie!” Bronwyn called. “Come here, sweetie!” The dog turned to look at her mistress, then swung her head back toward the man. She let out one of her excited barks, the kind she used when she wanted to play. Exasperated, Bronwyn clucked her tongue, patting her leg as she walked. “Brownie, come here!” she said, her voice tight. The man never once looked in Bronwyn's direction. He opened the door and went inside, closing the portal behind him with a snap. Brownie whined and trotted to the door behind which the man had disappeared. She lifted her paw and scratched at the metal. “No!” Bronwyn hurried forward and picked up Brownie. She tapped the dog's nose with her index finger. “Bad dog!” Brownie huffed and wiggled in Bronwyn's arms. “No, you aren't getting down. Not until we're in the elevator.” Deirdre was standing at the cage, her hand against the panels. “She doesn't mind very well, does she?” “Normally, she does. I think she made a new friend and didn't want to say goodbye.” Deirdre frowned. “Who?” “Tall man, goatee, long black hair, dressed entirely in black.” Bronwyn saw a strange look pass over her mother's face. “Do you know who I mean?” “Yes, I do.” Deirdre smiled, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Let's get you into a hot bath while I call up for some room service. What would you like?” **** He reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out Bronwyn McGregor's driver's license. He stared at it for a long time before easing the thumb of his right hand over the lower portion of the photograph, stroking the plastic as he had stroked the little dog's muzzle a few minutes before. He brought the card to his face and inhaled the scent of its owner that still clung to the plastic, closing his eyes to the intoxicating scent. The phone rang, but he ignored it. Instead, he walked through the darkness of his office and sat at his desk. He stared at the license as the phone continued to ring, but when the answering machine clicked on, he leaned back in his chair and turned to stare at the offending appliance. “If you must, leave a message,” he heard himself snarl.

“I know you're there,” his caller said. “Please pick up.” With a sigh of annoyance, he leaned forward and jerked up the handset. “What?” “Did you have a good ride?” He did not reply as he flexed the license between his thumb and middle fingers. “Have you seen her?” the caller asked. “What do you think?” “Is there going to be a problem?” “You tell me.” “I don't want there to be.” “Then there won't be,” he declared and hung up. Slumping back in his chair, he swiveled his head to one side and brought the license closer to his face. He stared into the smiling eyes of Bronwyn McGregor for a long time, then pulled open a desk drawer and flicked the license inside. CHAPTER 27

The next day, the sun was shining as though the rain had never visited the Plains State. Everything looked fresh and new, and a slight scent of newly-mown grass wafted on the air. “I've spent more of your money today than I spent in eight years of college,” Bronwyn complained, shifting the weight of the shopping bags. “But it was fun, wasn't it?” her mother queried. “I'll let you know how much fun it was when I pay you back.” “W. I. will reimburse me, dear. You won't have to.” The loud roar of an engine startled them. They turned to see the same motorcycle Bronwyn had encountered the day before, now racing down the access road in front of the condos. “Who is that man, Mama? He almost ran me off the road yesterday. He came barreling around the corner and almost hit me head-on.” “I bet I know exactly where you were. That road can be very dangerous in the wintertime.” “He could have been hurt if we'd collided. Don't you have a helmet law out here?” Deirdre shook her head. “Iowa doesn't require one and I doubt he'd wear one even if they did. Sometimes I believe he thinks he's indestructible. He's in charge of the S. S.”

Bronwyn turned to her mother and arched a brow. “The S. S.?” “Security Services. You'll recognize his men by their black uniforms.” She patted her left shoulder. “They have a red triangle on the sleeve here.” “I met a couple of them at the gates yesterday,” Bronwyn said with a shiver. “Strange men, both of them. Is he as weird as they are?” Her mother smiled. “They can be a bit intimidating, but you have nothing to worry about. Brownie seemed to take right away to the captain. Despite his stern appearance, he loves animals. I believe the only time I've actually seen him smile was when he was talking to an animal and didn't realize he was being observed.” “He was the man in the corridor yesterday?” “Yes.” “Well, Brownie's always been a good judge of character, and if she approves of him, I guess he must be all right.” “I've heard Dr. Wynth remark he would trust his life to the captain. He is a well-thought of young man.” “But a hellion on wheels,” Bronwyn snorted. Deirdre laughed, then put her arm around Bronwyn's shoulder. “Let's get your new home decorated. I can't wait to start!” Bronwyn sighed, for she knew it would be a long day of moving furniture and moving it again until her mother had the flow of traffic in the rooms as it should be. **** The lights went out in Bronwyn McGregor's new condo at a little past 1:00 A.M. on the third morning of her arrival at Baybridge. Her mother had left just before midnight, going down in the elevator with the two men from Wynth Industries’ housekeeping staff, who had helped to arrange the furniture purchased in Des Moines the day before. At 2:00 A.M., Bronwyn McGregor was finally sound asleep, tired from a long day of unpacking and arranging her new furnishings. He had no trouble getting past the alarm system and gaining entrance to her condo. Though the room was dark, he walked unerringly past the unfamiliar furniture arrangement and straight to her bedroom. Slowly, quietly, expertly, he opened the door and slipped inside. The dog lifted its head from the foot of the bed where she was stretched out. Soft brown eyes flicked from the opened door to the far corner of the room and back again. A low groan came from her silky throat. He paid no attention to the other entity in the room as he walked to the bed and stared down at the sleeping woman. Absently, he scratched the dog's chin, feeling her wet tongue dragging over his wrist. He

stood for a moment or two, watching Bronwyn's rhythmic inhalation and exhalation. He made no move to touch her. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, reveling in the light gardenia perfume that clung to her flesh. “Go away.” He opened his eyes and turned to stare at the being that had spoken. It was sitting in a rocking chair at the far end of the room. Two sets of scarlet red eyes clashed, sparking a crimson glow in the darkened room. The stares held until Bronwyn sighed and turned over, the sheets covering her rustling in the quiet. “I will tell my master you came to call,” the aged Nightwind declared, though his lips never moved. He set the rocker into motion. “He will not be pleased.” The visitor did not reply. His vermeil gaze shifted back to Bronwyn then down to the dog. He ruffled its ears, then stepped back. As quietly as he had entered the room, he left. **** Cedric breathed a sigh of relief that there had been no confrontation. To his way of thinking, he was too old and too tired for that sort of thing. He listened for the soft click of the door closing behind Bronwyn's night visitor, and when he heard it, he relaxed. With a slight shiver, he returned to his feline state, curling up on the plush mounds of the rocker's seat cushion, and went back to sleep. **** “I found a note on my door, asking me to take you to a vet and have blood drawn,” Bronwyn commented to Cedric as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. “I'm not sure how I'm going to handle that.” The ancient Nightwind shrugged. “I can shapeshift so you can draw the blood when I'm in my feline form. Even a hematologist won't be able to tell the difference.” Bronwyn joined him at the dining table. “That's a relief. And if you leave the apartment, please do your cloaking thing so no one will see, Cedric. I don't want to have to explain why I have a seventy-year-old gentleman living with me.” “You flatter me, Bronwyn. I'm considerably much older than that.” He grinned. “By a couple of thousand years, actually.” Bronwyn looked at him and sighed. “You don't look a day over nine hundred.” Cedric chuckled. “You silver-tongued demoness, you.” “Do you know where Danyon is?” she asked, her smile slipping to become a slight frown. “Why don't you ask him yourself?” Bronwyn jumped, spinning around to face the one who had spoken. She narrowed her eyes at the man who had so silently materialized. “I wish you wouldn't do that. I've asked you before not to pop in

uninvited.” Danyon Hart folded his arms over his chest. He cast Cedric a stern look and the older Nightwind got up from the table and walked out as quietly as his master had entered. “You had an uninvited guest last evening,” he said, pulling out a chair. He sat facing her. “I have an uninvited guest this morning!” she said with exasperation. Danyon sighed. “Why must you insist on insulting me, Bronwyn? Have I not done everything you demanded? Have I not left you alone to fend for yourself these past nine years, milady?” “With Cedric's watchful eye on me at all times.” “As your protector. And as a helpful companion who changed a flat tire in Arkansas, if memory serves.” He lifted a thick, black brow. “On a barren stretch of road, in the middle of the night, in the driving rain—” “Just what every female traveler needs—a retired Nightwind to follow her around and make things right.” Danyon smiled. “You like him and you know it. He's an ancient being and he's lonely. He enjoys your company. So where is the harm?” Bronwyn grunted an answer. She stuffed a piece of crisp bacon into her mouth and vigorously chewed. Danyon leaned back in the chair. “The visitor?” “I assume this person posed no threat, else Cedric would have raised one helluva fuss,” Bronwyn muttered. When Danyon did not reply, she glanced at him. There was a stern look on his handsome face. “All right. Tell me about it. You're going to anyway.” “He entered your home without permission. He stood over your bed, watching you sleep. He went so far as to pat Brownie, his hand only inches from your leg.” Bronwyn stared at him. “Who did?” “The man on the motorcycle,” Danyon growled, his face hard. “How did he get in?” she asked, her gaze going to the front door. “His kind can get past security as well as Cedric and I can. He opened the door and walked in.” “And Cedric didn't throw him out?” “Cedric is old,” Danyon said on a long breath. “He wants nothing more than to sit beside you in that dented old chair and rock himself to sleep. He would not have welcomed a fight, and I imagine your visitor did not want a fight with him, either.” “Well, I'm glad there wasn't a fight. I was tired, and to be awakened by fighting Nightwinds—”

“Hurl another insult at me, will you? I did not say he was a Nightwind,” Danyon snarled. “You didn't say he wasn't,” Bronwyn threw back. “What exactly is his kind?” Danyon shook his head. “I can not even bear to call him by his race, for it offends me to the depths of what soul I have left!” Bronwyn blanched. “A race worse than the Nightwinds?” “Some would say so.” “Is he dangerous?” she asked, a shudder rippling through her body. “He will not harm you, Beloved. I will see to that.” “How? The man you're talking about is in charge of security. He must be a powerful—” “You arenot to worry about him. Your visitor poses no threat to you.” “You're sure?” Danyon lightly touched her arm. “Aye, Beloved. Very sure. He would never hurt you.” Bronwyn moved her arm from his reach. “Is that all?” The Nightwind sighed audibly. “Though you may never sign a pact between us—” “It would be a cold day in hell before I would, Danny.” She looked at her wristwatch. “I'm going to be late if I don't get out of here now. I have an appointment with Dr. Wynth at nine-thirty.” She reached for her purse, dismissing Danyon with the gesture. A muscle jumped in the Nightwind's lean jaw. “Though you may never sign the pact between us,” he continued, “I have pledged myself to you as your champion, and I will not allow that thing that invaded your privacy last evening to come between us.” “Are you going to fight over me?” she asked, one brow quirked. He pursed his lips. “Eventually, the fight will come between he and I. He knows this as well as I.” “And you'll win,” Bronwyn declared, fear tugging at her throat. Danyon looked away. “I have every intention of doing so.” **** The Chief Security Officer of Wynth Industries Security Services stood at the window of his third-floor condo at the Baybridge complex and watched Bronwyn McGregor hurrying across the Quad toward the Administration building. His eyes missed nothing as Bronwyn made her way to the granite steps; the two men coming toward her from the left, hurrying, as was she, to escape the imminent downpour that threatened to erupt from the

lowering gray sky; the woman who exited the research building with her arms full of file folders; the lone jogger who, for the last half hour, had made the circuit of the Quad's inner walkway. Studying each of the four people within striking range of Bronwyn, he dismissed them as being no threat to her. The unease he had been feeling since waking that morning was centered on her, but there did not appear to be danger lurking about. He drew in a long breath. The stench of Nightwind filled his nostrils. Until the evening before, he had not inhaled that particular rancid aroma for more than a thousand years. He had never thought he would on this world. He sniffed the air again. His nose twitched. He sneezed violently, hating the aroma that now clung to his nasal membranes. So that was the source of his nervousness, he thought with disgust. There was another Nightwind lurking about, and this one's scent was much stronger, more intense than the old one who shadowed Bronwyn. This one was relatively young and, he grimaced, more dangerous. He slumped against the window frame, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as though he could pull the smell of the vile creature from his olfactory nerves. When had this one entered the picture? he wondered. If he had slipped by all the defenses, he must be powerful and with an ability to disguise his true nature. With a hiss of rage, the captain made a mental note to chastise his men for not picking up on the Nightwind's unwanted appearance. But he realized he was just as much at blame, for he had not sensed the vile creature's presence, either. The old one did not concern him. The old one had looked at him with fear, realizing superior power when he saw it. There would be no trouble with that one unless he, himself, provoked it, and the head of security had no intention of doing so. It was the one whose offensive odor clung to Bronwyn that brought up the hackles on his neck. He closed his eyes to the exhaustion that came from inadequate sleep and the brutal cluster headache that had been pounding like a jackhammer above his right eye for the last three days. At least he had found the source of both his uneasiness and his pain in that brief inhalation of Nightwind fetor. The captain winced with genuine agony as the sharp trill of the telephone pierced his skull. He cursed as he snatched up the handset. “What?” he barked. The caller knew him well, knew this was his normal way of answering what he thought was an intrusion. “Dr. Wynth would like you to join him,” came the summons. Snarling beneath his breath, he slammed the receiver onto its ivory cradle, making the pencils and pens in the cup on his highly polished parquet desktop rattle and bounce. His angry stride carried him across the room, where he grabbed a lightweight black denim jacket from the hall tree and shrugged his powerful arms into the sleeves with no care if he tore the seams. Still growling like an enraged dog, he jerked open the door and rocketed out of the room, slamming the portal shut so hard, the adjoining wall shuddered.

Disdaining the elevator because he loathed the closed-in feeling of the metal cage, he took the stairs, his thick boot heels rapping out a hard drumbeat on the metal risers as he descended. By the time he yanked open the outside door, rain was falling in a slanting, silver downpour. “Son of a warthog bitch!” he exploded in his native tongue as he came up short under the overhang. He glowered at the wet sidewalks, where puddles were already forming. Rather than go back into the stairwell and take the even more claustrophobic underground convergence of tunnels, which connected the condos with each of the other five buildings of the Eastern complex, he clenched his jaw and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. He hunched his wide shoulders, then ventured out into the chill rain. **** From the panoramic bank of high windows in his fifth-floor office, Dr. Brighton Wynth, Executive Director of Operations of Wynth Industries, frowned heavily as he observed his captain of security services cutting a determined diagonal across the Quad. Turning away from the window once the captain entered the administration building, Dr. Wynth walked to his desk and sat down. His desktop was bare of the usual accouterments of files, papers, books, and the assorted paraphernalia that pertained to his line of work. What sat atop the rich oak slab, however, was the D. E. O. deemed necessary: two phones—one black, one red—sat on the right side of the desk; a white telephone sat on the left. The black and red phones had bug-free, secured lines, while the white phone was for “ordinary” use. In the center of the sleek oak finish sat an expensive, leather-edged blotter, its paper pad pristinely unblemished—no doodles, notations, or scribbling adorned the smooth surface. When the intercom attached to the white phone buzzed, another man, Burkett, bent forward and pressed the speaker button. “Dr. McGregor is here,” the secretary informed them. “Show her into Dr. Wynth's receiving office, please,” Burkett ordered. “Make her comfortable and tell her it will be a few minutes. I believe she has fondness for hot chocolate. Would you make a cup for her? Please add a generous amount of marshmallows.” “Certainly, sir,” the secretary said. Dr. Wynth was looking at the row of closed circuit television monitors lined along the south wall of his office. He watched his captain of security services take the stairs two at a time. At level three, he stumbled and nearly fell, then lashed out with a fist, slamming it into the fire door as he passed. Wynth chuckled, leaned back in his chair, and threaded his stubby fingers over his slight paunch. “My, my. He's a tad ungraceful today. Not in the best of moods this dreary Saturday morning, is he, Alex?” Alex Burkett grimaced. “I've never known him to be anything but rude and abrasive, sir.” “Oh, he has his moments.” The intercom buzzed again. Burkett ran a finger under his collar before he answered.

“The captain is here, sir,” the secretary said in a subdued voice. Burkett looked to his boss. At Wynth's nod, the thin man squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Corrine.” Wynth watched his assistant cross the room and put his hand on the door handle. He couldn't see Burkett's face, but he knew there would be precious little color in the already-pasty English complexion. **** As the door to the E. D. O's office opened, the Captain of Wynth Industries security services looked away from the world map at which had been staring. His eyes narrowed at Burkett. His gaze lowered to fasten on the smaller man's bobbing Adam's apple before shifting upward to lock with the man's jittery gaze. “Y...you can c...come in n...now,” Burkett squeaked. As he passed Burkett, the captain turned the full force of his dislike on him, crowding the man against the doorjamb. Pinning the whimpering note taker with the hard length of his powerful body, he leaned over him, putting his deceptively calm face only inches from the ghostly-white, terrified face. “One of these days, I'm going to rip those elephant ears from your pointed little head and tack them on my wall along with all the others I've collected.” Sweat popped out on Burkett's thin face and he began to tremble violently. The sour smell of fear wafted into the captain's distended nostrils. Blinking away the fine mist of humiliating tears forming in his eyes, Burkett shuddered as the rain-dampened body pressed against him, the water obviously penetrating the fabric of his neatly pressed Bond Street suit. “Leave the man alone, Captain,” Dr. Wynth ordered. With a shrug of indifference, the captain stepped back, then made for one of the two chairs positioned in front of Wynth's desk. Without being bidden to do so, he slumped down in one of the chairs, thrust out his long legs, and crossed them at the ankle in an attitude of unconcern. “That will be all, Alex,” Wynth said. “Call the others and have them convene in Conference Room Five in twenty minutes.” “Young Dr. Hesar is not on site, sir,” Burkett reported. Wynth scowled. “And where, pray tell, is he?” “I believe he went into Grinnell.” “Get him back ASAP!” “Right away, sir!” Burkett bowed and exited the room. The door closed softly behind him. “Why do you feel the need to terrorize that poor man like that?” Wynth snapped. “I don't like prissy little Brits.”

“You are not required to like him, but I want you to stop acting like a child.” Wynth's pale blue eyes bore into the captain's stare “Understood?” A slight shrug was the reply. When after a full minute had swept the clock on the near wall, the captain sat up in his chair. Brighton Wynth's look held for another thirty ticks of the clock, then he blinked away the hold he held over his employee. “Now that that's settled,” he began, “I will be meeting with Dr. McGregor. At precisely Eleven-Hundred hours, I would like you to join us in Conference Room Five. That will give Sage time to make it back here. And pray, dress accordingly. What you have on now is unacceptable.” “Is that all?” “For now.” “Am I free to go?” Wynth did not reply as he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. When he remained silent, the captain shot up from his chair and stalked to the door. CHAPTER 28

“That's basically what your job will be here at Baybridge,” Dr. Wynth explained as he reached for his cup of tea. “Do you have any questions?” “I'm sure I will once I settle in,” Bronwyn replied. “Right now, I can't think of anything you haven't covered.” “When Sage returns, I'll have him take you on a tour of the facility. Your office won't be ready until tomorrow, though.” “That's fine. I...” The door to the conference room opened and Sage Hesar hurried in. He was out of breath, his face flushed. Wynth looked up and frowned. “You're late.” “My apologies. There was a problem on Four East,” he explained, patting Bronwyn's shoulder as he took a seat beside her at the table. “What kind of problem?” Wynth queried, setting down his teacup. “James Schulte managed to get out of his pod. He attacked one of the orderlies before he could be subdued.” “Was the man hurt?” Bronwyn asked.

“Minor scrapes and bruises before one of the S. S. took him down.” “James Schulte,” Wynth said, looking at Bronwyn, “is the sociopath who murdered everyone in his real estate office one morning, then started taking potshots at passersby on the street. When they went to his home to inform his wife that her husband had been dispatched by the SWAT team, they found her and the four children murdered and stuffed in the family freezer.” “I remember reading about him,” Bronwyn said with a shudder. “Is he back in his pod?” Wynth asked. “The captain is seeing to it personally, sir,” Sage responded. “He said to tell you he'd be along as soon as things are settled.” Wynth nodded. “Do we know how it was possible for Schulte to get out?” “Apparently he jammed something into the locking mechanism and the door didn't close properly. He was able to hook his fingers around the door's edge and pull it back. The captain issued an order to the S. S. to check all the pod doors.” “I want to see Midlin in my office within the hour,” Wynth ordered, then turned to Bronwyn. “Dr. Midlin is the resident physician on Four East.” “Each of the nine floors has two resident physicians attached to it,” Sage stated. “One on East and one on West. They work an eight-hour, eight on/eight off schedule. Baybridge has a staff of sixteen physicians, fifty nurses, and eighty orderlies, as I'm sure Dr. Wynth has told you.” “Plus an additional staff of specialty physicians on call from the local area,” Wynth added. “What about the North and South wings?” Bronwyn inquired. “Are those sections run in the same way?” “No,” came an answer from behind. Looking around, she watched the tall man in black walk to the far side of the table and sit across from her. His uniform was as black as a starless winter night and just as crisp. The creases down the pant legs and long shirtsleeves were knife-blade sharp. A thin, black silk tie at his throat matched the thin, black belt threaded through the loops at his waist. His collar insignia was a set of silver ravens. The only color on his ensemble was a blood-red triangle, with twin silver slashes bisecting the center, near the shoulder seam of his left sleeve. Bronwyn was impressed with the man, although he bore no resemblance to any law enforcement or security officer she had ever seen. From his neatly clipped goatee, to the shoulder-length, black hair tied in a queue at his neck, to the small gold hoop in his left ear, he looked every inch the part of a ruthless pirate. All he needed was an eye patch to complete the picture. And what eyes! she thought. Such an unusual color and so striking, especially on a man. They were golden, a rich cast of amber, and glistening as hotly as that precious material. Framed behind long, sable lashes, the man's eyes mesmerized her.

But it was the strange design on the right side of his face that intrigued her most. Sweeping back from the corner of his eye into the thick strands of hair at his temple, the dark blue tattoo reminded her of Celtic artwork she had seen on the Internet, like a tribal tattoo. “Bronwyn, this is Captain Viraidan Cree,” Wynth grated. “He is head of our security services division.” Bronwyn did not expect the man to offer his hand, so was not disappointed when he made no effort to do so. Before she could mention that he had broken into her apartment the night before, he reached into his pocket and took out a badge. “For the old one,” he said, the right side of his mouth lifting in what might well have been a carefully controlled grin. He put the badge on the table and pushed it across to her. “I hope I spelled ‘Cedric’ correctly.” Bronwyn felt heat gathering in her cheeks. She looked at the badge, stunned to see a photo of a black cat. She raised her eyes to his and wondered if he also knew about Danyon's visit that morning. “Did I get the name right?” he asked, his left brow arching. “Yes,” she said quietly. “You spelled it correctly.” “That cat is as black as the wind at night, isn't he?” Bronwyn blinked, her heart thudding. He knows! “Bronwyn, first things first,” Wynth said, drawing her attention to him. “You need to be told—Cree came to us from Fuilgaoth right after the British invaded it and shut it down.” Bronwyn jerked. “He worked for Daniel Dunne?” “Cree never worked for Dunne,” Wynth was quick to answer. “We know Dunne was responsible for your father's death,” Sage said, putting a comforting hand on Bronwyn's arm. “We are hoping the software you helped design will aid us in locating Dunne and those of his followers who managed to escape when Fuilgaoth was shut down, including the other man responsible for your father's death.” “I know who was responsible,” Bronwyn said, looking at the table. “We're speaking of the man who actually triggered the bomb,” Wynth countered. “Not the man who placed it under the car.” His words brought her head up. “I was told Sean—” “Alistair Gallagher killed Dermot McGregor and Rory Brell,” Cree stated. “Sean Cullen was killed trying to stop Brell and your father from getting into the car,” Sage said. Tears filled Bronwyn's eyes. She touched the oval-shaped, golden locket at her throat. “Sean died trying to save my father?” Her tearful gaze skipped from one man to the other, finally landing on the dark,

amber eyes of the man across from her. “Please, I have to know.” “He set the bomb,” Cree said, “but he did not detonate it.” A soft moan reverberated from Bronwyn's throat. She covered her face with her hands, the news opening up a scab over her heart that had never fully healed. For a long time, she let the tears fall. It had been years since she had cried for her lost love, months since she had spoken his name aloud. When no more sorrow could be dredged up from her aching soul, she raised her head and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I don't usually show my emotions in public like this.” Dr. Wynth got up and took a box of tissues from a side table. He brought them to her, placing them within her reach.” We understand.” She blew her nose, then slumped in her chair. “Did you know him, Captain Cree?” she asked, wiping her eyes. When he didn't respond, she looked at him. “Did you know Sean?” “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 wasnot 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 amnot 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.” “Shewas 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.” “It must be hell for him,” Brian said gently. “You know she will be coming to see you. She will ask you questions about him.” “And I'll answer her questions in a way I think appropriate. But it would serve no good purpose for her to know the man she loved—” “Loves. The man shestill loves.” Cree dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “The man she willalways love.” “You don't think she will find someone to eventually take his place?” Cree nudged his chin toward his desk. “The report the major sent left no facet of her life unexamined when they investigated her background. She hasn't been with a man since that night with Cullen. Hell, she's never been kissed by anyone other than him!” “Why do you think that is?” Cree narrowed his eyes. “Why doyou think that is, Brian?” Brian smiled, but didn't respond.

“Oh, go to hell, O'Shea!” Cree grumbled, turning away. “I believe she'll eventually meet someone she'll want to share her life with, but it might be a long time, way off in the future.” A harsh exhalation of breath was Cree's comment. He tore the clip from his ponytail and threw it as hard as he could across the room, then shook his mane of dark hair. He plowed his hands through the thick mass and tugged viciously as though he could pull his tormented thoughts free. “I have his heart intact within my breast,” he said. “I have his brain caged inside my skull, harboring his thoughts, his memories, his fears.” He locked gazes with Brian. “The rest is me. The rest is me!” Brian nodded. “I understand.” “Do you?” “Yes, Viraidan. When she healed Sean's destroyed body, the Queen replaced the memories you had before you were driven into the bog. She put back everything she knew of you, the things that made you Viraidan Cree. Your own thoughts and memories are warring with Sean's. You believe those thoughts and memories make you weak. They—” “They hurt me,” Cree grated. “I'm sure they do and you don't know how to deal with them.” Cree shook his head. “I have tried to push them out, but they return. Now with her here, the feelings are stronger. These thoughts are eating me alive!” “What thoughts?” “Memories of his time with her!” Cree shouted. “The way she felt in his arms. They way she smelled, the taste of her, the pleasure he took in lying with her! All those things that made him love her—her smile, her laughter, the way she treated him.” He slammed a palm against the wall. “I ache with the need he has for her!” Brian drew in a quick breath. “You can't act on that need, Viraidan.” “Don't you think I know that?” Cree bellowed, the force of his outburst rattling the windowpane. “Stay away from her, then. No more midnight excursions into her apartment to—” “I went to see what kind of threat the old Nightwind—” “You went to seeher ,” Brian snapped. “You know it and I know it.” Cree snarled, his lips peeling back from his teeth. But he did not deny Brian's assertion. “You wanted to see her as much as Sean wanted to see her again. Neither of you, I suspect, was satisfied.”

“Satisfied with what?” “With not being able to touch her,” Brian replied. “To hold her, to taste her, to lie with her.” “I have no such cravings for the woman!” Cree denied, but he could not look at Brian when he said it. “It is this weakling inside me who desires her still, despite what she did to him! It is he who makes me hurt like this!” “You've always told me you were stronger than Sean. Prove it,” Brian demanded. “Stay away from her.” “I intend to.” Cree rubbed at his temples. “Do you need something for the pain?” “No.” “Perhaps you should lie down and rest. You look tired.” “I am tired,” Cree admitted harshly. “Then take a nap. If you wake in time for supper, perhaps we can eat together.” Cree heard the door close behind Sean's father and squeezed his eyelids together. He put the heels of his hands to his eyes and pushed, wishing the horrendous throbbing in his head would cease. “Leave me alone, Cullen,” he hissed, bending over with the pain. “Stop laying these mind pictures out for me to see!” He stumbled into the bedroom and flung himself on the bed. Curling into a fetal position, he dragged his pillow to him and lay there with his hot face pressed into the coolness of the cotton. But he could not blot out the memories plaguing him. That part of him that had lived the remembrances nudged them to the forefront of his mind, and left them there for him to endure. CHAPTER 29

“Can you tell me anything about the being who came to call on the Reaper?” Danyon asked the Bugul Noz. Ordin Gver was nearly as old as Cedric. Danyon knew that Ordin's solitary existence for so many thousands of years had made him cautious in his dealings with humans. With other entities that existed outside the laws of humanity, he had only rare and fleeting connections, and was even more reticent. But because Danyon had befriended the Bugul Noz, Ordin was comfortable with him. “I have no frame of reference for such a one as you have described, Friend,” the Bugul Noz replied “I do not believe her from our realm of existence.” “I sensed great evil in his visitor,” Danyon commented. “There was tremendous power and exacting authority within that vile fog.”

“The Reaper was afraid?” “The Reaper nearly soiled his britches!” Danyon chuckled. “He was terrified of her.” “You sensed it was female?” “That was my feeling.” “Something to ponder, wouldn't you say, Friend?” Ordin Gver queried. “Something that would frighten a beast of such ferocity as a Reaper is a force with which to reckon, would not you imagine?” “Aye, you have a point there. What do you suggest I do?” The Bugul Noz leaned back against the trunk of a black walnut tree and took a deep pull on his clay pipe. He thought for a moment as the smoke left his lungs through his misshapen nose, then he pointed the long pipe stem at Danyon. “If I were you, I would converse with this being. Ask her what it is she wants with the Reaper. Remind her that the enemy of your enemy is your friend. Perhaps you can help her in some way.” “Or she can help me,” Danyon replied. Ordin nodded as he chewed on the pipe stem. He inhaled the acrid smoke, held it deep in his barrel chest, then blew smoke rings in the night air. “That is a filthy habit, Gver,” Danyon said. “We all have our little addictions,” the Bugul Noz quipped. “Mine is a fine skein of tobacco unraveling within me, and yours is the twitch of a shapely behind.” He laughed, his loud braying an unpleasant sound even to Danyon's ears. “I have but one addiction, my friend, and that is the lovely Bronwyn.” “A woman you can not have.” “Iwill have her.” Ordin shrugged. “Whatever I can do to help in that regard, you have but to ask, as you know.” A companionable silence settled as both creatures watched a star fall from the heavens. Ordin traced its lonely pathway to earth. “You would conjure the thing that came for the Reaper, eh?” Danyon finally asked. “What have you to lose?” Ordin raised a jagged brow. “Your soul?” Danyon rolled his eyes. “I lost that long, long ago.” “Then seek out that one. Ask what it is that sets the Reaper's knees to trembling when she comes to call. My guess will be, whatever she has to tell you, will be to your advantage—and against the Reaper.”

“But where will I find her? How will I contact her?” The Bugul Noz considered the question, then tapped the stem of his pipe against his bottom fangs. “Take something that belongs to him—something that has his scent on it.” Danyon threw another log on the fire that kept them warm. He stared into the flames, consigning the Reaper to the conflagration. In the dancing sparks that rose to the night sky, he thought he could see blood-red eyes staring back at him. “Something tells me I will not need to make a trip to the Abyss,” he said. “All I may have to do is say his vile name and she will come to me.” The Bugul Noz snorted. He got clumsily to his feet, dusting off his rough tweed britches. “Call her if you like, but wait until I am well away. I have no desire to truck with beings any more powerful than a tipsy leprechaun.” “Deserting me?” Danyon teased. “Leaving me to beard the ogress alone?” Ordin shrugged. “You're a big boy, Nightwind. I have faith in your ability to handle the situation.” As Danyon watched, the Bugul Noz's outline wavered, then vanished, drawing in on itself until it became a spark of light that wafted away with the sparks of the fire. Minutes passed with only the sounds of the popping fire to keep Danyon company. He liked the smell of the burning wood, the warmth it extended. Sitting with his knees drawn up into the perimeter of his arms, he was content to be alone in the cool, clear, Iowa night and stare into the leaping flames. Overhead, millions of stars twinkled and the moon, a week away from its fullness, shone a soft light upon the rolling hills of the countryside. When ground fog began to creep toward him from across the meadow, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. As the vile stench reached his sensitive nostrils, he grimaced, using his expert powers to block out the smell; but even as great as his powers were, he could not entirely eliminate that god-awful stink. His eyes watering, he put a hand to his nose and mouth to filter the scent. The hideous dampness settling over him bothered the Nightwind more than anything else. It was a moistness that saturated his clothing and oozed over him, dragging across his flesh like the tongue of a slobbering beast. He could feel its slime, experiencing the reek of its malevolence as it spread over his body. Its touch left him unclean, defiled, and it was all he could do not to run to the nearest stream and plunge beneath the waters. “What are you?” he asked, getting to his feet. The stick of his clothing to his chest and back made him nauseous. “What areyou ?” came the seductive purr. Danyon looked around, but saw nothing save the insidious fog that was now waist-high about him. “I am Danyon. I am a Nightwind.” The fog swirled upward in a column taller than Danyon's six-foot four-inch height and began to take humanoid form. It glistened a sickening blue color that gave Danyon a brutal headache.

“I am Ski'Ah,” the being informed him. “I am a Blackwind, the Vengeance of the Amazeen.” Danyon did not know the term. He was about to say as much when he felt groping at his genitals. He jumped, pushing aside the unseen hands. “Do not!” he ordered. His fangs extended and his talons arched from the pads of his fingers. An eerie laugh rang out over the meadow. The fire flared, shooting hundreds of sparks into the air. A spectral finger smoothed over Danyon's lips. He snapped, his jaws closing on air. Another peal of laughter echoed about him. He turned as a hand caressed his backside and quick fingers trailed down his legs. “Stop!” He backed away from the fire and, in his fury, changed into the beast he was. “Ah,” the phantom whispered as though pleased with what it was seeing. “Another of his kind. I suspected as much.” “I am nothing like Cree!” he growled. “But close enough.” “I have no idea what you're talking about.” “It is of little matter. Let me take you, little one,” Ski'Ah whispered in his ear. “I will be gentle.” Danyon brushed angrily at his ear, sickened by the feel of her evil spittle clinging inside. “I am taken!” he bellowed. “I have a mistress!” With a sudden blast of frigid wind, the stench intensified, then vanished. The form of a woman slowly materialized out of the blue fog. At first Danyon was shocked by the being that appeared. Her long black hair fell in thick waves to her ankles and the diaphanous gown that clung to her like a second skin left nothing to the imagination. She was dark-skinned and tall, her lips a rich burgundy. Vibrant blue eyes—the color of dark sapphires—watched him from beneath long sooty lashes. With shapely limbs, voluptuous breasts, and a waist Danyon knew he could span with his hands, the female was exquisitely beautiful. “Is your mistress as desirable as I, Nightwind?” “You do not look as you smell!” “The smell is my protection. It is only one of the preternatural powers given to me as a high-ranking Daughter of the Multitude. I can do many things outside the realm of possibility.” He watched her roam about the clearing. She sniffed, then arched a brow at him. “Bugul Noz,” he explained. “A rancid smell with an ugly name.”

“You're a fine one to talk about stench, woman!” Danyon scoffed. A foot taller than he, she leaned over him and her sharp white teeth flashed. “What do you want of me, Nightwind?” “I want to know about the Reaper,” he muttered, stepping back. A horrible frown marred the perfection of the Blackwind's face. “What of that Rysalian jackal?” “What is he to you?” “I own him.” Danyon's eyebrows rose. “Own him?” “Through Rights of Possession.” “I don't—” “My ancestor paid eight-hundred-thousand credits to the Warlord of Dahrenia Province for Viraidan Cree when the Reaper was but a bantling of two cycles. It was her intention to breed many Reapers from his staff when he came of age. But Cree managed to escape. He fled our world in a stolen starjet and we have been searching for him ever since!” “We?” “Those of my clan,” she snapped. “I am the forty-ninth generation of my family to seek him and, praise to the Great Lady, I have found him! Under Amazeen law, he is mine to do with as I please. He will sorely regret having caused us so much trouble.” Danyon chuckled. “Your clan doesn't give up.” “Not when our honor is at stake. He owes us and he will pay a dear price, I assure you!” “I almost feel sorry for the bastard.” “You should. He will be punished in ways you cannot imagine!” “He is not entirely the warrior your ancestor bargained for.” “I sensed there was a tainting within him. He is spoiled by inferior traits.” “Human traits,” Danyon explained. “They are an inferior race—frail, vulnerable, not worthy of the attention of one such as yourself.” Ski'Ah smiled and her beautiful face took Danyon's breath away. “You find me alluring, do you, Nightwind?” Her gaze roamed over him. “I find you most agreeable.” “I am taken,” Danyon was quick to repeat. The smile hardened on the Blackwind's lovely countenance. “Under Amazeen law, I can not take that

which belongs to another female, so I may not touch you, though...” Her look grew hot and evil. “If you would like me to purchase your articles of indenture from your present mistress or enter into combat with her...” She let the offer lay there as she licked her full lips. “That is not our way. I have a blood pact with my mistress. I will belong to Aiofe and her family for all eternity. She can never release me.” A pout settled on Ski'Ah's mouth. “A pity, Nightwind.” She flung out a dismissive hand. “You would have enjoyed my sheath.” “I'm sure I would have.” “I will content myself with the Reaper, then, if I can not indulge my desires with you.” “Even though he also belongs to another woman?” “What woman?” she demanded, her lips peeled back from her sharp teeth. “Who would dare lay hands to a male belonging to the house of Dubhgaoth?” “That depends on which woman you mean.” She gasped. “What are you saying?” “The Reaper part of him mated with one called Chandra,” Danyon said, reporting what the Bugul Noz had told him. “The human part of him mated with a human girl. The one called Chandra is long dead.” “And the human?” came the savage inquiry. Danyon hesitated. “Is undermy protection,” he declared. “Andthe Reaper's.” “I have no fear of you, Nightwind! The Reaper I consider a worm to be trod beneath my boot heel!” “I don't care what you do to Cree, but I will throw the might of every Nightwind in the megaverse against you should you try to harm one hair on Bronwyn McGregor's head!” Ski'Ah arched a perfectly shaped brow. “You would do combat with me for this human?” “I would rip you apart with my bare hands and devour every last morsel of marrow in your bones!” The Blackwind appeared to shudder, then shrugged. “Why would I harm a fellow Sister?” she growled. “My vengeance is reserved for Viraidan Cree, and his punishment will be fulfilled!” “I don't give a rat's ass what you do the bastard.” Ski'Ah cocked her head. “Perhaps we can help one another, then.” “Get him out of Bronwyn's life and I will be eternally grateful.” The Blackwind looked at him slyly. “You have signed a pact with this girl?” A muscle in Danyon's jaw jumped. “No, but that is of no importance. She will relent one day and sign.”

“She is from the lineage of the one you are pledged to, then.” “Aye, but she is unaware of the connection. I could not have gone to her had she not been of Aiofe's blood.” “Ah,” the Blackwind cooed. “You are a duplicitous demon, are you not?” “I do what must be done,” he replied, “to have the females I desire.” “As I will do what must be done to bring Viraidan Cree to justice.” “I can help you, but it might take a while.” “Why would it?” Danyon smiled so evilly the Blackwind shivered. “My lady will not come to me of her own accord,” he explained. “I must lure her to me and the lure, the bait, is the Reaper.” “She desires him?” Ski'Ah growled. “Not yet, but she will.” “You are that sure of his prowess?” “It is what is inside him she will crave when she learns it is there.” Understanding lit her sapphire eyes. A savage smile stretched her lips. “How long a time do we speak of here?” “What is a day, a week, a month, even a year when your family has waited thirteen generations to avenge Cree's insult, lovely Ski'Ah?” “I do not wish to—” “The human inside Cree desires her, Ski'Ah. He aches with need for her. His dreams are filled with thoughts of her. His every waking moment is spent in remembering how she felt in his arms so long ago.” The Blackwind stiffened. “You think this improves the chance of me helping you, Nightwind?” she hissed. “Think, lovely one! Think of the agony he will experience when you tear him from her arms!” “They are lovers now?” “Not yet. They have been and they will be again.” “You know this, do you?” “I intend to see to it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “But will this not hurt her? Do you not care if she is harmed when I fetch the Reaper and take him to Amazeen in chains?” “She will have me to comfort her,” he said, his smile hard as stone. “And I will comfort her in ways she will not be able to resist.” The Blackwind stared at him for a long time, then nodded. “Hurt him is all I ask. Make him weep with the brutal pain of her loss and I will aid you in any way I can.” Danyon put out his hand. “Your word of honor as a warrioress of your clan?” Ski'Ah did not hesitate. She clasped his wrist—sword hand to sword hand—in a fierce grip. “On my honor as a princess of the Amazeen. Tell me what I need do to help you bring the Reaper to his knees and it will be done!” CHAPTER 30

Bronwyn opened her door that evening to find a handsome older man smiling at her. “May I help you?” she asked. “Hello, Bronwyn.” He extended his hand. “I am Brian O'Shea.” Looking into pale blue eyes that were a carbon copy of Sean's, Bronwyn felt tears welling. She took his hand, drawing him into the apartment. “Come in.” “I hope I haven't come at a bad time,” he remarked in a thick Irish brogue. “No,” she said, still holding his hand. It felt warm and comforting in hers. He gave her hand a light squeeze, then gently withdrew from her grip and surveyed the room. “My, my, my, this is absolutely lovely.” Bronwyn let out a shuddery breath and closed the door. Her heart pounded as she turned to her visitor. “My mom and I had a great time decorating it.” “DeeDee has good taste. She also helped me decorate my place.” Bronwyn's brows shot up. “Does she know you were Sean's father?” “No, and I would just as soon keep it that way, Bronnie. Your mother had no love for my boy.” “I'm sorry.” “Perfectly understandable under the circumstances. I don't blame her for how she felt.” He craned his neck to look down the hallway. “Is your, ah, friend here?” “Friend?” “Cedric, is it? The Nightwind?”

Bronwyn gasped. “You know about him?” Brian smiled. “Cree told me.” She bit her lip. “Do you know what...” “A Nightwind is?” Brian finished for her. “Aye, Sweeting. I know all about the ungodly fiends.” “And you don't find it bizarre that such creatures exist?” He shrugged. “No more bizarre than knowing Reapers exist.” “Reapers?” “So where is your aged night beastie?” he inquired. Picking up on Brian's reluctance to explain, she flung out a dismissive hand. “He's probably sleeping.” “In the rocker beside your bed.” “Apparently Captain Cree tells you everything.” “Only what he wants me to know,” Brian said with a sigh. “I gather he is a secretive man.” “More secretive than most.” Brian looked pointedly at the sofa. Bronwyn blushed. “I'm sorry! Where are my manners? Please sit down, Dr. O'Shea. May I get you anything?” “No, thank you. I just had supper. And please, call me Brian.” He sat down, then patted the place beside him. Bronwyn sat beside him, folding her arms over her chest. Her breath came quick and shallow. “There is no reason to be afraid of me, dearling,” he said in a husky voice. “I'm not. It's just this is so...so...” “Unexpected,” he finished for her. “Sean never mentioned you to me.” “He knew nothing of me until after you were taken to Ireland.” “You came here to get him,” she accused. Brian nodded. “I was ordered to.” “By Daniel Dunne?”

