Black Moon Reaper

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

BlackMoon Reaper ISBN 9781419916205 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. BlackMoon Reaper Copyright © 2008 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Edited by Mary Moran. Photography and cover art by Les Byerley. Electronic book Publication August 2008 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

WESTERNWIND: BLACKMOON REAPER Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Prologue

On the agricultural world of Ildathach A horned owl swooped across the blood-red moon, field mouse struggling in its brutal talons. The giant span of its wings cast an elongated shadow upon the frost-laden ground as it spread over the ragged peaks of drying corn bundles. White tails twitching, a herd of deer moved slowly, gracefully through the field in search of the stray ear of corn. Raccoons and foxes scavenged, causing the dried leaves to rustle eerily in the midnight stillness of the late October night. Little gray mice scurried among the debris left from the harvesting and Phelan Kiel was dying. His body lay crushed beneath the weight of boulders—piled one by one upon him until his ribs had cracked and his bones broke. In agony from the judicial torture under which he had been sentenced, the breath slowly leaching from his wrecked body, blood trickling from ears, nose and mouth, Kiel prayed for the death coming to take him. No longer able to make even a single sighing sound, he silently begged for release, for an end to the agony. “Die, Phelan. Die!” Able only to turn his head, he gave in to the need to take one last look at his accuser. Standing a few yards away, Truian Sayle was the only villager who had stayed to see the execution to its end. That was only because Truian had a vested interest in making gods-be-damned sure Phelan met his fate, that no last-minute words were spoken so the sentence would be stopped. Truian wanted Phelan gone beyond this world. Their eyes met—tormented amber and triumphant gray. Once upon a time those amber eyes had gazed into the gray with love—deep abiding love and rampant desire. Now they revealed only sadness and regret, and the light was fading in the golden orbs. “Die,” Phelan heard Truian whisper again. “Let go your life and leave me in peace!” Though no words could be spoken, Phelan struggled to mouth three last words then the light faded from his eyes. He stilled with his dead gaze locked eternally on his accuser. One final hiss of air—the death rattle his watcher had been waiting to hear— pressed from his body and he was gone. Truian Sayle released a long, ragged breath, turned and began walking away from the body of a man who had once been friend. At dawn tomorrow the village priest would come to lay the final stones over Phelan’s face—a face believed to be the most handsome in the Province. Hopefully the predators would not destroy that glorious visage before it could be sealed forever beneath the canopy of stone.

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Cresting the hill, Truian heard the loud whomp-whomp-whomp of mighty wings and stopped. It was a struggle not to turn and look back as the Gatherer winged to the body to pluck Phelan’s immortal soul from the remains and carry him either to Sheidaghan or Iurin—Heaven or Hell. For just one wild moment Truian started to turn, to gain a look at the Transporter of the Dead, but that moment passed and the one responsible for Phelan Kiel’s death continued on over the hill.

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Chapter One “That had to have hurt like hell,” Reaper Second Class Iden Belial commented. “Sure trumps my freezing to death in an ice cavern on Othar.” Phelan and Iden were sitting on Phelan’s back porch in the Vircars Territory, watching the sun go down and listening to the cicadas whistling through the trees. Their conversation was unusual for Reapers rarely discussed among themselves how they had come into being. Death was their constant companion, but talk of it was avoided if at all possible. Once having experienced it, none wanted to repeat the ordeal. But this late afternoon was different and the Reapers had opened old wounds, old memories, putting voice to things that bothered them. “Aye, it did,” Phelan agreed, “but not as much as Truian’s betrayal.” He pushed his bare feet against the porch rail, causing his chair to rock as he sipped the remaining whiskey in his glass. “Betrayal always hurts more than physical pain,” Iden observed. He too was bootless, sitting with his ankles crossed over the rail, relaxing in the rocking chair, the cool breeze ruffling his dark hair. “Do you think Owen has forgiven Eanan for his betrayal?” Phelan asked. Iden laced his fingers together over his flat belly. “Aye, I believe so. Being a father has mellowed Owen.” “Poor Eanan with three women,” Phelan said, shaking his head. “How does a man keep his sanity about him being lover to three women at once?” His fellow Reaper chuckled. “I still can’t believe any man would be so foolish, yet Eanan is a bit different,” he said. “But, there again, it was Morrigunia who put his feet on that slippery slope.” He wiggled his bare toes. “Just as She put our feet on every slick slant we’ve ever known.” “Sometimes at night I wake in a cold sweat thinking about when I died,” Phelan said. “I remember the pain searing through my back when She transferred the hellion into me. I often wonder if Truian saw Her that night.” “Hard to miss a huge copper-scaled dragon bearing down on you,” Iden said. “I well remember watching Her approach me in the cavern, hearing Her claws scratching against the ice and thinking ‘Boy, you’re toast’.” Phelan nodded. “She came to me as the Old Woman of the Triune,” he said. “I never saw Her as the dragon until much later. In that form She is something to behold.” “Aye, She is.” Iden swiveled his head on the back of the rocker. “How came you to be pressed to death instead of hanged? Isn’t hanging the prescribed sentence on