“Aye. I had no choice. If I hadn't come after him, Dunne would have sent someone else. That someone might have been rough on Sean.” “Did you know Sean would be trained like he was?” she asked, searching the man's face. “I knew,” he whispered. “And I will regret it ‘til the day I die.” Bronwyn shuddered, while a single tear fell down her cheek. “I despise the IRA.” “There's something you should know about that, Bronnie. The explosion that killed your father rocked the IRA. They were not happy being given credit for the bombing.” “Why not? They were responsible, weren't they? Mama showed me the file Mr. Brell had compiled. There was a lot about Daniel Dunne in there. He was training IRA assassins in that place.” “Aye, Dunne was doing that, but your fathers’ assassination wasn't carried out by the IRA,” Brian said. “It was entirely Dunne's idea.” “Why would he have singled out my father? Daddy wasn't involved with any of the politics over here. Was it a mistake?” “No mistake. They knew precisely who they were targeting. The reason they wanted your father dead had to do with Dr. McGregor ordering Rory Brell to take Sean into custody, to snatch him out of Dunne's grasp.” Bronwyn stared at him. “I don't understand.” “It was your father's intention to get Sean out of your life once and for all. It didn't matter how that was accomplished. As long as Sean was alive, he posed a threat to the future Dr. McGregor wanted for you. He knew you would do all you could to join Sean when you were out from under his control. That did not set well with him. He had no intention of allowing a union between you and someone he considered unworthy. He ordered Brell to find Sean and turn him over to the British army. Failing that, he was to eliminate him, if necessary.” She gasped. “He ordered Brell to kill Sean?” Brian nodded solemnly. Bronwyn felt as though someone had placed a great weight on her chest. “I can't believe my father would do something like that.” “I'm afraid he did. Dunne found out about the plot to capture Sean and set his own plans into motion. He could not afford to have my boy taken and perhaps questioned about the facilities at Fuilgaoth. Sean was ordered to kill your father to keep that from happening.” “But Sean wasn't like that! He would have never ...” “You were threatened, Bronwyn. Dunne told Sean that if he didn't do as ordered, men would be sent to Galrath. I'll leave it to your imagination what horrors he threatened for you should Sean not do as he was told. It was either being responsible for the death of the woman he loved or take out the man who was

responsible for tearing the two of you apart.” “He was protecting me?” she whispered. “With his very life.” “Why didn't Sean just leave Fuilgaoth?” Bronwyn asked, wiping at the tears running down her cheeks. “He could have come after me and...” “Sean was a prisoner at Fuilgaoth, watched day and night. There was no way for him to escape. We were all prisoners there, dearling.” “Including Viraidan Cree?” “Especially him. He was caged the entire time.” “Why?” “That's something we don't need to go into right now. Let it suffice to say Cree was a threat Dunne took seriously. Keeping him locked up was vitally important.” “He said a man named Alistair Gallagher killed my father. Is that true?” “Alistair detonated the bomb Sean placed under the car, aye.” “Dr. Wynth said Sean tried to stop Daddy from getting in the car. Is that what happened?” Brian sighed heavily. “He saw Brell's baby and...” “What?” “The child. The one Rory was carrying.” Bronwyn stared at him; thoughts of her lost infant rippled through her mind. “No. No, you're wrong.” “I was told there was a baby. Brell was...” Brian frowned, then jumped up. “Yourchild?” “Mine and Sean's—your grandson.” “I didn't...he didn't...” Brian stopped, his face white. “That was why I was so angry that day in the hospital—why I said what I did to Sean. It wasn't just my father I thought he'd killed, but our child.” “Mother of God,” Brian whispered, slumping down on the sofa. He ran a trembling hand over his face. “I never got to hold our child. They took him away right after he was born.” Brian flinched. “Oh, Bronwyn. I am so sorry.” “I named him Tiernan,” she said softly, “but the people my parents gave him to called him Cormac.

Cormac McDougal.” “Did you parents know Brell was bringing the baby that day?” “I've never asked my mother. We don't discuss what happened. I don't talk about it to anyone.” “I have to tell him,” Brian mumbled. “Tell who?” “Cree,” he answered, his mind obviously on the information she had given him. “Were they friends?” she inquired. “Something like that,” Brian muttered, running a shaky hand through his hair. She sensed his inattention “What is he, anyway?” “A vampire.” “A what?” He jerked and groaned, as if realizing his mistake. “By the beard of Job, I shouldn't have told you that!” “Then tell me you were joking,” she snapped. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again. “I can't. He is what he is.” “A vampire,” she stated, letting the word fall like a heavy stone. Brian nodded. “That is why Dunne kept him locked up.” “A vampire...” “The correct term is ‘Reaper.’ He has to have blood every day to survive.” “As in transfusions?” “No, dearling, to drink.” “To drink,” she echoed, feeling sick. Brian sighed, then shrugged. “Reapers are shapeshifters, a cross between vampires and werewolves. There is a name for his race. They are called ‘dearg duls.’ His blood is as black as tar, and when he Transitions, he enters a beastlike state where he resembles a large dog.” She stared at him for what seemed to her like a full sweep of the minute hand on a clock, then slumped against the back of the sofa. “You are serious, aren't you?” “Aye, Sweeting.”

Bronwyn drew in a long breath, then exhaled shakily. “If I didn't know Nightwinds were real, I couldn't accept this.” “There is more strangeness in this world than most people know. More creatures than just Nightwinds and Reapers.” She sighed. “I am beginning to think my entire world is populated by inhuman creatures.” “Cree is as human as the next man until he Transitions.” “And how often does that happen?” she asked with a shudder. “Every twelve weeks. He is given the drug tenerse every day to keep him from Transitioning out of cycle. It is a painful drug that makes your blood boil, but it's as necessary to him as insulin to a diabetic.” “And when he Transitions?” “He voluntarily enters the containment cell and stays there until the Transition is over.” “Containment cell?” “The cell doors, walls, floors, and ceilings are ten-feet-thick reinforced concrete, sandwiched between two-foot-thick sheaths of laser-welded titanium. The door is built with fourteen ten-inch-thick locking rods that fit into the casing, penetrating in three feet. It opens inward on five heavy-duty titanium ball bearings. On the outside of the door is a portcullis of stainless steel electrified mesh, which carries a payload of over five-hundred-thousand volts.” At Bronwyn's stunned look, Brian laughed. “Believe me that's not enough to kill a Reaper trying to escape one of the cells, but it would sure as hell slow him down long enough for a team to shoot him full of a powerful neuroinhibitor called ‘cinera.’ It causes a cessation of cerebral circulation, and the resulting lack of nutrition and oxygen will easily put a Reaper out of commission. The reason for the containment cells is to give the Reapers a place that is safe for themand you when they Transition. They are at their most dangerous during that time.” “You said ‘Reapers.’ Are we talking about more than one?” “There are three that we know of. Two are here at Baybridge.” Bronwyn thought of Gaines at the main gate and felt a wave of fright envelope her. “Where is the third?” “That would be Alistair Gallagher, and right now we don't know where he is. But when Cree finds him, believe me, he will put him down hard.” He looked down at his clenched fist. “Especially after he finds out about the baby.” Bronwyn took in the look on her companion's face. “I think you need to tell me about Cree.” Brian drew in a long breath, held it for a second, then exhaled slowly. He turned to look her in the eye. “Aye, I think you should be told, but you must never repeat what I am going to tell you. Keep it secret.” “What you tell me will go no further than this room.”

“You swear?” Bronwyn held up her hand. “On my honor.” “On Sean's name,” Brian stated, as if knowing that would be a firmer vow for her. She nodded, tears filling her eyes before she shook her head to rid herself of the telltale sign of weakness. “On my Seannie's name.” “All right.” Brian put his hand on her arm. “Just bear in mind that what I am going to tell you is God's gospel truth. None of it is made up and none of it is exaggerated. You might have to suspend belief in things you have been taught are impossible.” She nodded. “I did that long ago when I saw my first Nightwind and what I think was a Bugul Noz.” Brian withdrew his hand. “That had to have been a rude awakening.” “Sometimes I still don't believe I have seen the things I've witnessed.” “I know the feeling.” “So tell me.” “As far as we know, Cree was the first Reaper to come here. His craft crashed somewhere in Northern Ireland. He was badly burned, his flesh hanging in tatters when the tribe found him. They were no doubt stupefied when he began to spontaneously heal before their eyes, although it took him several days to fully rejuvenate new flesh.” Bronwyn held up a hand. “You said his craft crashed here. I take it he was from beyond...” She stopped, her eyes going wide. “Oh, my God!” “What?” “I remember one of the girls at Galrath talking about a spaceman they had at Fuilgaoth. Was that Cree?” “Aye, that was him.” “I thought she was lying. Making up crap to tease us.” “I don't know how she knew about it, because it was supposed to be a secret, but I guess Fuilgaoth wasn't as secure as Dunne wanted to believe it was.” “What happened when he recovered from his burns?” Brian explained all he knew about Cree. He told her of his marriage, his son, the way he had been forced into the bog. He recounted the way Dunne found the Reaper in the bog and what the scientist had done with the body, imprisoning it in a case, its parasite separated from the corpse. He told her about the queen's offspring, how they had been experimented on, and how they had been implanted into human men, turning them into creatures like Cree.

“The revenant queen was furious that She was incarcerated, unable to protect her young,” Brian said. “I'm sure an intelligent being such as She was constantly searching for a way to exact her revenge and rejoin with Cree's physical body.” “This is all so bizarre,” Bronwyn said, getting up from the sofa. She walked to the bar that separated the living room from the dining area and poured herself a brandy. She turned to Brian. “I don't drink, dearling,” he said. She brought her blackberry brandy to the sofa and sat down, then took a sip, staring across the room at a painting over the dining room sideboard. “Do I need to be afraid of him, Brian?” “Cree?” he asked. “Absolutely not!” “That's what Danyon told me, but I wanted to make sure.” “Anything else you want to know?” “Not about Cree, but...” She looked at him, took a deep breath, then straightened her shoulders. “Did Sean ever talk about me?” Brian took her hand. He brought it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her wrist. “Sean never got tired of talking about you. The lad loved you more than anything in this world.” “I miss him more than anything in this world.” “He would want you to get on with your life, Bronwyn. Get out, meet some nice young man like....” He shrugged. “Like Sage Hesar, for instance. Don't you think he's a handsome young devil?” Bronwyn was about to answer when a heavy knock sounded at the door. She jumped and Brian let go of her hand. The sound was so loud, the door panel shook. When it came again, the picture on the wall beside the portal bounced. “All right already! I'm coming!” Bronwyn snapped, getting up and sitting her snifter on the end table. After jerking open the door, she was surprised to see Cree standing there, his fist clenched, poised to knock again. His eyes were fierce, his jaw set, a muscle twitching in his right cheek. “Brian, come!” he ordered, looking past Bronwyn. Brian shot up from the sofa and hurried to the door. He cast Bronwyn a strange look as he mumbled his apology. “Perhaps we can have lunch tomorrow?” she asked as Brian eased past her and into the corridor. “I think not,” Cree answered for the older man. He grabbed Brian's arm and started down the hall with him. “Brian?” Bronwyn called after them. He looked around. “I'll call you.”

“No, you won't!” Cree snarled. “I'll callyou , then, Brian!” Bronwyn yelled. Cree stopped in his tracks, jerking Brian with him as he spun around to face her. “Hell you won't.” “Hell I will!” Bronwyn threw back. Letting go of Brian's arm, Cree stalked back to her. “You found out what you wanted to know about Sean Cullen,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now let it rest.” “Don't tell me what to do. This doesn't concern you.” “I'm making it my concern. O'Shea is off limits to you.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you worried about, Cree? What are you afraid I'll find out?” The Reaper's right eye had developed a tick in the muscle beneath it. He breathed heavily, his fists opening and closing at his side. There was a brutal look in his amber eyes as he glared at her. “Let...it...rest,” he said, emphasizing each word. “Go...to...hell,” she grated, stepping back and slamming the door in his face. CHAPTER 31

Brian risked a glance at his companion as they walked down the hallway. The anger on Cree's face had kept them both quiet on the elevator down to 5 North. As the stainless steel doors parted and they stepped into the corridor of the underground segment of Baybridge, Cree turned a hateful look to the Brian. “Stay away from her,” Cree ordered. “Why are you so angry?” “'Get out, meet some nice young man like Sage Hesar, for instance. Don't you think he's a handsome young devil?'” Cree mimicked in a snide tone as they walked toward the check-in desk. Brian flinched. “What were you doing? Listening at the gods-be-damned keyhole?” “Sage Hesar is a...a...” Cree could not seem to find the words to convey what he thought of the young man. “Rival?” Brian supplied. A vicious snarl was the only answer Brian received as Cree headed back to the elevator. “Viraidan!” Brian called. Cree did not answer. He got into the elevator.

“Read me, Viraidan!” Brian shouted as the elevator doors began to close. Cree started to put up a thought reception shield between him and Brian, but Brian sensed his thought wedged under the shield anyway. The mind picture of an infant boy—dripping with fluid fresh from its mother's womb, its little mouth parted in soundless fury—flashed across Cree's mind. Obviously knowing there was more, he kept the elevator doors from closing and stared at Brian. Brian sent another image to the Reaper. This one took the color from Cree's angry cheeks and placed deep hurt in the blazing amber eyes. Brian held up a hand to the check-in clerk, then walked to the elevator. He kept his gaze on Cree as the Reaper stood frozen in the cage. “She needs me, Viraidan,” he said quietly. “Don't keep me from seeing her.” Tears dampened the Reaper's eyes. “He killed his own child?” “No,” Brian said firmly. “Gallagher killed Sean's child.” “But I set the bomb,” Cree whispered. Brian drew in a quick breath, his eyes wide. “Seantried to stop it from going off.” “I killed my own child. I killed our son.” “Let's talk about this,” Brian said, reaching out to take Cree's arm. Stepping back, furiously shaking his head, the Reaper moved away. “Leave me be,” he snarled. When Brian tried to enter the elevator, Cree shoved him back. “Leave me be!” Brian watched the elevator doors slide shut, closing off the anguished look that had transformed the Reaper's face. **** He opened the throttle as far as it would go, allowing the machine to roar onto the midnight pavement. The front wheel left the ground for a moment or two as the rear wheel carried the full 470 pounds of tubular steel twenty feet down the deserted highway. When the front wheel crashed onto the hydraulic telescopic fork, the black motorcycle shot forward until it was nothing more than a blur against the Iowa scenery. The night wind pressed damply against his face, numbing his flesh. His hair blew wildly about his bare head. Cold air snaked down his shirtfront and chilled his chest and belly, sent tendrils of discomfort around his ribcage as his shirt billowed around him. Nothing registered with him outside the torturous thoughts pummeling his mind. He barely felt the light splattering of rain as it began striking his cheeks and forehead. He barely heard the roar of the machine between his legs. He barely noticed the deer in the sweep of his headlight until he was right on the animal. The deer stood frozen in the middle of the right lane, its chatoyant eyes locked on the oncoming headlight.

He laid down the bike on the asphalt, tearing away the skin on his right hand from knuckle to shoulder when he hit the pavement. The deer leapt out of the way, the cloven hooves of its rear legs barely clearing Cree's face. The Reaper's head hit the asphalt with a sickening crack and consciousness began to flee as though a light was being turned out in his world. As the machine skidded in a wide arc across both lanes and went flying into the ditch, his right leg from hip to ankle lost black jean material and a 4-inch-wide section of gouged flesh. When the motorcycle stopped spinning, it was lying atop him, the heat from the right exhaust pipe digging a firebreak into his calf. It was the burning pain that brought him out of unconsciousness. In one screaming moment, he threw the machine from him, tossing it like a child's toy into the field beyond. Gasping, he half-crawled, half-pulled himself toward the edge of the ditch and laid there, gritting his teeth to the flaming agony burning a way through his leg. With his fingers sinking claw-like into the rain-softened earth, he ground his face into the straggly grass and bellowed with rage and grief and physical hurt. **** The Revenant Queen woke from Her slumber and surveyed the damage done to her host. In a matter of moments, She began to seal the massive concussion and repair the broken bone, to heal the torn and scraped flesh, to mend the damage done by the hot steel. Placing a comforting mist over the Reaper's mind, She sent him into a place of coolness, of darkness, until the healing could be accomplished. “Sleep, Beloved,” She cooed. “It will take awhile for Me to heal you.” **** Cree heard the Queen's soothing voice and began to sink beneath the undulating waves passing over his mind. He let go of the hold he had on the soil and turned onto his back, staring at the night sky and allowing the rain—grown heavier and cooler now—to splatter his face. He lay with his hands curled at his head, the flesh drawing together, mending. “Sleep, Viraidan,” She commanded. He closed his eyes, allowing Her powers to invade him. He trusted she would tend his savaged flesh, heal his physical wounds. Within a few minutes, there would be no sign that his body had kissed the rough pavement. As Her healing waters closed over his head, he wished he could drown in their sweetness. **** Dawn came and with it a wetness that brought him out of slumber. A warm slickness passed over his chin, lips, and nose. He opened his eyes and looked into the soft brown stare of a large black dog, hunkered down beside him on the wet ground. Around them, rain continued to fall, and from the sponginess of the earth, he knew that rain had been falling all night. “Humphf?” the dog inquired, its wet muzzle twitching as he showed yellowed fangs. “Aye, I'll live,” Cree mumbled.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and winced as a car passed on the roadway above. The squelch of the vehicle's tires sent a spray of dirty water into the ditch where Cree lay hidden by cattails and brush. Every muscle in his body ached as he managed to drag himself to a sitting position. He had a brutal headache and reached up to touch the spot where his head had encountered the pavement. Despite the Queen's intervention, he found a soft area beneath his questing fingers and sighed. It would be awhile before that injury healed completely. Absently, he wondered how badly he'd been hurt. “Humphf,” the dog commented. “I can't die. I wish I could, but I can't.” Another car passed by in the opposite lane, then throttled down, its brakes squealing on the wet pavement. A change in the engine tone told Cree the vehicle was backing up. “What'cha wanna bet it's Brian?” Cree grumbled. The dog sneezed in answer, then pushed itself up to stand guard over Cree. Its ears twitched, searching for sound. Its muzzle twitched, searching for scent. “Friend,” Cree said, catching the scent before the dog could. “Do you know I've been searching for you all night?” Brian complained as he appeared on the shoulder of the road. He pointed at the bike. “Enjoy your ride, did you?” Before Cree could answer, he caught another scent. His lips drew back from his teeth as he growled at Brian. “Don't give me that,” Brian snapped. “I needed someone to watch the right side of the roadway while I searched the left.” Sage Hesar came to stand beside Brian. “I told you he'd be an ungrateful S.O.B., Brian.” Cree tried to stand but his legs were weak, his injured calf muscle screaming in protest. He looked down to see the flesh charred and groaned. “You know that'll take awhile for Her to heal,” Brian said. Sage looked at the motorcycle. “Will that thing run or do you reckon he now has an eight-thousand dollar paperweight?” “Lay one hand on my bike and I'll gut you, Spice Boy,” Cree hissed. “Humphf!” the dog agreed. “Like you are fit to ride the damned thing,” Brian scoffed. He looked at Sage. “See if it'll turn over. If not, we'll send a trailer back for it.” “I don't want him touching anything of mine!” Cree shouted. “Can you get up or do I have to carry you?” Brian asked, ignoring the outburst.

Cree tried once more to get to his feet, but the pain was too much. He plopped down, the dog tight at his side, its massive head wedging under Cree's right arm. “A new mate?” Sage threw over his shoulder as he struggled to jerk the motorcycle onto its wheels. “It's a male dog, you spineless eel!” Cree declared and the dog barked in agreement. “Touchy, touchy,” Sage said as he managed to right the bike. He threw a leg over the seat, grinning at Cree's enraged growl. Brian sidestepped down into the ditch and extended his hand. Cree grabbed it and tried not to grimace as Brian pulled him to his feet. He couldn't put any weight on his calf without feeling it all the way to his hip. “You did a number on that leg, son,” Brian said. Before Cree could stop him, Brian scooped the Reaper into his arms and headed up the incline. He faltered once in the wet earth, then was finally able to gain the roadside. “He's okay,” Brian called. “Just a little disagreement with that demon bike of his.” Cree turned his head to see Bronwyn and her mother parked just behind Brian's car. He groaned again. “Is he hurt?” Deirdre inquired. Brian chuckled. “More bruised ego than battered flesh.” “Eat shit and die,” Cree snarled under his breath. The sound of the motorcycle revving up brought Bronwyn across the road. “Do you know how to drive that, Sage?” “Wanna ride with me?” Sage asked. “No!” Cree shouted. Bronwyn looked at him as he lay in Brian's arms. “Who's going to stop me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. Cree pushed against Brian's chest, striving to get down, but the older man tightened his grip. “Behave!” Brian ground out. “Get in the car, Bronwyn,” Deirdre ordered. When Bronwyn turned to look at her, Deirdre shook her head. “I mean it. Come get in the car.” “Do what your mother says,” Cree ordered between clenched teeth. Sage drove the motorcycle up on the roadway and revved the engines, watching the Reaper's face. Bronwyn started toward the bike, but simultaneous roars of denial from Cree, Brian, and Deirdre made

her stop. She grinned, spun on her heel, and started back to her car. Cree said nothing until Bronwyn was behind the wheel and pulling away, Sage riding right behind her. “One of these days I'm going to tear that bastard apart piece by bloody piece.” Brian sighed, shifted Cree's weight, and headed for the car. “You aren't going to do any such thing.” It took some doing but Brian managed to get Cree in the backseat without causing too much discomfort. “Humphf?” Brian turned. “You coming?” The black dog shook itself, looked both ways before crossing the roadway, then trotted to Brian's car. He hopped in the passenger side when Brian opened the door for him, then perched there, staring out the window. “I might have a pretty lady for you,” Cree said. “Humphffff?” “Aye, a pretty little brown bitch.” “Humphf.” “Beware of dearg duls bearing gifts, boy.” Brian laughed as he patted the the dog's head. Cree tried to will away the throbbing pain in his calf as he stretched out on the backseat. “It's Her way of reminding you who's boss,” Brian said, obviously reacting to the pain he sensed. “Burns are hard for Her to heal.” “I know.” “Stupid thing you did last night.” “I didn't think so at the time.” Brian looked at him through the rearview mirror. “And now?” “It was stupid and it didn't solve anything. The baby is dead and I am responsible.” “Do you hear what you are saying?” Cree didn't answer, but closed his eyes. “Viraidan?” “I've got to work it out, Brian. In my own way.”

They were silent the rest of the way back to the prison. Once there, Cree refused to be seen being carried to his apartment, so hobbled beside Brian, within reaching distance should he start to fall. To Cree's left, the black dog kept pace, his massive head swinging right to left as he surveyed his new surroundings. “What are you going to call him?” Brian inquired. When they got into the elevator, Cree leaned heavily against the stainless steel wall and looked at the dog. “What's your name, boy?” “Humphf,” the dog answered. Brian laughed, putting a hand to his mouth. Cree blushed. “I'm not going to call you Love Muffin,” he snarled. “Humphf?” “I don't know,” Cree replied. “Let me think about it.” “Humphf.” “How ‘bout Ralph?” Brian inquired. “Humphf!” “You like that, do you?” Cree asked as the doors slid open. “Humphf.” “Ralph, it is, then.” When Cree tried to walk, after having stood still for a few minutes in the elevator, the pain came to life in his calf and he sucked in a breath. Grabbing at the crash bar, he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to disappear. “No one's looking,” Brian said quietly. Cree thought about it, then sighed. “Open my door first.” Ralph stood sentinel while Brian unlocked Cree's door. When the older man returned and picked Cree up into his brawny arms, the dog stood aside, allowing them to leave the elevator first. “I don't think Ralphie cares for elevators,” Brian said in his thickest brogue. “Why?” “He pissed on it when he got out.” ****

As night fell, Cree no longer suffered from the burn, as it had completely healed. He was able to walk Ralph down the stairs—neither of them enamored with elevators—and stand outside while Ralph attended to business. Happy to see his motorcycle parked in the lot, Cree breathed a sigh of relief that Hesar had not wrecked it. “Humphf?” Ralph queried. “It's the only thing I own I care about,” Cree explained. “Humphf,” Ralph protested. “Well, I don't own a car. You can ride with Brian if you need to.” Ralph sneezed, his disdain evident, and lifted his leg for the last time that evening. “You piss on my floor and I'll give you to Spice Boy,” Cree threatened as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Ralph ran ahead, stopping at the turn that led up to the fourth floor. “Aye, she lives up there.” Ralph lay down, his feet stretched in front of him. “No, you can meet her tomorrow.” Ralph lowered his head between his paws, his eyes shifting back and forth. Cree ground his teeth. “I said tomorrow!” Ralph scrambled to his feet, took one last look up the stairs, then hung his head. “You're a piece of work,” Cree grumbled as he jerked open the door. Ralph snorted and scooted out into the corridor. He was waiting at the apartment door when Cree got there and opened it. The light was blinking on the answering machine. Cree looked at it for a moment, then turned his back. He had showered earlier, but he still felt grungy from a night spent in a waterlogged ditch. After going into the bathroom, he shrugged out of his clothes and climbed into the shower. **** Ralph padded to the bathroom door and stuck his muzzle through the crack, widening it until he could get his head through. Satisfied the Reaper was safe, he pulled his head back out and lay down across the threshold. As steam rose in the room behind him, Ralph caught a whiff of scent he did not recognize. He raised his head and sniffed. The odor irritated him and brought the hackles up on his back. He got to his feet and turned, but before he could push his way into the room where his master was, the door closed. There was a soft click as the lock engaged.

Ralph whimpered and scratched at the portal. He cocked his head to one side, listening for the Reaper's voice, but there was only silence. He pawed the door again, more forcefully this time. He barked, but still the Reaper did not answer. He double-scratched the door, leaving three shallow gouges in the wood. Something cold touched his front left paw and he looked down as mist came from under the door. He barked at the mist and backed away, not liking the cold or the stench that accompanied it. “Humphf?” he questioned, calling out to his master, but there was no reply. Alarmed, Ralph began to bark excitedly. The mist was advancing toward him, backing him into a corner. He looked from right to left, but could find no way past the circling mist. It was nearly upon him, and when its sliminess touched his muzzle, he yelped and brought up a paw to swipe at the feel. When the mist sucked him into its belly, Ralph collapsed into a deep sleep. **** Inside the shower, Cree stood with his hands against the wall, his forehead pressed to the ceramic tile, allowing the water to beat on his shoulders. His long black hair was plastered to his shoulders and chest. His eyes were closed, his mind on the tragedy that had occurred in Ireland. He was lost to everything around him and felt nothing save the terrible guilt in his heart. He did not sense the encroaching mist as it mixed with the steam of the shower. He did not pick up the telltale odor of that creeping evil, for it had camouflaged itself to smell like the soap he had used. He was completely unaware of the questing fingers that roamed lightly over his body or the eager eyes that inspected every inch of his anatomy. As he stood there spread-eagle, he unknowingly submitted to that vile inspection, and he grew hard and tumescent at its touch. Standing beneath the onslaught of the soothing water and the caressing phantom fingers, Cree felt sensations he had not experienced in thousands of years. As guilt-ridden as his mind was over the death of the baby, his body was sending a message he could not ignore. He groaned, reveling in the tug on his privates, the moistness that sucked him deep into its maw and lathed him. His breathing grew quicker, shallow, and his blood began to pound in his brain and in his shaft. It was the change in the water temperature that brought his eyes open. The chill bearing down on his head and shoulders, running over his chest, made him back away from the stream. He looked down at his erection as the cooling water struck it, frowned at the strange feel on his flesh. For a moment, the nature of the sensation did not register. He lifted his hands and ran them through his hair, pushing the heavy mass from his shoulder to cascade down his back. As he had many times, he waited for the erection to subside. He willed the need to ejaculate, to give in to the delicious feel of release, to pass him by. It was part his own self-imposed punishment and the Queen's desire to control him that had denied him sexual pleasure since emerging from the prison of Daniel Dunne. When the pleasure in his loins increased and his shaft grew harder still, he realized it was more than memory and his bodily needs bringing about the erection. He felt the tugging on his shaft, the slick moistness sliding up and down its length, felt phantom teeth nipping at his scrotum. “No!” he bellowed.

Before him the mist rose up, solidified, and she was there, grinning, her long black hair like a cloak about her naked body. She held her heavy, full breasts in her hands, caressing them, inviting him to taste the milky fluid oozing from her nipples. He backed up until his flesh was plastered to the slick shower wall and stared at the apparition in absolute horror. “I am told I am the very image of my ancestor,” she purred. “Am I?” “Ski'Ah,” he whispered, fear straining his throat. “Aye. I am Ski'Ah incarnate and I have come for you, warrior.” She reached out to touch him. As she did, the bathroom door crashed open and fifty pounds of snarling animal bolted into the room. The Amazeen screamed, her arms coming up to cover her face. In the blink of an eye, her form disappeared, leaving behind a noxious scent that brought tears to Cree's eyes. He hunkered in the shower, the icy water now enveloping him. Shivering uncontrollably, he barely felt the dog climb into the shower and press itself close. “Humphf!” Cree bent forward, burying his face in the dog's wet fur. CHAPTER 32

Danyon paced the glade, waiting for the Amazeen to join him. His face was set into hard lines of anger, for the Bugul Noz had informed him of what had happened in the Reaper's apartment. “Had I not been there, she would have snatched him up and carried him away,” Ordin Gver said. The Nightwind snarled, fury turning his handsome face to a mask of evil. “I knew not to trust her.” “You were wise to send me to shadow the Reaper. She came close last evening, but sensing me, she did not materialize.” “What do you think of our filthy Reaper?” Danyon inquired. “I fooled him easily. He is completely unaware of my true identity,” the Bugul Noz replied with a chuckle. “He is no more intelligent than a piece of quartz, but he is likeable enough.” “Not to the Amazeen,” Danyon snorted. “Do not let her know you suspect her dishonesty.” “I have no intention of letting her know anything! She could have ruined everything this night!” He looked at the Bugul Noz. “Why are you smiling?”

Ordin took a long pull on his pipe. “It amuses me that I like the Reaper well enough to keep him safe for you, Friend.” Danyon turned to thank the Bugul Noz and found himself looking into the eyes of the black dog named Ralph. “You have grown adept at shapeshifting, Gver.” Ordin materialized, his hideous face stretched in a happy grin. “I rather like it,” he admitted, drawing smoke deep into his lungs. “Thank you for teaching me the art.” Danyon waved aside the gratitude. “Be careful how you use it, though. You are vulnerable when you shift into a form not your own. Only a powerful magiksayer could bring you back and there are few of them left. Remember, an enemy could dispatch you with ease.” “I have no enemies,” the Bugul Noz boasted. He cocked his head to one side. “Can you die, Nightwind?” “Not in the way you mean, no. Unlike the Reaper, I can walk through the hottest fire and never be kissed by the flames. Although I do not like water, I cannot be drowned in it. Take my head and all you'll get is an angry incubus who will rejuvenate and come after you with a fury you cannot comprehend. No, Nightwinds cannot die, my friend. Nightwinds are ageless.” “You are invincible?” the Bugul Noz asked, astonishment rife in his voice. “Not entirely. Should I be challenged by another Nighwind and lose that challenge, he could send me to the Abyss to remain forever or else bind me to him in slavery as I bound Cedric. But since there are no Nightwinds more powerful than I, that is not a concern for me.” “So you have no powerful enemies to cause you grief.” Ordin chuckled. “Unlike the Reaper, with his stinking bounty hunter.” A wide grin slipped over Danyon's face. “You say she appeared afraid of you?” Ordin laughed. “She wasn't merely afraid, Friend. She was terrified. Instinct tells me the Amazeen fear such beasties. This is why she did not bother the Reaper when he lay defenseless on the roadway.” “Had you not been there, I might not have the leverage I will need. Thank you.” Danyon clapped the Bugul Noz's back. The Amazeen's stench reached them and Ordin got hastily to his feet. “Your harpy comes, Friend. I will return to my master now. He has a female he is to introduce me to tomorrow.” He chuckled. Before Danyon could reply, the Bugul Noz vanished, leaving behind the wafting aroma of his pipe. Ski'Ah's scent was worse than it had been on the two previous occasions Danyon had encountered her. The horrendous odor made him ill. He brought the tail of his shirt to his nose to block the stench. “I forget you have such sensitive smell,” Ski'Ah complained as she materialized. Danyon gasped. “I would appreciate it if you would not forget.” “Here,” she said and the scent of jasmine wafted through the air. “Better?”

“Much,” he mumbled, lowering the cloth from his nose. “Why did you call me?” she asked, wariness hovering in her sapphire eyes. “I have learned something that might prove useful.” “To me or to you?” she inquired, searching his gaze. “To us both, I think.” He indicated a nearby log. When she declined the offer to sit, he began pacing in front of the fire the Bugul Noz had built. “I have learned the human part of Cree was responsible for a death that will plague him for the rest of eternity.” Ski'Ah frowned. “Why should that concern us?” “He was greatly distressed with the knowledge.” “Whom did he kill?” she asked in a bored tone. “His child.” Her mouth dropped open. She took a step toward Danyon. “His child?” “Sean Cullen, the human part of Cree, was responsible for a bomb that blew his child to so much dust.” “A girl child or a boy child?” “What difference...?” “A girl or boy?” Ski'Ah screeched. “A boy.” “Oh,” she said, relaxing. “That is of no import, then.” “Itis to the human inside Cree.” “Perhaps, but it means nothing to me.” Danyon bit his tongue to keep from cursing the Amazeen. His hands curled into fists at his side and he willed himself not to attack her. “This is one more nail to pound into his flesh, Ski'Ah. He is feeling remorse.” “He felt no such remorse earlier this eve when I...” “What?” Danyon asked, watching her face. She shrugged. “When I listened in on his conversation with a beast he has taken in to live with him.” “A beast?” Danyon asked and frowned deeply.

“Aye. What of it?” “A black dog?” She nodded slowly. “Is that significant?” “Best you do not encounter such a hell-spawned dog.” Fear clouded the Amazeen's eyes. “Why?” “When a dearg duls takes a black canine as his familiar, the beast is there to protect him. It will make hash of any that would lay hands to its master.” “We Amazeen do not like canines. They are filthy creatures, given to evil habits. We keep felines, but canines...” She shook her head. “They are to be avoided.” “On this world, they are demons in disguise. Harm one and you will come back in the next life as one.” Ski'Ah shuddered. “A fate worse than any I could conceive.” Danyon turned away to hide his smile. “Or I.” “It is good I did not enter the Reaper's abode, eh?” “Aye.” Ski'Ah walked to the log and sat down. For a long time, she said nothing, then sighed. “How can we use the human's guilt to our advantage, Nightwind?” she asked, staring into the flames. “I have not decided yet, but as soon as I do, I will let you know. I simply wanted you to know I had discovered this weakness in Cree.” She nodded, apparently deep in thought. As her mind roiled with emotions, the stench rose up from her in pulsing waves. Danyon gagged and backed away. “Forgive me,” she said. “I will take my leave of you now, lovely lady,” he mumbled. “Be careful until we meet again.” When she looked up, he was gone. **** Brian handed Cree a full glass of amber-colored liquid. “Drink it straight down.” “What is it?” Cree asked, sniffing at the glass. “Just drink it and then we'll talk.” The phone had rung just as Brian was sitting down to watch his favorite comedy on television. With two

liters of ginger ale, a huge bowl of buttered popcorn beside him, along with chips and salsa, a bag of marshmallows, a box of chocolate-covered cherries, an eighteen-inch stick of pepperoni, four bags of spicy-hot bacon rinds, and a carton of freeze-dried figs, he was looking forward to a relaxing evening with “Reaper Comfort Food,” as Viraidan called it. But Cree's strained voice had put an immediate end to Brian's plans. Cree grimaced at the tart smell coming from the liquid, but lifted the glass and drained it, swallowing convulsively. He began to cough as soon as the liquid was down his throat and Brian had to slap him on the back. “What the hell was that?” Cree gasped, his eyes watering. “Irish whiskey. Eight ounces of the best alcohol County Cork has to offer.” “Reapers can't drink alcohol.” “One just did.” Brian chuckled and folded his arms. “And I'm anxious to see what it will do to you.” “You don't know?” Cree questioned, his eyes wide. “Tell me about the Amazeen,” Brian said, ignoring the question. “She defiled me,” Cree snarled, visibly shuddering. Brian grinned. “Send her to me next time.” “She'll not bother you. You have a mate.” “So do you.” “No, mine—” “Sean'smate,” Brian interrupted. “Obviously that means nothing to Ski'Ah,” Cree snapped. “She still laid hands to me, vile bitch that she is.” “You need to tell me how you know this woman and what she wants from you.” Cree shook his head and he sat back, obviously not displeased with the sensation he was feeling. “Ah,” Brian said, smiling. “The whiskey is beginning to work its magic.” “I feel calm, Brian.” “A side effect of reallygood Irish whiskey.” Cree sat for a moment, then tears pooled in his eyes. “I am sad.” “Another side effect of the whiskey. I once heard a priest call it ‘Irish Confession Juice.'”

“The baby,” Cree whispered. “Our baby.” Brian took a deep breath. “Let it out, son.” Cree looked at him. “I can't.” His words were a plea for understanding. “I think you can.” “No, it isn't permitted.” “Who will know, Seanie?” It was the name—spoken gently—that brought the first tear cascading down Viraidan Cree's cheek. “The gods forgive me!” Cree whispered, then covered his face with his hands. Brian watched as the Reaper's shoulders shook with sobs. He listened to the keening that came from the very soul of the creature sitting across from him. He made no move to comfort Cree, to touch him. He merely allowed the man to vent the grief and guilt that permeated his being. Cree lay on the sofa, his back to Brian, and curled into a fetal ball, his hands thrust between his legs. He buried his face in the fold between the sofa's back and seat and cried. Softly, Brian began to speak. “When they brought your body back to Fuilgaoth, I was beyond grief. I couldn't cry. I couldn't let them see my pain. I knew Dunne would try to revive you and, if the burns had not been so bad, they would have succeeded. I would have had my son back. To lose a child is one of the hardest things in the world for a father to bear.” “I murdered my child,” Cree sobbed. “You did, or Sean did?” “I did.” “Then are you ready to admit that you and Sean are the same man?” Brian asked the question without scorn. He crossed his ankle over his right knee and waited for the answer. Many minutes passed before the Reaper turned onto his back. He flung his arm over his eyes, drew up his knees, and lay there until there were no more hitches in his breathing. “I am drunk,” he said at last. “I used to enjoy putting on a good drunk now and again.” “Why?” was the incredulous query. Brian shrugged. “It pushed all the feeling out of mind for a time.” “But it will come back.” “Aye, that it will. Along with one helluva hangover.”

“Hangover?” Brian uncrossed his legs and got up. He walked to the bar where he'd left the whiskey bottle and poured another full glass, which he brought to Cree. “Drink it down, lad.” Cree let his arm fall behind his head and stared at the glass. He started to protest, but pushed himself up, took the glass, and drained it. This time, he got the amber liquid down without gagging or coughing. He handed the glass back to Brian, then lay down again. “You didn't answer my question,” Brian said as he took his seat. “That being what? I'm rather fuzzy around the edges, Da.” Brian smiled. “I think you answered my question, son.” “Ask it again so I'll know what I said,” Cree said with a burp. He was staring at the ceiling, as if counting the holes in the acoustic tile. “Have you decided that you and Seannie are one and the same?” Cree thought for a moment, then again covered his eyes with his arm. “We always have been, I guess. I've his heart, not mine. I've his brain, not mine. I have all of his thoughts and wants and desires and memories. The only part of Viraidan Cree that is left is the memories I have of who he was and his body. I'm more me than him.” “Realizing just who you are is one step closer to accepting who you are. And that's one step closer to being comfortable with who you are.” “That doesn't help me feel any better.” “No, but eventually you'll forgive yourself. You won't forget what has happened, but youwill forgive.” “I can't stand the thought of another man touching her.” “I know, but what choice do you have? You can't let her know who you are. How would you explain why you never contacted her? Why you weren't there for her?” Brian sighed. “Why you are alive when she was there when you died?” “I don't feel good,” Cree answered, turning to his side. Brian spied a wastebasket and went to fetch it. He placed it on the floor in front of Cree. “What's that for?” “The nice hangover you're going to wake up with in the morning.” Brian pulled down the afghan hanging on the back of the sofa and spread it over Cree's legs. “I'll get you a bottle of water and put it here on the end table.” “Sustenance?” Cree asked, yawning.

“I don't think you'll be wanting or needing any tonight. Let the booze take you, lad. I'll be back in the morning with your shot. Until then, just rest.” He glanced around. “Where's the dog?” “Bedroom, I guess,” Cree mumbled. Ralph appeared in the kitchen door. “Humphf?” “Take care of him, Ralphie,” Brian advised then let himself out. “He's not going to be a happy camper come morning.” **** Cree reached up to adjust the sofa pillow under this cheek. “I'm not a happy camper now,” he said as he heard the door close. Running his hand inside his shirt, he pulled out the silver chain he always wore around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a one-of-a-kind Claddagh. He brought it to his lips, kissed it lovingly, then stuffed it back inside his shirt. Then, just as he had done for many years, he whispered “Good night, Milady,” then slipped restlessly into the arms of Morpheus. **** When Cree woke the next morning, he lay there for a moment, wondering why he felt so bad. He ran his tongue over his teeth and swore the enamel had grown a coat of fur. There was an evil taste in his mouth and, when he swallowed, his spittle rushed back up his throat, along with something so foul, so disgusting, he barely had time to twist his body. **** Ralph cocked his head to one side as his master regurgitated a massive quantity of bad-smelling liquid into the wastebasket. The horrid sounds coming from the sick man lifted the dog's brows. He watched as the Reaper gripped the edge of the sofa and continued to relieve himself. When Cree plopped back on the cushions, his arm flung over his pale face, Ralph trotted into the kitchen. It was the Bugul Noz who opened the refrigerator, rummaged around inside, and took out the bottle of cold water. He sighed, shut the refrigerator door, then reverted to his canine shape, the bottle of water clutched in his massive jaws. He padded back to the living room and nudged Cree's arm with the bottle. **** Reaching to grab the arm of the sofa to keep from sliding off it, Cree pried open his aching eyes and looked at his arm. “Humphf,” Ralph grunted. “I was wrong,” Cree whispered, wincing at the sound of his overly loud voice. “Humphf?” “Ican die. I'm dying right now,” he declared in a voice just above a breath.