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Ildathach for what was considered your crime? It is on Othar and every other world I know except this one.” A slow smile formed on Phelan’s lips. “They could not hang the son of the king, Belial. That punishment is reserved for commoners.” “You were a prince?” Iden queried, shock making his eyebrows shoot up into the thick thatch of black hair hanging low over his forehead. “For what it was worth,” Phelan said, and finished off his whiskey. “Firstborn son, ill-conceived child, the blackest sheep our clan had ever known because I declined the Teiyt.” “The Chosen One,” Iden translated. Phelan’s voice was regretful. “Aye. Never in the long history of the Kiel Clan had such a thing been done. My parents were shamed by my actions and could not understand why I had done such a thing until the day I was brought before the Halley Çhymsee, the Sacred Assembly Hall, and my sins were laid before it. I disgraced my clan.” “Did you see it as a sin, Phelan?” Phelan closed his eyes. “Love is never a sin in the eyes of those in love,” he replied. “It is only a sin in the eyes of those who make it so.” “I don’t consider it a sin,” Iden said. “Not my preference, but if it’s yours, I’ll defend your right to it.” Opening his eyes just as the last rays of the sun faded from the horizon, Phelan turned to the youngest Reaper of the cadre. “I thank you for that, Iden.” “Judge not lest you be judged.” Iden shrugged then drew his legs in, stood and stretched. “I’d best be going. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.” “You can spend the night, you know.” “I know, but I’ll have a few hours of travel under my belt by the time I’m ready to call it a day.” He looked out over Phelan’s property. “I feel twitchy, you know? Itchy. Like I need to be home.” “Aye,” Phelan agreed. “I’ve been feeling that way ever since we left the Citadel. I’m going to be leaving at first light to inspect the far western parts of my territory. I haven’t been over that way in a while.” “I can’t get Lord Kheelan’s words out of my mind,” Iden said as he hitched up his leather uniform pants. “About the Ceannus leaving behind cybots programmed to awake at a given time. When is that time, Phelan, and where?” “If the Shadowlords don’t know, how are we supposed to?” Phelan countered. “That’s not all that bothers me. Glyn believes he brought something here to this world far more evil than Raphian or the Ceannus.” “But what?” Iden questioned.

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“I’ve no idea,” Phelan replied. “I spoke to Glyn before we left the Citadel and he is worried, Iden. He thinks this new threat is hiding deep under the waters off the coast of either Vircars or Flagala so that makes it our dominium, yours and mine.” “Could that be what’s making me so gods-be-damned twitchy?” “Or me as nervous as a long-tailed Elfinish in a room full of warriors with hobnail boots,” Phelan answered. “And the thing is, Lord Kheelan believes it was this new entity that caused the problem with Glyn not being able to use his psychic powers and him Transitioning out of cycle. Those are two problems we sure as hell don’t need. We need to keep track of one another, stay in touch mentally, and this Transitioning out of cycle is a pain in the ass.” “So, there are two potential tribulations facing us,” Iden said. He doubled his right fist then held up his thumb. “Cybots in sleeper cells awaiting activation at the Ceannus’ command and,” he held up his index finger, “some kind of demon lurking off the coast who might slither onto land at any given moment to wreck havoc with our people.” “That about covers it,” Phelan said, “unless there’s something else hiding out there we’ve yet to discover. Hell, there could be more balgairs or ghorets slithering about for all we know.” “Ghorets? Fucking shut your mouth! Don’t even think such a thing, Kiel!” Iden said, and shuddered. Iden’s words amused Phelan since it was unusual for the young man to curse, and to hear him do it tickled Phelan—whose command of vulgar language was legendary among the Reaper squad. “Just be careful when you camp tonight,” Phelan told the young Reaper. “Zip your sleeping bag over your head.” “Fuck you and the nag you humped in on,” Iden said, and stomped to the porch door, yanked it open, slamming the portal behind him. Laughing to himself since he was also legendary for his bizarre sense of humor, Phelan lowered his legs and stood, took one last look at the falling darkness and went inside to find his partner perched on a chair arm. “Poor Belial,” he said as Iden drew on his boots. “Can’t take a joke.” “Ghorets are nothing to joke about, Kiel,” Iden snarled. “I’m sure Cynyr would agree.” “Sorry,” Phelan mumbled, although he was hard-pressed not to laugh again. All Reapers feared one thing—ghorets—and the bite of one of the vipers would kill a human outright and make a Reaper wish he were dead. “Sure you are,” Iden snapped, and rose from the chair. “You’re a wicked bastard, you know that?” “Never said otherwise,” Phelan said, and held out his hand. Iden slapped his palm to Phelan’s wrist as Phelan gripped his. “Be safe, Kiel. Nár lagaí Alel do lámh!” he said, asking that Alel not weaken Phelan’s hand.

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“Yours either. Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat,” Phelan answered with the blessing of “May the Wind be always at your back”. He followed his partner out to the front porch. Long after Iden had ridden away, Phelan stood staring out into the darkness with his hands dug into the pockets of his leather pants. Like Iden, he was antsy, jumpy, uneasy but unable to understand why. He flexed his shoulders—feeling as though something were sitting on them, pressing him down—and that was a sensation he hated above all others. “You will be taken to Cur Meeonnor Er and there your sentence will be carried out at the setting of the sun. There you will be sealed away, your remains outside the sanctity of the Ruillick.” The magistrate had pronounced his death sentence with great glee and with a brutal smile upon his aged face. Those gathered in the assembly hall had nodded approvingly. Even Phelan’s parents had agreed with the punishment though neither ever spoke to him again after his arrest. They had turned their backs on him, shunned him—as had his brothers and sisters—and then declared him dead to their clan, his name stricken from the genealogical roles. “Just ridding the world of the blight,” Phelan said aloud. It still hurt after all these years. He knew what it was to be an outcast, a pariah. He was alone except for the men of the Reaper cadre. They were his only friends, his only companions, and while in moments of utter depression he sought out a human to satisfy his need to be touched, to be comforted, to be eased, he was always careful not to form any kind of sexual or emotional attachment to the one who relieved him. Mates were for the other Reapers and never for him. One visit to willing arms, to an accommodating mouth and that was all. “And I have Truian to thank for that,” he said. Never again would he put his faith, his life into the hands of another. Truian had taught him a very painful lesson and had walked away without a backward look. “Declare your accomplice in this vile business and you will be spared the pain,” his lawyer had begged him though Phelan knew the man could not have cared any less whether Phelan suffered or not. “I will see you are given Maiden’s Briar before they place the first rock.” There were times—like that very moment—when Phelan sometimes wished he had named Truian, but what good would that have done? Truian would have been brought before the assembly, condemned and hanged for a crime Phelan had instigated. He had protected the one he loved to the very end though the one he had loved had testified against him at the trial. “I saw him with someone but I can not tell you who that person was. They were naked in the orchard but their backs were to me and I ran, not wanting to witness the despicable act.” Truian’s words had sealed Phelan’s fate that afternoon.

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An owl screeched in the woods and Phelan jumped, unnerved by the sound for the owl was the Signiat, the symbol of his clan. Withdrawing his left hand from his pants pocket, he reached up to rub the dark blue tat of a knotwork owl that had been burned into his flesh across the left side of his forehead and partway along the temple. The tat symbolized patience, yet of all the Reapers, that was something Phelan was short on. His amber eyes narrowed as he thought of Iden’s words—“I’ll have a few hours of travel under my belt by the time I’m ready to call it a day”—and made a snap decision. As nervous as he was, as on edge, he knew he’d not sleep this night. Sleep was one thing none of his kind did well, and lying awake thinking of the past was not productive. He turned and went back into the house and walked through to his bedroom, pulling his saddlebags and bedroll down from the closet shelf. Half an hour later he was sitting atop his black mount Ulchabhán and on his way to the western borders of Vircars, riding into the night with all his personal demons trailing behind.