“Humphf.” Ralph dropped the bottle to the sofa cushion. He grunted when his master fumbled for the bottle, then managed to get a grip on it. It took more energy and wit than Cree would have thought possible to twist off the cap and bring the bottle to his mouth. He didn't flinch as the cold water streamed down his chin, across his neck, and behind his head, for he managed to get some in his mouth. He swished it around, struggled to lift himself far enough off the sofa to spit it in the wastebasket. Afterward, he collapsed on the cushion. “Humphf,” Ralph admonished with a yawn. “No, I won't do it again and I'm going to kill Brian.” Cree swigged another sip of water and this time let the coldness trickle down his parched throat. **** Ralph cast a disapproving eye at the offensive wastebasket and trotted to the other side of the room, away from the putrid smell. He lay on his back and began to twist his body, scratching his haunches against the carpet. When he was finished, he cast a quick look at the sofa and saw the Reaper was sleeping again, the empty bottle clutched to his chest. CHAPTER 33

Bronwyn's first full day at work proved to be a handful. The caseload Dr. Hesar assigned her was more than she had expected and it took her all morning just to get through the first two files. After taking copious notes on the serial killer and pedophile she would begin working the following day, she was tired and had the beginning of a nasty headache by the time she broke for lunch. “I'm going to the cafeteria,” she told Mari Beth Grimes, the secretary she would be sharing with Koenen Brell, a man she had yet to meet. Koenen was Rory's son, Sage had informed her. “Take your pager,” Mari Beth reminded her. “Got it.” The cafeteria was on the lower level, near the front entrance to Baybridge. It was fairly crowded by the time Bronwyn arrived, but the smells coming from the steam tables drew her eyes from the fast food kiosks. “You gotta try their chicken and dressing,” Sage said, joining her. His lab coat bore a dark rust-colored stain. “Is that blood?” Bronwyn asked. Sage dusted the front of the lab coat. “Afraid so. One of my patients decided to open his veins with a strip of hard rubber he pulled from the shoe molding in his room. Must have taken him half an hour to scrape the rubber through his flesh.” “It's amazing what they can come up with, isn't it?” “I sent him down to the loony room for a few days.”

“Loony room?” “There are a couple of rooms on Five North that are like the old rubber rooms from days gone by. We strip the offenders, put ‘em in a specially constructed straightjacket, and lock them up for a day or two. There is no furniture, only padded walls and floor with a hole in one corner for ye olde body wastes. The room can be hosed down when the patient leaves because, nine times out of ten, the bastards have crapped and pissed from one side of the room to the other, wiping their butts on the floor like dogs.” Bronwyn winced at the description as they reached the line that was snaking in front of the steam tables. Up close, the food smelled even better and looked delicious. “One thing I'll say about Baybridge,” Sage said. “The food is excellent and they give you enough of it. You want seconds just ask.” Bronwyn took his advice and ordered the chicken and dressing, jellied cranberry sauce, sweet potato soufflé, and Waldorf salad. She was amazed to find the cafeteria offered real sweetened tea, Southern style. “We have a heap of folks from Georgia and Alabama,” the cashier said when Bronwyn handed her a meal card. “They got to have that sugar water with their meals.” “You can't have a decent meal without sweetened tea,” Sage pointed out. “It wouldn't be right, Jonelle.” The black woman chuckled as she took his meal card and ran it through a machine. “Save some room for egg pie, Miss,” she told Bronwyn. “They ain't brought it out yet, but it don't stay long on the table when they do.” “Egg pie?” Bronwyn gasped, looking at Sage. He nodded. “We're talking cholesterol city with no less than one dozen eggs in the custard.” He told Jonelle to ring up two slices and to page him when the pie appeared. “I think I've died and gone to heaven,” Bronwyn said as they took a seat not for from the cashier. “Today was Southern Harmony Day. Tomorrow will be German Umpah-pah Day,” Sage said, unwrapped the plastic wrap from his tossed salad. “They'll be serving black pumpernickel, German potato salad, hasenpfeffer, and whatever else might strike the Teutonic taste buds. Next to Southern day, it's my fave.” “I assume there are Spanish, Italian, and Chinese days, too?” Bronwyn asked as she salted her dressing. “Along with Irish and French. Occasionally, we have a Mixed-Up day where we have Middle Eastern, African, and a few other nationalities. It's great.” He started to say something else but his page went off and he looked around at the cashier. She nodded. “That's our dessert,” he said and hopped up. Bronwyn cut a forkful of jellied cranberry and was just putting it into her mouth when she saw Viraidan Cree enter the cafeteria. He glanced at her, then headed into the kitchen. Sage placed a huge slice of pale yellow pie, piled high with meringue, before her. “He can't eat normal food like the rest of us.”

“Does he get something special?” she asked, keeping watch on the door. “I guess,” he snapped. “I don't know what they give him, but he comes in and gets a big sack of it every day.” He sat and pulled his chair up to the table. “Doesn't deign to eat with us lowly medical types.” “Where does he eat? In his apartment?” Sage shrugged as he sprinkled pepper on his salad. “I guess if the weather's bad, but most of the time I've seen him sitting up on the hill overlooking the lake.” Bronwyn chewed thoughtfully as the kitchen door opened and Cree marched out, a brown paper bag in his hand. “Must be a sack lunch, huh?” she inquired. “With him, it could be raw chicken gizzards and hog entrails.” Bronwyn grimaced and took a sip of tea. “I heard Brian O'Shea came to see you,” Sage said before shoveling lettuce into his mouth. Bronwyn wiped her lips with her napkin. “Um hum.” “Did he tell you about our Reaper?” Bronwyn stared at him. “Excuse me?” “I know what he is.” Sage speared a chunk of tender chicken. “Brian warned me if I told anyone about what I'd seen, he'd pull off my ears, and if he didn't, Cree would.” “Then should you be telling me?” “I know he had to have told you because you turned three shades of green when I mentioned hog entrails.” Sage grinned. “Well, that's not exactly conducive to pleasant dining conversation, do you think?’ “He told you. I'd bet my ears on it.” Bronwyn picked up her knife to cut a piece of her chicken. “Let's say he did. Tell me how you know about Cree.” “I followed them.” Bronwyn dug her fork into the chicken, then dragged it through some gravy that had been poured over the dressing. “Followed them where?” “To the level where the containment cells are located.” She looked up."You've seen them?” “No, but it hasn't been from a lack of trying,” Sage confessed. “Once I found out they were there, it's

been like an itch on my back I can't reach to scratch. One of these days, I am going to get a look at those things.” “If you didn't know about the cells when you followed Brian and Cree, why were you following them?” “This was about two months after good old O-negative came to work here. He was acting weirder than normal and I knew something was up. They passed me in the hall and Cree literally growled at me. His eyes were wild and he was sweating bullets, let me tell you! Brian had him by the arm and was leading him, as though Cree would try to break away and trip out into the wind.” “He was going into Transition.” “I didn't know what was wrong, but I was sure going to find out. I watched the elevator go down to the third subbasement and stop. I thought that was strictly power-grid land, you know? There isn't supposed to be anything down there but mechanical stuff. So when the elevator came back up, I went down to that level, but the door wouldn't open because I didn't have the key. It's like those penthouse suites at fancy hotels, you know? They require—” “I know what you mean,” Bronwyn interrupted. “If you didn't get in, how did you find out about the cells?” “Brian opened the elevator, and there I was,” Sage replied. “God, I thought the man was going to rip me a new one, but all he did was slam me up against the cage wall and tell me if I knew what was good for me, I'd keep my mouth shut.” “What happened then?” “On the way up in the elevator, Brian told me about the containment cells. I was surprised as hell to learn there were things like that at Baybridge. But I nearly dropped my drawers when I learned Brian had been using them for himself.” “What?” Bronwyn yelped, drawing everyone's eyes. “Keep the shrieking to a bare minimum, huh?” “Are you...?” she began, but at Sage's shushing, she lowered her voice. “Are you telling me Brian is like Cree?” “That I am.” “Brian is a Reaper,” she said in a toneless voice. “Not as powerful as O-Neg, but able to leap tall file cabinets in a single bound when the moon is full.” Sage took a sip of tea, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I knew about Brian before I knew about Cree.” “How?” “You know about the tenerse?” Bronwyn nodded. “So?”

Sage scooped up a large forkful of potato salad, plopped it into his mouth, and talked around it. “They can't give it to themselves, the tenerse, you know? It has to go into the jugular and into the jugular only for it to be effective. The parasite doesn't want to be controlled, so it won't allow them to inject themselves. I don't know who gave Brian the injections at Fuilgaoth, but he needed someone here to do the dastardly deed. Brian chose me for whatever reason and I'm the one who pops him with the stuff.” He grinned. “Hurts like hell, if his expression is any indication.” Bronwyn recalled the conversation she'd had with Brian a few days earlier. “He says it makes your blood boil.” “Wouldn't be surprised. Until the day I learned about the containment cells and what they are used for, I thought tenerse was just some high-powered steroid or narcotic Brian was tripping on. Didn't have a clue it was anti-werewolf liquid! Hell, I didn't even know werewolves were real until then!” “Do you give the tenerse to Cree, too?” “Are you kidding? Old O-Neg would bite off my fingers if I tried to stick a needle into his thick neck. Brian gives it to him. I guess one parasite doesn't care about another.” “How many people know about this?” “You, me, the two bloodsuckers,” Sage answered. “That's it, I think.” “I don't understand,” Bronwyn said, her appetite gone. “How could Brian have had that special cell built and Dr. Wynth or your father not know?” “Here's what I think happened.” Sage leaned forward. “You remember back when the Brits managed to infiltrate Fuilgaoth and close it down?” “Yes.” “The facility at Fuilgaoth was dismantled and the land given to the Irish people for parkland. They sold some of the equipment and some of it came here to Baybridge. I'd be willing to bet that among that equipment was one of the containment cells, intact and ready for use. We didn't have Five North until Brian came to work here. That part of the prison wasn't excavated until he took over. He designed it, supervised its building. It would have been easy just to have that room dropped in with the rest of the lockdown cells. Who would question it?” Bronwyn thought about it, then nodded. “I can see that happening. He knew he'd need it and he probably had already decided to bring Cree here as head of security.” “That was the Day from Hell, in my book.” “Doesn't he do his job?” “Only too well. It's like living in a Fascist state at times, if you ask me.” “I get a feeling you two don't care for one another.” “You got that right, girl.” Sage wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Let's drop the subject of old O-Neg and

talk about something more fascinating.” “Like what?” “How fascinating I find you and how I want to jump your bones every time I see you.” Bronwyn chuckled. “You are incorrigible, Hesar!” “Nope, just horny. How ‘bout it? Wanna relieve some of my tension?” Bronwyn's pager went off. She took it off her belt to see who was summoning. “Gotta go.” “Whatcha going to do for supper?” Sage asked, taking up his fork again. Bronwyn stood, picking up her pie and glass of tea. “Whatcha got in mind?” “It's taco night at Taco Poncho in Grinnell. How ‘bout that, then a movie and a big box of popcorn, cup of soda, then home to have wild, dirty sex with me?” “Tacos, popcorn, soda, andno sex, and we've got a date.” He sighed. “Okay, but you don't know what you're missing.” “Six o'clock?” she countered. “On the dot. I'll pick you up.” As she was leaving, Bronwyn waved at her mother and Sage's father, sitting alone in a secluded part of the cafeteria. Her mother made a sign for Bronwyn to call her. Bronwyn nodded and hurried back to her office. When she arrived, she was surprised to see Cree waiting. Despite the neatly pressed black uniform, the Captain of the Security Services looked rumpled. At some point after she'd last seen him in the cafeteria, he had taken the clip from his hair, which now hung loose about his face. There was pallor to his skin. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles accentuating the high plains of his cheeks, while his goatee glistened with moisture. “You took your damned sweet time getting here,” he complained. “Did you have an appointment?” she snapped. “I don't make appointments.” “With me, you do.” She looked at Mari Beth. “Is that understood?” The secretary shot a nervous look at the Reaper. “Dr. McGregor, I—” “Go to lunch,” Cree ordered Mari Beth without looking her way. The woman jumped up, ran to the file cabinet and retrieved her purse, then took off as though the hounds of hell nipped at her heels.

“How dare you?” Bronwyn said, turning on Cree. “You can't come in here and—” One moment she was in front of the secretary's desk, the next she found herself plastered against the wall, Cree's hands tight on her upper arms as he pressed into her. His fierce eyes bore into hers. “Let's get something straight, Doctor. I don't make appointments and I don't call to let you know I'm coming. When I need something, I get itwhen I want it,where I want it, and how I want it. I won't take backtalk from you and I won't argue with you. What I say goes and what I do isn't questioned. Do you understand?” He was so close she felt his body heat, felt the rise and fall of his wide chest against the front of her lab coat. His grip on her arms was painful but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting her. His breath was salty, but not unpleasantly so, as it fanned the wisps of hair at her temple. “Let go of me,” she said quietly. He stared at her, his grip tightening even more. She stood perfectly still as his savage gaze crawled over her face, settled for a heart-stopping moment on her lips, then captured her eyes. He said nothing, only watched her, his body as tense as a coiled spring. “You don't frighten me, Captain,” she said, raising her chin. “And you are not intimidating me, if that is your intent, so you might as well take your hands off me.” “You have an appointment tomorrow to interview George Vance and Jason Faulkner,” he said as though she had not spoken. “So?” “You are not to schedule appointments with Class Seven inmates without my permission.” Bronwyn's eyebrows drew together. “Why the hell not? There is nothing in the protocol that says I have to—” “I am telling you. You will not meet with any Class Seven inmate without me being present in the room with you.” “Oh, no,” Bronwyn drawled, shaking her head. “You can not be present during any sessions. That's a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality—” “If I'm not there,” he said, a muscle working in his jaw, “you don't have the interview. It's as simple as that.” “You can't do that!” He pulled her against him, the full length of their bodies from chest to thigh coming into hard contact. “I can do anything I like,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. With his rock-hard thighs and belly tight against her, Bronwyn's knees threatened to buckle. Her breasts were being flattened against his broad chest; her nipples hardened into nubs at the contact. In the damp region between her legs, a wild pulsing started that made her heart beat faster and enlivened her breath.

Her vision lowered to his neck, where a vein beat strongly in the thick column. His goatee smelled of cinnamon cologne mixed with a scent that made her womb quicken. She ached to thread her fingers through his long black hair and pull his mouth to hers. The thought brought a groan, but she wasn't sure if it was his or her own. “Just do what I say,” he whispered. “I am only trying to keep you safe, Bronwyn.” For a long time, she stared into his eyes, wondering if he was as effected by their nearness as was she. When she felt his grip relax, then slip from her arms, she almost moaned. “Bronwyn?” he questioned, stepping back. “Do you understand?” She mentally shook herself, then straightened her lab coat, pulling it together over her chest. She nodded, all anger inexplicably gone. “I will bring a set of headphones and my radio,” he told her. “I won't listen to what you two are saying and I don't read lips so I won't be privy to what is being discussed.” “You read minds, though, don't you?” She had no idea where that question came from and was surprised when he nodded. “Aye, but I won't,” he said firmly, then moved back, allowing her room. “They are that dangerous?” she queried. “Some are. And even though much of the time they'll be restrained when you are in session, insanity can give a man strength and resources he wouldn't normally have. You never know what they are capable of doing. I want to make sure you're safe with scum like Faulkner and Vance.” Still experiencing sensations she found disturbing, Bronwyn went to her office door. “You could have just asked.” “Then I wouldn't have had a reason to put my hands on you.” She turned to gape at him and found his face as red as the triangle on his black shirtsleeve. She was stunned when he dropped his gaze and turned to leave. “Captain?” she called, halting him at the door. He looked at her. “Next time, just ask.” “I think we understand one another, Bronwyn. There won't be a next time.” Long after he had gone, Bronwyn stood beside her office door and tried to calm the racing thunder of her heart. **** Cree cursed all the way back to his office. He was annoyed with himself for having lost control, furious

he had made the comment about putting his hands on her. He struck out at the corridor wall, putting a dent in the steel panel as he stormed into his office. Slamming the door behind him, he threw back his head and howled with frustration, the sound reverberating through the room. “What the hell did you do?” he snarled, flinging himself down in his chair. He looked at his trembling hands. His palms itched, were slick with sweat. With a snarl, he thrust his arms across his chest and buried his hands in his arms pits. Breath rasping through his lungs, he had to clench his teeth to keep from howling again. She had been soft under his hold. Her flesh had smelled of raspberries. The press of their bodies had driven him nearly insane with a desire he knew he could not appease. He ached; he needed; his blood was throbbing with passion. “Bronwyn,” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. There had been a time, he thought as he hovered in his misery, when he could have denied the pull she had on him. Until she had shown up at Baybridge, she had been but a distant, if ever-present, memory. The other part of him dreamt often of the pretty teenage girl with the long brown hair and emerald green eyes. The other part of him had remembered scents and touches and the sound of her voice. The other part of him had longed for the girl. But this older part, the man within him, had seen the woman in her. He had inhaled the scent of her womanhood and it had beckoned him with its siren call. This older part now had the feel of her on his palms, the sound of her soft, Southern voice in his ears. He longed for her. He ached for her. He needed her, as he never had Chandra. “Though he may be eased by surrogate manipulation, a Reaper may physically mate with only one female in his lifetime and he must remain loyal to that mate even unto death!” 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 ismy 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 warm 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. “Thank you for offering, Koe,” she said, glancing up at Cree, who stepped out of her way so she could exit the room. “I'll talk to you tomorrow,” Brell called. “Not if your gods-be-damned tongue gets pulled out, you won't,” Cree mumbled under his breath. “What?” Bronwyn asked as he fell into step beside her. “Sage Hesar,” he replied, glancing at her upturned face. “What about him?” “Don't you think he's a handsome young devil?” Cree echoed Brian's words from between clenched teeth. Bronwyn stopped in the middle of the corridor. Cree took a few steps, then turned and looked back at her. “He doesn't pose a challenge for you, does he?” Bronwyn asked. Cree snorted. “The only thing Brell could challenge—” “I'm talking about Sage.” The Reaper's brows drew together. “What of him?” “You don't feel threatened by him.” “Hell, no, I don't.” Bronwyn smiled nastily. “But Koenen's a different can of worms, isn't he?” The Reaper obviously realized where her reasoning had roamed and he stood, arms akimbo, gaze narrowed, and looked at her. Bronwyn arched a brow. “I'm right, aren't I?” “Aye, you are right,” he replied, his brogue thick as molasses on a cold day. “Brellis a can of worms.” Bronwyn walked to him. “Are you afraid of worms, Captain? Are they a threat to you?”

They stared at one another—Cree's attention wandering freely over her upturned face, Bronwyn's gaze passing over, then locking on, his lips. Why had she thought Koenen Brell so handsome? She wondered as she studied Cree's rugged features. The man before her was beyond compare in the physical department. There was authority stamped on his lean face, power in the steady regard that held her transfixed. He gave off an aura of raw sexuality that brought heat to her cheeks and juices to her loins. From the soft thickness of his sable hair to the piercing gleam in the amber eyes, Viraidan Cree was pure sensuality and the signals his powerful body gave off were playing hell with her control. “What is it you want?’ he asked. She looked at his lips and wanted nothing more than to feel that velvet hardness slanted across her mouth, claiming her. “What do you want?” she countered, holding her breath. “Be careful what you wish for.” After a long pause, he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “You just might get it.” Bronwyn stepped back, her heart thudding dangerously fast. She swallowed, trying to tamp down the growing desire making her body tingle. When she didn't reply, he stepped back—military-style—pivoted, then started walking down the corridor. “Viraidan,” she said, hearing the rampant need in her voice, but not embarrassed by it as she might once have been. He turned. She lifted her chin as she drew near him. “I never wish for anything I don't truly want,” she surprised herself saying. That wicked half-smile she had come to recognize lifted the right side of his mouth. “I'll keep that in mind, Bronwyn.” **** Koenen Brell shrugged out of his lab coat and hooked it on the clothes rack beside the door. His face twisted with fury as he slammed himself down at his desk. With his anger so intense he could barely breathe, he reached for pencil after pencil and snapped them in two, dropping the wooden carcasses on the desktop. “Interfering bastard,” he growled, wishing each pencil he broke was the backbone of the head of security forces. For nine years he had been waiting to meet the woman responsible for his father's death. It had been he who had hinted to Neal Hesar that Hesar's whore should suggest the job to her daughter. He had also been the one to put the bug in Alistair Wynth's ear to hire Bronwyn McGregor. When news had reached him that the McGregor spawn would be coming to Baybridge, Koenen Brell had been beside himself with glee. He had bided his time when she first arrived. Meeting too quickly would not have been to his advantage. Though it had irked him to prolong the confrontation, he had forced himself to take it slow, to let her

come to him as he knew she eventually would. “Vengeance is best served cold,” he muttered, and vengeance was what he intended to have. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the woman who had caused his father's death. He had lied to Bronwyn when he told her he did not blame her. In truth, he had put the blame squarely on her slender shoulders. Had it not been for her, his father would still be alive. She had been the catalyst that had set that horrid sequence into motion, and for that she must be made to pay. While it was true he had not spoken to his father in years, Koenen Brell had worshiped the man. Despite the fact his father had seldom written and had called only a few times after abandoning his family in Perth, Koenen blamed his mother and the stupid child she had conceived for pushing away his father. To him, his father was a hero and deserved to be avenged for his untimely death. Koenen had maneuvered himself into the job at Baybridge simply to be near the place his father had worked. He had learned all he could about the McGregor family and had put the blame of his father's murder where it needed to be—on Bronwyn. “If it is the last thing I do,” he snarled, “I will make you pay for taking my father from me!” Grabbing several sheets of paper from his desk, Brell began to methodically shred them, his face twisted with rage. “Does that really help, Koenen?” Brell jumped, spinning around to confront whomever had spoken. He glared at a man he did not recognize. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?” **** Danyon Hart sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. There was a tight smile on his face as he walked toward Brell. “You are I are going to become very close, Koenen,” Danyon replied, his eyes flashing crimson. “Very, very close, indeed. As a matter of fact, no one will know where you leave off and I begin!” CHAPTER 35

Brian looked up from his desk to find Cree leaning against the doorjamb. “How'd it go with Vance?” he inquired. Cree shrugged. “As well as could be expected.” “That bastard is as vile as they come.” “I've seen worse.” Throwing his pen to the desk blotter, Brian leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did she get through the interview okay?” “She seemed to.”

Brian rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Is Vance still alive or has he joined Faulkner in the hereafter?” “He was alive when I left him in his cell.” “And functioning, was he?” Cree rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe not functioning at peak efficiency.” “Come in and shut the door.” For a moment it seemed Cree would not obey the command. He looked down the corridor, then drew in a deep breath and came into the room, closing the door behind him. Without being asked, he took a seat. “You got a lecture prepared or are you going to wing it?” he grumbled and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. “How close to Transition are you?” “Three weeks,” was the stony reply. “Tell me what happens if you Transition out of cycle,” Brian commanded. “Ah for the love of Alel!” Cree snapped. “I—” “Tell me what happens!” Anger settled on Cree's handsome face. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he ground his teeth. He glared at Brian, refusing to answer. Brian lowered his clasped hands to his desk and sat forward. “I went down to the morgue this afternoon and took a look at Jason Faulkner.” Cree's left foot jiggled up and down, an indication of his annoyance. His breathing—rapid and heavy—was audible. “That was sheer terror I saw engraved on that man's face. Whatever he saw put one helluva fierce strain on his heart and it killed him.” They stared at one another for a long time, neither speaking. Finally Brian leaned back. “If I go to Vance's cell and look in on him, am I going to see terror on his face, too, Viraidan?” “That asshole doesn't look any different than he did when he woke up this morning,” Cree snarled, dusting unseen lint from his trouser leg. “But his mind's not the same as when he crawled out of bed this morning, now, is it?” The Reaper shot up from the chair and began pacing in front of Brian's desk. “Those two perverted excuses for human beings won't be missed and won't ever hurt another woman or child again! And Bronwyn won't have to hear their vile boasting of the evil they've done!”

“I don't give a rat's ass about Faulkner and Vance. I am worried about you!” “You don't need to.” “For every time you Transition out of cycle, another day or two is lopped off the day sequence. You know that, Viraidan!” “It doesn't matter.” “The hell is doesn't!” Brian shouted. He got to his feet and shook a finger at the Reaper. “How long did you maintain the Transition? Two minutes? Five? Ten? How long did you hold it?” “How the hell should I know?” Cree yelled. “I wasn't counting!” “You Transitioned twice in one day. And you didn't take Sustenance from either victim. You held the shift without venting the bloodlust. It would have been bad enough if you'd bled them, Viraidan, but you didn't. That puts more of a strain on the parasite and—” “I can handle it!” “Mark my words,” Brian grated, his lips skinned back from his teeth. “You are going to go into Transition well before you expect it, and by the gods, Viraidan, you'd better hope you're close enough to get to the Containment Cell before someone sees you!” “I will handle it,” Cree said, stressing each word. “You better hope you do.” Cree stalked to the door, flung it open, and started out. “And stay the hell away from Bronwyn McGregor!” Brian ordered. **** Those the Captain of Security Services passed in the corridor stepped back from the infuriated look on his face. They pressed themselves against the wall or hastily entered rooms they'd had no intention of entering. The few employees who had decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator regretted doing so as Cree shoved past them. He knew his warning growl frightened more than one of them. Once outside, the Iowa night air turning cooler as fall approached, the Reaper's long strides took him past the parking lot and out behind the main building as he headed for the gravel path to the lake. A twinge in his back made him flex his shoulders. When it happened again, he stopped walking, the pain finally registering. He hung his head, doubled his fists, and pressed them to his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to blot out the burning sensation that had begun. “I know,” he said, feeling the ripples of demand shifting across his kidneys. He knew he would have to kill for Her. She was reminding him as gently as She would that he needed to make good on his promise.

He also knew, in order to kill, he would have to Transition again. The agony intensified in his back. He bent over with the force of it, his elbows on his flexed knees. “Give me time.” He gasped when a sharp stab of pure torture went through his right kidney. “Please, Lady!” he begged. She held the torment for another breath or two, then relented, reminding him who controlled him. Cree's breathing was ragged as he straightened. He knew the reprieve would not last long. Before She could renew Her physical attack on him, he turned and staggered back down the path. He was sweating profusely by the time he reached his motorcycle, moaning in agony as he swung his leg over the machine. He needed to hunt. For Her. He never slowed down as he reached the security huts. There was a tracking device on his bike and his men knew he was coming. The gate was barely open as he roared between the parted chain link sections, opening the throttle as he shot down the roadway. It was dawn when he returned, his face haggard, his eyes glazed with the bloodlust that had turned him from man to beast in order to feed the parasitic mistress that rode him. He was not wearing the same clothing he had worn when he had left Baybridge. The tattered black uniform now lay buried in a shallow hole—near the splintered bones of the Reaper's latest kill. **** Bronwyn had just come out of her condo, Brownie padding spryly beside her, when she noticed the big black dog lifting its leg on the corner of the building. She hesitated, pulling gently on Brownie's leash. The site of such a large canine—unleashed and roaming free—unsettled her. The beast could turn, snarl, and attack. Even though Brownie was a female, the animal could conceivably jump on her and clamp his massive jaws into her silky throat. The thought of that made Bronwyn stoop down to pick up her pet. “He won't harm her.” Bronwyn looked around, then straightened up, shocked by his pallor and the tremor in his hand as he threaded his fingers through his unbound hair. “Are you all right?” “I've been better,” he replied, then hunkered down to pat Brownie. “Come here, gorgeous.” Bronwyn smiled as Brownie lay down, turned up her stomach for a scratching, and wiggled with pleasure at the firm fingers that ran over her tight little gray tummy. Her smile flickered when the big black dog loped over. “Bronnie,” Cree said. “Meet Ralph.” Ralph sat, then lifted one giant paw in greeting, raking it up and down. Bronwyn's smile returned. She shook the proffered paw. “Does he belong to you, Ralph?” she asked,

using her other hand to smooth the sleek black fur on the dog's head. “Humphf,” Ralph replied with an emphatic nod of his big head. “It certainly isn't the other way around,” Cree joked. Cree vigorously rubbed Brownie's stomach one last time, then got to his feet, jamming his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. Brownie wiggled on her back a few more times, her little paws waving in the air. Bronwyn laughed. “Get up, slut. He's lost interest in you.” “She knows better,” Cree disagreed. Sighing, Brownie got to her feet, shook herself, then turned to look at Ralph. For a moment, her pretty little brown eyes blinked, then she walked cautiously toward him. Bronwyn dropped the leash, giving Brownie space to investigate this new acquaintance. When the canines touched noses, then gave each another the traditional nose-to-butt inspection, Bronwyn looked away with embarrassment. “Are you off today?” she asked Cree. “Aye. We were headed down to the lake.” Brownie and Ralph were playfully nipping at one another, running in tight little circles around their master and mistress. “Mind if we tag along?” Bronwyn inquired. Cree shrugged. “It's a free country.” The reply wasn't encouraging, but Bronwyn decided to ignore the standoffishness it implied. She called Brownie to her to take hold of the leash. “Let her run free,” Cree said. “No animal should be tied up.” “Stop reading my mind. I don't like it.” Cree said nothing to her demand. Instead, he started down the gravel path, seemingly uncaring if she walked with him or not. A frustrated sigh hissed from Bronwyn's mouth as she followed. She had to jog a little to catch up to him, slapping her leg for Brownie to follow, then became exasperated when her pet raced on ahead, the black dog plodding along beside her. “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 amarc asúinéireacht .” “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—thedúr 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. CHAPTER 36

“Good morning,” Brian said. Bronwyn nodded, yawning. “What's up?” “You forgot,” he sighed, looking at her bathrobe. “Forgot what?” “Sunday? Nine o'clock? Coffee and rolls. Inane conversation.” Bronwyn gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Mass!” she shrieked. Brian looked at his watch. “Can you get dressed in fifteen minutes?” “Fifteen? Fiddle!” Bronwyn pointed a finger at him. “Stay here. I'll go shower!” Brian chuckled as she ran out of the room. He found the Sunday Des MoinesRegister on the coffee table and rifled through it until he found the business section. He sat on the sofa and shook the paper. “He did a very dangerous thing yesterday.” Brian lowered the paper. There was an elderly man standing before him. The being known as Cedric, no doubt. But when Brian sniffed, he did not detect the odor Cree had told him Nightwind's possess. “The scent can be hidden when necessary,” Cedric told him. “So you can sneak up on people?” Brian growled, snapping the paper shut. He tossed it to the coffee table. “What do you want?” Cedric took a step closer. “I care deeply for the Lady. She has been most kind to me. She has given me companionship and...” “You know something, Nightfart, I don't care what Bronnie has given you.” “She was hurt yesterday. He healed her with his own blood.” “Viraidan?” Cedric grinned. “I would imagine it was the Cullen part of him that couldn't help himself.” When Brian gasped, the Nightwind's grin turned mean. “You have hidden nothing from our kind, Reaper. We know who he was.”

Casting a quick look to the door behind which Bronwyn had disappeared, Brian got to his feet. “Have you told her?” A snort was Cedric's first answer. His second was firm. “We've no intention of her finding out.” Relief washed over Brian. “We don't want her to know, either.” “Understood. We also understand the danger of what he did yesterday.” “Tell me what happened,” Brian demanded, sitting down. Cedric moved to a recliner and sank creakily to the seat. “Old bones make the odd noise now and again,” he sighed as he shifted his aged body to a comfortable position.” “I suppose I'll find out,” Brian acknowledged, being polite. “I'm told I'll live a couple of hundred years if my head stays attached to my body.” “I,” Cedric said, jabbing a thumb at his chest, “am in the second millennium of life and would just as soon not be.” “You were going to tell me what he did,” Brian pressed. “She cut her hand at the lake and...” “They were together at the lake? Alone?” “The Reaper came close to taking her while she slept.” Brian winced. “By the gods, that man is out of control!” “Aye and blending his blood with hers shows to what degree.” “He would reason he had helped her,” Brian defended. “True, but now he has the taste of her in his mouth and can track her no matter where she goes. Should it be necessary to take her from this place—” “She's not being taken anywhere!” Brian snapped. “Especially not by one of your kind!” Cedric sighed. “The longer she is near the Reaper, the nearer to disaster she is. Sooner or later, she will begin to see the similarities between Cree and Cullen.” “I'll have a talk with him.” “I fear it will take more than talk.” “Let me worry about that!” Brian grated. “Worry about what?” Bronwyn asked from the doorway. She looked from one face to the other. “I see you two have met. What were you talking about?”

“Protecting you,” Cedric ventured, rising clumsily from the chair. “From what?” Bronwyn asked. Brian opened his mouth to answer but Cedric beat him to it. “Cree,” Cedric replied, ignoring Brian's look of disbelief. “He is not the man either of us would have for you.” “Really?” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “How ‘bout you two minding your own business, okay?” She walked to the door. “You coming Brian?” “I wasn't even breathing hard,” Brian said beneath his breath and caught the wicked grin on Cedric's face. Bronwyn's lips were pressed tightly together as she walked into the hall. Brian hurried to catch up with her. “Are we taking my car or yours?” “Mine,” she said, casting him an annoyed look. “I don't want you and Cedric discussing my affairs. Are we clear on that?” “Aye,” Brian said as they reached the newly constructed enclosed garage. **** The ride into Grinnell was spent talking about mundane topics that kept well away from Viraidan Cree or Cedric's and Brian's attempt to meddle in Bronwyn's affairs. At St. Mary's, the church was crowded with few seats left unoccupied. Bronwyn and Brian took their places. Bronwyn joined Brian on the kneeler and made the Sign of the Cross. As was her habit, she looked around before beginning her prayers and was surprised to see Cree at the inside seat across the aisle and three pews up from her. Once again he was dressed entirely in black with a lightweight turtleneck pullover, its long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, straining across his broad chest and tight dress slacks that accentuated the high firmness of his rump. His long hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and glistened blue-black beneath the chandeliers. He was kneeling, eyes closed, head bowed and resting on his clasped hands. And she could not drag her attention from him. Neither could several young women and girls who were gawking at him as though he were a feast and they were starving. Even older women glanced surreptitiously in his direction. As the bells began tolling to call the parishioners to worship, Bronwyn watched Cree lift his head and look at the huge cross hanging behind the altar. Even though he was in profile to her, Bronwyn could see the misery reflected on his face. When the last bell tolled, he crossed himself and sat in the pew. “Please rise and direct your attention to the back of the church,” one of the deacons called. As Cree turned, their eyes met. Bronwyn saw his gaze shift to Brian, then quickly away.

A young couple had brought their child to be baptized and the preliminary ritual of the welcoming of the infant, his parents and godparents at the back of the church, kept Bronwyn's attention. But she could feel Cree's gaze on her back and at one point noticed Brian turn and look the Reaper's way. As the procession started to the altar, the worshipers turned, singing the “Gloria.” Bronwyn noticed Cree was not singing. He avoided her gaze and she felt the snub as though it had been a physical slap. If someone had asked her what the readings and homily had been about that Sunday, Bronwyn would not have been able to tell them. Her attention—as was that of many other females—was riveted on Cree. If that had not been the case before the baptism began after the homily, it certainly would have been once the sacrament began. Bronwyn noticed that Cree did not watch what was going on. His head was bent and he was staring at the floor. Even when the parishioners rose to repeat the baptism vows, Cree did not look at the young couple and the child at the baptismal font. Taking his seat again with the rest of the congregation, he resumed his stony contemplation of the floor until the deacon took the infant in his arms and came to stand in front of the parishioners. “Please join me in welcoming Patrick Sean Wilder to the family of God,” the deacon called. Those gathered began clapping. Bronwyn saw the Reaper lift his head, tears cascading down his cheeks. “What's the matter?” Brian whispered, bending toward her. “N...nothing,” Bronwyn said. She added her distracted clapping to that of the others but her heart was not in the moment. A lump had formed in her throat. Looking at the other women who were openly staring at Cree, she could see they seemed as effected by the man's obvious misery as was she. Throughout the remainder of the Mass she watched him. She was in a good position to observe his every move so that it did not seem obvious. Her heart ached each time he closed his eyes and lowered his head. She could almost feel the loneliness weighing down his shoulders. At the Sign of Peace, he did not smile at those whose hands he shook, though his lips moved in the traditional recitation of Peace be with you. When Communion arrived, she was not surprised to see Cree step aside for the others in his pew to go to receive the Eucharist. She did not miss the longing on his face as he knelt and lowered his head once more. “You can not receive Communion if you are not in a state of Grace,” she remembered Fr. Goodmayer snarling from the pulpit many years earlier. “If you are a sinner, either by choice or in your heart, you must never take the Body and Blood of our precious Jesus Christ!” Knowing what Cree was, what he had no doubt done as a warrior, she could well understand why he did not feel worthy to receive the Eucharist. Coming back from receiving her own Communion, she added to her prayers peace of mind for Viraidan Cree. As she did, she saw him look at her for a moment before resuming his stony demeanor. It was a lively song that made up the Recessional when the Mass ended. After the last chorus, the parishioners struck up an impromptu clapping in appreciation of the folk choir's efforts.

“That was fantastic!” Brian said, smiling. “They keep getting better every month.” Bronwyn barely heard him. She was trying to find Cree in the people leaving the pews, but he had somehow managed to get past her without her seeing. She was disappointed. She didn't think he would go downstairs for coffee and rolls. The priest and deacons were waiting at the foot of the outside stairs to greet the departing parishioners. Bronwyn and Brian could not easily get to the basement door to go downstairs, so they allowed themselves to be herded outside. “Nice to see you again, Bronwyn,” the shorter of the two deacons said as he hugged Bronwyn, then took Brian's hand. “Brian.” She shook hands with the taller deacon, then went to speak to the priest, who barely acknowledged her. When she turned away, she looked right at Viraidan Cree. He was standing off to one side of the courtyard and was tying a large black bandanna around his head. “Hi, Viraidan,” a couple of teenage girls called as they passed him. “Miladies,” he greeted, then winked at the young women, which amused Bronwyn. The sound of self-conscious giggles wafted through the air before the girls put their heads together and no doubt compared notes about the handsome man they had been ogling. “You made their day,” Bronwyn said as she walked up to him. She heard Brian let out a long, hard sigh as he followed in her wake. “Good morning, Bronwyn,” Cree said, ignoring her comment. “I was surprised to see you here. I didn't know you were Catholic.” A muscle bunched in his taut cheek. “A part of me is anyway.” “Are you going down for coffee and rolls?” Cree looked over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, Bronwyn caught Brian's stern shake of the head. Before she could say anything, Cree told her he wasn't. “How ‘bout joining us for supper, then?” she asked, giving Brian a look of her own. “Thank you, but I have business in Iowa City,” Cree responded. “Some other time, then?” He shrugged carelessly before heading across the street toward his motorcycle, parked in the religious education center's parking lot. Bronwyn watched him sprint between oncoming cars and up the grassy incline. When Cree swung his leg over his bike, Bronwyn felt a ripple of desire drive straight through her belly. “Great God Almighty,” she whispered.

“What?” Brian asked. “Nothing. Don't do that again, Brian.” “Do what?” “I saw you warn him off.” Brian's lips tightened. “He's not the man for you.” “You throw Sage Hesar at me like he's manna from heaven but Viraidan is off limits?” “Something like that,” Brian mumbled. “Well, I've got news for you, Brian O'Shea,” Bronwyn snapped. “Maybe I don't like white bread. Maybe I like rye!” **** The message light was blinking on Bronwyn's phone when she got home, but she ignored it. She was so annoyed with Brian, she had told him she'd changed her mind about fixing supper for the two of them and had left him standing at the curb, his mouth open. Brownie, stretched out on Bronwyn's mattress, lifted her head to watch her mistress undress. “Men are idiots!” Bronwyn asserted as she dragged the blouse out of her skirt. After tossing clothes about until she found the long T-shirt dress that she lounged around in after work, Bronwyn slammed the closet door and stalked into the living room, Brownie close on her heels. “Give them an inch and they'll take a frigging mile!” Bronwyn snarled as she went into the kitchen. “Who did what to whom this time?” Cedric asked, looking up from the sink where he was opening a can of cat food. “Leave me alone, Ceddie. I'm in no mood to discuss the stupidities of men who think they know what's best for me!” “Ah, we're talking about Cree.” Cedric took a fork from the drawer and began ladling the cat food into his mouth. “That,” Bronwyn said, her nose crinkled, “is disgusting.” “No, this is my lunch.” He plopped another large morsel into his mouth, grinned, and began chewing. “Yuck!” Bronwyn went into the living room and slumped down on the sofa. “Did it ever occur to you that Cree isn't interested in you?” Cedric asked from the kitchen door. He leaned against the jamb and continued to scoop his meal from the can. “You've tried hints and that didn't work. If you run after him, that's only going to push him farther away.”

“Then what the hell do you suggest I do? And just why the hell do you care since you and Brian were discussing keeping him away from me in the first place?” “That Australian left a message on your talking machine,” Cedric said, scraping the last of the cat food from the can. “He wants to take you out next Friday night.” “It's an answering machine, not a talking machine, and so what?” “The quickest way to interest a human male is to enflame his ego,” Cedric remarked as he licked the fork clean. “What are you talking about?” “Perhaps I was a bit erroneous in my thinking,” the aged Nightwind suggested. “I've been sitting here thinking I should not discourage you from seeing the Reaper.” “Why not?” Bronwyn asked suspiciously. “Well,” Cedric said, putting the can and fork on a kitchen counter, “the best way to show you Cree is not the man for you is to allow you to see him socially. Once you see he's nothing more than an uncouth, unsophisticated, and dull beast, you'll get over this ridiculous infatuation.” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. “Infatuation?” “Ah, hell, Bronwyn,” Cedric stated with a dismissive wave of his frail hand, “you women go all goo-goo-eyed over that bad-boy persona. Best you learn it's not a romantic thing but a dangerous personality you're dealing with.” “And me going out with Koe Brell will accomplish what?” “It'll make the Reaper jealous, if he is at all interested in you.” Bronwyn thought about it. Maybe Cedric was right. Cree had shown a decided streak of jealousy where Koenen was involved. What would it hurt to tweak that jealousy a bit? “And Danyon wouldn't like it,” Cedric remarked. “Like what?” “You dating that Brell man.” Cedric cocked an eyebrow. “He's with Aine right now and won't be back for another day or so.” Annoying Danyon had never entered her mind. She spent little time in thinking about the Nightwind and none at all worrying about what did and did not concern him. To her, he was a necessary evil that came along with having Cedric as her companion. “What would it hurt to go out with the Brell fellow?” Cedric asked. “I don't know.” “Then call him back and say you'll accompany him. The place he wants to take you sounds interesting.”

Bronwyn chewed on her thumbnail for a moment. then made up her mind. “If this turns to crap, I'll blame you.” She got up and went to the desk. Cedric shrugged. “You will anyway, dearling.” She punched the button and listened as Koenen Brell told her about a supper club in downtown Des Moines called The Triskelion. “It's a converted warehouse with brick walls and wood floors. There are three sections of the club and they're shaped like the triskele. Know what I mean?” he asked in his thick Auzzie brogue. Bronwyn pushed the pause button and turned to Cedric. “What's he talking about?” “He's referring to the ancient Celtic symbol for earth, sea, and sky.” “Oh,” she said and started the message playing again. “The bar spirals off to one side, the supper tables to another and the bar tables to the third. The dance floor is a large triangle in the center,” Koe told her. “The food is great and the atmosphere has to be experienced. I know you like Celtic music and that's all they play there. You have to go, Bronwyn! Give me a call and tell me what time to pick you up.” Cedric chuckled. “Great close.” “If anyone should know about that,” Bronwyn said dryly, “it's you, Mr. I-Buy-Everything-I-See-On-Infomercials.” “We needed a widget that dices, pares, and cubes raw meat.” Cedric sniffed. “No self-respecting meat eater should be without one.” “Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Take the man up on his offer. What have you got to lose?” CHAPTER 37

The Triskelion was crowded when Bronwyn and Koenen arrived. Customers were milling around in the lobby, drinks in hand, waiting for a table. Some looked resigned to what might be a long wait but a few were obviously angry, impatiently glancing at their watches, scowling at those around them. “If you don't have a reservation on Friday nights, you're screwed,” Brell remarked. With a hand to her back, he ushered Bronwyn past a group of yuppie types. He smiled at the reservations girl, who stood like a sentinel between those gathered and the dimly lit supper club beyond. “Table for two for Brell.” The girl checked her clipboard, running her finger down the list of names, and seemed relieved to find what she was looking for. She smiled. “Your table is ready, Dr. Brell.” “How come this asshole gets right in and we've been waiting for a damned hour?” a frizzy-haired woman demanded, her eyes spiteful.

Koenen came toe to toe with the woman. “Could be,” he said, his voice icy, “you have godawful hair and my lady doesn't. Or it could be because you're butt-ugly and she isn't. Whatcha think?” The woman's narrowed eyes flared, her mouth dropped open, closed, and opened again. “Has anyone ever said you look like a largemouth bass when you do that?” Koenen inquired with a wink and a cluck of his tongue. The woman gasped in outrage, sputtered, and turned to the man beside her. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Gregory?” Gregory shrugged and looked away. “Right this way, Doctor,” the reservations girl said, obviously trying not to laugh. Bronwyn glanced back at the woman, snarling vulgarities and insults at her companion. “You are terrible, Koe,” Bronwyn quipped. “I don't suffer stupidity gladly,” he commented as they reached their table. “I can see that.” Bronwyn took the chair he held out for her. Koenen sat across from her. “Women like that drive me crazy.” “She was rude.” “And classless and vulgar and myriad other epithets I could hurl at her hideous hairdo.” Their waitress appeared, handed them the dinner menu, then took their drink orders. “For as long a wait as there appears out there,” Bronwyn commented, “the service is very prompt.” “As I said, the regulars never have a problem getting in on the weekends. We know to reserve our tables.” He shook the folds from his napkin. “Otherwise, you may not get in at all. I'll venture to say the Frizz Queen won't be enjoying the hospitality of the Triskelion this evening.” Bronwyn looked around the cozy room. There were thick beams overhead with old cogwheels attached to pulleys that no doubt had served mechanical purposes at one time but which now were used as giant plant hangars. One wall of windows looked out into a courtyard filled with trees and shrubs adorned with tiny white lights. A large fountain sat in the center of the courtyard with park benches to either side. Above the central dance floor, a huge stained glass atrium reflected the light of the full moon. “This is lovely,” she said. “Yes, it is.” Koenen reached for hand. “Almost as lovely as you.” Bronwyn eased her hand from under his and continued her inspection of the room. As she scanned the small crowd of customers, she was stunned to see Viraidan Cree at a table near the dance floor. He was sitting hunched over the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a nearly full mug of

what looked like dark ale. He was staring into the mug and his face was grim, his lips tight. Bronwyn silently called his name, wondering if he was capable of “hearing” her in the noisy room. He looked up and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met, held as the Celtic music swirled around them. For a long time, they stared at one another, then the Reaper's gaze shifted to Brell and narrowed. He blinked and turned away, lifting his mug to drain it. “Bronwyn?” Koenen questioned, waving a hand in front of her face. Bronwyn flinched, heat flooding her cheeks. She jerked her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “I'm sorry. What did you say?” Koenen looked behind him. “What's so engrossing back there?” Bronwyn couldn't refrain from looking toward Cree's table and was surprised to find it empty. She felt keen disappointment plummet to the bottom of her stomach. “I...I thought I saw someone I knew.” “Anyone I'd know, too?” Koenen inquired as their waitress arrived with their drinks. “I wouldn't think so,” she lied. A lively ballad started from the band and a young woman with long curly red hair and dressed in a short black skirt and white silk blouse took the stage. As the woman's feet began moving in the tapping rhythms of a lively Irish step dance, Bronwyn and Koenen joined the other patrons in keeping time by clapping. “Do you step dance?” he called out over the music. “Lord, no!” Bronwyn laughed. “I know DeeDee does.” “She took lessons as a girl. I, on the other hand, have two left feet when it comes to tap dancing.” She took a sip of her Bloody Maria. “How ‘bout you?” Koenen chuckled. “Elephants can dance better than me. I hate dancing. I can't even do the two step.” “Why do you come here if you don't like to dance?” “For the atmosphere and the wonderful food you're going to enjoy.” Bronwyn had hoped to take a turn on the dance floor. Her regret obviously showed. “Want me to find someone to trip the light fantastic with you?” Koenen inquired. Bronwyn was saved from answering when Koenen's pager went off. He cursed as he unclipped it from his belt. Reading the calling number, he frowned. “Damn it! I asked them not to bother me unless the world was coming to an end!” “Baybridge?”

“I'm sorry.” Koenen angrily folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I need to see what they want.” “I hope it's nothing serious,” she said as he got to his feet. “The damned buildings better be on the verge of collapse, is all I can say.” Bronwyn watched him stalk toward the lobby where she'd seen the phones. His shoulders were bunched and she was glad it wasn't she who had called him. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to look once more at the spot where Cree had been sitting. Finding even the mug gone caused deeper disappointment. Loud applause rang out when the dancer finished her number with a high kick and a rapid tattoo of her tap-studded toes on the parquet. While showing her own appreciation of the dancer's talent, Bronwyn felt hands on her shoulders. Soft warmth invaded her ear along with the words: “Let's dance.” She turned and blinked. Cree was standing there. He held out his hand. Moving as though she were in a dream, Bronwyn put her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to the dance floor. As they reached it, the music started. Bronwyn tensed, trying to pull away, but he would not allow it. He swept her into his arms—one hand firmly at her back, her right hand clutched tightly in his. “I don't want to...” she said, her eyes filling with moisture. “Shush,” he instructed, moving them to the middle of the floor. It was the song that had brought tears to Bronwyn's eyes. The slow tune had been Sean's favorite. The memory of her singing the words to him caused intense hurt, the pain of it stabbing at her heart, raking over the wound she knew would never heal. The singer's words tore at her very soul: **** “Red is the rose on yonder garden grows Fair is the lily of the valley Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne But my love is fairer than any. Come over the hills, my handsome Irish lad Come over the hills to your darling You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow And I'll be your true love forever. ****

“ ‘Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed When the moon and the stars they were shining The moon shone its rays on his locks of golden hair And he swore he'd be my true love forever. **** “It's not for the parting of my sister Kate It's not for the grief of my mother 'Tis all for the loss of my handsome Irish lad That my heart is broken forever.” **** Cree waltzed with expert grace, his long legs in perfect sync with the soft strains of the Celtic melody washing over them. His eyes were locked on hers as they danced, her body so close to his she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach. The black silk of his shirt shimmered beneath the revolving lights of the disco ball overhead. Sparkles of that playful light reflected off his soft black leather britches, so tight on his powerful legs it looked as though he had been poured into them. Vaguely aware of the people watching them, of the women staring with hungry eyes at his taut body, she began to relax in his arms. The moment she gave in to the pull of the music, the insistence of his hold, he pulled her closer to him so that her cheek came to rest against the opened collar of his shirt. She felt his chin rest gently on the back of her head and closed her eyes, taking in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and experiencing its fragrance in the pit of her belly. It was as though they were the only two people on the dance floor. The singer seemed to sense their pleasure, for she sang it again in its entirety. Cree waltzed Bronwyn across the floor, his movements sensual and plying her body with wave after wave of desire. When the music stopped, he dipped her low, held her there for a moment, then swept her around in a half circle and finally tight up against him so that their bodies touched from chest to knee. There was no sound in the room as they stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. When noise at last intruded on their intimate moment, it was the band's fiddler, who played a lively Celtic tune with vigor. Cree still held Bronwyn's hand in his. He brought it to his lips and turned her arm so he could plant a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. His gaze never left hers. Bronwyn drew in a slow breath, deeply affected by the sensations his touch sent through her. When he finally released her hand and stepped back, she felt like throwing herself into his powerful arms. “Another time,” he said, then turned away, disappearing among the dancers before she could bid him stay.

It was Koenen's hand, tight on her upper arm, that brought her back to her senses. “Did you enjoy making a fool of yourself out there?” he snarled, drawing her off the dance floor. Bronwyn tugged against his rough handling and pulled her arm free. “Excuse me?” Koenen's handsome face twisted into a mask of contempt. “I can't believe you allowed that son-of-a-bitch to rub all over you like that. I've never been so disgusted. You were acting like a slut in heat!” Fury blazed within Bronwyn. She slapped him as hard as she could, snapping his head to the side. With such rage and venom in the hit, Brell staggered beneath the force of it. “Go to hell!” Bronwyn snarled and spun around, pushing her way through the curious onlookers. It was raining when she shoved open the heavy oaken doors and walked into the Des Moines night. A lone taxi was parked across the street and she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The cabbie turned on his headlights and made a u-turn, pulling up to the canopy under which she was standing. Just as she reached for the taxi door, Koenen put a firm hand against it. “I brought you, I'll take you home,” he grated. “I'm not going anywhere with you.” She pushed away his hand and tried to open the door, only to have him pull her from the curb. “Get your hands off me!” she yelled. “I'm sorry, okay?” he said, holding up his hands. “I got a little crazy in there and—” “A little crazy?” The cabbie rolled down the passenger window and asked if she was getting in. “Yes,” Bronwyn said. “No,” Koenen replied at the same time. “There are people behind you wanting a lift,” the cabbie protested. “Either get in or step back, lady.” Bronwyn started around Koenen, but he blocked her path. When he did, another couple made a run for the cab door, scurrying inside as quickly as they could. “Now see what you did?” Bronwyn slammed her open palm against Koenen's shoulder. “I will take you home.” “No, you won't!” she insisted, attempting to go back inside so she could call another cab. “Woman, listen...” Koenen began, then stopped. A hateful smirk crossed his face as he looked over Bronwyn's shoulder. “I ought to stomp the shit outta you!” Bronwyn turned to find the Reaper standing a few feet away, his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Instant relief turned to dread as she realized the situation could turn ugly.

“Youhad them page me, didn't you?” Koenen hissed. “You did it so you could move in on her!” “You need a ride home, Milady?” he asked Bronwyn. “Yes.” “Let's go, then.” “You're not taking her anywhere, Cree!” Koenen barked. Cree took a step toward Brell. A muscle ticked in the Reaper's lean jaw. “You think you can stop me?” Brell's lips skinned back from his teeth. “It will be my pleasure to put you down, you arrogant hound!” Bronwyn moved between them. “Don't either of you start something here!” Several people had gathered outside the club doors, avidly watching. “I'm going with him and that's all there is to it, Koenen,” Bronwyn snapped. “If you don't like it, tough!” Koenen looked as though he were about to explode. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side and he shot daggers of hate at Cree with his eyes. “Yeah, you go with him, Dr. McGregor. Get drenched on that piece of shit motorcycle, for all I care. I hope you both catch your death of cold!” Brell spun around and headed back inside the club. Bronwyn sighed heavily, looking out at the pouring rain. She didn't look forward to getting drenched. It had also turned cooler and she was feeling the chill through the lightweight pullover she wore. “Here,” Cree said, shrugging out of his leather jacket. “Oh, no, I can't,” she protested, but he was already swinging the heavy jacket around her shoulders. “I don't need it.” He took her arm to lead her to the parking lot. “I hope you have a helmet,” she said miserably, lifting his jacket to cover her head. “Afraid not.” Bronwyn whimpered. Stepping into a puddle, she whimpered again, as miserable as she could remember being for quite some time. But she was pleasantly surprised when Cree drew her toward a sports utility vehicle. He opened the door for her and ushered her inside. Through the rain-streaked windshield, she watched him walk around the SUV. He didn't seem to mind the water pummeling him, and when he opened the door and climbed behind the wheel, she smiled as he raked his hands through the wet strands of his long hair. “I didn't know you owned a car,” she said. “I don't. It's Brian's.”

“And you just happened to borrow it this evening?” “Something like that,” he said, sticking the key in the ignition. “Lucky for me. I really am happy you came along. Thank you for rescuing me.” “You should be more selective in the company you keep,” he told her, pulling into traffic. “I'm sure Dr. Brell would say the same of you.” “There is no love lost between us.” “Why?” she asked, watching him through the greenish glow of the cockpit lights. He shrugged. She knew she'd get no answer from him so she settled in the seat, drawing his heavy jacket closer around her. “Want me to turn on the heat?” he queried. “No, I'm okay, but you're soaked. You have to be cold.” “Reapers don't get cold.” “Never?” He shook his head. “What is it like where you come from?” she asked, wondering about the climate. Cree frowned. “I don't know.” Bronwyn's brows shot upward. “Why not?” He took Interstate 10 and accelerated onto the super slab before he glanced at her. “I was very young when last I was there.” Remembering the story Brian had told her about Cree's crash-landing on Earth, she was even more curious. “How old were you when you left?” “Chale?” “That's your home?” He nodded, changing lanes. “I was two years old when I was stolen by a Dahrenian slaver and taken to Rysalia.” “Where were you before you came here?”

Cree was silent for a moment. In the reflected light from the cockpit, Bronwyn saw his jaw harden. “On Amazeen Prime,” he stated. “From the way you said that, I take it you didn't like living there.” “I was a prisoner of the Amazeen. No, I didn't like it.” “Had you broken one of their laws or were you a prisoner of war?” “I was sold to them by that infernal Dahrenian. Purchased to be used in their breeding program when I came of age.” A shiver ran through her. “They do things like that?” “They tried,” he said with a snide laugh, “but Reapers don't breed well in captivity. And there is only male issue from their loins. Female fetuses die in the womb.” “Why?” “Because the parasite in each Reaper kills any female fetus. Females are weak, unworthy of the parasite's help.” “I take it the parasite is male.” “On the contrary. It is female.” He glanced at the accelerator. As if realizing he was going well over the speed limit, he let the SUV drop back into a more acceptable range. “Then why would the parasite kill female fetuses?” Bronwyn asked. “I've always thought it was jealousy, but I could be wrong. Thank Alel the Amazeen warriors could not produce half-Reaper/half-Amazeen females. Those bitches should be allowed to die out, but unfortunately they find males to breed with wherever they go.” “The Amazeen are females?” Bronwyn gasped. “They are the scourge of our star system. As evil as the nights on Virago are long.” Cree sped up to pass a semi, the backwash from the truck's rear wheels making it hard to see. He handled the SUV as though it were a natural extension of him, gliding in and out of traffic with an ease Bronwyn found exciting. “I'm curious,” she said. “So I've noticed.” “If you don't want to answer, you don't have to.” “If I think you're getting too personal, I'll tell you so.”

She laughed. “I know you will.” She stretched out her legs, enjoying the ride. “Adventureland,” he said, pointing to the right up ahead. Bronwyn looked toward the glowing neon lights around the amusement park. “I didn't notice it when we passed on the way to the Triskelion.” “I doubt Brell would have thought to show it to you. It's not something a wild and swinging guy would find entertaining.” “Ouch. You reallydon't think much of him, do you?” “I never think of him at all if I can avoid it.” They were silent for a moment, then Bronwyn said, “You're good.” Cree turned to look at her. “Good at what?” “You managed to get us off the subject,” she sighed, amused at the ease with which he'd maneuvered the topic from himself. Swerving expertly into the exit lane, Cree took them off the interstate. “Too much spiced cider at the Tris. Gotta pee.” “Was that what you were drinking? I thought it was ale.” “Reapers shouldn't drink alcohol,” he said, then mumbled under his breath, “Especially this one.” He turned into the truck stop at the exit and slid the SUV into a parking space. Turning off the engine, he glanced at Bronwyn. “Need to go in?” “No, I'm fine.” “Then I'll lock the car behind me,” he said, opening the door. “Why? Is this a dangerous part of town?” “No, but I'll feel better knowing you are safe behind locked doors.” Warmth settled gently in Bronwyn's stomach. She watched him with interested eyes as he went into the truck stop. Her gaze dropped to his rear end and held as he walked. “Man, oh, man,” she said, liking what she saw. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Bronwyn saw several women and a couple of men inside the truck stop turn to watch him pass and wondered if they weren't as intrigued by the man as she was. He was undeniably handsome, virile, and seductive. The powerful build of his body was a bit intimidating though reassuring at the same time. She doubted few men could take him in a fair fight. He had about him an air of tightly controlled anger that she suspected could become lethal should he unleash it. Any man foolish enough to engage the Reaper in combat might find he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

The rain increased in strength. Wind buffeted the car. Lightning lit up the night and drove Bronwyn further down in her seat. As thunder shook the windows, she whimpered and buried her face in the confines of Cree's leather jacket. She barely heard the locks pop up, but flinched as rain misted into the car. “The gods-be-damned bottom's fallen out,” Cree complained as he slammed the door shut. “We're going to have to—” A strident shriek of lightning forked across the heavens. Bronwyn screamed, covering her ears. Cree shot the driver's seat back as far as it would go and reached for her, dragging her gently over the console and into his lap, where he cradled her protectively against his firm chest. “It's all right,ghrá mo chroí ,” he whispered against her hair. “I am here.” She pressed against him, hiding her face in the wet coolness of his shirt. His arms were wrapped around her, one hand covering her exposed ear to block the sound of the torrential rains hammering at the car. With each sharp crack of lightning across the firmament, his hold tightened, and when the harsh glare pulsed more frequently, he began to croon to her in his native tongue. Despite her intense fear of the weather, Bronwyn concentrated on the richness of his voice as he sang. Though she did not understand his language, she knew the melody well. It was “Red is the Rose.” The cadence of his heart beat strongly to the rhythm of the tune. He had a beautiful, clear voice and he sang the old Celtic tune with feeling. They sat that way for twenty minutes as the storm raged overhead. Hidden by the slashing rain striking the fogged windows, Cree and Bronwyn were cocooned within the SUV, oblivious to what was going on outside. His singing had lulled her, soothed her phobic fears. She relaxed against him, her left hand tucked inside the V of his shirt, her fingertips tracing the raised pattern of his tattoo, occasionally plucking at the wiry hair that thickly covered his broad chest. **** By the time the rain stopped, Bronwyn was asleep, her head tucked under his chin, her fingers entangled in the chain of the medallion he wore. Cree was content to sit there, holding her, listening to her soft breathing. He was watching truck stop customers come and go, and when he finally realized he and Bronwyn were receiving odd looks, he mentally shook himself from the languor that had claimed him and gently called her name. Bronwyn stirred, but she was obviously comfortable and snuggled closer to his warmth. “Wake up, little one,” he whispered, stroking her back. She opened her eyes. “Where are we?” she asked, yawning. “Bosselman's Truck Stop.” “Uhm.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “We're creating quite a fascinating spectacle, Milady,” he said with a note of humor in his deep voice. She sighed. “Ask me if I care.”

He chuckled. “I don't need to. I know you don't, but I do.” She looked up at him. “Party pooper.” Cree stared into her beautiful face and lost all sense of correctness. The people walking past the car meant nothing to him. All he saw was the woman he loved gazing up at him with trust and budding affection, and he bent his head to claim her lips. **** His kiss was as soft as a butterflies wings plying over Bronwyn's flesh. The touch made her groan, wanting more, needing a deeper pressure, an invasion that would satisfy the hunger building within her. She craved to feel him stretched out atop her, his body pressing hers firmly to the seat, his shaft deep within the very core of her. **** “Unh, unh.” He lifted his head and gently shoved her back to her side of the car. “Not the time or the place.” “Aidan,” she protested in a childish tone of petulance. He stopped, thrilled she had used the shortened version of his name. A glimmer of pure desire went straight through him and it was all he could do not to jump on her and ravish her where she sat. “You're a beast,” she grumbled as he started the car. “Best you not forget that, Milady,” he replied in a throaty tone. “You know what I meant,” she said, dragging her seatbelt across her. **** As Cree backed out of the parking space, Bronwyn was keenly disappointed that he had broken off their kiss. But she was proud of him, too, for the self-restraint at least one of them had exhibited. The tires made squishing sounds against the rain-slick pavement as they pulled onto the interstate. To the East, flickers of light still pulsed in the sky, but here the rain had stopped. “Are we going to talk about your time on Amazeen?” she asked to break the silence. “If you like. What are you curious about now?” She glanced at him, realizing he had not asked the question in a snide way, but seemed resigned to tell her what she wanted to know. “Did they hurt you?” “There is hurt, then there is hurt, little one.” He took her hand and brought it to his thigh, rested it there, his fingers twined with hers. “I wasn't tortured deliberately, if that's what you mean.”

She moved closer to him. “But they hurt you.” “They tried to crush my Reaper pride.” “But they didn't succeed.” “They did not. What they didn't realize is, when you attempt to humble a Reaper, all you do is make him meaner.” Bronwyn smiled. “I can see that happening.” He glanced at her. “I'm sure you can.” “Did they manage to...” She blushed and looked out the side window. “You know.” “Breed with me?” he asked, humor in his tone. “Yeah.” “One of them did, but I don't think she found the experience a pleasant one,” he said grimly. Bronwyn looked around at him. “Why?” He grinned. In the greenish light from the cockpit, his face looked evil. He chuckled. “Reapers can mind-screw women, mess with their libidos, but Ski'Ah didn't know that. It's a psychic ability we're born with and learn to control at an early age. I knew what she was going to do before she ever laid her filthy hands on me. I used every bit of my ability to suggest to her that she unchain me and let me show her how well Reapers can fornicate.” Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her lips. “Good at it, are you?” “Experts.” She wagged her head at his brag, then shifted in her seat so she faced him. “I take it they had you tied down.” “Spread-eagled, naked and defenseless. Or so they thought.” “She let you loose.” “Quicker than a Diabolusian warthog can shit in the forest.” Bronwyn laughed. “Did you hurt her?” “I damned near killed her, and would have, if she hadn't had her women pump me full of cinera.” “Brian mentioned that drug. What is it again?” “It's a neuroinhibitor that instantly blocks oxygen input to the brain. It makes you pass out. It's the only way you can put a Reaper down instantly.”

“I imagine they weren't too happy with you.” “If Reapers scarred, I'd still have the laser whip marks to prove it across my back.” Bronwyn tightened her fingers around his. “I'm sorry.” “No big deal. I worked that punishment to my advantage.” “How?” He pulled around a long motor home before answering. “They beat me so severely, I couldn't walk for a few hours. One of the Amazeen felt sorry for me.” He snorted. “I made sure she did.” “You mind-screwed her,” Bronwyn said. “In a big way.” “She's the one who helped you escape.” “Provided me with the ship, the manual, all the síoraí crystals I needed to take me to the far ends of the universe, and a goodly supply of Sustenance to keep me sane until I got there.” She was sure she knew what had happened, but asked anyway: “She thought you were going to take her with you.” “Amazeens are not the brightest stars in the megaverse.” “What do you think happened to her?” “Best case scenario? They banished her and sent her to one of their nunneries on Idyllion.” “And worst case scenario?” “They made an example of her and burned her alive.” Bronwyn shuddered, drawing his jacket around her once more. “Which do you think happened?” He was quiet for a moment. “I think they turned her into a crispy critter.” “Do you regret she might have been killed because she helped you?” “No.” Bronwyn eased her hand from beneath his. “Why not?” He pulled the SUV onto the breakdown lane. The vehicle skidded on the gravel as he slammed on the brakes. He pushed the gear into park. “They kept me locked in a cell with nothing in there but a gods-be-damned cot to which I was chained hand and foot. Any of them could come in any time they liked to ‘assess’ my potential. Some of them

were merely curious and did no more than stroke my chest and legs. Some were more aggressive and directed their attention to that part of me they found the most interesting. Even though they didn't hurt me, being fondled against your will is not enjoyable, Bronwyn. It was humiliating, degrading, and I loathed every moment they had their hands on me. “I managed to stay perfectly quiet around women like that, for they really had no meanness in them. But a few—and that included the bitch who helped me escape—treated me like a prize stallion they could pull and twist and hurt until I cried out, until I showed something other than stoic acceptance of what they were doing to me. Those women I will hate until the day I cease to draw breath, and if there is a Hereafter, I will curse them until time is no more!” Bronwyn lowered her head. “I'm sorry.” “For what?” “For what they did to you.” “I've been hurt far worse than that, baby,” he snapped, reaching for the gear shift lever. She said nothing as he slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped down the interstate. They were silent all the way back to Baybridge. CHAPTER 38

When Cree pulled into the parking garage and stopped the SUV at the elevator, he didn't get out to open the door for Bronwyn, but sat staring out the windshield, his jaw tight, his hands wrapped around the wheel. “Thank you for bringing me home,” she mumbled, shrugging out of his jacket. “My pleasure,” he grated, gunning the engine. If he had pushed her out the door, she thought, he couldn't have made his feelings any clearer by racing the motor. She was surprised he hadn't looked at his watch in a bid to make her hurry. “I don't wear a gods-be-damned watch,” he snarled as he leaned over, took the handle of the door, and slammed it shut behind her. Bronwyn's mouth dropped open as he peeled away, the squeal of the tires loud in the parking garage. “Son-of-a-bitch!” she hurled at the departing taillights. She stood there a moment, growing angrier by the second. Hissing, she stomped to the elevator, jabbed the button, and mumbled curses. By the time she reached her apartment, she had worked herself into a fine head of steam. Cedric jumped straight up off the sofa, the fur on his back going stiff as Bronwyn slammed into the room. He hissed, his whiskers twitching, before he shifted into human form. “What in Raphian's name happened?”

“Men!” Bronwyn ran through the living room and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. **** Brownie padded to the door and scratched at the panel, whimpering. The little dog looked back at Cedric. “I don't know,” Cedric answered the silent canine plea for understanding. He walked to Bronwyn's door and knocked lightly. “Go away!” Bronwyn said, her voice rife with tears. “Can I help?” Cedric asked, stroking the door. Rarely was the portal closed between them, for he slept each night in the rocker beside her bed and, when he couldn't, he was uncomfortable. “Leave me alone, Cedric!” The Nightwind leaned his forehead against the door. Her crying unsettled him. He slid down beside the portal and resumed his feline shape. Brownie whimpered again and curled up beside him. It was a little past midnight when Cedric sensed the other presence in the room. He opened his eyes and looked up. Brownie woke, too. The little dog growled low in her throat, then slunk away on her belly. Cedric shifted, coming with effort into his human form as his old bones cracked and popped. He took in the look on the face of the being standing before him and shook his head. “What you are going to do is wrong.” “She is mine. As those before her were mine.” The Nightwind shook his head. “This iswrong .” Danyon glared. “Why don't you go back to your lair for a while, Cedric.” Fear filled Cedric. “Danyon, no! I don't want to—” “I think you should take a leave of absence for a few days.” “I won't interfere!” Cedric said, tears forming in his eyes. “I swear, I will not interfere. Just don't send me back. Please don't send me back!” Danyon smiled, but there was no warmth in that cold expression. “Go back to your lair,” he ordered, his voice hard and rife with demand. “Now!” Before Cedric could reach out to his master, he disappeared in a flash of multi-colored light. His howl of misery was cut off in mid vibrato, but it was enough to set Brownie to whimpering. **** Bronwyn, awakened by the sounds coming from her living room, sat up in bed. The light from the room beyond cast her visitor in silhouette and her heart began to pound.

“Who's there?” she asked, knowing Cedric would never dare enter her room without permission. “Rest easy, Milady,” was the soft, throaty command. Bronwyn drew in a quick breath. “Danyon?” she asked incredulously. She threw back the covers. “What the hell are you—” He moved so quickly she had no time to get out of bed. The protest that began on her lips died as he reached for her, a strange tingling crawling up her arm to numb her brain. “Lie down,” he ordered. Unable to resist, Bronwyn did as she was told. “Listen to what I say to you and understand every word. I have waited long enough for you to come to me. The time for waiting is long past.” It was though a blanket of thick fog had formed around her. She could hear nothing but his mesmerizing voice, feel nothing but his hand on her arm as he stroked her, see nothing but the glow of his crimson eyes peering into hers. “You thwarted me this evening, Bronwyn. Had the Reaper not appeared I would have seduced you in the form of Koenen Brell and made you mine once and for all. I went to much trouble to take Brell's worthless life and assume his unpleasant shape. I saved you from his vile plan to destroy you, but what thanks did I get? The least you could have done was spend one night with me!” Bronwyn was in thrall, and when Danyon's hands moved to the front of her gown, she could not protest the liberties he took. She barely felt the cool air wash over her as he removed her gown, and she didn't flinch when he stood and removed his clothing. Though the weight of his body covered hers, and his hands grew insistent upon her flesh, she made no sound. The heat of him pressed into her, sinking her into the soft comfort of the mattress, yet she experienced no fear. She was a mannequin for him to move and mold as he saw fit. Totally detached from what was happening, she lay at the mercy of the Nightwind. “Put your arms around me,” he ordered, his knee between her thighs. She did as she was told, bringing him tightly to her breast. “You will feel great ecstasy in my arms, Beloved. The passion within you will rage.” The first faint stirrings of desire rippled through Bronwyn's body. She squirmed beneath him, arching her hips to implement his invasion. “You are mine,” he whispered against his ear. He placed himself at the entrance of her womanhood. “You will revel in my lovemaking and feel the power of it.” She began to pant with need, bringing up her legs to clasp his waist. With a low chuckle of victory, Danyon entered her, going deep within her sheath, impaling her on the thrust of his desire. He rode her hard, bringing her to mindless release, her scream of fulfillment bringing a howl of

satisfaction from his throat. She clung to him, her nails digging deep furrows into his back, but he seemed only to revel in the pain. **** Long after he had left her—his instructions as clear in her mind as the soft daylight filtering in through the blinds—Bronwyn felt the thrill of his touch, the satiation of a need she had long waited to have. “You will not deny me when I come to you as Koenen Brell,” he had whispered to her, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her naked belly. “We will see one another when I—” He stopped, and cocked his head, as if hearing a call Bronwyn could not hear. His lips drew back over teeth that elongated into savage fangs, and he hissed and cursed in obviously frustration. “No, Aine! Not now!” But whatever pulled at him must have been too strong, for he made to leave. “Remember nothing of this night,” he told Bronwyn. “Remember only that when Koenen Brell comes to you, you will do whatever he bids. Understand?” “Yes.” Danyon had kissed her long and hard, his tongue raping her mouth with deep possession. With his brand of ownership still seeping from beneath her quivering legs, he left her, wantonly spread upon the bed where he had defiled her. When she came to herself midway through the morning, she heard the ringing of the phone beside her bed. In the cocooned stupor from which she had to drag herself, she could not find the energy to reach for the phone. She listened as the machine answered in the living room but was not overly curious to know who was calling. With what little vitality she had left, she pulled the cover over her nakedness and went back to sleep, wondering vaguely why Cedric was not in the rocking chair. **** Viraidan Cree had slept harder than he could ever remember, but his restless tossing had completely denuded his bed of covering. The sheets lay crumpled on the floor; the coverlet hung precariously over the footboard. The black silk sleep pants he wore were plastered to his legs. His bare chest glistened with sweat. He felt groggy and his head hurt something fierce. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his belly rumbled with a slight cramp. “What the gods-be-damned hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, pushing up and attacking his pillow as though it were an enemy. He plowed his hands through his hair, tugging at the thick mass. Sitting up had made his head swim and he reached behind to grab the headboard. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the vertigo to pass. When he opened his eyes, he saw the glass sitting on his bed stand. 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!” “Ah, hell, I forgot about Ralph.” “I'll feed him and walk him, don't worry. That's the least of our problems!” “Here's the key to Cree's apartment,” Brian said. As they hurried down the corridor toward his condo, Brian watched Bronwyn out of the corner of his eye. Her willingness—some might even say eagerness—to help, to be a part of Viraidan's life, was all the proof Brian needed to understand there would be no keeping them apart. He sighed, his mind going to Dorrie. Perhaps the gods had made the decision for them all.

CHAPTER 39

“Sometimes the Transition lasts an hour or so, sometimes several days,” Brian explained. “It depends on whether the Reaper gets fresh warm blood or Sustenance from the refrigeration unit.” “Understood,” Bronwyn said. “Since he can't go out to hunt for fresh blood, the Transition will take longer.” They had stopped at Brian's apartment long enough to take a plastibag of blood from the refrigerator and to call Dr. Wynth to request the use of the jet. Wynth had said the jet would be ready in twenty minutes. “I can't believe they're letting me use the Raven Jet,” Brian muttered. “How will I know when the Transition is over?” Bronwyn asked as they left the apartment. “I'm guessing three, maybe four days. To be on the safe side, let's say five. It's certainly not going to hurt him to stay in there longer than usual.” “I don't want to keep him in any longer than necessary. I'm guessing Viraidan is claustrophobic.” “Aye, that he is. In spades!” They rode the elevator to the lowest level. Bronwyn leaned against the stainless steel wall of the cage. “How do I feed him?” “There is a security hatch through which you can pass the bags of Sustenance. You push a red button beside the cell door and a long titanium tray will slide toward you. Place the bag on the tray, then press the green button to send it into the cell. You will need to feed him every four hours. That will keep the bloodlust at its lowest level. If you don't get to him within that time, if you take longer than five or six hours to feed him again, he's going to be mad with hunger, and that's not a pretty sight.” “Where do you get the Sustenance?” she asked as the elevator doors opened. “It's outdated blood,” Brian answered, stepping aside for her to exit the cage. “I stockpile it for us.” “And no one questions that?” “We keep blood on hand in case of medical emergencies here and I also get it from the local blood bank. They think I'm conducting experiments. No one has questioned me so far.” “And the Tenerse?” “I distill that myself from the protocols given to us by the Queen.” The corridor was dimly lit and there was a strange smell in the air. “Reaper scent,” Brian told her. “Our urine during Transition is potent.”

Bronwyn covered her nose with her hand. “Yes, it is.” They came to a row of three gray doors, each ten feet apart. The doors had a solid surface except for a small peephole like that on Bronwyn's own front door. “The peephole was specially built to encompass the entire cell,” Brian said. “I don't know how they designed it, but there's no distortion like you get with a fish-lens apparatus.” They reached the farthest door. “He's in there.” No sooner had the words left Brian's mouth than the door began to vibrate. The violent thuds against it shook the walls. “No need to be worried,” Brian said, sensing Bronwyn's disquiet. “He can't get out.” Bronwyn watched Brian activate the tray and place the bag of Sustenance on it. He sent the bag into the cell. Almost immediately there was a howl of rage and the pounding on the door began again. “I forgot you held the bag for me while I got the Tenerse out of the fridge,” Brian groaned. “He smells your scent and is so gods-be-damned mad he's ignoring the Sustenance.” “You think he knows I'm out here?” “Aye, but it doesn't matter. The next time he gets the Sustenance he'll catch the scent again and know for sure.” He looked at his watch. “You've got the key to my apartment?” Bronwyn patted her pocket. “Yes, sir.” “And you know where everything is?” “Go, Brian. I've got everything covered.” “He's naked in there. As soon as the full Transition occurs, his clothes get shredded like so much confetti. There is a closet at the end of the hall. We keep jumpsuits in there. Just fold one up and put it on the tray.” “I'm sure he'll remind me if I don't.” Brian hesitated, his loyalty to Cree vying with his need to go to Dorrie, the woman he loved. “I'll take care of him,” Bronwyn said, touching Brian's cheek. “You know I will.” “I know, lass.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Tell Dorrie hello for me,” she said, her voice breaking. Brian started to say something, but turned and rushed down the corridor. Bronwyn was tempted to go to the peephole and look in on Cree, but as soon as the thought entered

her mind, the pounding grew harder. “It's all right, Aidan,” she said softly. “I'm not going to look.” The pounding stopped abruptly. She laid her hand on the door's slick surface. “I'll be back later.” Bronwyn walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks—tears for Dorrie, for Brian, for the man whose tortured soul was revealed once more in the inhuman howl of misery that penetrated the thick concrete walls. Twice more she came down to the containment cells that afternoon, but all was quiet behind the titanium doors. She sent the plastibag through, then stood at the door. “Are you all right?” she asked. There was no sound from behind the door. She laid her head against the door. “You're angry. You don't understand why Brian sent me down here. It wasn't to hurt you.” The silence beyond the door continued. She moved away. “I was supposed to have an appointment with Rose Ann Danvers this afternoon, but—” The walls thundered with powerful hits against them. Bronwyn smiled. She knew that would get a reaction. “I said I wassupposed to have an appointment with her, Aidan. But since you won't be able to go with me, I've postponed it until next week.” There was a few seconds of silence, then a single slap against the door. Bronwyn laughed. “Temper, temper.” She walked back to the door and touched it. “I hope you're happy that I'm going to be up all night trotting down here every four hours to feed you. Now I know how new mother's feel.” Silence. Bronwyn drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. She touched the door once more and left. **** For the next three days, every four hours like clockwork, Bronwyn made her trek to the containment cell. No matter what she had been doing, she dropped it to take care of Cree. But no matter what she said or how she provoked him, he remained silent, uncommunicative. There were no more hits on the door, no more howls. She was tempted several times to look in on him to make sure he was all right, but knew he wouldn't appreciate it. She would wait the five days, then risk a glance through the peephole.

On the morning of the fourth day, she was getting dressed when the phone rang. She glanced at the wall clock in the bathroom—it was a quarter to five—and wondered who could be calling that early. Normally she didn't get up until seven, but since she'd been feeding the Reaper, her schedule had been vastly altered. Her 1-5-9 treks to the containment cell would not be missed, she thought as she picked up the phone. “Dr. McGregor,” she answered. There was no reply. “Hello. This is Dr. McGregor.” Then a lost, forlorn voice said, “She's gone.” Bronwyn pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Brian?” “My Dorrie's gone, Bronnie,” he said in a cracked voice. “Oh, Brian.” Tears filled Bronwyn's eyes. “Sweetie, I'm so sorry.” “They want me to...they said I had to...” He broke down, sobbing loudly. “Where are you, Brian?” “Hospital...” “Is there someone there with you?” “Aye.” “Can you put them on the phone?” There was a rustling sound, a few low words, then a woman's voice came on the line. “Four East, Mrs. Wilton.” “Mrs. Wilton, I'm Dr. McGregor. I'm a friend of Dr. O'Shea's. Were you Mrs. Cullen's nurse?” The woman acknowledged she had been, then reported the particulars of Dorrie's death. Ignoring her own tears, Bronwyn could hear Brian's quiet sobbing in the background. “He's not dealing with this well,” Mrs. Wilton said with no little annoyance. “I take it you need someone to handle the funeral arrangements.” “Well, someone needs to.” Bronwyn ground her teeth and grabbed a pen to write down the number of the local funeral home the nurse provided. When she had the information, she told the nurse to put Brian on the line. “I have to know where you want her buried,” Bronwyn said softly.

“Bronnie, I can't...” “It's being taken care of. Don't worry. I just need to know where you want her laid to rest.” “Can you...will you...” “I'd think Georgia, but it's up to you.” After a long silence, Brian agreed Georgia would have been Dorrie's choice. “She loved Albany. Despite everything, she loved that town.” “I'll call Crown Hill, then. My parents had a plot there, but mom says she wants to be buried out here. I'm sure there won't be a problem if I tell them I want Dorrie buried there.” “Oh, God!” Brian keened. “I need you, Bronnie!” “I'll be there,” she said without hesitation. “Let me get hold of the funeral director first. Okay?” Brian told her where to come and how long it should take the corporate jet to get her there. She knew Dr. Wynth would never balk at flying her to Georgia. “I'll see you in a few hours. Try to get some rest,” Bronwyn advised. “I'm going to stay with her. I have to, Bronnie.” “I know. I understand. I'll be there as quick as I can.” “I love you, Bronnie,” Brian sobbed. “I love you, too,” she replied and realized it was true. She cared deeply for the older man just as she had cared deeply for Sean's mother. When she hung up, she called to inform Dr. Wynth of the death and to have the jet stand by. It took more than an hour for calls to the Albany funeral home to have the body transported there, to discuss details with the funeral director, and to order a simple mahogany casket. Another hour to make arrangements for the plot, to call the florist to order a spray of flowers, to speak with the priest at St. Teresa's, and to reserve the church. Thirty minutes more to pack a bag and to find someone to cover for her with her patients. Ten minutes to take Brownie to Carol Mason's apartment. Carol was already looking after DeeDee's little dog. When she was ready to leave, Bronwyn looked about her living room, wondering what she had forgotten. She tried once more to contact Cedric and Danyon but neither answered her call. She was almost out of her apartment when she remembered Ralph. Another fifteen minutes were taken up as she called around and finally found someone to take the big dog. Another ten minutes to fetch Ralph and take him—protesting the entire way—to Vince Cartelli's apartment. “Behave, Ralph,” she warned the dog that growled menacingly at the gardener.

It wasn't until the jet was in sight on the runway that she remembered. “Oh, dear God, Cree!” She dropped her bag, yelled at one of the ground crew members to put it on the plane, and starting running as fast as she could. He was pounding on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs when she finally made her way to the containment cell. Having had to stop for the Sustenance added another ten minutes to the timeframe. “Get me out of here, Bronwyn!” She skidded to a stop at the door. She doubted Cree would be shouting at her in his thick brogue if he were still in Transition. Not giving herself time to consider if what she was about to do was wise, she hit the lock release and the pneumatic hinge hissed open. He was standing in the doorway, his face livid with rage and something else she didn't recognize until he snatched the plastibag from her hand and tore it open with his teeth. Normally, she might well have been sickened by the sight of Cree slurping the thick red liquid, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed, a slender thread of the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and onto his chest. She might even have been frightened of the intense power that came off him in waves had she not been so captured by the sight of his nakedness. Of their own accord, her eyes traveled the length of him, from his thrown-back head as he guzzled, past his brawny, heaving chest with the thick pelt of wiry hair, to the lean waist with its washboard abs, flat belly, past that part of him that made her blush hotter than the fires under a crucible, along the sturdy legs that ended in perfectly-shaped feet, then up again, lingering once more on that powerful shaft that had her swallowing. “Stop that!” he thundered, slapping his hand across his chest to cover the golden medallion nestled among the curling thatch. His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “Get me some gods-be-damned clothes, woman!” His tone thrust Bronwyn into immediate action. She sprinted down the hall, snatched open the closet, and grabbed a black jumpsuit. Before she could turn to rush back to him, he was behind her, jerking the jumpsuit out of her hands. Avidly her gaze locked on the firm buttocks shifting in movement as he walked away from her. His long legs had just the right amount of hair on them, she thought, as he stopped with his back to her and thrust one limb into the pant leg. His naked feet were beautiful and she longed to stroke their sturdy length. As that part of him that had so greatly distracted her dangled in view as he lifted his other leg to jam it into the jumpsuit leg, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep her whimper of desire from escaping. “Brazen hussy,” he accused as he turned, zipping the jumpsuit up to his neck. “What the hell's the matter with you? Where were you? Did you forget I was locked up or was that your little way of punishing me?” “W...what? Punish you?” “Where's the Tenerse?”

Bronwyn looked at him as though he were talking in a foreign language. She wasn't prepared when he grabbed her arm none too gently. “Where is my gods-be-damned Tenerse?” Bronwyn shook herself, trying to block the image of him naked from her mind. “Tenerse—” “I need it, woman!” he thundered. “I'm nearly out of my mind!” “I didn't bring it.” Her eyes widened when the look on his face became lethal. He turned, dragging her to the elevator. “Where is Brian?” For a moment she couldn't remember. “I...I...” “Just shut up! I'll deal with that bastard later!” The ride up in the elevator was the longest fifteen seconds of Bronwyn's life. Her arm ached where Cree's hand gripped the flesh. She knew there would be one hell of a bruise before the day was out. She could hear him gnashing his teeth, and the heavy breathing and rigid posture that had claimed his body was enough to make the faint of heart lose hope they'd survive the ride with him. He jerked her out of the elevator on Brian's floor even before the doors were all the way open. As he pulled her down the hall, they passed people who leapt out of their way. No doubt those who saw them would have rumors floating about the head of security and his captive, Dr. McGregor. Not bothering to knock on Brian's door, Cree lifted his bare foot and slammed it against the panel, splintering the frame. He pulled her into the apartment, through the living room, and into the kitchen, then sent her careening across the room. “Get me the med, woman!” Bronwyn crashed into the counter, crying out as her hip hit the edge. She turned to give him a furious look, but his face bore the unmistakable stamp of a man who was fast reaching the limit of his endurance. She couldn't get the fridge door open fast enough. Her hand shaking, she took one of the prepared syringes of Tenerse from the Plexiglas box in which it was stored. Turning around, she was almost afraid to get near him. He was breathing so hard he was heaving, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands were fisted at his side and his jaw was clenched so tightly, a muscle bunched in his cheek. She looked around, groaning when she didn't see what she needed. “What are you looking for?” “Alcohol swab—” “Give me the shot. Now!” He was taller than her and she knew the injection had to go in his jugular vein. She was about to tell him to sit at the table when he dropped to his knees and yanked the collar of the jumpsuit out of her way. “Do it before I go insane!”

She put the index finger of her left hand on his neck, found the spot Brian told her should be used, and plunged the needle into his flesh. She felt him flinch, heard his in-drawn breath as the liquid spread through his vein, and saw him squeeze his eyes closed to the agony traveling through him. Bronwyn put the disposable syringe on the counter. Cree was still on his knees, his head bowed, his breathing somewhat slower, but his eyes still held firmly closed. His hands were bunched on his knees, pressing into the flesh. She didn't think; she simply reacted. She put her left hand on the back of his head and pulled his forehead against her belly. Her right hand she used to gently rub the spot where she had given him the injection. When his arms went around her hips, she held him closer. “Where is Brian?” he asked in a gruff voice. Brian's face passed through her mind, then Dorrie's. As Sean's mother's visage drifted out of sight, Cree looked up at her. “She's dead?” he whispered. “She died this morning.” A strange expression passed over Cree's handsome face. “How?” “A stroke. Brian was with her when she passed away. He'd been there since the day he took you to the containment cell.” Cree lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her. His arms tightened. “I told Brian I would go there,” she said, stroking Cree's thick black hair. “The jet is waiting for me.” “I have to go,” he said, releasing her. He got to his feet and looked at her. Brian and Cree were close, and she understood that. “I'll let them know you'll be coming, too. Do you need to pack something?” He shook his head. “You can't go like that.” He glanced down at what he was wearing. “I guess I can't.” “Go change. We can get you a suit down there.” He nodded and turned away. “Aidan?” she called. He looked back. “You might want to take a shower first,” she suggested with a gentle smile.

He winced, as if just now realizing how he must smell. “I'll be as quick as I can,” he said before walking from the room. Almost immediately he was back. “What?” she asked. “Bring what we need, Bronwyn. Brian will have taken his supply, but we might need a few days more of each.” How strange, she thought, as she rummaged in Brian's closet, to be looking for a suitable carryall for bags of blood and an alien substance that could turn a ravaging beast back into a human male. CHAPTER 40

One of Bronwyn's greatest pleasures was the feel of a jet taking off beneath her. The strain of the g-force, then the weightlessness, made her sigh. She always wished the feeling would last longer. “You'd like space travel,” Cree mumbled. She turned her head to glance at him across the aisle. He wasn't looking at her. “What's takeoff like in a space craft?” “More prolonged and more intense,” he replied, then shut his eyes. “Gotta try that one day,” she said wistfully. Cree grunted, then turned his head to stare out the starboard window. “This must be tame for you,” she said. When he didn't reply, she tried again. “What was it like when you landed on Earth?” When he still didn't answer, she gave up and turned toward her window to look at the patchwork of fields, stitched together by silver-colored roads, moving slowly beneath the wings of the jet. The man is an enigma, she thought. She doubted anyone had ever understood him or ever would. He had a way of closing himself off to gentle probing and locking out others to insistent inquiry. His silence challenged her. His brooding posture intrigued her. She wanted to know more about him, to get to know the man beneath the stern exterior. There had been glimpses of a more human side to him and it was that persona to which she had tried reaching out, only to be rebuffed when she got too close. What are you hiding, Viraidan Cree? she wondered. What terrible secret are you trying to keep the world from knowing? “The idjuts couldn't communicate.” Bronwyn jumped at the sudden interruption. “I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged. “When I crashed in Ireland, I taught the natives a thing or two of my culture,” he said, his eyes glowing with mischief. “They didn't have a spoken or written language as yet. All they knew how to do was grunt. Because they were so gods-be-damned backward, I taught them the Low Chalean dialect and gave them a rudimentary alphabet.” He grinned. “And I taught them how to fight.” “Not one of your more intelligent moments there, Aidan,” she said dryly. He chuckled. “How was I to know they'd embrace the concept so readily?” “It's thought the Gaels taught the Irish to speak somewhere around 300 B.C.” “It's thought wrong. And it wasn't ogham script they learned to write, either. It was Chalean High Runic form and it was around a lot longer than they originally thought. Only the Holy Men, the ones you call Druids, could write it, though.” “Is Chalean your native tongue, then?” “No. Rysalian would have been, had I stayed on the planet long enough to learn it. There are similarities between Rysalian High Speech and Chalean just as there are similarities between French and Spanish.” “You were, what? Two years old when you were sold to the Amazeen?” “Aye.” “Then Chalean is their dialect.” “By Alel's beard, no!” he said, his face turning hard. “Those bitches speak a language all their own. It's a compilation of the languages of many worlds, mostly Diabolusian.” “Who taught you Chalean?” Cree raised his leg and crossed his right ankle over his knee. “A slave assigned to take care of me.” “Like a nanny?” Humor tugged at Cree's full lips. “I doubt Daithi Tarnes would have liked being called a nanny. The man was six feet tall and, despite the cutting, was rock-hard and twice as strong.” “The cutting?” Cree held up his hand and used his index and middle finger like a pair of scissors. “They took away his goodie.” Bronwyn blushed. “Oh...” “All the men of the harems were neutered,” Cree said in a matter-of-fact tone. “All those except the ones the Amazeen intended to breed by.” “This Daithi had been captured by them?” “He had been in the Chalean Guard and was taken prisoner during a skirmish near the capital of

Meiraman when the Amazeen went after one of the royal sons.” “How was it you learned to be a Reaper, then, if you were cared for by an outsider? Someone not of your kind?” “I learned what I needed from the computer on the ship I commandeered,” he said, pride in his voice. “There was an extensive amount of data on Reapers. Some of what I read surprised me, but most I'd already begun to feel by the time I came into puberty. The urges I experienced made sense after I finished assimilating the information. I knew I had been created to kill, and then I knew how I should go about it.” Bronwyn smoothed her skirt, wanting to change the subject. “What was it like to wake up in Fuilgaoth after spending all that time in the bog?” The knuckles of Cree's right hand traced an arc across the jet's window glass. “I wasn't happy to find myself imprisoned at Fuilgaoth, if that's what you mean.” “It must have been like going from one prison to another.” Cree looked away. “Aye.” “Were you and Sean...?” He turned, his eyes narrowed. “I don't want to talk about Cullen. Is that clear?” She raised her chin. “Why not?” “Leave it alone, woman!” He looked away, dismissing her. The rest of the flight was spent in silence. Somewhere over Kentucky, Bronwyn accepted a soda pop from the stewardess and a bag of salted nuts, but Cree refused to even acknowledge the stewardess’ presence. He stared out the window, his hands doubled into fists on the luxury chair arms. At one point, he got up, retrieved the satchel into which Bronwyn had placed the extra plastibags of Sustenance, and took it to the restroom. When he came back, he sat down, avoiding Bronwyn's look, and resumed his contemplation of the clouds. When the plane landed in Milledgeville, a light rain was falling. The tarmac was slick with silvery shadows as the plane settled on the runway. The sudden drag upon landing was not as exhilarating to Bronwyn as a takeoff, but it was nevertheless a slight thrill that always made her smile. A representative from the local funeral home was waiting with a limousine to take Bronwyn and her companion to Mason and Sons’ Funeral Home. He got out of the limo, opened an umbrella, and stood waiting for the plane to taxi to a stop. “He looks like a bloody vulture,” Cree snarled when they approached the waiting man. Bronwyn had to agree. The man was tall and thin, and dressed in black as he was, he did resemble a wiry bird of prey. His neck was crooked forward, adding to the vulture image, along with dark, beady eyes that seemed devoid of animation. “Dr. McGregor?” he inquired, coming forward to hold the umbrella over Bronwyn. “I am Richard

Ludlum from Mason and Sons'. I am sorry for your loss.” “Is Dr. O'Shea at the funeral parlor?” she asked. The lanky man winced. “We prefer to call it ‘the home,’ Dr. McGregor. It implies an abode from which we will take our final excursion.” “Bloody idjut.” Cree mumbled as he jerked upon the back door of the limousine. He glared at Bronwyn. “Will you get in or do you plan on catching your death of cold?” Mr. Ludlum tsked, obviously dismayed by Cree's behavior, but too polite to say anything. The gaunt man looked at Bronwyn with sympathy. “He's been cooped up too long,” she explained and heard Cree snort as she ducked into the back of the limo. “He's a bit out of sorts.” “He's a bit out of sorts,” Cree mimicked as Ludlum shut the door. “Better than me telling him you're a blooming ass,” she quipped and was surprised to see shock pass momentarily over Cree's face before he squinted and turned away. Ludlum kept up a continuous chatter about the places they passed on the way into town. Waving his thin hands like semaphores, he pointed out local attractions as though he had personally been responsible for their conception and building. At one point Cree leaned over and whispered in Bronwyn's ear. “If you don't shut that fool up, I am going to leap over the seat and pull out his throat!” Bronwyn turned to him, her gaze going automatically to the full lips that had sent a shiver straight through her ear to her belly. When she raised her eyes to his, she saw the lethality of his warning. “I mean it, Bronwyn. Either shut him up or I will.” “Mr. Ludlum?” Bronwyn asked, tearing her attention from Cree's steady look. She sat forward, her hand on the seat between herself and Cree. “Yes, Ma'am?” “Mr. Cree and I would like a few minutes of silence to pray. Would you be so kind as to accommodate us until we get to the home?” Ludlum looked at her in the rear view mirror, then shifted his beady eyes to Cree, who was glaring back at him with murderous intent. “Of course, Dr. McGregor,” Ludlum sniffed. He tightened his birdlike hands around the steering wheel. “I would be most happy to oblige.” “Thank you, Mr. Ludlum,” Bronwyn said, breathing a sigh of relief as she sat back. She was unprepared as Cree reached over and covered her hand with his. “Good girl,” he said, giving her fingers a light squeeze before removing his hand.

“Don't mention it,” she mumbled, feeling like a pet that had had its head patted. Brian was on the wide veranda of the funeral home when they arrived. He was smoking, something Bronwyn wasn't aware he did. When the limo pulled to a stop in the circular driveway, Brian flicked his cigarette into the nearby azalea bushes and came down the steps to meet them. He opened the limo door and reached for Bronwyn's hand, then helped her from the car, barely glancing at Cree, who climbed out of the other door. Brian gathered Bronwyn into his arms. “I've needed you, Dearling,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I'm here, now,” she told him, putting her arms around him. “Let her get in out of the rain, Brian,” Cree grumbled, taking Bronwyn's arm to escort her up the steps. Bronwyn caught the look that passed between the two men and was surprised when Brian released her and gave in to Cree's possession of her. “They told me you have taken care of everything, Bronnie,” Brian said, following in their wake. “I really appreciate it.” “It's okay.” “I wasn't up to it,” Brian said and his gaze strayed to Cree. “Where is she?” Cree asked. Brian nodded down the hall. Tears filled his eyes. “They are....they have to...” He broke down, his shoulders sagging against the weight of his grief. Bronwyn put her hand on his back and rubbed gently. She looked at Cree. “Will you take care of him while I go talk to the funeral director?” Cree nodded. He cut his eyes down the corridor, then looked away. When she returned, Bronwyn told them everything was in order. Mr. Ludlum would be driving the body to Albany and they would be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. “I called our pilot and told him we would be accompanying Mrs. Cullen home,” Bronwyn said. “He'll fly the plane to the terminal in Albany and get a room for himself and the crew until we're ready to go back to Kellogg.” “I'll ride with Dorrie,” Brian said, but Cree angrily vetoed that suggestion. “You will ride with Bronwyn,” he said. “I will ride with my...” He shook his head brutally. “With Mrs. Cullen.” Brian opened his mouth to protest, but the look on the Reaper's face warned there would be no further discussion. Reluctantly, Brian bobbed his head and went to sit in one of the dainty chairs lining the hallway. He clasped his hands and looked at the ornate rug.

“You handled that well,” Bronwyn whispered after casting Brian a quick look. “He didn't need to be in the hearse with her, but—” “But what?” Cree demanded, standing arms akimbo, his gaze narrowed. “Don't devour poor Mr. Ludlum in the bargain, okay?” Cree blinked, then the right side of his mouth twitched in what might have been a carefully controlled smirk. “I will attempt not to do so, but...” “But what?” “Warn the vulture I will not tolerate his useless prattle. One extraneous word out of his beak and I will squash him like an overripe melon.” “So noted.” “I mean it, Bronwyn.” “I know you do,” Bronwyn replied and went in search of Ludlum. **** Brian raised his head as Cree hunkered down before him. “Are you all right?” he asked the Reaper. Cree nodded. “Are you?” Brian shrugged. “I don't think so. I don't think I ever will be again.” Cree put a hand on Brian's knee. “We're here for you.” A gentle smile stretched slowly across Brian's face. “We, is it, now?” The Reaper drew in a long breath and looked down the corridor where Bronwyn had walked. He exhaled slowly before locking gazes with Brian. “I love her,” he said. “I've always loved her and maybe one day I'll be able to tell her who I am.” Brian shook his head. “That would be the worst thing you could ever do, son.” When Cree started to protest, Brian put a hand on his cheek. “If you love her, then show her. Start fresh with her. Here and now. Make a life together if you want, but let the past bury the past. Don't resurrect Sean Cullen, Viraidan. Don't make the mistake of bringing him back. Let him go as she is letting him go.” “Is that what she's doing?” Cree asked, uncertainty clouding his amber gaze. “You don't think it is? She's interested in you. Even a blind man can see that.” Cree got up and walked a few feet away. “Does Viraidan Cree have a chance with her, though?” “More than most other men. She can't keep her eyes off you, and the way she tells it, she likes rye as

opposed to white.” “She does what?” “You talk too much, Brian O'Shea,” Bronwyn snapped as she joined them. “What did he mean?” Cree queried. “Never mind.” Bronwyn cast Brian a warning look before changing the subject. “Have you had anything to eat today, Brian?” “Aye,” he replied. “Liar. Mr. Mason said you refused breakfast and lunch. I called the hospital and they said you didn't eat last night either.” “He had Sustenance,” Cree told her. “How do you know?” she demanded. “He'd be a raving lunatic if he hadn't.” “Better than being a flaming idjut,” Brian sighed. “Who administered your tenerse while you were down here?” Bronwyn asked. “One of the nurses,” Brian replied. “I told her it was insulin.” He shrugged. “She didn't question it.” Viraiden snorted. “What he isn't telling you is he mind-screw—” “Ihypnotized her,” Brian interrupted, shooting Cree a stony glance. Bronwyn grinned. “Oh, you mind-screwed her.” She chuckled at Brian's immediate blush. “Makes sense.” “Happy you approve,” he mumbled. “The hearse will be ready in about twenty minutes,” Bronwyn informed them, looking at her watch. “Would you like to get something to eat before we leave?” Brian shook his head. “I couldn't eat anything if my life depended on it.” “Are you hungry?” Cree asked Bronwyn. “Yes,” she replied, “but I can wait if you two don't—” “Take her to get something to eat, Viraidan,” Brian ordered. “I'll be right here when you get back.” “There's a submarine shop around the corner,” Bronwyn suggested. Cree hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. He took Bronwyn's arm in his powerful hand. “Let's

go, then.” When they were almost out the door, Brian called after them. Cree turned to look at him. “Make sure she gets her rye bread, Cree,” he said, then chuckled. **** The ride to Albany was boring for Bronwyn. Brian had fallen asleep, his head on her shoulder, and the limo driver—a tall, cadaverous, black man dressed in an ebony suit—was not inclined to carry on idle conversation. He answered Bronwyn's questions but volunteered no information on his own. Above them, the sky was dark with occasional flashes of light to the West. A storm was brewing, and Bronwyn hoped they would get to Albany well in advance of it. By the time the entourage of two funeral cars reached the Stein Funeral Home, Bronwyn was worn out from the trip and dreading what she knew lay ahead. She had made arrangements to have a rental car at her disposal and she thought she recognized the one it would be when they pulled into the parking lot. It would be necessary for her to go to the church, speak with the priest, and to make what other final arrangements were necessary to lay Dorrie Cullen to rest. “We're here, Brian,” she said, gently shaking him. Brian sat up and rubbed his eyes. He winced when he looked around. “The hearse...?” “They've already pulled around back.” There had been a heated discussion as they wound their way to Albany. Bronwyn refused to allow Brian to stay a minute longer with Dorrie's body once they arrived. There were procedures that must be followed. Despite his virulent protests, there would be no exception. Some things, Bronwyn had reminded the grieving man, should not to be witnessed by loved ones. “You've been with her all morning, Brian,” she said. “Let others care for her for a while.” Brian lowered his head. “I hate letting go.” “We all have to at some point, sweetie.” “As you have let go?” Bronwyn smiled. “In my mind, I let him go long before now, but my heart is finally losing its grip on him, Brian. Don't get me wrong. I will love him forever, but I've finally come to realize that it's time to move on. I don't think he'd want me to spend my life alone.” “I know he wouldn't. But he'd want you to be with the right man.” “And who would that be?” A light tap on the window brought Bronwyn's head around. Cree opened her door and offered his hand to help her out. “They're expecting a severe thunderstorm,” he said. “You'd better get to the motel.”

“Aren't you coming with us?” she asked as she took his hand. “I need to buy a suit, remember?” “Do you want us to come with you?” “I think the man is old enough to buy his own clothes, Bronnie,” Brian snorted. “Yes, but he doesn't know Albany and—” “I'm not an imbecile,” Cree growled. “I can find my way around.” Bronwyn ground her teeth. “I didn't say you were stupid, Aidan,” she began but a severe thunderclap cut her off. She shrieked involuntarily. “Get her to the motel, Brian,” Cree ordered. “Will do.” Brian ushered Bronwyn toward the rental car. As Brian started the engine, Bronwyn looked back and wondered aloud why Cree was entering the funeral home. “He's got to have a car, doesn't he?” Brian asked, pulling onto Dawson Road. The downpour started and he squinted at the windshield. “He probably went in to call the rental place.” “I suppose you're right. I just hate for him to be roaming around lost in the rain.” Brian adjusted the rear view mirror. “He'll be fine. The man is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” **** They allowed him to see Dorrie before the embalming process began. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her flesh before it was corrupted with chemicals and by the touch of strangers’ hands. The ride to Albany had been hell. He could smell her as she lay in the coffin behind him. It was the scent of death, of impending corruption, and it had saddened him more than he thought possible. It was also the scent of his mother—flesh of his flesh; she, who had brought a portion of him into this world. It had been she who had been the first to love him; she who had taken care of his needs, and had seen to his hurts; she who had known of the love that had been his entire being and had encouraged it. The funeral director had opened the coffin and left the lid up. There was a dim light just to the right of the catafalque upon which the coffin sat. The glow from the torchiere cast its light upward, away from the coffin, so the illumination did not fall directly on the dead woman's face. Thoughtfully, the director had also placed a prie-dieu before the coffin. Viraidan Cree stood beside Sean Cullen's mother's coffin for a long while, gazing at the serene face that belied the years of physical and mental abuse she had suffered at the hands of Tym Cullen. He let his attention crawl over the deep lines in Dorrie Cullen's countenance—refusing to dwell on the scars he also

found there—and marveled at the stark whiteness of her cropped hair. His vision traveled to the gnarled hands lying atop one another. There were wrinkles there, too, and liver spots and extended purple veins that seemed so fragile against her milky white skin. Returning his scrutiny to her face, he traced the paper-thin consistency of her half-closed eyelids and the thinness of her lips. The creative touch of the cosmetician had yet to apply the rouge, powder, and lipstick. The stitches had yet to seal those thin lips and eyelids together for all eternity. Taking a deep breath, the part of him that was still Sean Cullen made the Sign of the Cross and slipped to its knees on the prie-dieu. He hung his head, his hands clasped on the back of the prayer stand, then began the memorized prayers of his childhood for the Repose of a Soul. When his prayers were done, he raised his head and looked at his mother. That part of him that was Viraidan Cree had never known a mother's loving touch. He had never seen the female part of the equation that had given him life; had never heard a lullaby sung to him when he was sick or a gentle voice assuring him all would be well with his world. He wondered what Dorrie Cullen's voice had been like, and when the soft singing began in his head, he knew Sean was giving him the opportunity to know. Tears fell heedlessly down the Reaper's cheeks as the old Irish lullaby wafted gently through his mind. He felt a phantom touch—long-remembered by the man that was so much a part of him—upon his brow, along his back, and knew vicariously the loving touch he had been denied as a bantling. He felt arms surrounding him, holding him, giving him comfort, and he thought his heart would break with the grief that welled up inside him. “Mama,” he sobbed, and felt to the very depths of him the agony that Sean Cullen was feeling. He covered her frail hands with his own. The hardness of her flesh, the coldness, did not register. All he felt was the sadness at the loss of those loving hands. Never again would his mother touch him, hold him, or place her sweet kisses upon his feverish brow. Never again would she croon to him in her lilting voice or chastise him with exaggerated annoyance. She was gone from his life forever. Only her gentle memory would remain. His shoulders shook beneath the weight of his sorrow. He clung to her hands, needing the contact, wishing with all his heart he could feel those rigid fingers enclose his own just one more time. He longed to feel her brush the hair back from his eyes. To hear her sweet Irish lilt as she called him Seannie. He would never know how long he would have stayed that way had the funeral director not come in to bid him leave. He had not even been aware of the violent storm lashing against the building. “We are under a tornado warning, sir,” the director said softly. Cree nodded. It was all he could do to heave himself from his knees, bend over Dorrie Cullen, and place a gentle kiss on her work-worn brow. As he drove through the pouring rain—his own tears rivaling the water cascading down the car windows—he knew a grief so encompassing it was hard to draw breath. At one point, he pulled off the road, crossed his arms over the steering wheel, lowered his head to his hands, and cried, barely aware of the keening sound dredged up from his closing throat. CHAPTER 41

There were only a handful of people at the funeral liturgy the next day: Brian, Bronwyn, and Cree, along with a few older parishioners who came to any and all funerals held at St. Teresa's. Tymothy and Dorrie Cullen had made no friends in Albany and the only neighbors who had been friendly to Dorrie while they lived there had either died or moved away. It was a sad little affair with the priest obviously embarrassed by the lack of mourners. Although his homily was well written and equally well given, he had not known the dead woman and the words he spoke of her sounded generic. Even the music—though traditional—seemed out of sinc. There was a short trip to the cemetery under a steel gray sky that threatened more rain. Only two cars: the hearse and the limo drove Dorrie Cullen to her final resting place. Bronwyn sat between Brian and Cree in the limo and neither man spoke. Her hand was in Brian's but she was conscious of the length of Cree's leg alongside her own. Now and again in church she would look beside her at the Reaper but—just as she had seen him do in church in Grinnell—he sat like marble, his head down, his eyes closed throughout the ceremony. Though he joined Brian and Bronwyn when they walked up to Communion, he did no more than touch Dorrie's casket, shaking his head at the priest's offer of the Host. The Rite of Committal, the graveside part of the ceremony, was brief. The three of them scooped up handfuls of the Georgia red clay to fling into the gaping maw of the grave as the casket was lowered. “From dust have we come and unto dust we shall return,” Father McElroy spoke. Brian was trembling violently by the time the casket had finished its six-foot journey into the belly of the earth. His face was stark white, his lips quivering. Cree gently pushed Bronwyn aside and put his arm around Brian. He drew the man to him, lowered his head, and said something Bronwyn couldn't hear. But when he had spoken, Brian raised his tear-streaked face and nodded. Whatever had been said seemed to calm the man. “Eternal rest grant unto her oh, Lord.” “And let perpetual light shone upon her,” Bronwyn answered and heard Cree echoing her words. “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” “Amen,” Bronwyn whispered. Brian turned abruptly and walked to the limo as fast as he could. His shoulders were bunched against his grief and he looked like a man battling the forces of nature to reach his destination. Once more the sky had turned to a leaden gray and lightning made jagged lines across the western horizon. It seemed fitting that the elements should mourn the passing of Dorrie Cullen. Cree had found the black suit he had gone after, Bronwyn thought, as she walked alongside him. He had also found a black shirt and tie. She idly wondered if he ever wore anything other than the unrelieved black. Not that the black did anything to detract from his powerful male beauty. If anything, it only added to the allure, the mystery of Viraidan Cree, and she could imagine him in no other garb. Glancing at him, she noticed he had taken a pink rosebud from the spray that had blanketed Dorrie's casket. The perfect bud seemed out of place in his powerful hand.

“He's going to need you, Aidan,” she said softly. “Aye, I know.” “You are a good friend to him.” He made no reply. She put a hand on his arm. He stopped and looked down at her. “Will you talk to me about Sean one day?” she asked. He stared at her for a long time. “One day Iwill talk to you about him.” There was no need to remain in Albany. As soon as they left the cemetery they drove to the airport where the jet's crew had turned in the two cars Cree and Bronwyn had rented. Already on board was what little luggage they had brought with them, including a locked cooler Brian had purchased to hold the Sustenance Cree had somehow commandeered while he was out the evening before. “Don't ask,” he had snapped when Bronwyn inquired about the plastibags of blood. Earlier that morning, Cree had administered Brian's shot of tenerse, but Brian had been so nervous about the coming funeral that Bronwyn offered to inject Cree. Once more, she played witness to the agony the med caused the Reaper and had massaged away the stinging. Before he turned away, he had looked at her with eyes that smoldered with desire. “Dr. McGregor?” Mr. Ludlum called as they neared the jet. Bronwyn let Cree and Brian go on ahead, stopping to see what Ludlum wanted. “Yes?” He smiled hesitantly. “I forgot to tell you that one of the nurses from the hospital had sent along a box for you. I had it in the boot of the limousine on the way here. I gave it to that nice Captain Jeffreys and he put it on board.” “A box? For me?” Ludlum waved his hands about. “It was a box of old letters that belonged to Mrs. Cullen. The nurse said many were from you and she left it to your discretion to give them to Dr. O'Shea and his son as you saw fit.” At the mention of Sean, Bronwyn flinched, but she managed to thank the thin man. “I'll see it.” “Godspeed, Dr. McGregor.” He spun on his elegant loafer heels and wobbled off, pumping his arms as though he were trying to take flight. The image of a vulture seemed to settle over his stick-thin frame. Shaking her head at the unkind thought, Bronwyn climbed the steps into the jet. Brian was sitting in the chair she had used on the flight down, so she moved further back in the plane. Cree seemed to be lost in thought, his attention riveted on the rain that was now beading the window. As she took her seat, she asked the stewardess for the box Ludlum mentioned.

“It's in the baggage compartment, Doctor. Remind me when we land and I'll get it for you.” Bronwyn nodded and buckled her seatbelt. From where she sat, she could see Cree's stony profile and she wondered what he was thinking. There was a remoteness about him that seemed to warn people away, and the stewardess gave him a wide berth. She wished she were sitting opposite him, at least that near, for the distance between seemed insurmountable. As the jet began to taxi down the runway, Bronwyn laid back her head, closed her eyes, and reveled in the feeling that propelled her skyward. She wondered if Cree could feel her exhilaration. “Aye,” he whispered to the gathering dusk outside his window. “I am very aware of what you feel, Beloved.” **** Bronwyn yawned as the plane settled once more to earth. It was pitch black outside when they landed in Newton, Iowa. She heard Cree talking softly to Brian. The Reaper was hunkered down beside the older man's chair. He patted Brian's shoulder, then stood and looked at her. “Can you get home by yourself, Bronwyn?” She blinked. “You don't want me riding back to Baybridge with you?” she asked, hurt rife in her voice. “I need to talk to Brian in private while he's still able to listen. Would it be all right if I called one of my men to pick you up?” “Ah, yes,” she said, surprised by his question. “Where are you going?” Brian chuckled. “Out for a wee drink, we are. Or five or six or ten.” Bronwyn frowned. “I don't know if that's a good idea, Aidan.” “I'll take care of him, Bronnie,” Cree replied. “Who's gonna take care of you?” Brian snorted. “The last time you had a wee drink you—” Cree hissed at the older man, said something Bronwyn didn't catch, then walked back to her. “He needs to bid his lady a proper Irish farewell,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do you understand?” “Yes, I do. He wants to get shit-faced Irish drunk!” Cree grinned. “Good that you understand what Celtic warriors need.” “What about you? Do I have to worry that you'll wrap his car around—” “We're taking my bike.” “Wrap yourbike around a telephone pole?” she finished as though he hadn't interrupted.

He put his hand over his heart. “No alcohol for this Reaper. I learned my lesson, I did.” “Gobshite,” Brian pronounced. “This is one Reaper who intends to come home none the good for wear!” “Aidan!” Bronwyn whined. “He'll be all right,” Cree said and chuckled. “Don't let anything happen to either of you,” she pleaded, searching Cree's amber gaze. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. “I promise.” A thrill of longing shot through Bronwyn. She drew back her hand, seeing in his dark gaze the knowledge of what he had caused to happen in her body. “Sleep well, Dearling,” he said huskily, then turned, shoving Brian off the jet. “I'll call one of the guards to come get you.” Sighing heavily, Bronwyn headed into the terminal when the stewardess hurried up to her with the box of Dorrie's letters. “I'd forgotten all about them,” Bronwyn said, feeling a deep sadness settle over her as she accepted the item. “Thanks.” “Have a good evening, Doctor,” the stewardess bid. “Looks like more bad weather is on the way by morning.” “Great,” Bronwyn muttered. By the time a ride had been sent for her, Bronwyn knew Cree and Brian had gone back to Baybridge to fetch the motorcycle. She was worried about them, although she knew very little could hurt either man. Knowing that didn't help her frame of mind. By the time she arrived at her condo, she was wide awake, knowing she'd be unable to sleep until she heard that powerful bike roar into the parking lot. It was too late to fetch Brownie, and Cedric was still absent. With no other living being to keep her company, the condo felt lonelier than ever. Putting the box of letters on her desk, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tomato juice, and sat to watch television. Soon bored of the pathetic fare that passed for entertainment on the networks, she flipped to cable, but there wasn't much there, either, to interest her. Finally with a snarl of contempt, she turned off the television and sat staring into the distance. Her gaze drifted to the letters and held. After five minutes of looking at the box, she headed to the desk. Just as she got there, the phone rang, startling her. Thinking it might be about Cree and Brian, she jerked it up. “Hello?” she said, her voice tight. “Hello, dear,” her mother answered. “Don't you ever listen to your messages?”

Bronwyn noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine and mentally groaned. “Have you been trying to reach me?” “Only since yesterday morning,” her mother said, sounding a bit miffed. “I'm sorry, Mom, but I've been in Georgia.” There was a short silence, then DeeDee McGregor sighed heavily. “You went to see the Cullen woman?” “Mom—” “You need to wean yourself from contact with that woman,” DeeDee grumbled. “It isn't good for either you or her—” “She died, Mom,” Bronwyn said between clenched teeth. “I went to attend her funeral with Brian.” “Brian O'Shea? What was he...?” Bronwyn was in no mood to explain about Brian and Dorrie. “Was there something you needed, Mom?” “Well, yes, I wanted to share some good news, but it doesn't seem to be the right time.” Bronwyn closed her eyes. “What good news? I could use some.” “I'll call back in the morning,” her mother said, her voice sharp. “Get some rest and we'll talk then.” Before Bronwyn could reply, her mother hung up. “I love you, too,” Bronwyn mumbled as she put down the phone. Depressed after the stilted conversation—so uncharacteristic for the two of them—Bronwyn sat on the sofa, the letters on her desk forgotten. At a little past two o'clock in the morning, she heard the rumble of Cree's bike and shot up from the seat. She pulled aside the curtain and saw him sagging beneath Brian's weight as he carried the older man over his shoulder. Sighing with relief, she was about to turn away when she saw Cree look up at her. “Good night,” she mouthed. He held up a hand, acknowledging her, then she lost sight of them as Cree carried his burden into the building. Relieved that the men were home safely, she turned toward the sofa. But again, her gaze fell on the box of letters. For a moment, she stared at the box. She knew there would likely be at least a couple of dozen of her own letters to Dorrie, each written after Sean's death and while Bronwyn was in college. There would most likely be many of Brian's letters and perhaps a few from Seannie. It was the thought of reading Sean's letters that brought her to the desk. Gnawing on her lower lip, she fought with herself, wondering if she had the right to read what he had written. Wondering if seeing his

words after all this time would be too painful. As much as she ached to know what he might have written, she pondered the wisdom of prying. She touched the locket hanging at her neck. It was her dearest possession and she never took it off. Within the hinged interior was a poem Sean had written her long ago. Whenever she felt the burden of Sean's leaving, she would touch the locket and recite the poem to herself. His words comforted her. Perhaps reading what he had said to his mother would bring a measure of peace. The box had been taped shut, the wide cellophane material sealing the top on three sides. Bronwyn rummaged in the desk for a box cutter. When she peeled open the lid, a strong smell wafted up—a clinical smell, the scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, of medicine and floor wax. Inside the box lay several large manila envelopes, each labeled by year, beginning with 1984—the year Dorrie Cullen was taken to Milledgeville. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the first envelope and held it in her hands for a long time. She could feel the blood pounding in her temple. She stroked the handwriting on the envelope front, smiling slightly at the heavy scrawl that had been Sean's mother's penmanship. A part of her wanted to thumb open the metal clasp on the back of the envelope, yet another part warned the memories invoked by what she might read would re-open wounds that had lately started to heal. After another moment of trying to decide what to do, she carefully replaced the envelope in the box and walked to the window to stare out at the dark night. When she pushed aside the curtain and looked down, she saw Cree and Ralph taking the pathway to the lake. “My God, Aidan! You woke Vince at this time of night to get Ralphie?” As though he had heard her, he nodded. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his black jeans, his shoulders hunched against the world, drawn in upon himself, and she felt the burden of his solitude heavy on her heart. Not giving herself time to rationalize whether what she was doing was right, she grabbed her trench coat and the flashlight she kept on her desk, and left the apartment. A light mist was blowing across the parking lot as she took the trail to the lake. Pulling the hood over her hair, she switched on the light and directed its beam along the gravel pathway. The air was cooler than she had anticipated, but the chill of it washing over her face, accompanied by the soft prickle of mist, felt good. He was standing with his back to her, looking out across the midnight waters of Rock Creek Lake. His hands were still jammed into his jean pockets, but his shoulders no longer looked so rigid. There was a sense of defeat about the way he stood. Ralph, hunkering on the ground at his feet, turned his big head to look at her as she came toward them. Bronwyn tripped over an unseen root. When her arm rose, the flashlight beam traveled up to catch Cree's eyes as he turned. She gasped at the chatoyant glow that came from his wolf-like amber eyes, and would have fallen had he not rushed forward, catching her easily in his arms. “Woman, what the hell are you doing out here this time of night?” His tone was more exasperated than

angry. He steadied her, then moved away, putting distance between them. “Making a fool of myself, apparently,” she mumbled. Being this close to the water, there was enough sky-glow to see, so she switched off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket. “You shouldn't be traipsing around in the dark.” “I saw you coming here. You looked like you needed some company.” “You know me that well, do you?” She looked up at him, then blinked. “You shaved your goatee!” She made a grunting sound of disbelief. “And cut your hair!” He tugged at the thick curls spiraling at his nape. “It's not all that short.” “But why?” “On my world, it is a ritual of mourning to shorn the hair.” Bronwyn felt a tug at her heart. “You did it for Dorrie.” He moved to the large rock everyone used as a bench. He sat and drew his spread knees into the perimeter of his arms, one hand clasping the opposite wrist. “I cared for her.” There was enough room for her to join him and she did. Her hip touched his as she sat and she thought he tensed at the contact. “Did you ever go see her with Brian?” “Sometimes. I hated that place, so I didn't go often.” “I'm sure she enjoyed your visits.” He looked at her. “She enjoyed yours. She would talk about them for days afterward.” Bronwyn lowered her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “I really cared for her, too.” “She knew you did.” He returned his attention to the calm lake. “She called you her daughter-in-law. Did you know that?” Bronwyn squeezed her eyes closed. “In my heart, I was.” Cree made no comment. He continued to stare at the glistening dark waters, seemingly content to keep the silence that had settled over them. When Bronwyn leaned her head against his shoulder, he lowered his legs, shifted his right arm around her, and pulled her head to his chest. He held her as his body absorbed her sobs, then laid his cheek against the top of her head and began crooning, rocking her, as he would have a child in need of comfort. When she had cried out her misery, she eased away from him, fishing in the pocket of her coat for a tissue.

“Here,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. “I came here to comfort you,” she apologized and wiped at her eyes. “You did.” “Is Brian all right?” she asked, blowing her nose. “He's probably puking up his guts right now.” He chuckled. “And cursing me for all I'm not worth in his eyes.” “Why? He was the one who wanted to go drinking.” “It has nothing to do with the drinking. He knows you're out here with me and he'll give me hell about it when I go back.” “Do you care?” “Not especially.” “He'll lecture me, too. I'll listen; he'll preach. I'll ignore his warnings; he'll threaten dire consequences if I do. I'll remind him I'm a grown woman; he'll remind me you are not the man for me.” “I'm not.” “That's for me to decide, don't you think?” Another deep silence spread over them and lasted longer than the one before. It was Cree who finally broke the stillness. “Maybe it's time to talk about him, now.” Bronwyn drew in a shaky breath and pulled her coat closer around her shoulders. “Maybe so.” He drew up his knees again in what she had come to realize was a defensive posture. “What do you want to know?” “Sometimes I can hardly remember what he looked like. Every year, his face grows less vivid in my mind. I hear his words less clearly. The memories seem to be fading. They are still there, but they are not as sharp.” “That's to be expected. Time heals all wounds, they say. If the wound stays fresh and painful it's hard to move on.” “I think it's time for me to move on. I've resisted doing so for nearly ten years, but lately I feel as though he's trying to tell me to let him go, to find someone to spend my life with and not be alone anymore.” Cree took a deep breath and looked out across the shoreline. “But something is stopping you.” She slid off the rock and walked to the water's edge. Wrapping her arms around her, she waited for him

to join her, knowing he would, before she answered. When he came to stand behind her and enclosed her in his strong embrace, she leaned her head back on his chest. “I've never asked Brian,” she said. “I've tried a couple of times, but I never could seem to get out the words. It hurt too much.” “What, dearling?” he asked, his breath soft against her ear. “I need to know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have to know where he's buried, Aidan. I want to go there and say goodbye. Ineed to do that.” His arms tightened around her for a moment, then he released her. He turned her around to face him, put his hands on her cheeks, and locked his gaze with hers. “There is no burial place, Bronwyn. When he was taken back to Fuilgaoth, he was cremated and his ashes cast to the wind. He would not have wanted to be caged in the earth for all eternity.” Bronwyn pressed against him, her cheek to his powerful chest and her arms around his waist. She reveled in the feel of him, the strength of his arms as he held her. The cinnamon smell of his cologne was heady, driving straight through her defenses to stroke the fire of her passion. “Tell me you don't want to be with me,” she said, “and I'll do what Brian says. I'll leave you alone.” He was silent for so long, she pulled away and looked up at him. “Aidan?” she questioned. He shook his head. “I can't tell you because I would be lying.” Her heartbeat quickened. She threw caution to the wind. “Come home with me. Stay with me tonight.” Cree stared into her eyes, as if searching for answers to questions he needed settled. When she touched his cheek, then stood on tiptoes to place a light kiss on his mouth, the growl from deep in his throat excited her. “The hell with Brian and his warnings,” he snarled, taking her hand. Ralph trotted behind the human and her Reaper as they hurried back to the condo. He stopped only once to lift his leg against a bush before rushing to catch up with his master. CHAPTER 42

Ralph trotted over to Brownie's wicker dog bed, sniffed the corduroy cover, then wedged his big body inside. He turned around and around until finally content he was positioned where he could see both the front door as well as the hallway down which his master and his master's lady had hurried. He settled with a grunt of pleasure, dropped his head to the rim of the bed, and snorted. His eyes shifted across the room, taking in every shadow the lights did not reach. His ears were pricked for any sound that was out of the ordinary and his nostrils twitched, taking in the scents that seemed normal to him. No bad odor permeated the room, so the chances of the Amazeen slut being nearby were slim. Snorting again, Ralph licked his chops and—satisfied all was as it should be—closed his eyes with another groan and went to sleep.

**** Bronwyn led Cree into her bedroom, his hand clutched in hers. She turned on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, aureate glow. Cree looked at the coverlet and matching pillows shams. “Sage green gingham and mauve roses. It suits you.” “I've always loved gingham.” “I remember,” he said and could have bitten his tongue when she gave him a quizzical look. He covered his blunder. “Dorrie mentioned it.” He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “Don't be afraid, little one.” “I'm not,” she said, her lips quirking. “I've waited for this a lifetime.” The Viraidan part of him winced, for that part desired her as much as the renegade who shared his body and was jealous of the one straining to break free and overshadow him. Keeping a tight rein on Sean Cullen was proving to be more difficult than he could have imagined. Taking a deep breath, Cree lifted his hands and cupped Bronwyn's cheeks. She covered his hands with hers and smiled. Lowering his head, he kissed her as gently as a feather floating on the wind—his mouth no more insistent than that ephemeral weight—then pulled back to search her eyes. “Help me to go slowly, Milady. It has been centuries since this warrior has lain with a woman. I could hurt you if we're not careful.” Without speaking, Bronwyn moved against him and put her cheek on his chest. So loud and strong was his heartbeat, he was certain it drowned out all other sound in her ears as she slid her arms around his waist and held him. Cree closed his eyes, willing the steel of his erection not to ruin the moment. His arms were tight around her back and hips, molding her to him. He hurt as he had not hurt in many years, and the tumescence that strained against his jeans was a force he had not reckoned with for a long time. Not even Ski'Ah's intrusion into his shower had brought about such a need. How long they stood there, he would never know. Time did not lessen his hardness nor, from what he sensed, decrease the desire building within her. When he could not bear the torment any longer, he moved back. Driving his hand down his shirt, he palmed the medallion around his neck, pulled it over his head, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. He yanked the black T-shirt from his jeans, crossed his arms over his chest, and peeled the garment from his body as though it were a second skin, tossing it to the foot of the bed. He was breathing so raggedly now, his chest heaved. When Bronwyn's eyes lowered to his bare flesh, he groaned. Bronwyn's gaze lifted to his as she reached for the buttons of her blouse. He pushed her hands aside, tugged the silken fabric from the waistband of her skirt, and made slow work of the buttons, taking great

delight as each one came free of its buttonhole. When the last button was undone, he slipped his hands under the fabric at her shoulder and folded it away from her body, allowing the blouse to fall behind her. The décolletage revealed in the deep V of her white lace bra mesmerized him. With trembling hands, he ran the backs of his fingers along the soft swell of her breasts. Then he turned his hands and gently, reverently, pressed his palms against the mounds. **** Bronwyn drew in a breath, her knees threatening to buckle. It had been years since Sean had touched her—the only man to do so—and she had longed for this wondrous feeling for so long, believing she would never again know the excitement and passion that was flooding her lower body. Her lips parted so she could draw breath easier, unaware of what her soft panting was doing to the man standing before her. She was on fire with a need that was building at a faster rate than she could control. She longed for his muscular thighs to part her legs, to wedge his strong body against her. She ached to feel the weight of his body pressing her down to the bed, the hardness of his manhood seated deep within her, his hungry mouth devouring hers. She needed the thrust of him, the flow of his juices, the total possession of his ride as he took her with him to a place she had once shared with Sean so long ago. “Please!” she whispered. He smiled, then reached behind her to unbutton and unzip her skirt. The gray gabardine fell in a pool at her feet. He eased her back, picked up the garment, and draped it on the footboard of her brass bed. “You're going to drive me crazy,” she said. Cree did not answer. He simply put his hands on her hips and—bending his knees as he went—began lowering her half-slip to her ankles, his palms sliding sensuously over the bare flesh of her legs. He wrapped his hot hands around her left ankle, lifted her foot, removed her shoe, then moved over to her other foot. As he hunkered there, massaging her instep, he looked up at her, his gaze as hot as the depths of a molten fire. She threaded her fingers through his thick black hair and drew his head to her. As he slid his hands up her back and pressed his cheek against her belly, she released a long, contented sigh, reveling in the warmth of his breath against the waistband of her silk panties. “You smell like cinnamon,” she said. “You smell like gardenias,” he replied, pressing a kiss on her navel. When his tongue darted into the deep indention, a shudder went through Bronwyn's body. “Much more of that and we won't need the bed.” “I realize that,” he replied huskily, climbing to his feet. His hands went to the front hook of her bra and parted it, giving neither of them a chance to say another word. Bronwyn heard his long exhalation and watched as he stared avidly at her unbound bosom. She wanted nothing more than to have him lower his mouth to either of the turgid nipples that strained toward him and was only partly appeased as he covered each breast with his palms.

“Beautiful,” he said in a low, throaty tone as he plied her flesh, lifting, molding, and lightly kneading the swollen mounds. “So soft. As soft as silk.” She wanted to scream at him, to demand he touch her nipples, and even as her need manifested itself in her mind, she knew he had heard her silent wishes, for his thumbs moved over the sensitive nubs. “Oh, God!” she moaned, her legs quivering. “I can't take much more!’ One moment her panties were still riding low on her hips, the next they were torn scraps of pale blue against the sage green carpet. Cree swung her up into the brawny arms and placed her none too gently upon the bed. Bronwyn lay shivering, staring at the man looming beside her. He snarled as he jerked open his belt buckle. He ground his teeth as he kicked off his sneakers and stripped off his socks. He panted as he snagged down his zipper and pushed the jeans from his slim hips in nearly one motion. She was surprised to find he wore no underwear. But it was the sight of his unrestrained manhood that caught and held her undivided attention. Bronwyn looked up at him, almost unaware she was licking her upper lip. Her eyes widened, for an unholy light filled Cree's face that would have frightened any woman. “Help me to go slowly,” he grated, his hands clenched tightly into fists at his side. “Else, so strong is my desire for you, I will hurt you.” She swallowed hard, opened her lips to answer, but her mouth was so dry she could not speak. She swallowed again, then moved over, patting the place beside her. Cree was obviously struggling to refrain from throwing himself on her. It seemed to take every ounce of his control to put one knee on the mattress. “L...lie down,” Bronwyn managed to say. “On your stomach.” He looked at her quizzically, but did as she commanded. He was as tense and rigid as an oak branch, his legs slightly parted, his hands clutching the pillow. “Relax,” she whispered, putting her hand on his back. She felt him shudder, and watched the muscles along his flanks bunch and hold. She repeated her whisper, gently stroking his shoulder blade. Gradually, she felt the tension dissolve under his flesh. Without speaking, she straddled him, settling her body atop his firm buttocks. “What are you doing?” he gasped, lifting his head to look at her. “You've never had a massage?” He shook his head. “Well, you are about to get one,” she said firmly and pushed his head back to the pillow. ****

Cree was on fire with a passion that was consuming him. It was painful to lie on his erection, but the pressure against the mattress eased the ache somewhat. He made himself lay there, holding his breath as she moved her hands to his tight shoulders and began kneading. The feel of her applications as she worked the muscles was a sensation he found immeasurably satisfying. “You like that?” she asked as she plied the length of his left arm, then his right, giving one time to relax before moving to the other. “I like that,” he sighed deeply, closing his eyes and giving in to her manipulations. Her hands moved down his back, pressed expertly into the area over his kidneys, shifted firmly along his sides and with enough pressure to make him groan with pleasure. As she rose up and moved down his legs, sat gingerly on his calves, he made no protest, though his hands still clutched the pillow. “Stop punishing the foam rubber, Aidan,” she said with a light laugh. He released his grip on the pillow but clutched it again, wadding it beneath his cheek, for her hands were now on his buttocks and he had stopped breathing again. When she remained paused, her hands not moving, he realized she was waiting for him to relax. It took some effort, but he let the muscles loosen and let out a shuddery breath. She gave his firm cheeks deep tissue massage for quite a length of time, sighing at every grunt of pleasure forced from his throat. When she moved down to his upper thighs, he groaned in protest. “Spread your legs,” she ordered. Cree lifted his head and looked around at her. “Are you going to do something I'm going to find not so pleasant?” She slapped him lightly on the ass. “Do as you're told and you'll find out.” He hesitated, then shifted himself, tensing as tight as a coiled spring when she positioned herself between his opened legs. He forced himself to lie down again, though his eyes stayed open and wary as her hands moved to his thighs. Soon, he was relaxed again as her deep massages worked each taut thigh, then slid down to repeat the process on his calves. “You have beautifully proportioned legs,” she said as her fingers plied his flesh. “I've never paid any attention to my legs.” “And elegant feet.” She lifted his leg so she could massage his toes. “Ah,” he sighed, then groaned in gratification. “The feet are an erogenous zone on most people.” “You don't have to tell me that. I may start humping the mattress if you're not careful.” She laughed. “That I'd like to see.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as the bed dipped between his legs and her hands were once more on his backside. But it was not her hands that pressed into his flesh; it was her nails, dragging in lazy circles over his flesh, sending prickles of intense sensation down his legs and through his groin. “By the gods, Bronwyn! You are torturing me, woman!” “Lie still or I might stick my finger—” “No!” he exploded, grabbing the brass bars of her headboard. Bronwyn slapped him on the rump—not as lightly this time—and ordered him to turn over. He reluctantly obeyed, wanting more of her hands on his ass, but realizing as he turned over and she shifted her position between his open legs, another part of his anatomy would be easily within her reach. That part of him leapt to the same conclusion. “My, my, my,” she said. “Aren't we happy to see Bronnie?” Before he could answer, her warm hands wrapped around his turgid flesh and he once again gripped the headboard above him, his eyes squeezed shut to keep from unmanning himself in her hands. He began panting, feeling her touch to the very core of him. “Look at me, Aidan,” she said softly and in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. His eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at her as she braced one hand on the bed and leaned over him, her breasts lightly touching his chest, her other hand firmly grasping his manhood. “I own you, Reaper,” she taunted, her hand squeezing him. Cree's eyes narrowed. Very slowly, his lips stretched into a vengeful smile. “You think so?” She leaned closer. “I know so, baby.” One moment he was beneath her, his cock in her hand. The next he was straddling her, his knees pressing her legs far apart, her wrists in his strong hands, pinned above her. “Let's see who owns who, baby,” he growled. Bronwyn gasped as his head dipped to her chest and his mouth closed on her nipple. As his tongue lathed the swollen tip, she strained against his invasion, arching her back. He gave no quarter as he plied his own brand of torture to his ladylove. His lips moved from one peak to another—tasting, suckling, flicking, tormenting—and back again. His fingers tensed, holding her wrists captive as he moved his lower body against her, allowing her to feel the stab of his erection and the grind of his hips against her pelvis. He released one of her wrists and drove his hand down her side and hip, then to the damp mound of her sex. **** “Aidan!” she hissed, rising to meet him.

He cupped her womanhood, swirled his palm over her wiry hair, then turned his hand so his index finger could slide inside her. “Aidan!” she screamed, lowering her free hand to push at his shoulder, then clutch him as her nails dug into his flesh. She wiggled against his invasion, gasping, reveling in the feel of him thrusting shallowly inside her: first one finger, then two, then three. His thumb made tiny circles on her clitoris, driving her mad with pleasure. She moaned and tightened her muscles around his questing fingers. His mouth slid from her chest to her mouth, slashing brutally across her lips, plunging his tongue deeply inside. He raped her mouth with his tongue—claiming her, branding her, making her his possession for all time. When he had his fill of her lips, he abruptly released her other hand and slid his body down hers, shoved his hands under her hips, lifted her, and claimed her nether lips in a hard vacuum that lifted her off the mattress with a shriek. She grabbed his hair—the thick strands threaded through her fingers—and pressed him to her. She made low guttural sounds that seemed to spur him on as his tongue drove ruthlessly into the center of her sex. “Oh, my God!” she screamed, feeling the almost-forgotten itch deep within her that she had known only once before so long ago on the banks of a Georgia river. **** Cree had no more control over his flaming passion. He moved up and over her and pressed himself inside her, striving not to hurt her but unable to keep from doing so as her legs came around his hips and she arched up to impale herself on his steely length. He heard her gasp of pain and would have withdrawn, but she held his hips captive and began moving against him, grinding her sex on his cock. Almost at the same moment, as he went as deep inside her as he could thrust, their passions ignited, rose up to meet one another, and crashed together in a blinding flare of consummation that brought a roar of satisfaction from his lips and a scream of intense pleasure from hers. They shuddered, clutching at one another as he fell limp against her, her arms wrapped tightly around him. Cree rolled off her but was loath to be apart from her. He pulled her into his arms, their sweaty bodies pressed together, and nestled her firmly in his arms. “I love you,” she whispered. “As I love you,” he returned, his hold tightening as he placed a chaste kiss on her damp brow. Within moments, she was sound asleep in his arms, exhausted by their lovemaking. He lay there listening to her deep, regulated breaths, and sighed with contentment. For the first time in his life, he knew utter contentment. The joy of their lovemaking had been like a laser thrust—he could feel the slicing away of his loneliness, the severing of the solitude that had always held his body captive, the fading away of the darkness that had been his constant companion since birth. He never once tried to reach out, to keep his emptiness from leaving, for the brutishness that was his solitary existence was being torn away, leaving in its wake a wondrous warmth that was his new physical being.

With a smile on his face, he slid into the depths of slumber with his lady. **** “It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon,” Bronwyn groaned as she lifted her arm to look at her watch. “Why did you let me sleep so late?” Cree ran his index finger down her arm. “You seemed so at peace, I hated to wake you.” She turned her head. “What were you doing? Watching me sleep?” He nodded. “Reapers don't sleep well or deeply. I have been lying here reveling in having you at my side.” Bronwyn pushed up in the bed, blushing as the coverlet fell, exposing her naked breasts. She tugged up the sheets and tucked them under her arm. “Voyeur.” Viraiden Cree's amber eyes gleamed as a slow, devilish smile creased his mouth. “I am an evil man. What can I tell you?” “Then you had best repent, Reaper.” “I'm already doomed, my love. The sacraments will forever be denied me.” Bronwyn frowned. “Why? If you go to reconciliation and—” A harsh breath rose and fell in Cree's chest. He tossed the covers from his lower body, swung his legs from the bed, and sat up, plowing a hand through his tousled hair. “'If any man whosoever of the house of Israel, and of the strangers that sojourn amongst them, eat blood, I will set my face against his soul, and will cut him off from amongst his people'—Leviticus 17:10.” He turned to look at her. “I belong in hell, Bronwyn, and one day I'll take up permanent residence there.” Bronwyn winced. “Don't say that. I can't believe God would condemn you for something not of your doing. You didn't ask to be born a Reaper.” He took her hand. “You have to understand something about what I am.” She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held fast, his eyes locked on hers were golden fire pools. “I am a killer, Milady. I have killed so many times the very act of murder has no meaning for me. To me, it is no different than swatting a pesky mosquito and bears no more thought.” “I don't want to hear—” “Youneed to hear.” “Don't,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. She cocked her head in pleading, causing her lips to tremble. “Don't.” “Bronwyn...”

“I know what you are. I just don't want to be reminded of it. I can accept you if you can accept that some things should not be discussed between us. This is one of them!” **** Her misery unnerved him. Her eyes were forgiving; her look one of infinite trust. She was wisdom's dark angel peering at him through a gaze that said more than words ever could. When she lifted her hand to his cheek, caressed him, her thumb stroking the side of his mouth, he gave in, gathering her to him. “Life is never simple,” she said as she settled against his chest. “Don't make it any harder than it already is.” His arms went around her. “I love you,” he whispered into her thick hair. “They tried to take the right to love away from me, to keep me from feeling anything but hate, but you saved me from the darkness into which I had fallen. For the first time in my life, I know what it is to love and be loved.” She drew back and looked at him, her smile a saving grace. “I understand, Viraidan.” Her use of his name made his heart soar. He brought her fingers to his lips, closed his eyes, and kissed her knuckles. “Never leave me, Lady. I could not bear it.” She pressed against him, her bare breasts soft against his naked chest. He opened his eyes to look at her and found himself staring into her very soul. “I have loved Sean Cullen for as long as I can remember,” she said. “I love him still. Now there is another soul to which I cling and that one is not as dark as its owner would like me to believe.” When he started to protest, she pulled her fingers free of his grip and covered his mouth. She pulled him toward her, falling back so his upper body slid over hers. “I thought you were getting up,” he protested, bracing himself on his elbows so he did not crush her. She craned her neck and looked down at his lap. “And I thought you were.” She arched a thick brow. “You need some starch for that package, Reaper?” He grinned. “Wicked woman.” “Goes well with an evil man.” He shifted position so he was lying against her, his belly to her hip. “Shall I show you what evil men do to wicked women, Milady?” Bronwyn's eyes widened. “Aye, my warrior. Show me.” “With the greatest of pleasure.” **** Sometime near dawn, the storms returned. Lightning crackled across the firmament and the strobe-like flash brightened the room in a harsh blue glow. The window-rattling boom of thunder woke them both. Bronwyn moved closer to the safe harbor of Cree's arms, flattening her trembling body to his.

“Shush,” he crooned, stroking her long hair. “I am here, Beloved.” Her whimper brought an ache to his heart and his hold grew more possessive. “I will never let anything harm you, Bronwyn. Never.” She clutched at his chest, her fingers threading through the hairs nestled there. He could feel the sticky moistness of her sweat along his side. “Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass,” he began to sing in a low, soft voice. “Come over the hills to your darling. You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow. You'll be my true love forever.” As the tempest grew bolder beyond their window, his words rose in volume, drowning out the raging rain that lashed at the glass and the thunderous vibrations that shook the building. His left hand moved along her back, stroking her, calming and soothing her; his right hand held her held cradled in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers partially blocking the pulsing of the lightning. When at last the elements were nothing more than a distant echo, coming back to them from miles away, he realized she had fallen asleep. He smiled, closed his eyes, and would have drifted into a Reaper's dreamless rest had not the sudden intense pain in his back brought him fully awake. “I am hungry, Reaper,” the Queen stated. “Not now,” he pleaded, biting his lip to keep the agony at bay. “I allowed you the female, now you must pay!” the revenant worm Queen demanded. He knew what She was requesting. The thought of leaving Bronwyn's side to kill for Her sickened him. He also knew that if he did not, it was entirely within Her power to accelerate his Transition. Such a punishment would not only be painful, it would be dangerous for Bronwyn. He had no desire for his lady to ever see him in his bestial state. He rose carefully from the bed and his lover's side, bending over to kiss her goodbye. He made one stop before leaving, taking a grumpy Ralph with him when he left. CHAPTER 43

Bronwyn turned off the water and opened the tempered glass door. Patting the wall beside the shower, she fished her bathrobe from the hook and pulled it on. She hated drying off with towels and the thick terrycloth robe cocooned her in warmth while it absorbed the water. She belted the robe around her and, after stepping into her slippers, padded over to the vanity to brush out her hair. But she stopped and sniffed the air. “All right!” She put down her brush and headed for the kitchen. Her objective was a steaming hot cup of the coffee she'd smelled wafting through the air. The aroma of the rich brew was a pleasant surprise and she was thankful for Cedric's ability to provide her with that much-needed waker-upper each morning. The coffeemaker was just finishing its timer cycle, the rich black coffee pooling in the glass pot, but

Cedric was not in the kitchen to greet her. Instead, Cree had left a note on the computer by the refrigerator asking her to join him for lunch by the lake when she got back from Mass. “I'll bring human food, too, along with my usual entrails,” he'd typed and signed it simply “C.” “Idiot,” she called him affectionately at the reminder of what Sage Hesar thought Cree ate for his lunch. The coffee beckoned, the aroma comforting. “And the man makes coffee,” she sighed, opening the cupboard to retrieve her favorite mug. After pouring herself a cup of the delicious-smelling brew, she carried it into the living room and sat on the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. Her first sip of the scalding liquid made her sigh with contentment. “The man makes great coffee,” she said and sighed again. The cup nestled in her hands, she laid her head on the back of the sofa and thought of the night she had spent in Viraiden's arms. After their first wild coming together, he had proven to be a gentle and knowing lover, a true partner in the wondrous act they had shared—giving as well as he received; enjoying as greatly as he pleasured. Bronwyn lifted her head and took another sip of coffee. As she did, her eyes fell on the box of letters sitting on her desk. A brief spasm of pain flickered through her heart. She stared at the box, knowing she would have to deal with it sooner or later. Before she had followed Viraiden to the lake, she had made up her mind to read some of Sean's letters to his mother. Now, she realized that would be unwise. The past would be dredged up, dissected, and relived. The agony of what had happened to them would open fresh wounds and, at that moment, she was too happy, too satisfied with the way things were advancing with her and Cree to look back, to borrow trouble from the past. She put her feet on the floor, the coffee cup on the table, and stood. Her gaze on the box, she walked to her desk and stared at the manila envelopes housed within the cardboard receptacle. She ran a finger along the box's flap, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. But before she could open anything, her phone rang, surprising her. She doubted it would be Cree and she had no desire to talk to Brian, so she let the machine catch it. “Bronwyn, are you there?” her mother demanded. “If you are, pick up!” There was a long pause, then an audible sigh. “All right, I suppose you went to the nine o'clock Mass with Brian. You know I really don't approve of your relationship with a man old enough to be your father. Well, anyway, I can't wait any longer to tell you our good news.” Another pause, then a more cheerful tone of voice: “Bronnie, Neal and I were married in Provence a few days ago. I know we should have waited, but we found this darling little country church and the priest was so sweet.” Another prolonged sigh.

“Sage was best man and the priest's housekeeper was my maid of honor. I wish you could have been here, but I knew we'd never drag you away from work. I hope you aren't too upset with us. We are deliriously happy and wanted to share our good news with you. When you get this message, please give us a call at...” Bronwyn grabbed a pen and wrote down the international number in Switzerland where her mother and new stepfather were located. “We'll be here through Tuesday, then it's off to Norway, Denmar,k and Sweden. Sage, however, should be back in Iowa by tomorrow. You know you could do a lot worse than that sweet young man, Bronwyn.” Another long pause then a quick “I love you” and a hasty goodbye. Bronwyn leaned against the desk, not sure how she felt about her mother's marriage. While she liked Neal Hesar and certainly understood her mother's need to have him in her life, Bronwyn felt a slight betrayal of her lost father. She knew that was natural, but all the same, it hurt a little to know her father could be replaced in her mother's affections. Mentally shaking herself, she was about to return to the sofa and her cooling cup of coffee when she looked at the box of letters. For a long time she stood there, deciding what needed to be done. Finally she let out a ragged breath. “I'll take out my letters to Miss Dorrie,” she said, nodding. “No one needs to ever see them.” The decision made, she pulled the first envelope from the box and opened it. The first ten or so letters were from Brian. His name was in the return address. Next came a letter from her—the first of many she'd written Sean's mother—and she pulled it from the stack, remembering well how she had smuggled the letter out of Galrath and who had helped her. There were two more letters from Brian, then in the return address were simply the initials SDC. She deliberately looked away, hearing the blood beginning to pound in her ears. She remembered that day at St. Teresa's as though it had been yesterday— “I'm here to enroll me boy,” Dorrie Cullen had said in her thick brogue. “His name be Sean Daniel Cullen.” “Sean Daniel Cullen,” Bronwyn whispered, staring at the bold initials. She ran her thumb over the initials. Before the tears that stung her eyes could gather and fall, she quickly moved past the letter. There were five at the back of the stack postmarked Ireland, all from Brian. With a sigh of relief, she stuffed the letters back in the envelope and moved on to the next year's group. The first letter in the next envelope was from her. She laid it aside, shuffled through several from Brian, an equal number from Sean, another from her, then she stopped. She knew the exact date Sean had died. That day, month, and year was etched firmly in her fertile memory as the day John F. Kennedy had been slain. She stared at the postmark from that terrible day, her lip quivering. Her gaze shifted to the initials in the return address and she realized this was Sean's last letter to his mother. She lifted it, looked at it a long time, torn between reading what he had written and

not wanting to know. No doubt the missive had been penned the day before the tragic events in front of the Flying Wench Tavern occurred. Bronwyn wondered if he had mailed it the morning he died or had dropped it in the post a day earlier. A part of her longed to know, to be a witness to his last thoughts, but another part warned the grief would be unbearable and she had no right to pry. At long last, she laid the letter lovingly aside, then moved on. In that envelope, there were seven more letters from her, the rest from Brian. When she opened the next envelope, she started looking only at the postmarks. If the letter came from Florida, she put it aside. If it was from Iowa, she thumbed past it without bothering to look at the return address. She found thirty more letters from her in the next six envelopes. Some were thin, only a page long; most were two pages. One or two were several pages thick. “I guess it depended on how sorry I was feeling for myself at the time...” She remembered complaining about college classes, professors, dorm room conditions, and roommates who didn't have a clue how to keep a room livable. There had been reviews of books she'd read or movies she'd seen that had struck a chord. A particularly moving homily at church might warrant a comment or two. And there had been clippings that Dorrie had asked to see when Bronwyn had made the Dean's list, or when she had won an academic award of some sort. And there were pictures of Bronwyn through the years: self-consciously sent and graciously accepted and acknowledged in the letters Dorrie had written back to her. Opening one of her letters to Dorrie, Bronwyn realized the picture that should have been there had been removed and she wondered what Sean's mother had done with it, with any of the pictures, for when she opened several that should have had photos, she found none. Neither were they in the box. “I wonder what they did with her belongings,” she said and made a mental note to gently query Brian. She knew there would be only seven letters from her to Dorrie in the last envelope. Four had been sent from Florida and the other three from Iowa. She had to look at the return address to see which ones were hers and which ones were Brian's. It was then her world came crashing to a sudden stop. **** Bronwyn pounded on the security headquarters door. The man behind the desk looked up and frowned. “What can I do for you, Dr. McGregor?” “I'm looking for Captain Cree.” “This is his day off. He doesn't like being bothered on his day off.” Digging her fingernails into her palms, Bronwyn stepped into the office. “I neither need nor want your

opinion about what Viraiden does or doesn't like, Mr. Cahill,” she snapped, putting all the haughtiness she had ever heard her mother use into her tone. “All I need from you is his whereabouts.” Douglas Cahill's eyebrows shot up. “He's down at the stables.” “Which is where exactly?” “Down where the road into Baybridge t-bones into paved on the left and gravel on the right. Take the gravel road about a mile and a half east. You'll see the farm buildings. Turn in there and keep on the road until it winds ‘round to the stables.” “Thank you,” Bronwyn muttered. She turned on her heel and left the office, her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed. Five minutes later, she left the paved section of the street at the kiosk, and with gray dust roiling up behind her car, took the serpentine curves of graveled roadway out to the farm. She barely noticed the pretty scenery surrounding the crimson-hued outbuildings with their green metal roofing. She drove past a duo of tall brick silos and turned in at the opening of the winding split-rail fence that swept from either side of the farm access road. Absently, she waved at several workmen gathered around a tractor and hay wagon when they greeted her. The road passed beneath a modern version of a covered bridge perched over a narrow stream, then became shrouded with the branches of old-growth maple and walnut trees as it wound its way east by northeast. The curving road would have been beautiful had Bronwyn's mind been other than where it was. The lush growth and the changing colors of approaching fall barely registering with her. By the time she caught sight of the sprawling stables and white paddock, she was as tense as a coiled watch spring. She didn't see anyone milling about, and when she stopped the car and got out, went into the dusky interior of the stable, her calls of “hello” went unanswered. Going back outside, she stood by her car, her hands on her hips, and gazed around with growing frustration. There were two horses in the paddock, one lying in the sun and the other drinking at the trough. “Is anybody here?” she called. When there was no answer, she opened the car door and tapped the horn. She waited a minute or two, then pressed again on the horn, longer. “Stop that! You're scaring the horses!” Bronwyn turned. A tall black-haired woman was sitting bareback astride a pinto. Anger was carved on the woman's tanned features and her vivid sapphire blue eyes were narrowed. “What do you want?” she inquired in a husky voice. “I'm looking for Viraiden Cree,” Bronwyn grated. “Do you see him here?” “Are you the stable manager?” The woman smiled nastily. “I might be. Who the hell are you?”

Bronwyn raised her chin. “I am a friend of Aidan's.” “Aidan, is it?” the woman snorted, swinging one long leg over her mount's rump and sliding to the ground. She walked toward Bronwyn, the pinto following her. “Does he know you call him that behind his back?” Bronwyn opened her mouth to tell the woman it wasn't any of her business what she called Cree, but the sound of barking made her look to the west. She thought she recognized Ralph's excited ululation. “Who are you?” the woman asked. “And why are you looking for Cree?” Knowing she could never drive her car over the rough-looking land she was sure must border on the crescent-shaped lake off to the west, Bronwyn turned on her heel and headed for the paddock. Ignoring the woman who had fallen into step beside her, Bronwyn stopped at the paddock, put two fingers to her lips, and whistled for the horses. Both equines turned their heads, but only the one at the trough headed her way, ambling along, tossing its thick mane. “I asked you your name,” the woman insisted. “Bronwyn McGregor.” “What do you want with Cree?” The horse that sauntered over to Bronwyn was a roan mare with a coat gleaming so brightly, it hurt the eyes. Its sleek body rippled with healthy muscle and its soft brown eyes were filled with friendliness. Looking down the mare's legs, Bronwyn saw that she was shod. “If you're shod, sweetie, you're rideable.” Bronwyn patted the velvety nose. “Do you even know how to ride?” the woman inquired, her voice filled with insult. “Do you know how to mind your own business?” Bronwyn gave a look she hoped would shut up the bitch. The woman snorted. Crossing her arms over her lush chest, she cocked her head, amusement settling on her pretty face. “Horses can tell when a human is inept at riding them. The beast will throw you quicker than you can bat an eye.” “I've been riding since I was five.” Bronwyn went in the stable and came back out with a set of reins. Not even looking at the tall woman, she opened the gate arm of the paddock, went inside, and speaking softly to the mare, draped the reins over its head. Tightening the reins in place, she led the mare outside the paddock, then closed the gate. “He belongs to me,” the woman said. “He is a she,” Bronwyn snapped. “Fool! I don't mean the horse.”

Bronwyn grabbed a handful of the little mare's mane and swung up onto its back. She settled herself, then pulled lightly on the reins, turning the mare's head to the right. “You don't mean Cree, either.” Bronwyn walked the mare forward, her gaze locked on the woman. “I don't know who you are and I don't care, but Viraidan Cree belongs to me.” “That I will not allow!” The woman grabbed for the mare's reins, but Bronwyn dug her heels into the horse's sturdy sides. The animal shot forward, pulling away from the strange woman's grasp. “Eat me,” Bronwyn threw at her. “He is mine!” the woman yelled as Bronwyn nudged the mare into a fast trot. “Do you hear me, McGregor? The Reaper is mine!” Bronwyn could hear her shouts, but couldn't make out what she was yelling, for the mare's hoof beats were loud and the wind rushed in her ears, blowing her hair, which blotted out the woman's words. “Ugly black-haired witch,” Bronwyn murmured, but the woman's exotic beauty was enough to put seeds of doubt in her mind. Cree had made no mention of seeing another woman. The witch, as Bronwyn mentally labeled her, could be like the young girls at church on Sunday—lusting after Cree but having as little chance of attracting his attention as an ant underfoot. She guided the mare toward where she had heard what she thought was Ralph's excited bark. The lacy umbrellas of the red maples and gingko trees brushed past as the mare ventured deeper into the forest beyond the stables. The ground was rocky, rippled with low hills, and smelled of a recent mowing. Looking at the area over which she passed, Bronwyn realized she was traveling over a hay field. The glint of light on water shone through the stand of trees ahead. Bronwyn slowed the mare to a walk. She thought she heard music. When she listened closely, she recognized the strains of a Celtic folksong, its haunting melody drawing her like a magnet. She found him at the water's edge. Ralph was chasing snow geese, which seemed to be delighting in the game of landing on the water, then flapping away to taunt the big dog. A huge black stallion was tethered to a sapling nearby, its gaze seemingly on the man standing a few yards away. Cree was glistening with sweat as he went through the paces of a form of martial arts Bronwyn had never seen before. He was barefoot, shirtless, his broad back to her. The only clothing he wore was a pair of tight black denim jeans that molded his rump like a second skin. Sliding down from the mare's silky back, Bronwyn quietly tied the horse's reins to a low-hanging branch. Careful where she stepped, she eased forward. Creeping closer, watching the graceful body maneuvers that made the muscles bunch and ripple across his upper torso, she was mesmerized by the beauty of his movements. The fluidity with which he moved, the strength in the muscles of his arms bunching beneath his sweaty flesh, the power exhibited in his thighs as he shifted position, all combined to capture and hold her attention. The music coming from the battery-powered CD player added the right amount of erotica to the scene. The lyrical strains of the Celtic tune, the beat of the bodhrán, the skirl of the tin whistle, all added to the mystery of the physical dance being performed at the water's edge. Cree moved slowly, putting his finely honed body through its paces, synchronized with the rhythms coming from the folksong.

As quietly as she could, Bronwyn hunkered down behind a spreading bush and parted the branches. She wanted the target of her rapt attention to turn so she could see his face, for from the glimpses she had of his profile as he exercised, she knew his eyes were closed, his concentration high. It was as though the thought reached him like a lethal missile. Cree turned, his eyelids flying open, one hand going to the center of his chest where his medallion lay nestled in the damp hair. He slapped his palm over the golden disk, hiding it from view. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice harsh. Bronwyn stood, her eyes locked with his, and came into the clearing. She stumbled on an exposed root, but Cree made no move to go to her aid. He unhooked his T-shirt from a branch and turned his back to her, drawing the black fabric over his head in a savage jerk. Turning, he glared at her. “What were you doing spying on me?” His breath came heavy and rapid from his heaving chest. Bronwyn took a few steps closer. “Did he give it to you?” His eyes narrowed. “Did who give me what?” “The medallion you wear. The one you are trying so hard to keep me from seeing. The one you removed before we made love so I wouldn't recognize it. Did Brian give it to you?” “I don't know what you're talking about!” Bronwyn shivered. She wrapped her arms around her, holding his gaze. “It's a Claddagh, isn't it?” “What if it is? What difference does it make?” “None, unless it's the one Sean gave me. It was one of a kind.” “Oh, you mean the one you gave back to him on his deathbed?” A vein throbbed wildly in his neck. “It ceased being yours the moment you put it in his dying hand!” “Did you and Brian think I wouldn't find out, Aidan?” she asked, ignoring his hateful remark. Cree growled low in his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side, but he didn't answer. Neither did he back up when she came closer. “You were his friend. Brian was his father. Brian is a Reaper, so it stands to reason Seannie was, too. And unless I miss my guess, you were the one who taught him how to be a Reaper, how to kill for the IRA. You protected him and you're protecting him now.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Where is he, Aidan? Where is Sean?” “Sean is dead!” he shouted. “Dead and gone, Bronwyn!”

“Dead men don't write letters to their mothers.” Cree's eyes widened and his full lips parted. He stared at her, his posture rigid. She could hear his breathing, heavy in the still morning air. When he remained silent, she dug into the pocket of her lightweight jacket and pulled out an envelope and extended it to him. “Go ahead, look at it. His initials are there in the return address space.” She thrust the envelope closer to his chest. “It's postmarked two weeksbefore Miss Dorrie died.” He snatched the envelope, his lips pulled back over gritted teeth. “I suppose you read the gods-be-damned thing, didn't you?” “I wanted to, but I didn't.” “How did you get this?” he said, shaking the letter at her. “Mr. Ludlum gave a box of letter to me. He said one of the nurses at the hospital sent them along. She thought Brian and his son would want them.” An uneasy smile trembled on Bronwyn's lips. “That part didn't register with me until just now—Brian and his son. I guess the nursing staff knew Miss Dorrie's son was alive.” “No one has said anything about him being alive!” “But he is. I know he is and I want to see him. I need to talk to him.” Cree threw up his hands. “By the gods, woman! Why?” There was obvious misery stamped on his handsome face. “Why?” he asked again in a whisper. When she didn't answer, he flung the letter away from him as though it were a Frisbee and went to her, grabbing her upper arms in his strong grip. He shook her lightly. “You lay in my arms last night,” he reminded her. “You gave yourself to me. You told me you loved me!” “I do love you,” she said forcefully. “My needing to see Sean has nothing to do with you. This is between Sean and me, Aidan.” Cree laughed mirthlessly. “That's what you think.” “It's obvious he doesn't want me, Aidan,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “If he did, he would have sought me out. If he had loved me the way I loved him, he would have come after me. He would have told me about Alistair Gallagher, the man who detonated the bomb that killed my father. He would have explained what happened.” “And you would have listened?” he scoffed, his grip on her arms tightening. “I don't know if I would have or not. I was angry, in shock that day in the hospital. My father and my child had been killed. That is not something easily accepted.” He searched her eyes, his hands relaxing a little on her flesh. She watched emotions pass over his face: anxiety, hurt, uncertainty. When his shoulders drooped and his hands fell away from her arms, he

lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “I love you, Bronwyn,” he said so softly she had to strain to hear him. “I love you with all my heart and with what soul I have left. I could not bear losing you again.” Bronwyn moaned, stepping forward to place her trembling hands against his cheeks to lift his head. He opened his eyes to look at her and she saw moisture glistening in the amber orbs. “Oh, Aidan. You aren't going to lose me.” A solitary tear fell down his cheek. He reached up to cover her hands with his own, then drew her palms to his chest, her right hand pressed firmly over the medallion beneath his T-shirt. “It is your Claddagh. I've worn it since the day I came back.” Bronwyn moved her hand so her fingers could touch the impression of the medallion through the fabric. “Sean gave it to you, didn't he?” Cree sighed heavily. “Sean died that day.” When she started to protest, he put a hand to her lips. “Let me finish. He was Brian's son and he was a Reaper, that's true. The parasite inside him was an offspring of the Queen I have inside me. There are only a few ways a Reaper can truly die—by drowning, beheading, or by fire. Sean's parasite was so badly damaged it could not survive. When the healers pronounced him dead, he truly was.” “But you were burned just as badly,” she reminded him. “When you crashed in Ireland all those centuries ago, you were hurt just as severely as Sean, weren't you?” After a long pause, he nodded. “Aye, and I knew the agony he had endured. But there was a difference.” “What difference?” “The Queen is more powerful than her offspring, and each generation is less powerful than their dam when they are produced. What She could withstand, Her progeny could not. The parasite in Sean Cullen ceased to exist, and when it ceased to exist, his mortal body succumbed to its injuries.” “But he's alive. Somehow they brought him back to life.” She drew in a breath. “Did they give him a new parasite?” “They tried, but the implantation didn't work.” “Then how—” He shushed her, then reached inside his shirt and withdrew the Claddagh. He pulled the gold medallion over his head and placed it in her palm, curling her fingers around it. “This was in his hand when they brought him back to Fuilgaoth. Not even death could have taken it from him. It was there when a part of him came back from the dead.” Bronwyn drew in a shuddering breath. Cree had all but admitted Sean was alive. She felt her knees grow weak and would have collapsed had he not helped her to sit on the ground. She stared at the

medallion that still bore the warmth of Cree's flesh and brought it to her chest. “Where is he?” she said, tears falling down her face. “Aidan, please. I have to know where he is.” Cree took a breath, then exhaled slowly, his gaze locked on hers. “You're looking at him.” CHAPTER 44

“Do something!” Ski'Ah demanded. Danyon was bone-tired and experiencing a grief he had not expected at the loss of Aoife, the woman who had been his mistress for more than eighty years. He had prolonged his departure from the old woman's gravesite near Belfast, mourning her in his own way for three days past the moment of her burial. Now he was deeply depressed, unable to understand why, and annoyed that the Blackwind was making demands of him. “She took his seed within her last night!” Ski'Ah hissed. “He claimed her as his mate!” “She was already his mate,” Danyon mumbled. “What if she has conceived?” the Amazeen warrioress snapped. He rubbed at an unaccustomed ache in his temple that should not be there. “If she has, I will see that the fetus does not survive.” Somewhat mollified, Ski'Ah commenced pacing in front of the stable. She was furious, decidedly so, because she had not been able to prevent the Reaper from taking the human woman the night before. The black dog's presence had been an effective deterrent. “This changes things,” she grated. “In what way?” Danyon asked, not really caring. He had fallen into a strange lassitude that alarmed him and his inability to get incensed about Cree lying with Bronwyn surprised him even more than his unexpected grief. “He can not be executed once I get him back to Amazeen. He belongs to a Sister—human and inferior, though she is—and as such, he is protected under ancient Chattel Laws. He can not be made to atone for the crimes he committed against my ancestor!” “So don't tell them he belongs to Bronwyn. Who will know the difference?” Danyon asked with a yawn. He longed to find a warm bed. Ski'Ah drew herself up. “When I take him back, I am obligated to tell the Council of Elders. I could lose my head for omitting the fact the Reaper has been claimed by another woman!” “Not that it matters to me, but what will become of him, then?” Danyon asked, intrigued despite his weariness. The Amazeen threw out a dismissive hand. “He will be imprisoned in the public square for all to see and taunt. To a Reaper, being caged is the ultimate torture. Pain is nothing to them, but confinement is an

agony they do not tolerate well. He will be punished in a way he will find hard to endure.” Danyon shrugged. “Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.” “I would have preferred watching him roast in the Auto da fé! His screams would have been music to my ears and my ancestor would have been avenged!” “Well, we don't always get what we want.” Danyon chuckled. “I want this over with, Nightwind! I am ready to return to Amazeen. The cybot on my ship awaits my order to transport us on board. This has gone on long enough. When—” “I am curious. Where does one hide an alien space craft?” “Behind the Terran moon, fool! No more useless prattle. When will I be able to capture him?” Danyon sobered. “Soon, beautiful Ski'Ah. Very soon.” She narrowed her eyes. “This you promise?” He raised his left hand to the heavens. “As surely as I pledged my undying love for Bronwyn McGregor, I promise you soon you will be in possession of the Reaper and on your way across the megaverse.” “You will rid me of the beast that interferes?” “Ah, yes, the black beast.” Danyon thought of the entity he had befriended. The Bugul Noz would have to be dealt with, for Ordin Gver had developed a strong affection for the Reaper. “I will see to him. Have no fear on that account, Lady.” Content that the one obstacle to capturing the Reaper would be removed, Ski'Ah seemed to relax. She batted her long lashes at Danyon and moved closer, her hand going toward his chest. “Ah, no,” he said, stepping back. The thought of her laying hands on him turned his stomach. “I am in need of a bath and a warm pallet.” Ski'Ah frowned. “Some other time, then?” He nodded, taking another step back. His olfactory senses were being bombarded by the stench that seemed to roll off the Blackwind when she was irritated. “You will call me when it is time?” she inquired. “Aye. Within the next day or two you should be on your way to Amazeen with Cree in chains at your feet.” **** Cree explained to Bronwyn what had happened at Fuilgaoth on the day the Queen revenant worm had brought both Sean and him back from the dead. He refrained from touching her, wiping at the tears falling down her pale cheeks, taking her trembling body into his arms to comfort her. He held her gaze captive as he told her how he had felt upon awakening from his centuries-long imprisonment and revealed how

odd it was to be sharing a portion of his soul, his memories, his feelings with a stranger. He allowed her to see into his deepest emotions and opened his heart to her before turning over the rest of the explanation to that part of him he both loathed and pitied. “I was horrified to find myself in the body of Viraidan Cree,” the Sean part of him explained. “This man looked nothing like me, talked nothing like me. He was older, more powerful. I felt a terror I could not explain the first time I looked into a mirror and I was shocked when I opened my mouth and a thick brogue came out!” “I had a hard time dealing with Sean Cullen's love for you,” the Viraidan part of him stressed. “Love was something I had never experienced. I didn't know how to love. I fought him every step of the way because he wanted to go to Florida to keep watch over you. We compromised and made one trip there. One look at you and I knew I wanted to be with you, too. I would have moved heaven and hell to have you as my mate, but the both of us knew that would be dangerous.” For more than an hour, the two beings inside the Reaper's body revealed to Bronwyn their innermost thoughts, desires, hopes, and fears. When the last defense was shed and the last secret told, they grew silent, each in his own way, dreading the response he would garner. **** Bronwyn felt lightheaded, her pounding heart loud in her ears. Her palms were slick with perspiration while her mouth was dry as desert sand. A part of her wanted to throw back her head and scream mindlessly to the heavens. Another part wanted to run, to put as much distance as humanly possible between her and the two entities staring at her through the eyes of the Reaper. Still another side of her wanted to throw her arms around the two men she loved with her entire being and tell them everything would be all right, that everything would work itself out. “Do you hate me, now?” Cree whispered, his heart in his eyes. “Do you hate us both?” Sean asked. “I don't hate either of you, but I need time to deal with this, to adjust. This is too much to get my head around in so short a time.” “I understand.” The Reaper moved away from her and went to stand by his horse. He stroked the animal's withers. “Take all the time you need, Milady.” Bronwyn walked to the little mare, wondering how she was going to mount the animal. She was numb, her legs weak, her arms without strength. “Here,” Cree said, coming to her. He lifted her into his strong arms and swung her up on the mare's back, then gathered the reins and handed them to her. He stood looking up at her for a moment, then moved back, giving her room to put the horse in motion. Returning his steady gaze, Bronwyn could see the effect their conversation had had on him. His shoulders were rigid as though he expected a blow, was preparing himself for her rejection. Though his face was carefully blank, there was keen misery in his amber gaze. The tautness of his clenched jaw could not hide the slight tremor in his lips. Her heart went out to him, but she was not ready to blithely accept the explanation he had given. An

errant part of her was angry beyond words, hurt—perhaps beyond healing—and unable to respond to the sadness darkening his golden eyes. “Forgive us,” he said. Bronwyn bent toward him, placing her palm on his cheek. He reached up to cover her hand as she caressed him. “Time, Aidan. I just need time.” He brought her hand to his lips, placed a gentle kiss in her palm, then released her. She straightened in the saddle. Before the tears gathering in her eyes could fall, she lightly kicked her mount into action. Never turning to look at the man she left standing at the water's edge, she let the tears flow. **** From the canopy of trees beside the stables, Ski'Ah watched the one who had captured Viraidan Cree's heart remove the borrowed horse's reins and lead it back into the paddock. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the Terran stop, cover her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking beneath her sobs. “What did he do to you, Sister?” she mumbled. “Did he hurt you as he did my ancestor?” Wondering if she should confront the Terran, challenge her for the ownership of the Reaper, Ski'Ah lost her chance when she heard a vehicle coming down the roadway. Cursing, she moved back further in the trees but continued to watch her rival, who was hastily swiping at her tears. **** Bronwyn glanced at the jeep heading her way, but dismissed it. She walked to her car and had her hand on the door handle when a blast from the jeep's horn made her pause. “Oh, hell,” she sighed, recognizing Koenen Brell through the jeep's windshield. Brell got out of his vehicle and came to her. “I've been looking for you,” he said, smiling. “I'm not working today,” she said, opening her car door. “You might have to whether you want to or not.” “Why?” “One of your patients died this morning.” “Who?” Bronwyn asked, her concern immediate. “Aston Pounder. The one who tortured and murdered those kids in Tennessee.” “I know what he did,” Bronwyn snapped. “How did he die?”

“Aneurysm. Scrambled his brain like a whisk.” Brell cocked his head. “Has it hit you yet that every time you interview one of those perverted bastards, they end up either dying or in a vegetative state?” Bronwyn gritted her teeth. “What are you inferring, Dr. Brell?” “He's always there with you, isn't he?” When Bronwyn didn't reply, he stepped closer. “Cree's always there.” “So what? He's there to protect me.” “Now that's the key word, isn't it? Protect?” He smiled nastily. “And neither Faulkner, Vance, or Pounder will ever pose a threat to you again.” A sliver of suspicion pricked at Bronwyn's belly. “What's that supposed to mean?” “Faulkner had a massive coronary,” Brell said, tapping his bottom lip with his right index finger. “He looked as though he'd seen something that literally scared him to death. I wonder what that could have been?” “I don't have time for this—” “Vance has been catatonic since the day you interviewed him. What could have caused that? Perhaps he also saw something that scared him senseless?” Annoyed at the smug look on Brell's handsome face, she slid into her car and tried to slam the door, but he grabbed the edge. “Just yesterday, Pounder was telling his nurse that he wanted to do to you what he had done to those children. He went into great detail. Can you guess what happened next? The nurse told Cree this morning, and now Pounder's lying on a slab in my morgue.” “Are you accusing Captain Cree of causing Pounder's aneurysm? That is absurd!” Brell chuckled. “I wouldn't put anything lethal past our Captain Cree.” “You'd say anything to get back at him for taking me home that night,” she sneered, jerking the door out of his grasp. She slapped down the lock. “Think about it, Dr. McGregor,” he shouted over the roar of her car engine. “Cree is protecting you, all right. He's eliminating those who would harm you, given the chance. I bid you think about what I've said.” Bronwyn threw the car into reverse and backed away. She was trembling as she spun the wheel and raced from the stable. **** Brell looked about, sniffed the air, frowned, and turned his gaze toward the forest. He stared at the shadowy figure of the woman lurking there, then dismissed her from his mind. He shed the loathsome appearance of a dead man and resumed his natural state. Walking back to the jeep, it was Danyon Hart who swung himself into the driver's seat.

“Think about it a while, Bronwyn,” he whispered, sending out the command. “Think about it, then go looking for Brell to confront him.” **** Ski'Ah left the concealment of the trees as the Nightwind drove away. Puzzled by his disguise, she watched until his vehicle was out of sight, then turned her attention to the area of the forest where she knew Cree was. The black dog was with the Reaper, so Ski-Ah made no attempt to intercept Cree. Instead, she tapped the Vid-Com link on the bracelet she wore and, within a matter of seconds, was transported to her runabout. There were plans to be set into play. **** Cree stared at the sunlight reflecting on the waters of Rock Creek Lake. He was sitting on the ground, his legs drawn up, and his arms resting on his knees. Ralph was stretched out beside him, his massive black head cradled on his outstretched paws. The dog was keeping watch on the forest behind them, his dark eyes never straying from the trees. Nearby, the horse nickered softly, then lowered its head to nibble at the grass. “I know she was here,” Cree said, his sense of smell irritated by the stench of the Blackwind. “He was, too.” Ralph looked up at his master. “Humphf?” “The gods-be-damned Nightwind. I smelled the bastard.” “Humphf.” Ralph lowered his head. “He came looking for my Bronwyn. One of these days, he and I are going to have a talk about her.” Ralph whined. “I will kill that son-of-a-bitch, Ralph. As surely as I draw breath, I will slay the Nightwind.” Ralph shivered. The Reaper had killed earlier that morning. Twice. And as he always had since he could remember, he had gone out to be alone, to celebrate thebású , the execution of his enemy, with themhaolaigh an stoirm fiáin , the alleviation of the savage storm within him. The exercise, the strenuous ritual of the complex martial arts routine, cleared his mind and soothed the revenant worm that had controlled him body and mind during thebású . Afton Pounder—the sick pervert who had murdered twelve children—had been a given the moment he wound up on Bronwyn's list to be interviewed. There had never been a question in Cree's mind about ridding the world of such useless filth. The moment Pounder had voiced his desire to harm Bronwyn, his minutes on Earth were numbered. Showing the twisted murderer what real evil looked like had brought on the exploding vessel in Pounder's warped brain. Although satisfactory for the Reaper, Pounder's death

had not satisfied the Queen. Her desire had led to Cree's second kill of the morning. “They will never find Nyles Brady,” Cree said. “He will become the first inmate of Baybridge to successfully escape.” Ralph sniffed disdainfully, as if the smell of the animal torturer was still on Cree's flesh, and that his breath bore the scent of Brady's blood. Cree laid down, his hands to either side of his head, and stared into the bright blue sky. He barely felt the coolness that had crept down from Canada and that would likely bring out sweaters and coats for the staff of Baybridge by evening. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, for the Queen was moving beneath his flesh, feeding Her young. He closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the pain Her ramblings caused. It was something he had lived with all his life, but the older he got, the more painful Her stirrings had become. “I know why,” he said. Ralph cocked an eyebrow. “Humphf?” “There are more offspring. I'm a virtual hive of slithering, wiggling revenants.” The dog shuddered violently and sat up to lift a paw to scratch at his belly. He grunted as he scratched, one paw waving in the air. He got to his feet and shook himself, his ears flapping loudly. “Well, it bothers me more than it bothers you, my friend.” Cree chuckled, watching the animal's reaction. “Humphf!” “Aye, it is disgusting. But without Her, I would cease to be.” **** Ralph laid down, closer to the overly warm body that had become the greatest love of his life. Brownie ran a close second to the Reaper, but she did not hold the key to Ralph's heart. Only Cree possessed that. Pressing his side close to Cree's, Ordin Gver sighed contentedly. The Bugul Noz was happy as long as the Reaper was near. **** Brian waved at Bronwyn when she entered the complex, but the young woman apparently did not see him. He knew she had lost a patient earlier that morning, and when he realized she was taking the service elevator to the morgue, he knew she would be preoccupied a while. Turning on his Reaper senses, he located Cree a few miles away and sighed. There was no one to have coffee with and he was bored. He was also hungover. Rubbing at his eyes, he sighed. It had been a long time since he'd drank himself into oblivion and now realized why—he felt worse than the specimens in his lab jars looked. “Dr. O'Shea?”

Brian turned as one of the receptionists from the main desk walked up to him. He smiled. “Aye, pretty one?” Blushing, the woman extended to him a piece of paper she removed from an overflowing clipboard. “A message from Dr. Hesar, Jr., sir. I've been paging you all morning.” Brian took the note. “I turned off my pager. Is Sage back?” “He's due back today.” “Thank you, Sweeting.” Brian unfolded the note. His eyebrows jumped up as he read. “Good news, isn't it, sir?” Brian whistled. “I guess.” He refolded the note. “Does Dr. McGregor know?” “She hasn't answered her pages, either. I have several notes here from her mother. Have you seen Dr. McGregor?” “Aye,” Brian said, trying to assimilate the information he'd just read. “If you'll give them to me, I'll see she gets them.” The woman unclipped a thick wad of notes. “Please have her return her mother's call, will you?” “I sure will.” CHAPTER 45

It had been more than an hour since Bronwyn had spoken with Koenen Brell. Furious about his accusations against Cree, she had turned left at the intersection by the guard kiosk and left Baybridge. She drove toward Newton, Brell's words echoing in her mind. Unable to think about anything other than the jealous man's wild suppositions, she nearly lost her life. Had it not been for the wide shoulders, she would have hit a farm wagon broadside as it was pulled across the highway by a slow-moving tractor from one farm road to another. As it was, she careened around the vehicle on to the gravel shoulder toward an oncoming pickup. With the pickup's horn blaring, she turned back into her lane. Not a driver given to reckless behavior and never having been ticketed for any traffic violation, she was shaken and slowed enough to safely take her shoulder of the road. She stopped the car, got out, and rushed around to the passenger side and threw up, her narrow miss with wagon and pickup turning her insides to mush. Now she was back at Baybridge, still shaken and distracted by her near-death experience. With no conscious thought of doing so, she headed for the service elevator. The stench of death assaulted Bronwyn as she stepped off the elevator at the morgue. She slumped against the wall, covering her mouth with a trembling hand, trying to keep the nausea from erupting. “Are you all right, Dr. McGregor?”

She flinched, turning to see an orderly wheeling a gurney toward her. “I'm fine. Is Dr. Brell in his office?” “I don't know.” He gave her a strange look. “Excuse me, Doctor, but you are pale as a ghost. Are you sure you're okay?” “Yes.” On unsteady legs, she headed for Brell's office. Danyon was leaning against Brell's desk, his arms folded across his chest, when she entered. He smiled at her shocked expression. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You wouldn't have died, Beloved,” the Nightwind stated. “I was right there beside you in the car the entire time.” She stared at him. “What?” “Had it been necessary, I would have snatched you up and taken you out of harm's way. The car would have been destroyed, the drivers of the tractor and the pickup truck killed, but you would have been safe in my arms. I will never let anything happen to you.” At his bizarre statement, Bronwyn drew in a shaky breath, put a hand to her head, and realized she was well on her way to a wicked migraine. “I can take care of that, too.” Danyon pushed away from the desk. “Keep away from me!” Bronwyn hissed, stumbling back. She looked around. “Where is Dr. Brell?” “He was such a tedious fellow, don't you think? A pesky, boorish man.” “Was?” “Oh, I relieved the world of his annoying presence long ago, Beloved. He'll not be a bother to you ever again.” She backed up another step, realizing he had moved closer. “What kind of sick game are you playing, Danyon? I just spoke to him.” When he shook his head, his appearance changed, metamorphosing into Koenen Brell's persona. “No, Sweeting,” he denied in a thick Australian accent. “You spoke with me.” Bronwyn's eyes widened. His was a cruel, nasty smile that never reached his cold, reptilian eyes. There was a vicious twist to his mouth that gave lie to the soft words he spoke. “You have far too much power over me, Lady. My sword arm is yours, as it has always been at the ready to the house of McGregor. But now you have my heart, as well. What more may I do for you? How else may I show you my fealty? I have taken the life of a useless man who thought he could possess you. I am about to send another to hell. How else to show you my depth of feeling?” She reached for the Claddagh that was once more around her neck after long years of absence. To her, it was a talisman against the prime evil stalking her, sliding toward her as she backed out into the

corridor. “It will do you no good to call the Reaper,” Danyon told her. “By the time he gets here, we will be long gone.” “I'm not going anywhere with you!” Bronwyn shouted. She turned, intent on running, but to her stunned amazement, the Nightwind was beside her, his brawny arms circling her waist. Though she fought, she was no match for his inhuman strength. She struggled, screaming for help. “No one can hear you down here, Beloved,” he mocked as his hand came toward her face. The moment his fingers touched her brow, the lights dimmed. The room around her spun crazily, the walls and furniture spiraling faster and faster in dull flickers of green light. She squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the vertigo. There was a cold rush of wind, a strong scent of rotting wood, then complete and utter darkness. **** Ordin Gver heard the Nightwind's call and sat up, shaking off the form of the black dog he had come to enjoy. Humans loved to pat the animal's head and stroke his silky coat. They talked to the animal and played with him. They showed him affection. Not so the Bugul Noz, Ordin thought as he heard the clarion call once more. No one had ever touched him in his natural form. No human had ever shown him anything save horror and disgust. “Come, Friend!” the call continued. “I need you!” Though Ordin had come to dislike the Nightwind and questioned his motives, he had a debt he was obligated to repay. Danyon Hart had made it possible for him to learn how to transpose his body into different forms. It was a treat that had given Ordin a chance to interact with humans, have them touch him, know kindness and affection for the first time in his long life. It was a debt he must repay. Reluctantly, he stood, cocking his head to once side as the call came a final time. Sighing, he used his warty, humanlike hand to open Cree's door, took a quick look into the corridor to make sure no one was about, then shut the door and shape-shifted into Ralph. Dropping to all fours, he padded down the corridor. **** Brian looked up as Cree came into his office. “You look like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels, boy. What ails you?” The Reaper plowed a hand through his hair. “I told Bronwyn the truth about myself.” Brian grunted. He sat back in his chair and regarded Cree. “Now, that might have been a singularly bad mistake you made there.” “Is that why I feel like the world is off-kilter and me along with it?” Cree inquired, taking a seat in front of the desk. “Could be. You want a drink?”

“By the gods, no! That's the last thing I need!” “Piss poor Irishman, you are.” “But a damned good Chalean.” “Did she think so?” Brian inquired, and at Cree's wince, he nodded. “I guess not.” Cree sat forward and buried his face in his hands. “Why do I have the feeling I have screwed myself royally, Da?” Brian got up and put a hand on Cree's shoulder. “Did she run away screaming?” When Cree shook his head, Brian hunkered down beside him, his knees popping. “Did she tell you to go to hell?” “She said she needed time to adjust to having found out Sean is living inside me,” Cree said in a miserable voice. Brian drew in a long, deep breath. “That had to have been a right stunning surprise to the lass, don't you imagine?” “I know it was.” “Then give her time like she asks. Keep watch over her, but keep away until she's ready to come to you. My gut tells me that it won't—” Brian frowned. “Why are you looking like that?” The Reaper shot to his feet. “Something's wrong!” Brian pulled himself up as Cree sniffed the air, his amber eyes turning crimson. “What is it, lad?” he asked, a chill going down his spine. “I can't sense her. Brian, I can't sense her!” “Don't go Transitioning on me, now,” Brian insisted, alarmed at the red cast of the Reaper's eyes. “We'll find her. I saw her going to the morgue.” “The morgue? Why?” “She lost a patient this morning,” Brian explained, but before the last word was out of his mouth, his listener was running from the office. **** Ordin Gver had nosed his way into the stairwell, loping down the metal stairs to the place from where he sensed the Nightwind's call had originated. He morphed into humanoid form to open the doorway onto the floor, stuck out his head and was satisfied no one was about. Once more, he shifted into his canine form and trotted toward a door at the end of the corridor. **** Danyon was waiting impatiently for the Bugul Noz. As soon as the big black dog appeared, Danyon hurried forward to shut the door behind him, throwing a switch he had rigged a few hours earlier.

“You have need of me, friend?” Ordin asked as he resumed his natural state. “Aye, my dear friend. I have a request of you and it will be the last one I ever make on our friendship. Are you willing to help me?” Ordin inclined his bulbous head. “I have sworn as much to you.” “You might find it distasteful.” The Bugul Noz's chin came up. “That matters not. Ask your favor and I will grant it.” “I wish you to transform yourself into my lady.” Ordin's watery eyes blinked in surprised. “Into Bronwyn?” he asked, his gruff voice filled with shock. “I don't understand. Why would you want me to do this?” “The Reaper is on his way down here. I want him to catch she and I in a situation that will forever ruin their chances of being together. I want him to know I can have her whenever I wish.” Distaste flickered across the monster's face. “You want to have sex with me?” “No, no, no!” Danyon shook his head, shivering at the thought, despite himself. “I only want Cree to think that is what we've done.” He took a vial of fluid from the pocket of the lab coat he was wearing and uncorked it. “He will catch scent of this and know I have taken her.” Ordin recognized the unmistakable odor of male and female love juices. “And have you?” he asked, his ugly face sad. “Aye, we have known one another. And we will again, once the Reaper is out of the picture. I saved our combined fluids from that night.” Ordin's shoulders slumped. “This will hurt him deeply. He will never touch her again.” “That is the Reaper way once he has lain with a woman. He will cast her aside for betraying him.” “And you will be waiting to take his place.” “Aye, but think on this, friend—you will have him all to yourself from this day forward.” The Bugul Noz looked up. “You know?” “That you are in love with him?” Danyon glanced at the clock, knowing it would be a matter of minutes before Cree crashed through the door. “I am aware of your feelings, friend.” **** Ordin heard the noise at the end of the corridor. “Change, my loyal friend!” Danyon ordered. “Change now and we will both have what we want!”

Ordin had no time to think about what he was doing, for there came a pounding at the door. Danyon bid him hurry as the pounding increased. He heard Cree's bellow of rage. Oath-bound to do as he was bid, Ordin had no choice but to give in to the demand. “Do it now!” Danyon hissed, obviously sensing Ordin's capitulation. Gver pictured Bronwyn in his mind and shuddered, her physical shape settling over him like a silken coat. He looked down at his shape and was not displeased. A momentary flash of thought sped through his mind and he wondered what it would be like to have the Reaper hold him, to make love to him in this borrowed form. So engrossed in his own metamorphic change, he didn't notice Danyon had also taken a different shape until the blade buried itself deep in Ordin's belly. He knew he had made a terrible mistake. He had trusted the incubus and now his life was forfeit. “I am sorry, my friend,” Danyon said from the mouth of a stranger. He dragged the blade upward, slicing into Ordin's heart. “Your sacrifice will not go unmourned.” The last thing Ordin Gver saw was the door bursting open with a bang. He turned his eyes to the sudden flash of flames spreading across that side of the room, and through the crackling, searing heat, he saw Cree's terrified face. Though the Reaper was screaming, Ordin could not hear the tortured cries. As his stolen form sagged against the stranger/Nightwind who had gutted him, he knew Cree could never pass through the flames to what he thought was his ladylove. Reaching out his dying hand toward the only being he had ever loved, Ordin Gver died, Viraidan Cree's horrified face stamped forever on his soul. **** “Bronwyn!” Cree screamed, trying to find a way through the flames. The parasite was crippling him with pain in order to keep him clear of the leaping fire. He had caught the blended scent of Bronwyn's vaginal juices and the tormenting stench of Brell's ejaculatory fluid. The mental image of Brell straining against her, taking her, as she lay unconscious nearly drove Cree mad. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. “She's mine!” he heard Koenen Brell shout. “She will be with me for eternity! If I can't have her, you sure as hell will never put your filthy hands on her again!” The insane coroner was holding Bronwyn's limp body in his left arm, his right hand pressed between her breasts where the scalpel was buried. As the flames rose higher, shutting out the people locked in a deadly embrace, the fire alarm began to peel. Overhead, the sprinklers sputtered and came alive. But Cree knew it was too late to save Bronwyn. The flames surrounded her, but she was not feeling their lethal kiss. He had seen the moment her life had fled and it was a moment he would relive for as long as he drew breath. “Bronwyn!” It was an anguished cry that drove him to his knees. He drew in a deep, suffering breath, then froze as the scent of shed blood reached his quivering nostrils. Because of this distraction, he barely smelled another putrid odor that invaded the corridor, and barely felt the prick of the needle as it entered his neck. He reached up to cover the spreading sting. “See what your lust has done to Bronwyn McGregor?” a voice bid him. Turning his head, he found himself staring into the gloating, vengeful eyes of Ski'Ah Dubhgaoth. As

consciousness fled, his last thought was that the bloodscent he had inhaled was not Bronwyn's. CHAPTER 46

“What did you learn?” Dr. Wynth, Baybridge's D.E.O., asked when Sage Hesar entered the open door of Wynth's office. “They recovered two bodies.” Sage wiped a sooty arm across his forehead. “Both male.” Brian slowly looked up. “Both?” “One is definitely Koenen Brell. The fire didn't destroy his face entirely. They think the other is Nyles Brady.” “Who?” Brian asked. “The s.o.b. who killed all those animals in Missouri at the animal shelter? He's missing from Five North,” Sage explained. “They can't go by dental records because Brady was toothless and didn't wear dentures.” “Oh, him.” Brian looked at the floor, confusion running rampant through his numb brain. “Why did you think Bronwyn was down there, Brian?” Wynth queried. “I saw her take the service elevator.” Brian motioned for Sage to take a seat beside him. “Have they found her?” “We're still looking for her and Captain Cree,” Douglas Cahill responded. Cree's second-in-command had been standing silently on the far side of Wynth's office. He shrugged. “Neither answers their page. Chances are they're off site together and don't have their pagers on.” Brian knew differently. He had been too far away down the corridor to stop the tall, red-haired woman from disappearing with the Reaper. He had no doubt the malodorous smell that had assaulted him when he got off the elevator after Cree's descent had belonged to the Amazeen about whom Cree had warned him. Only two people had disappeared before his eyes—not three—so that left Bronwyn's whereabouts unaccounted for. “What was Brady doing in Brell's office, anyway?” Wynth demanded. “How would he have gotten there, is a better question,” Sage countered. “Inmate Brady managed to get out of his pod,” Cahill reported. “Obviously,” Brian grated. “How the hell that happened, I can't imagine.” “Well, we'd damned well better find out!” Wynth snapped. “We lost a good man to this carelessness. Koe will be sorely missed.” Brian and Sage exchanged a look. Brian knew Sage shared his feelings for Brell. Neither man had liked the coroner. Though Brell had done his job exceptionally well, his social skills had left something to be

desired. While Brian would not mourn him, neither would he say anything bad about him. “Do they know what started the fire?” Brian asked, changing the subject. “Not yet.” Sage, obviously bone tired, drew in a long breath. He had arrived at the complex from the airport just after the fire alarm started, and had seen the firefighters manhandling Brian out of the building. Brian's frantic shouts to Sage, begging him, anyone, to get Bronwyn out of the engulfed room, had pushed Sage into the building, outwardly mindless of his own safety. “The State Fire Marshall was there when I left. It probably won't be known for a few days.” “I want to take the security level to Six until we find Cree,” Wynth said. “No one in or out for the time being, all inmates in their pods and accounted for. I want responses from every staff member, whether on duty or not.” He pointed at Cahill. “Is that understood?” “Perfectly, Sir. Anything else?” “Find Cree!” Cahill snapped to attention and saluted, then dashed from the room. “I'm worried about Bronwyn,” Sage admitted, looking at Brian. “If she's with Cree, she's perfectly safe,” Wynth said. “Do you think she's with Cree, Brian?” Sage asked. Brian flinched. “No, I don't.” “Then where is she?” “I don't know,” Brian said, getting up. “And I won't find out sitting here.” He locked gazes with Sage. “Will you help me look for her?” “I've got a stake in finding her,” Sage said with a quick smile that slid almost instantly from his lips. He cast Dr. Wynth a passing look. “After all, she's now my stepsister.” “Go,” Wynth said, flinging a hand at them. “I'm worried about her, too. I'll hold off calling Neal and DeeDee until you men get back to me.” Brian took Sage's arm and led him into the corridor, moving close to the young man once they were out of Wynth's earshot. “We aren't going to find Viraidan. But Bronwyn is another matter.” Sage stared at him. “You think that was Cree's body in the morgue?” “I know gods-be-damned well it wasn't. If it isn't Brady, I don't know who the hell it is, and at this point I don't really care. We need to concentrate on finding Bronwyn and as quickly as we can!” ****

Bronwyn was listening to the wind skirling through the trees. She felt the chilly breeze blowing across her face and was reluctant to open her eyes. Comfortable where she lay—the cottony softness beneath her, the warm comforter snug along her body, and the soothing silkiness of the fabric pressed lightly against her cheek—had lulled her into gentle dreams from which she hated to be drawn. Sighing as a firm hand stroked her hair, she smiled. “Time to wake, Milady.” A pout formed on Bronwyn's lips. She gave out a moan of protest but opened her eyes. For a moment, she watched her bedroom curtains billowing, the white lace fluttering in the breeze. She closed her eyes once more and turned to her back. Lifting her arms to the sides of her head, she stretched, groaning as her muscles flexed. “Pease shut the window, Cedric.” The sound of the window closing, the cessation of the wind, brought her eyes open again. Expecting to see the aged Nightwind hovering at her bedside, she was not pleased to find Danyon Hart. “It's late afternoon, Beloved,” he informed her. “There are people looking for you.” She pushed up in the bed, her face tight. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” “Your machine is turned off and you weren't answering your pages. People are worried. I thought it best to wake you.” Looking at her watch, she was stunned to see it was well after 4 p.m. “Oh, my God!” she said, tossing back the covers. She stopped, staring at her nightgown. “What the hell is going on here?” Not prone to taking naps during the day, she would have never put on her nightgown to sleep. Suspiciously, she looked at Danyon. “Did you do this?” He folded his arms over his chest. “There was a fire in the morgue. Koenen Brell is dead.” Surprise lifted Bronwyn's eyebrows. “Dead?” “Do you remember being there with him?” Bronwyn looked at the comforter, her gaze straying back and forth over the floral pattern. She searched her memory and found a black hole, pieces of her day missing. A vague recollection of talking to Brell flittered through her mind but escaped as quickly as it came. “What's the last thing you remember?” Danyon pressed. “I was with Aidan. At the stables.” “And Brell drove up as you were leaving. Remember?” She put a hand to her head. “Vaguely, but—” “The two of you talked about Brell's concerns regarding Cree.” “Concerns about what?”

“Do you remember going to the morgue to confront Brell?” “Confront him? Why would I have...?” “He suggested that Cree had been killing your patients,” Danyon said, his eyes holding hers, not allowing her to look away. “He was more astute that I gave him credit for, since that was exactly what the Reaper has been doing.” A memory slithered insidiously through Bronwyn's mind and snatches of her conversation with Brell returned. “You went to the lab and got into an argument with Brell,” Danyon insisted. “He tried to stab you, but you got away. You ran into the corridor, passing Nyles Brady, who attempted to grab you. Remember? You kicked him, ran to the stairwell, and as you snatched open the door, you looked back and saw him struggling with Brell. You watched in horror as Brady dragged Brell into the lab and the slammed the door shut. Do you remember?” Bronwyn was lost in the Nightwind's stygian gaze. Slowly, she saw the scenes unfolding in her mind's eye, accepting them as truth as the tragedy played itself out. “Do you remember?” Danyon repeated. She nodded, unable to break free of the hold his dark orbs had on her. “Good,” he said, putting out a hand and drawing her to her feet. She allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. He nestled her against his chest and cupped her head in one strong hand. “Listen carefully to what I tell you, Beloved,” he said, his voice the only sound she could hear. “Heed my every word and know it to be exactly as things occurred. Understand?” “Yes, Danyon,” she answered automatically. “You fled the morgue, running up the stairs to find a call box from which to let security know what was happening. You heard the fire alarm go off and it startled you. Understand? You tripped on the stairs and fell, hitting your head on one of the risers. Do you feel the bump?” Bronwyn touched the raised knot on her left temple. “Yes.” “Your head is hurting, is it not?” A slight whimper escaped her lips. “Yes...” “You don't know how long you were out, but when you woke, the air was thick with smoke. The klaxons were peeling and you could hear people running. Understand? You were disoriented, and instead of going up the stairwell, you went down, well past the morgue level and to the containment cells below.” He tipped up her head and stared into her eyes.

“Do you know how you gained access to the containment cell area?” Bronwyn reached down to her hip and pantomimed digging into a pocket. She brought up her hand, her fingers clutched around a phantom key. “I had this in my jeans,” she said. “Good. What happened then?” Bronwyn blinked for a moment, then a memory congealed in her mind. “I went into the containment area and locked the door behind me. My head was hurting so badly, all I wanted to do was lie down.” “Did you?” “Yes,” she said in a monotone. “In one of the cells.” “On the floor?” “There was nowhere else to lie.” “Where was your pager?” “I had left it in my apartment.” “Where was Cree during this time?” She cocked her head, thinking. “I don't know.” “Do you remember arguing with him?” Bronwyn nodded. “What did you argue about?” She suddenly felt deep regret. “He asked me to marry him and I told him no.” “Why would he have asked you to marry him?” A blush spread over Bronwyn's cheeks. “We've been having an affair, but I had decided to break it off.” “Why?” “He had become too possessive.” “What did he say would happen if you broke off the relationship?” “That he'd leave and I'd never see him again.” “Did you believe him?”

“Yes.” “That's good,” Danyon whispered. “Because you never will.” Bronwyn felt a deep sorrow, but remained silent. “What happened after you let yourself into one of the containment cells?” “I must have passed out from the pain in my head.” “How long were you out?” “I don't know.” “Then you woke. What did you do then?” “I went to the elevator but it wasn't working, so I went to the stairwell.” “And that will be where they will find you,” Danyon said, releasing her. He stepped back. “Change your clothes, Beloved.” Bronwyn moved away from him, pulling the silk nightgown over her head as she walked, and slipped back into the clothing she had worn earlier in the day. When she was dressed, she turned to await his next orders. “Take my hand,” he said. She slipped her fingers into his palm. In the twinkling of an eye, light and sound fled. Bronwyn awoke to find herself staring up into the relieved gaze of a firefighter. “I've found her!” the man shouted, hunkering beside her. “Ma'am, are you all right? Are you hurt?” Bronwyn lifted a hand to her injured head. “I think I've got a concussion.” **** Brian closed the clinic door behind him. Sage Hesar and Briton Wynth were talking as he joined them. “How is she?” Sage asked. “She's resting,” Brian replied. “Dr. Hesar has admitted knowing about those specialty cells. I think you've got some explaining to do, Dr. O'Shea,” Wynth grumbled. “We can talk about that tomorrow,” Brian said. “I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open.” “Cahill sent one of the security men to Cree's apartment,” Sage said, catching Brian's eye.

“And?” “All his personal stuff is gone.” “What about the bike?” “It's still in the parking lot.” “He couldn't have left on the bike with his possessions,” Wynth argued. “The staff car assigned to Cree is missing. That must have been what he took.” “And the dog?” “No sign of him,” Sage replied. “Obviously he took Ralph with him.” “The thing is, there's no record of Cree having left Baybridge at all,” Wynth complained. “How the hell did he leave without us knowing?” “I doubt security bothers to check his movements,” Brian suggested. “Why should they?” “Everyone is supposed to be checked in and out!” Wynth snarled. “And they sure as hell will from now on!” “Whatever,” Brian mumbled. He was tired, and although he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, he wanted nothing more than to go to his apartment and lie down, to think over the day's events. Relieved that Bronwyn was safe, he was deeply concerned about Cree, knowing full well the Reaper was in serious trouble. “Why don't you go rest, Brian?” Sage proposed. “I'll be here if she should need anything.” “I don't know anything else I can do,” Brian said. “I've got a call in to her mother,” Wynth said. “Perhaps I should go back to my office and wait for her call.” “Good idea,” Brian agreed. “If they hear about the fire on the news, they're bound to be worried.” “Then that's what I'll do.” Wynth slapped Sage on the back. “Call me if Bronwyn's condition changes, will you?” Sage nodded. “You'll be the first to know.” Wynth left, nodding officiously to those he passed. “He's already given Cree's job to Cahill,” Sage grumbled. “It doesn't matter,” Brian said. “The Reaper won't be coming back.” Brian turned and headed down the corridor. His footsteps dragged and his shoulders slumped, his weariness equal parts fatigue and sorrow. Viraidan Cree was gone—a captive of the Amazeen who had

tracked him across the universe—and with him, all traces of Brian's lost son, Sean. “If the Amazeen should ever get me back to their home world,” Cree had once remarked, “there will be no trial. I'll die in the auto-de-fé cage.” The thought of Cree/Sean dying in such a horrendous way brought tears to Brian's eyes. **** When Bronwyn woke, the urgent need to relieve herself pushing her from slumber, the clinic was quiet. The soft glow from the nightlight near the floor kept the darkness at bay. Not wanting to have to deal with a nurse, Bronwyn aside pushed the covers and got up, clutching her IV pole from which hung a plastibag of glucose. “What do you need, Beloved?” Danyon asked from the room's deeper shadows. Bronwyn gasped. Irritated the incubus had once more infringed upon her solitude, she refused to answer. Dragging the IV pole with her, she headed for the restroom. “Why do you insist on ignoring me?” Danyon queried from his chair. “Because you're a pest,” she said through gritted teeth. Struggling with the pole, she managed to get into the restroom. When she was finished, she opened the door, annoyed further that Danyon was still there. “Go away.” “Not this time.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the tips. “The time for obeying you is long passed.” She glared at him. “And why is that?” “It would be easy to put whatever thoughts I deem necessary in that pretty little head of yours, but the time for doing that is over, as well.” Bronwyn's hand around the IV pole tightened. “What are you talking about?” The truth of what the incubus had done shifted through Bronwyn's mind as though it were a video she had been watching. The scenes moved from the stables to the morgue to the vast, chilled blackness of the Abyss where she had been taken. The overpowering loneliness of that evil place, the harsh, howling wind, the sulfurous smell of decayed wood and stagnant primordial ooze, the wicked dampness of the rushes upon which she'd lain, rushed up to stagger her. There was the image of the morgue once again as she observed the Bugul Noz transform himself into her. She saw Danyon shapeshift into Koenen Brell, the gleaming scalpel clutched in his fisted hand. As she watched in growing horror, the scalpel was thrust into the belly of her look-alike while she heard Aidan's anguished cries of denial. “No,” she whispered, realizing her lover must believe her dead. The scene flashed to Cree's stricken face as flames roared around him, keeping him from coming to aid the “dying Bronwyn.” There was infinite despair stamped on the twisted features of Viraidan Cree. Driven to his knees by what he was seeing, he was oblivious to the spectral figure that materialized at his side.

“Do you know who she is?” Danyon whispered. “An Amazeen.” Bronwyn whimpered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Aye. But not just any Amazeen, Beloved. She is Ski'Ah, the one whose family owns the Reaper.” Bronwyn slumped against the wall, burying her face in her hands to shut out the awful images. “No,” she wailed, sliding to the floor. “Have you any idea what they will do to him?” Danyon asked, coming to squat down beside her. “Don't,” she pleaded, choking on her misery. “I believe you can imagine. No need for me to go into the gruesome details.” Bronwyn's keening was like that of a wounded animal. She did not have the strength to bat away the hand that was laid on her head, smoothing back her tousled hair. “But it need not be,” Danyon whispered silkily. “There is a way to save your lover, if you are so inclined.” She slowly lifted her head to search his malevolent eyes. Danyon nodded, his smile as lethal as the fire's of hell. “What would you do to save the Reaper from his richly-deserve fate, Beloved?” Bronwyn saw the answer before her. She read it in his expectant face. “No,” she said, knowing that if she gave in to him, her life would no longer be her own. “Will you leave him to his fiery death?” She shivered, a bone-deep cold settling throughout her body. She wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering. “Remember what Sean looked like when you visited him in the hospital?” Danyon probed. Another keening cry issued from Bronwyn's trembling lips. “Imagine the pain, Dearest. The agony of the flames searing away the Reaper's flesh. Can you feel the kiss of the fire?” He circled his hand in the air and a quick flash of intense heat wafted over Bronwyn. She gasped, the smell of burning flesh strong in that brief moment. Pressing against the wall, she stared at him with horrified eyes. “He has felt those claiming fingers before and survived,” Danyon reminded her. “This time, he will not, and the agony will be ten times ten what he felt when his ship crashed.” “Please,” Bronwyn cried, knowing she had no choice, her heart breaking.

“All you need do is lift one hand,” Danyon encouraged. “Lift your hand and I will take from it a single scarlet drop of your precious blood.” He lowered his voice. “That is all it will take to save Cree from death.” A parchment scroll appeared out of nowhere, hovering in the air only inches from her face. Bronwyn stared fearfully at the spectral document, its page lit with an unholy, greenish light. “Sign the Pact, Beloved,” Danyon whispered, his voice as sultry as a lover's sigh. “Sign and I will spare the Reaper's life.” She tore her eyes from the parchment. “How?” Danyon smiled. “I will go to Amazeen and fetch the bastard.” Hope soared in Bronwyn's breast. “You can do that?” “Of course.” She held his gaze. “Will you?” “Ifyou sign the Pact.” She knew he was as duplicitous as any demon ever spawned in the hellish realm. Trusting him had no doubt proven to be the downfall of many women through the centuries. To do so blindly would be a folly she might well have cause to regret. “Swear to me you will go after him,” she said. “Have I not just told you I would—ifyou sign the Pact?” “On your love for me,” she said, stressing every word, “swear you will not harm him nor let anyone or anything else on Amazeen harm him. Swear you will return him to me as he was the night he and I lay in one another's arms.” The incubus’ face grew hard as stone, the handsome plains creasing with hatred, anger, and envy. “You ask much of me, Beloved.” “Swear it, Danyon.” “I will bring him home,” he said from between clenched teeth, “but I will not let him have you! You are lost to him forever once the Pact is signed!” A shaft of hopelessness stabbed through Bronwyn's heart, but Cree's safety was more important than her happiness. She had the means to free him, to keep him safe. She would do anything to see that achieved. “Bring him back safely. See to it the Amazeen do not come after him again. See to it he leaves in peace and I will sign your infernal Pact.” Danyon studied her face for a long time. “This you swear?”

“Only if my Beloved is safe from all that would cause him harm.” “You will uphold the pledge that you will be mine?” “Is that what the Pact entails?” she countered, having no idea what was written on the glowing parchment. “When you sign, you swear to be my lover for as long as you draw breath. You promise to give yourself only to me, as a wife to her lawful husband. You pledge to do as I bid. This you must do as you sign.” Bronwyn hesitated for only a moment, but the thought of the man she loved standing in harm's way was the only impetus she needed to give in to the blackmail. “Where do I sign?” A feathery quill materialized in her hand. “Give me your left hand,” Danyon ordered, his voice quivering with what sounded like anticipation. Not allowing herself time to back out, Bronwyn extended her hand. She sucked in a quick breath as she felt a painful prick on her middle finger. A crimson drop beaded on her fingertip. “Dip the quill in the blood and swear as you write your name across the page,” Danyon told her. She put the tip of the quill to her wound and was not surprised as the blood was drawn into the hollow shaft. Her hand trembling, she put the quill to the parchment. “Swear, Beloved,” Danyon stressed. “I will be your lover for as long as I draw breath,” she said and scrawledBronwyn across the page. “I will give myself only to you and do as you bid while we are together.” Her last words were spoken as she wroteMcGregor upon the parchment. Obviously thrilled that Bronwyn had signed the Pact, Danyon did not seem to notice the phrasing of her pledge. As soon as Bronwyn took the quill from the page, he snatched the parchment, rolled it up, and threw his arms around her. “I pledge to lay the world at your feet, Beloved,” he said, raining kisses on her cheeks and forehead. “I will forever be your champion.” Bronwyn endured his hateful touch for as long as she could stand it, then pulled away. “Now, do as you swore,” she said, her eyes fused with his. “Bring Cree home.” “It will take me a while to—” “Get himnow ! Before they can hurt him!” Danyon lifted his hands. “It will take me but a matter of moments to make the trip to Amazeen, but longer than that to bring him home.” “Why?” she asked, fearing she had been duped. “It is much farther to Amazeen from here than it is from here to my lair, Beloved,” he said in a voice

more befitting a grownup talking to a backward child. “I could not carry him as I carried you to the Abyss. Amazeen is beyond the boundaries of your galaxy and deep within one at the very edges of the universe.” She stared suspiciously at him. “You're lying.” “Beloved, no. I would never lie to you. I could not.” He reached for her hands. “Give me time and I will bring him back here.” “How much time?” “Five, six weeks.” “Five—” He shushed her. “But he will be safe with me! I swear I will bring him back to Earth as he was the night he forced himself upon you.” “Then go,” she said, striving to keep her secret thoughts from him. “Bring him home.” Danyon pulled her to him and kissed her, his lips hard against hers. She kept still, hating the touch of him, but knowing she had no choice. When he released her, it was all she could do to refrain from wiping her mouth. “I am yours, Beloved,” he said, putting a hand to his heart. “I will do as you have asked.” One moment he was hunkered before her, the next he was gone, only a lingering scent of brimstone in the air to mark his departure. She had no choice but to trust him. In her heart of hearts, she had no intention of making good on their bargain once he returned. As soon as Aidan was safe, she would take her own life, foiling the demon the only way she could to keep from spending a lifetime at his mercy. When she had sworn to give herself only to him and to do his bidding as long as they were together, she had already made the vow to kill herself. **** With Sage walking quietly beside them, Brian held Bronwyn's hand as they escorted her back to her apartment. She had been silent and withdrawn upon her release from the clinic and the men were obviously worried about her. They had vowed to see her comfortably settled in her apartment before taking their leave. At the door, Sage used Bronwyn's key and let them in. He turned on the lights, for rain was once more hammering at the windows and the day was dark, filled with thunder and black clouds. “Can I get you something to drink?” Brian asked as he led her to the sofa. She shook her head and was about to ask them to leave when the phone rang. “Let the machine catch it,” Brian told Sage, who had started to pick up the receiver.

The trill of the instrument sounded strange to Bronwyn. When it trilled again, she told Sage to answer it. “Sweeting, I think whoever it is can wait,” Brian suggested. “You know it isn't your mother.” Sage looked from Bronwyn to Brian, for the phone was still ringing, well past the four rings necessary for the automated system to engage. He lifted the receiver. “Dr. McGregor's residence.” Sage listened for a moment, then cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. “It's a lady in Florida. She says it's important.” Bronwyn could not recall anyone in Florida to whom she'd given her private number. “Did she give a name?” Brian asked, as if sensing Bronwyn's wariness. “May I ask your name?” Sage asked into the phone. “Lauren Fowler?” Bronwyn frowned. “I don't know anyone by that name.” “Ask her to leave a message,” Brian ordered. Sage's forehead crinkled. “Well, I don't know,” he said into the receiver. “That seems—” The hairs on Bronwyn's arms stood up. “What did she say?” Sage scrunched his shoulders. “She said to tell you she has a Nightwind of her own and knows what you're going through.” Bronwyn shot up from the sofa and yanked the phone out of Sage's hand. “Who are you?” As the woman spoke, Bronwyn felt various emotions, running the gamut from unrestrained fury, to fear, to absolute evil. “I see,” Bronwyn said when the woman finished. “May I ask how you got my name?” The answer increased Bronwyn's anger. “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Fowler, and no, I'm not angry at you. I'm grateful you called. I'm sure there are quite a few such women. You certainly are doing them a favor, and helping to set my situation to rights proves your good intentions. If you'll express mail the instructions for what I need to do, I will take it from there.” Bronwyn listened, then shook her head. “That's not necessary. I appreciate your offer, but I don't want to put you to the trouble. If I run into problems, I'll let you know. Yes, thank you. I will be in your debt forever.” When Bronwyn hung up the phone, she turned her narrowed eyes to Brian. “I need you to go with me to Des Moines.” “Make I ask why?” Brian asked. “There are things I need to buy.” CHAPTER 47

Ski'Ah stared down into the Extended Sleep Unit and knew a moment's supreme satisfaction. The Reaper was deeply under the influence of the cinera she had administered to him on Terra. Every hour, a light dose of the drug was introduced into his system by the syringe she had placed into the carotid artery of his neck, thus keeping him under the drug's control. “We are approaching Montyne Vex, Lady Ski'Ah,” the ship's cybot informed her. “Give me the particulars for that planetoid.” “Montyne Vex,” the cybot responded, “is a harsh environment of jagged rock formations, blowing sand, and a vast cave system running throughout the steep plateaus. There are underground wells, but no surface water. Devoid of humanoid inhabitation the animal life consists of—” “I care not about the life there! Tell me what purpose it holds. Is it a refueling station?” “No, Milady. At one time, it was a penal colony held by the Daughters of the Multitude. The prisoners were—” “Reapers.” Ski'Ah smiled. “Aye, and a depository for Reaper remains.” Ski'Ah braced her hand on the E.S.U. “What are the odds of a passing ship stopping there within the next few days?” The cybot calculated. “One in two thousand, Milady.” “And are there containment cells strong enough to hold this one?” “There is one cell, Milady. The door is nine inches in depth and reinforced with titanium locks that are impenetrable except by laser blasts.” “But will it hold him?” “The cell was not meant to hold the Reaper for any length of time, Lady. Data suggests the manacles would not hold should he go into full Transition.” “Then what good are they?” Ski'Ah hissed. “Reapers were kept under the influence of light doses of cinera while they were being disciplined and—” “You mean tortured,” Ski'Ah breathed, caressing the top of the E.S.U. as though it were a living lover. The cybot sighed audibly. “If you prefer that terminology.” “After the torture?” she asked, circling the E.S.U. slowly, never taking her eyes from Cree. “They were beheaded with a Dóigra and their bodies incinerated in the Cave of Fire.” “Ah,” Ski'Ah sighed, imaging such a fate for the Reaper in her grasp.

“Do you require any other information regarding the planetoid, Milady?” “Take a reading and tell me how long ago humanoids have been within the Punishment Circle.” “Four cycles, Lady Ski'Ah,” the artificial intelligence unit answered. “Data reports a Serenian L.R.C. stopped to repair a hull breach. “The crew remained on Montyne Vex for less than a rising. They did not venture into the cave system. Data reports no humanoids have gained access to the Ritual Chamber or those chambers beyond for nine cycles.” “Are there any ships in the quadrant nearby?” she asked, formulating a plan. “None registering, Lady.” “So passersby are not something I need worry about.” “It would appear not.” Ski'Ah narrowed her eyes. “When was the last Reaper slain on the Vex?” It took a bit longer for the cybot to download that information from the ship's computer. “Five point six megacycles.” “Five and a half Terran centuries.” Ski'Ah's gaze held on the Reaper's handsome face. “Could this one be the last of his kind?” “There is a ninety-nine-percent chance he is. If there are others, they would be on Chale, but the odds are against there being another like him alive today.” Ski'Ah nibbled on her thumbnail as she stared into the unconscious face of her captive. She knew if she returned him to Amazeen, the Council of Elders would declare him the possession of the Terran female and never allow the execution that was due him. Neither would they administer the punishments necessary to appease the death of her ancestor. She also knew there would be Amazeens who would wish to breed by him, who would willingly take his vile flesh to themselves to produce more Reaper offspring in the hopes of discovering a way to harness the lethal power. “That I will not allow,” Ski'Ah said through clenched teeth. “Never again will a Reaper be allowed to harm an Amazeen warrioress!” Closing her eyes and ears to her present surroundings, she went back in her mind to the Obelisk in the Shadowlands, where she had conferred with her long-dead ancestors during her initiation rite into the Sisterhood. She heard again her namesake's entreaty to be avenged; saw again the anguished look on the dead one's fire-destroyed face; felt the anger that had long-denied the ancient Amazeen warrioress peace in the Afterworld. “Find him, Little Ski'Ah,” the older Ski'Ah had demanded. “Find him and punish him so I will know justice has been served for what he did to me!” Now, staring into Cree's handsome face, Ski'Ah knew a moment of intense spite. She longed to see that face ravaged, as was that of her ancestor, the flesh sloughing off in long, blackened strips. She longed to inhale the fragrance of his burning flesh and to revel in the howls of his agony as flames devoured his filthy body.

“You must atone for your sins,” she snarled, digging her nails into her palms. “If I return you to Amazeen, you will never know the punishments you deserve. You might even find a way to escape and return to your mate.” “Montyne Vex ahead, Lady,” the cybot said. Ski-Ah weighed the chances of ever having a Sister find out about the Reaper's existence. If things went as she planned, no Sister would. Viraidan Cree would join his unholy ancestors in the Cave of Fire and no one would be any the wiser. For a moment longer, she went over the possibility of having her plans discovered, disregarded the slim chance, then ordered the cybot to put down on the planetoid. **** The sky over Montyne Vex was a deep gray, looking bruised and battered by the fierce winds that howled across the steppes. As the cybot trudged along with the unconscious Reaper slung over its mechanical shoulder, Ski'Ah dragged her feet through the thick chiaroscuro sand. Keeping the hood of her red cape pulled over her nose and mouth so she would not breathe in the swirling dust, she shivered. The wind was ice-cold. Low banks of fog obscured the regions to the south. To the north, snow clouds were gathering. She was amazed to hear thunder in the distance and see the occasional flash of lightning stitching through the dark clouds. “How much farther?” she asked. The cybot turned to give her its respectful attention. “Up the next steppe, Lady Ski'Ah. It is to that plateau to which we travel.” Ski'Ah squinted against the intruding dust and looked at the vast rock formation that jutted overhead. The jagged cliffs of the plateau were forbidding. A fall from the plateau would result in being impaled by sharp cone-like protrusions rising from the base. “A most inhospitable climate is Montyne Vex,” the cybot commented. Ski'Ah clutched the cape tighter at her throat, wishing she had thought to wear gloves, for the pelting sands scoured her fingers raw. Luckily, she had taken along her goggles, or she would have been blinded by now. As the cybot began its climb up the plateau, Ski'Ah held back. She had no desire to have a blast of wind catch her cape, sail her off the flat surface, and drop her onto the deadly spires at the plateau's base. “When you have him manacled,” she called, “come back for me!” “As you wish, Lady.” The cybot easily climbed the plateau and disappeared into the dark maw of a cave. By the time the cybot returned, Ski'Ah was shivering violently from the cold, her lips trembling, her hands frigid claws that seemed frozen to the fabric of her cape. “W...what took you so l...long?” “I had to inject the Reaper,” the cybot replied. “He was waking.”

A tremor that had nothing to do with the intense cold washed over Ski'Ah. The thought of the Reaper escaping, taking out his vengeance upon her, did not set well. “C...carry me into the c...cave.” “Aye, Milady.” The cybot lifted her into its steely arms and turned to the plateau. Ski'Ah was not concerned with being swept over the side and onto the rocks with the cybot's surefooted tread. The cybot had gyroscopes that made it easy for the A.I.U. to maintain balance. A sudden blast of wind would be measured and the counter forces employed to keep the cybot erect and earthbound as it moved. “Do you wish me to bring supplies from the ship, Lady Ski'Ah?” “Aye,” she said, realizing the cybot had turned on its internal heating coils so that her body was being warmed in its mechanical embrace. “Bring water and a meal for me.” **** From his perch high atop one jagged spire, Danyon Hart watched the Amazeen being carried into the cave. He was squatting on the rocky formation, his wrists resting on his knees, his body buffeted by strong, harsh winds, and reveling in the artic cold that washed over him, whipping his black hair about his head. His open shirt flapped wildly, the cold kissing the wiry hairs on his chest. He drew a deep breath of frigid air into his lungs. Snow was coming, and it would be a brutal fall that would cover the land with a thick carpet of numbing cold that would last for months in this clime. He had read the turbulent history of this violent land and understood that in summer, the plateau beneath him would be red-hot to the touch, the sands a scalding torment to those unfortunate enough to land there. But in the winter that was approaching on the horizon, this plateau would know blizzards unlike anything Earth could imagine, while the lands to the south would be sizzling hot. By his reckoning, full winter was one, maybe two, days away. He looked at the starjet far below. It had taken the craft two weeks to soar its way from Earth to this barren rock, only a few thousands miles from the wormhole that led to Amazeen. It would take it another two weeks to travel back the way it had come, the Reaper at the controls. While it had sped toward Montyne Vex, Danyon had ridden the heavens unseen with the Amazeen and her pathetic captive, though neither had known he was there. Not even the artificial intelligence unit had been smart enough to discern his lurking presence. The Reaper—unconscious in the E.S.U.—would have made an easy target had Danyon been inclined to dispatch him where he lay, but the Nightwind's promise to his lady must be upheld. As much as he would like to see the last of Viraidan Cree, he stayed his hand from taking the Reaper's miserable life. The Amazeen had proved an eager receptacle for the suggestions Danyon had whispered into her ear about Montyne Vex. A slight detour on her way to Amazeen, a little diversion that would make her happy and cause Cree untold agony, might prove entertaining. “Swear you will not harm him nor let anyone or anything else on Amazeen harm him,” Bronwyn had made him pledge.

“By my hand he will not suffer,” Danyon said to the shrill winds. “Nor will anyone or anything on Amazeen harm him.” It was all in the wording, he thought, grinning. He stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the barbaric lands spread out before him. Danyon was looking forward to the next few hours. **** Cree groaned as he woke. The vile taste in his mouth was far worse than any carrion flesh he had smelled in his lifetime. He had a headache unlike any he'd ever known and was so sick to his stomach he dared not open his eyes for fear he'd throw up. Not that he could lift his head, he thought, for he was boneless, numb everywhere, but at the agony spearing his temples. As his head was jerked up, the back of his skull slamming into something solid, he gasped, gagging at the pain. “Puke on me at your peril, Reaper,” a harsh voice screamed. Forcing open his eyes, Cree found himself looking into the face of his own death. “Aye, you know what is going to happen. Do you know where you are?” Ski'Ah inquired, her eyes gleaming with victory. He knew. The moment he saw the craggy walls surrounding him, he knew. The Amazeen called it the Abattoir, but the planetoid had been named Montyne Vex. It was the torture ground, the killing field of his kinsman, and despite himself, he felt fear. He knew he was chained with his arms and legs spread-eagle to the wall behind him. There was enough sensation in his body to know he was naked from the waist up, for the flesh of his back pressed against slick stone. Barefoot as he hung suspended off the cell floor, he felt the drag of the manacles on his ankles. And he knew what was coming. “I am your executioner, Reaper,” the Amazeen taunted. From the corner of his eye, Cree saw a cybot moving about, bringing in instruments of torture he had heard about as a boy. Ski'Ah turned to look in that direction. “Too bad the A.I.U. could not find the Rods of Discipline,” she said with a sigh, then looked back at her captive, her gaze traveling to the juncture of his thighs and back to his face. “I would have taken great delight in administering them.” The cybot and its loathsome arsenal was not all Cree had seen. He was stunned to discover the incubus standing nearby, a wide grin on his evil face. “You need a witness to my death, woman?” Cree mumbled, mortally ashamed when a helpless drool accompanied his words. “The cybot cares nothing for what I am going to do,” Ski'Ah snorted. One look at the Nightwind's grinning face—one thick brow jutting upward in mirth—and Cree knew the

warrioress was unaware of his presence. When Hart crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the cell wall, Cree understood the demon would not lift a finger to help him. “You helped her to capture me, didn't you?” he threw at the incubus. “Try not to snivel when she tortures you, Reaper. It would be so unmanly.” Ski'Ah frowned. She looked about, as if feeling a presence but unable to see one. For a moment, she seemed unsure of her plan, then she suddenly relaxed. “Bastard, giving her a silent suggestion...” Cree muttered. “Silence!” Ski'Ah slapped Cree, the force snapping his head to the side. Danyon chuckled. Grabbing a handful of Cree's curls, the Amazeen dragged back his head and stared into his eyes. “You would tear me apart if you could get your hands on me, wouldn't you, beast?” “Unchain me and see, bitch.” Ski'Ah snapped the fingers of her free hand. “The grata,” she ordered the cybot. The instrument placed in her hand looked like a short-handled garden tool, a six-inch-wide row of five sharp teeth, glistening in the light cast by the rushes overhead. “Let's see how much of a man you are, Reaper!” Ski'Ah spat. Cree sucked in his breath as the device gouged into his flesh, but he made no other sound. He held Ski'Ah's vindictive stare, refusing to cast his eyes toward the incubus. Ski'Ah drew the tines of the instrument down Cree's chest, from his neck to his belly. As blood ran down the center of his torso, Cree felt the cuts begin to close, the parasite's healing power almost instantaneous. “I bet that hurt,” Danyon suggested silently. Cree refused to rise to the demon's baiting, though the Amazeen had hurt him. The pain should have been minimal, but with his flesh tingling under the influence of the cinera, he realized his pain threshold had been lowered considerably. For the second time, fear formed within him. “She's going to cause you great pain before she's finished,” Danyon remarked, obviously intercepting Cree's unguarded thought. Cree cut his eyes over to the incubus. Hatred such as he had never known drove deep into his soul. As much as he hated the Amazeen, what he felt for the demon was ten times stronger. That hatred exploded into savage fury as Danyon flung at him a mental picture of Bronwyn and the demon lying in her bed, their bodies entwined, Bronwyn's arms wrapped around him. Ski'Ah jumped, her eyes widening as a howl of rage peeled from Cree's throat. “Cinera!” she screamed to the cybot, moving aside so the artificial intelligence unit could thrust the syringe into Cree's neck.

Despite the thrust of the needle into his flesh, the red-hot sting of the drug shooting through his veins and causing crackling noises within his head, Cree did not succumb to the injection as he knew Ski'Ah had anticipated. The cinera did not cause immediate unconsciousness, nor, he assumed, did it bleach out the vermillion glow in his furious gaze. Danyon pushed away from the wall, as if half-expecting Cree to pull free of his fetters and come at him. He looked at Ski'Ah. “The Dóigra!” she yelled, likely receiving another mental suggestion. “Quickly! Give it to me!” The cybot slapped the Dóigra into its owner's hands. Ski'Ah thrust the weapon toward Cree, pressing the white-hot bulb at its end to his belly. As the tip touched Cree, a star-shaped burn blackened his flesh. He howled in agony. Danyon's eyes flared. Obviously, the odor of burning flesh, the ripple of involuntary muscle movement that shuddered through Cree stunned and excited the demon. “Hit him again.” Ski'Ah touched the Dóigra to Cree's body, holding it to his right pectoral. Cree writhed in torment. “Again,” Danyon whispered. With each new press of the Dóigra, Cree convulsed, his screams reverberating through the cell. By the time his upper torso and underarms were scored by the sizzling burns, he was whimpering, his anguished eyes locked on the Nightwind. Though agony engulfed his body, he no longer struggled against the torture, for he had no strength left. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth when he bit his tongue. “Demon, please. No more.” The Amazeen laughed, jabbing him forcefully with the Dóigra. “We are just beginning, Reaper! The worst is yet to come!” She stuck him again. “Please!” he screamed, his eyes locked on Danyon. “Enough,” Danyon said. Ski'Ah's maniacal chortles of glee drowned out the command. She stabbed Cree again. Cree howled in agony before Danyon grabbed the Dóigra from Ski'Ah's hands. She turned, her face contorted with rage. Outwardly shocked to see him, she did not move. But as full realization set in, her lips peeled back from her teeth. “You!” She came at him with her fingers curled into claws. The demon batted her away, shoving her against the wall. Her head hit the stone and she slid to the floor in an unconscious heap. Before the cybot could come to its owner's aid, Danyon spun around. With a sweep of his hand, he incinerated the mechanical being where it stood. Just as Danyon turned around, Cree, now sagging against his manacles, passed out. ****

Danyon drew in a long, calming breath, exhaled slowly, then walked over to his rival. He hated to unchain the Reaper. If he could leave the beast, he would, but he had sworn a pledge and he would make good on his word. Up close, the livid burns on the Reaper's flesh bothered Danyon. It was not the stench nor the blackened skin peeled back from Cree's ribcage nor the pain such wounds had brought that concerned Danyon, but the knowledge that it might take longer than a few days for the parasite to heal the numerous inflictions. It would not do to take Cree back to Bronwyn in this condition. “You are more trouble than you are worth, beast.” Danyon cursed as he knelt to break the fetters around the Reaper's ankles. He wrinkled his nose when he realized Cree had pissed himself during the torture. Standing, Danyon removed the bands around Cree's wrists, allowing the Reaper to sag into his arms for a moment before dropping him none-too-gently to the floor. He stepped back, annoyed with the scent of Reaper fetor on him, and brushed his hands down his shirt in an attempt to rid himself of the offending odor. Knowing he couldn't, he kicked the unconscious man, cursing him. **** Cree grunted, then groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. He was too weak to move, wondering why he was on the floor, staring at a pair of dusty boots. “Get up,” Danyon snapped, prodding Cree's hip with his toe. “You're alive.” Though he hurt in a thousand places, Cree managed to flip over to his back, gasping as the flesh over his chest cracked open in a half-dozen areas. It was all he could do not to whimper and had to grit his teeth. “Are you sane or will I be forced to take a gibbering fool back to my lady?” Danyon questioned. “The Amazeen...?” “Over there.” “Alive?” “Aye. I've left her to your tender mercies.” Cree opened his eyes and stared up at the Nightwind. He knew better than to ask for any assistance. “Get up,” Danyon said, nudging him again with the toe of his boot. “There is a storm coming and I suggest we leave before it hits.” Cree forced himself to a sitting position, drawing in a sharp breath. “How long will it take you to heal?” the demon asked in a bored voice. Cree looked down at his chest and winced. It took most of his energy just to raise his head again. “A week...maybe more... “Hell.” He looked at the Amazeen. “What do you want to do with that garbage?”

Glad only to be alive, Cree couldn't have cared less. He didn't even glance at Ski'Ah as he forced himself up to a crouch, panting with pain, his head sagging between his quivering arms. “You disgust me almost as much as the bitch.” With a snort, Danyon bent over, put his hand under Cree's armpits, and levered him to his feet. “Get up, Reaper!” “Merciful Alel!” Cree gasped as he stumbled, then kept his feet. He stood wavering in pain, the support of the Nightwind's hands removed. “You think that's pain? I willshow you pain.” Before Cree could react, he felt the demon's hand on his arm, then found himself teetering on the edge of a vast crevice beneath which a bubbling cauldron of lava sputtered and hissed. “That is the Cave of Fire, Reaper,” Danyon said, pointing to the heaving mass of liquid flame. “From the Abattoir they brought your kin here and dropped them in. Can you imagine the agony they felt?” Cree didn't have a chance to answer, for the Nightwind shifted them through time and space, deeper into the cave system. Cree looked at row after row of skulls sitting on ledges that disappeared into the darkness. “Their heads might have been gone, but the parasite went into the fire pit with the bodies.” The room filled with the screams of a thousand Reapers. A momentary scene of a long-lost kinsman—his head lopped from his body by a Dóigra, his mouth open in an unending scream of agony as his flesh dissolved in the Cave of Fire—brought tears to Cree's eyes. “You are the last of your kind.” Cree shook his head. “Gallagher...” “I slew that bastard long ago. Think you I would have left anyone alive who hurt my lady as did that filth? He took Milady's bantling—I took his worthless life!” Despite the pain pulsing in his body, Cree straightened and locked gazes with the demon. In the dark eyes, he read the truth of what the incubus was saying and knew that was why he had been unable to locate Alistair Gallagher all those years. “The Amazeen would have killed you if I had not been here to stop her. If you leave her alive, she'll come after you again. Either kill or allow me the honor. Your choice matters not to me.” Cree knew the warrioress must die. “How far is it back to where...?” he began, only to find himself standing in the cell again, the Amazeen slumped at the base of the wall. Danyon stepped back, giving Cree room. “End her uselessness, then we'll dispose of the body. You need no evidence left that you were here.” Cree painfully made his way over to the woman, who was waking from her enforced sleep. He squatted down beside her, took her head in his hands and twisted, snapping her neck as easily as though it were a

sliver of straw. “You were easier on her than I would have been,” Danyon said dryly and pushed Cree aside so he could lift the warrioress. As he straightened, he raised an inquisitive brow to Cree. “I know what I'm about, Nightwind,” Cree said. Though he did not have the strength to carry the Amazeen to the Cave of Fire, he wanted to be there when she was dropped in. “You ask much of me. Put your hand on my arm and let us be done with this.” In the blink of an eye, Reaper, Nightwind, and Amazeen were at the rim of the Cave of Fire. As Danyon held the limp warrior, Cree put his face close to Ski'Ah's. “Burn in hell, you conniving bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, grinning hatefully at the rapidly blinking eyes that stared back at him in abject horror. Danyon took a step closer to the pit's edge and released his burden to the popping, hissing lava. As the warrioress fell, her mouth open in a silent scream, the demon smiled. The two men stood there for a moment, staring into the spot where the Amazeen's body had erupted into flame. “She felt the kiss of the fire,” Danyon said. “Good,” Cree said. “I meant for her to.” Danyon took one last look at the cauldron, then turned. “Think you're strong enough to find your way to the starjet?” When Cree didn't answer, he pressed further. “Want me to transport you there?” “Put your hands on me one more time and I'll barf,” Cree snapped. “I have your stench slimed to me now.” Danyon shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pushed past Cree, chuckling. “I'll see you at the craft.” His pride refusing to allow him to ask for any assistance, Cree crammed his hands into the pockets of his dusty jeans and tightened the muscles of his jaw. He hurt so badly it was difficult not to groan with every step he took. **** When Cree reached the starjet, his jeans were caked with packed snow and he was shivering uncontrollably from the intense cold. His cheeks stinging from the blistering ice crystals, his chest and arms numb, his hands frostbitten, he had trouble gaining access to the interior of the craft. When he did, it did not help to see Danyon reclining shirtless at the captain's console. “Are you cold, Reaper?” the demon queried as he swung a leg that dangled over the chair arm. At Cree's growl, Danyon made a tsking sound. “And I didn't think Reapers ever got cold. How is it you look as though you're half-frozen?” Cree refused to answer. He yanked open the door of a utility closet and rummaged around until he found a dark green pullover. Wincing at the color, he ground his teeth and pulled the offending garment

over his head, thrusting his arms into the sleeves with barely a grunt of discomfort. “You do know that's a woman's tunic, don't you?” Ignoring the insulting remark, Cree stomped over to the navigational panel and stared at the screen for a moment. “It didn't occur to me that you might not know how to fly this thing,” Danyon said. “I'm sure after a couple of thousand years there have been an improvement or two. I would certainly understand if you admitted you weren't up to the task.” Cree sat down and typed in commands as fast as his stiff fingers would allow. “Do you know how to fly it?” Danyon asked with a yawn. “What difference does it make to you? Why don't you take yourself back to Terra and leave me be?” “Normally I would be more than happy to, but I promised Bronnie I'd see you home in one piece.” When Cree glared at him, the Nightwind shrugged. “I could easily transport you back before you could say what is on the tip of your tongue, but we're going to have to let you heal first.” The engines engaged. The dark screens scattered across the room pulsed into life. A low rumble caused the starjet to gently vibrate. “You knew she wasn't the one I killed in the morgue,” Danyon accused. “How was that?” Cree narrowed his eyes. He had not known it was the demon in Brell's form that fateful day. In retrospect, he realized he should have suspected as much. Turning his back on Danyon, he busied himself entering the data necessary to return them to Terra. “How did you know?” “Think you I would not have recognized my mate's bloodscent, demon? It was not her blood you spilled.” “Damn. I did not think of that. Do you know who it was I gutted?” “I don't know and I don't—” “Your pet. Ralph, was it?” Cree felt momentary hurt before he turned away, his thawing fingers moving faster across the console. “Oh, I should explain,” Danyon said. “Actually your Ralph was the Bugul Noz I befriend long ago. No harm, no foul, as they say.” Cree stopped typing to stare at the screen before him, where numbers flashed by in a long sequence. A Bugul Noz—he knew of such creatures, but had no idea he had ever come into contact with one. That he had, that the demon was being truthful, he did not question. Things made sense to him in a twisted sort of way, and he looked down at the console pad and began inputting more coordinates. When he moved from the navigational console to the pilot's seat, he refused to look at the smug incubus.

“Will the Reaper miss his wittle doggie?” Danyon asked in a childish singsong. “I'm so soweey.” The starjet shuddered as the main thrusters lifted it off the planetoid, blowing the accumulated snow away from its landing gear as the struts were drawn up into the craft's belly. “I'd tell you to strap in, but I don't give a Diabolusian warthog's prick whether you do or not,” Cree said, pulling the flight harness across his chest, willing himself not to feel the pain of his numerous burns. Danyon barely had time to grab at a nearby chair as the starjet took to the air, banking sharply to the right as it picked up speed and arced into the black reaches of space. CHAPTER 48

Deirdre McGregor Hesar reached out to cover her daughter's hands. “Is there anything I can do?” Bronwyn eased her hands from beneath her mother's. “I'll be fine as soon as Aidan returns.” DeeDee exchanged a look with her new husband. “What if Cree doesn't come back?” Neal Hesar asked. Bronwyn lifted her chin. “He will.” “But, Bronnie—” DeeDee began. “I'm glad you're back, Mama.” Bronwyn opened the door. “And again, congratulations to you and Dr. Hesar.” “Neal,” her stepfather insisted. Bronwyn moved into the hallway. “Neal,” she repeated, smiling. DeeDee stepped forward, looking like she was about to protest her daughter's leaving, when men appeared in the hallway, walking from the direction of Bronwyn's apartment. “What in the world?” Bronwyn stepped aside to let the movers pass. “Just a little temporary housecleaning while I redecorate, Mama.” Her mother stared after the men who were carrying the bedroom furniture she and Bronwyn had purchased in Des Moines. “You're redecorating so soon?” she inquired, outwardly aghast at Bronwyn's capriciousness. “Just changing a color here and there. I'm not getting rid of anything.” She smiled. “Not yet, anyway.” “Redecorating is expensive, Bronnie. We spent a small fortune and I—” “Let me worry about it.” Bronwyn looked at her watch. “I have to get going.” Her mouth twitched. “I have to get ready for my guests.”

“What guests?” DeeDee asked, and likely would have questioned Bronwyn further, had not her husband reminded her that her daughter was a grown woman and entitled to her own life. “But—” “No ‘buts,’ DeeDee.” Neal drew his wife back into their apartment, waved goodbye to Bronwyn, and firmly shut the door behind him. Bronwyn let out a relieved breath. Her new abilities—honed from spending nearly every waking hour of the last five weeks with a thick book clutched in her hands—were holding her in good stead. Glancing again at her watch, she hurried down the hall. The movers had cleared out the room. The carpet had been taken up, the vertical blinds removed. Bronwyn looked around, then turned to the man who had supervised the movers. “Are you ready?” she asked Brian. “As I'll ever be.” “Then let's do it!” **** Cree cut the engines and allowed the starjet to settle gently into orbit on the dark side of Terra's moon. He shut down all unnecessary systems and engaged the autopilot. “I still say you should destroy this craft,” Danyon fumed. They had argued about the starjet's fate for most of the journey. “If I'm not allowed to stay with Bronwyn,” Cree snarled, “I will return to Chale where I belong.” The Nightwind rolled his eyes. “I'm not buying that. You think you'll cause us problems, but I promise, I will see to it that you won't!” Cree ground his teeth. The argument was starting to get to him. He glared at the demon. “As much as I hate to admit it, you saved my life, and I am honor-bound to you for that.” “And I've told you, I don't want your gods-be-damned thanks! I didn't do it for you!” “I wasn't thanking you! Truth told, I would just have soon died than return here to have you forcemy mate to do your vile bidding!” “She was mine long before you ever met her!” Danyon declared. “As a McGregor clanswoman she—” “Shut the hell up, incubus!” “She signed the Pact!” “I know what youforced her to do. What choice did you give her?”

“If you think to tell her about the Amazeen,” Danyon said, his lips pulling back over his teeth, “I would think again!” Cree's body was almost entirely healed, although a few bone-deep burns still oozed—the Queen had difficulty closing the scorched flesh. His strength back, his fury and hatred as strong—if not stronger—than ever against the incubus, he wanted nothing more than to make mincemeat of the demon. The thing was, he didn't think he would be able to defeat an entity that could shift into nothingness before his eyes. “Think hard on that.” The demon chuckled, obviously intercepting Cree's reluctance. Cree's thoughts turned bleak. There was another thing that bothered him greatly—he owed the Nightwind a debt of honor over and above the incubus having saved his life. With no tenerse, no sustenance on board, Cree knew he would have gone mad with hunger during the two-week flight had not the Nightwind disappeared, then reappeared, with what was needed. “Where did you get that?” Cree had often asked. “What do you care?” Danyon grumbled as he tossed the plastibags of sustenance to his rival. That the incubus had fed him, been there to inject him with tenerse, had irritated Cree. Shamed by having to endure being cared for by his hated enemy, the situation was barely tolerable. “I told her I'd bring you back as you were before you were taken,” Danyon declared, “and that I intend to do.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cree snapped, tired of hearing Danyon's words. Danyon stared at his enemy for a long time then decided he would have to find a way to kill the Reaper without Bronwyn knowing. He would never feel truly safe with her as long as the beast drew breath. There had to be a loophole somewhere in the pact she and he had made. It was all in the wording, he thought, and turned his agile mind to finding a way out of his predicament. Cree ignored the pensive demon as he began the final check of the starjet. He synchronized the transport module with the device he had pinned to his shirt, making sure it would work should he need to return to the ship. With the coordinates set for the lower level of the Baybridge complex, it would be possible for him to transport to the containment cell area without detection. “Or,” Danyon said, “I could just pick you up and—” “Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” Cree shouted, unnerved by the demon's ability to read his mind. “Have it your way,” Danyon quipped and disappeared. “Damn you!” Cree bellowed, knowing the demon would arrive at Bronwyn's before him. With a howl of rage, he slapped at the transport device on his chest and grimaced as he began to de-materialize. It hurt, and he hadn't been prepared for that. ****

Bronwyn was sitting on the sofa of her apartment when Danyon appeared. Her hand tensed on Brownie's silky fur before she looked up. “Danyon!” she gasped, coming to her feet. The incubus smiled. “I am home, Beloved.” He went to take her in his arms, but she jumped back. “Where is Aidan?” A frown marred the handsome plains of Danyon's face. “Oh, he'll be along.” Again, he moved toward her, his arms outstretched. Bronwyn moved away. “You told me you would bring him home!” “I have,” Danyon replied, looking hurt. “Did I not pledge I would?” “Then where is he?” Bronwyn asked, trembling, her lips quivering. She clutched at the doorjamb behind her. A momentary bright light pulsed through the room, then Cree was standing there, swaying. “Aidan!” Bronwyn would have rushed to her lover, but Danyon held out his hand. “You promised to give yourself entirely to me,” he reminded. “You've seen him and now he will—” “Danny, no!” Bronwyn pleaded, her hand out to him. “Don't send him away yet. Let me talk to him!” “I think not. You see he is all in one piece, none the worse for wear.” Cree glared at his rival and did not speak. “Allow me ten minutes with him, Danny,” Bronwyn begged, tears falling down her cheeks. She could sense the pain her lover was experiencing. “No,” Danyon said, shaking his head. “Five minutes?” Bronwyn countered. At his continued objections, she asked for three minutes instead. “What harm could it do?” Danyon glanced at his enemy and likely saw the same hopelessness stamped on the rugged features as Bronwyn saw. “Twominutes. And no more.” Bronwyn held out her hand to her lover. “Aidan?” As if trying desperately to ignore some agony, Cree walked to her and took her hand. His gaze locked on her face, like he was striving to remember it. “Milady,” he said, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Come with me.” She began pulling him into the room behind her.

“No, Beloved,” Danyon ordered. “You will stay where I can see you.” Bronwyn gripped Cree's hand. “Come with me.” “I told you no!” Danyon snarled. Bronwyn yanked hard on Cree's hand, unmindful of his gasp of pain as she jerked him into the bedroom. Cree was oviously stunned by what he saw, for he put up no resistance as Bronwyn propelled him to the center of the room. Looking at the floor, his eyes widened. “Do not step one foot outside the circle,” she demanded. He looked into her eyes and nodded as the Nightwind rushed through the door and came to a skidding stop. “What have you done?” Danyon hissed. With Cree's hand still clutched tightly in hers, Bronwyn faced the demon. “How is it my mate has suffered great pain?” Danyon's lips parted. “How did you—” “Did I not bid you to see that no harm befell him?” The incubus lowered his stare to the pentagram drawn across the bedroom floor. It was a protection, a barrier through which Bronwyn knew he could not travel. While she was within the circle, he could do nothing to her, nor could her lay hands on Cree. “Answer me!” she ordered. Danyon shook his head. “You asked that no one or nothing harm him on Amazeen. He never reached Amazeen, Milady.” “A clever twisting of my words, was it not?” Bronwyn sensed that Danyon didn't know how she had become aware of her witchling destiny, nor how she had embraced it. Only an adept, such as she had become, could have placed the pentagram in the precise way it needed to be drawn. Only someone who knew what she was about could have helped her assemble the things that lay on the floor. “I am the last of the McGregor female line,” she said, her chin raised. “No further female issue shall be brought forth from my womb.” The incubus flinched, as if knowing he had been beaten at his own game. “I am sorry I deceived you,” Danyon said, moisture creeping down his cheeks. “Not as sorry as you will be!” ****

Cree looked from the blood-red pentagram at his feet to the doorway where Danyon hovered. He saw fear on the incubus’ face and began to realize a serious change in circumstances was taking place. He moved closer to Bronwyn, somehow knowing his—and her—salvation lay in her actions. “What excuse do you give for trying to cheat me, demon?” she asked. “My love blinded me to the rightful paths I knew I should trod!” Danyon confessed. “You would not accept me, though I did everything I could to entice you. You chose another. That I could not allow. You are a McGregor, and as a McGregor, you belong to me. I will have you at all cost.” “And a great price you shall pay for what you have done.” “Forgive me, Beloved.” Danyon fell to his knees in an obvious attempt to placate her. “I am yours to command.” He lowered his head, his right hand covering his heart. “I know you are!” Cree heard the triumph in her voice. He tore his eyes from the demon to look at her and was stunned to see true evil lighting her beautiful face. Danyon likely saw it as well as he locked eyes with her. “Lady, no,” he pleaded, putting out a hand. “You will hie yourself back to your lair, demon,” Bronwyn commanded. “Beloved, no!” “And there you will stay until you are called forth once more by a female born of the McGregor line!” Tears cascaded down his waxen cheeks. “But you are the last!” Bronwyn's smile was as evil and cold as a demon's heart. “Aye,” she whispered, her green gaze flooded with fire. “That I am.” “There will never be another call for me!” “No, there won't.” Bronwyn raised her arm and commanded he leave. “Please! I will not go!” Cree chuckled. “Will the Nightwind miss his wittle lady? I'm so soweey.” “Go to hell, Reaper!” Danyon bellowed. “You first,” Cree insisted with a wide grin. “Raphian, come!” Bronwyn ordered. Cree caught the stench of sulfur only a second before the Destroyer of Men's Souls shot through the bedroom wall and grabbed the demon in Its maw. With a crunching sound, the Supreme Evil Entity fled, dragging a screeching Danyon Hart by the throat back through the gaping hole that had exploded with His appearance, sucking in on itself to close as though it had never been.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Cree whispered, falling back on the Sean Cullen part of him that had witnessed the scene with horrified eyes. “They had no part in it at all, at all,” Bronwyn sighed. “Is he gone?” Cree asked with a hard shudder. “Aye—and will never return.” He looked at the pentagram. “Is it safe to leave this evil thing now?” “Not yet. I have a few wrongs to right before I'm done.” EPILOGUE

“And I'm looking forward to meeting you, too, Lauren,” Bronwyn said. Cree were lying with Bronwyn in her bed, in what had once been her guestroom. “We'll see you on Saturday?” Bronwyn inquired. “Bye ‘til then.” The Reaper took the receiver from her and hung it up. “Turn off the light, please,” she said. He did as she bid, then sighed as she settled against his chest, her head in the crook of his arm. He held her to him, breathing in the scent of lavender that clung to her long hair. They entwined their toes, tickling one another. “Lauren is anxious to meet you,” she said, twirling her finger around a lock of his chair hair. “Umm,” he said, his contentment making him unusually sleepy. Since “The Night of the Pentagram,” as he had labeled that fateful event, he had been able to sleep almost as naturally as any healthy human male. He knew it was having his mate at his side from dusk to dawn that eased his fears and brought him peace, making it possible for him to rest. “She reminded me that I should put furniture in the old bedroom so no one will be tempted to lift the rug and discover what I have underneath.” He looked at her. “Are you going to leave that gods-be-damned thing in there?” “For now.” She caressed his chest. “I think I'll turn it into a sitting room, with just a wicker love seat and chairs. Something easy to move, if need be.” He sighed, laid his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes. “If need be.” “We could use it, you know.” He frowned. “How?”

“We could send those who transgress against the laws of God and man to the Abyss. There would be no need for a trial or for sentencing or for incarceration in a place like Baybridge. No need to use the death penalty. They would simply disappear into the unknown.” Cree opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He found her suggestion held merit. “Not kill those offenders, but send them where they will never harm anyone again?” “Precisely. No harm and no foul and no additional taxes to drain the people's pockets.” “No harm and no foul,” Cree echoed and tore his thoughts from Danyon. “Of course, there would be a need for a bounty hunter, if you will, to go after the evil ones.” Cree pondered the matter a moment more, then decided he felt comfortable with it. “I suppose I'll be sent to fetch these miscreants.” “As soon as we find out about them. There'd be no chance for them to do their evil a second time.” “I like the sound of that, Bronnie, though there are only so many hours in a day for a Reaper to be hunting, you know.” Bronwyn ran her foot up his leg. “Are you getting old on me, Reaper?” “I am already older than Methuselah ever dreamed of being.” “But not as old as me,” another voice said. Cree sat up in the bed to glare at the aged Nightwind. “Did I tell younot to trespass in here again? Get the hell out of this bedroom!” Cedric yawned as he shifted his ancient body in the rocking chair. “You say a lot of things, beast, to which I have no intention of paying heed.” “Cedric,” Bronwyn warned. “Take your chair into the living room and don't sneak back in here again. You know how Aidan feels.” “Think you I care, Beloved?” Cedric inquired, his lower lip thrust forward in a pout. “I am honor-bound to protect you. That one is—” “My husband, Cedric,” Bronwyn reminded the demon. “He can protect me, and will.” “So, get gone, you foul—” Cree snarled, but Bronwyn shushed him with a poke to the ribs. “Please do as I ask, Ceddie,” she bid the demon. “Oh, all right.” The Nightwind grumbled as he unfolded his stiff limbs. He cast Cree a nasty look, then picked up the rocking chair and left, banging the chair against the door as he went. “I'll not have that—”

“Yes, dearling,” Bronwyn said, putting her fingers over his lips. “Iam your husband. Legal and—” “I know, sweetheart.” “I am all the protection you need!” “Indeed, you are.” “And get off my leg!” Cree barked, kicking at the other animal pressing against him. The big black dog snorted and sprang off the covers, shapeshifting in mid-air to land in his humanoid form at the side of the bed. Ordin Gver drew in a huge lungful of air, farted loudly, and walked sedately from the room. “By the gods, I'm going to have him neutered!” Cree bellowed, fanning the air. The gas from the Bugul Noz's body was a hundred times worse than his body odor. “Brownie wouldn't appreciate it,” Bronwyn stated, as if immune to the stench. “But I promise it would give me the greatest of pleasures!” “No,” Bronwyn replied, wrapping her hand around the soft flesh at the juncture of his thighs. “I promise I'm going to giveyou the greatest of pleasures, my love.” She spent the rest of the night making good on her promise. Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlotte Boyett-Compo is the author of more than two dozen novels, the first ten of which are the WindLegends Saga. For nearly three full years, Charlee has remained—first with Dark Star Publications, and now with Amber Quill Press—the company's most popular and best-selling author. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer's Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia, and now lives in the Midwest. Most any fan of electronic books—or fans of dark fantasy and suspense—has at least heard her name mentioned, if not purchased at least one of her many offerings. This prolific author has not only managed to gain multiple nominations and awards for her work, but better still, has built a fan base whose members border on the “fanatical.” Currently, Charlee is at work on at least several books in her various series and trilogies. AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC Quality Books, Print And Electronic Horror

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