***** Three days later Phelan dismounted in front of a general store in the town of Robbinsville, situated in what was called the southern Appalachians. Home to some of the highest and most remote mountains, the region had breathtaking views of the Great Smoky Mountains with thousands of acres of wilderness reclaimed by nature after the Burning War. With waterfalls galore and vast tracks of rolling timberland and bluetinged mountains, the area was a stunning reminder of what the first visitors would have viewed when this vast land had been settled. The clerk behind the counter looked up as the bell tinkled over the door then did a double-take as he realized his customer was one of the infamous Reapers. For just a moment the man’s face blanched of color then he snapped into action, coming around the corner, bowing to Phelan. “Lord Phelan, what a surprise!” the man said. “All is well with you, Gerard?” Phelan asked. “Aye, milord,” the storekeeper acknowledged. “I am well indeed.” “And your family?” “My daughter Sarah is newly married and my son’s wife gave us our first grandchild just last March.” The man lowered his head. “Alel has blessed us.” “So it would seem,” Phelan agreed. “Congratulations on your daughter’s marriage and the birth of your grandchild.” He looked about him. “Business seems to be thriving as well.” “It is!” Gerard replied. “I am truly blessed.” He lifted the apron he wore and cleaned his hands—a nervous habit Phelan remembered the man possessed. “What may I get for you, milord?” “It depends. Anything I need to see to while I’m here?”

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Color spread over Gerard’s face. “Well, there is a mite of trouble up to Haxton Cove,” he said. “I don’t know that it would be worth your time riding up there though.” Phelan leaned a hip against the counter. “What kind of trouble are we talking about?” The storekeeper’s blush deepened. “Ah, whores, milord. A whole pisspot full of ’em, if you’ll pardon my language.” Phelan’s brows drew together. “Why would there be a brothel way up there?” “Because they’ve reopened the mines, milord,” Gerard replied. “Came across a big vein of rubies and sapphires up that way at a place they’ve taken to calling Gemrow. The miners need to blow off a bit of steam now and then and that’s where Miss Lucy’s girls come in.” He lowered his voice. “You know, the usual stuff.” “I get the drift, aye,” Phelan said with a twitch of his lips. “Anyways, Miss Lucy named her place The Ruby Load and brought in about twelve right pretty gals who know their profession. She has a man who sees to the security of the bawds and a gang of ruffians who keep the miners in line. They say her bar is the best this side of the Big Muddy and the food ain’t half bad. She’s got roulette wheels, cards, the usual gambling enterprises. Prices for rooms—which include the girls of course—are steep but nothing exorbitant, I guess. It’s like the old saying—nothing the economy won’t bear.” “Then what’s the problem?” Phelan asked. “If she isn’t price-gouging her customers and gives quality service, why should I go up there? Whore-running isn’t illegal.” “It’s the man she hired to oversee her gambling den,” the storekeeper answered. “They say he’s a cheater and he’s killed a couple of men who’ve called him on it.” He lowered his voice even more. “They say Miss Lucy is scared to death of him and is afraid to send him on his way. Rumor has it he might even be a rogue, milord.” Phelan’s interest perked at that bit of information. If there was a renegade Reaper— more accurately called a balgair—who had managed to evade the net Phelan and his squad had thrown to collect them, the bastard needed to be neutralized. “Haxton Cove, eh?” Phelan questioned. “Aye, milord. Just follow the Tail of the Dragon. When you come to the Strattan, take the trail right on up to the Cove. You can’t miss it.” “Much obliged,” Phelan said. “I guess I’ll be needing a few things before I trek up there.” “Just name it, milord,” the storekeeper said, finally beginning to relax around the deadly lawman. Phelan’s eyes drifted hungrily to the large jars of candy on the counter. “How ’bout a pound of lemon drops to begin with?” “Still got that sweet tooth I see,” Gerard quipped with a smile.

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The Reaper cocked a black-clad shoulder. It was a harmless vice his kind shared, and care had to be used when indulging the craving for sweets since sugar did strange things to the Reaper libido. Seductive things that sometimes were best left alone. Still feeling on edge after leaving the general store a little while later, Phelan paused on the sidewalk with the paper bag of candy in hand. He leaned against the porch support and watched the townspeople walking past. The men tipped their hats to him, the ladies bobbed their heads and the children stared openly at him until their mothers leaned down to chastise them for their rudeness. He nodded his own greetings to those who acknowledged him and studied those who were pretending they didn’t see him or were too afraid to look his way. One man in particular caught his attention and he stared hard at the tall, dark-haired stranger with the double cross-draw rig slung low on his hips. The cowboy was leaning against the saloon wall with one leg crooked, the sole of his boot flat against the wall. His arms were crossed and his hat tipped low over his forehead—shielding his face—but Phelan could feel the man’s eyes locked on him. Tossing two lemon drops into his mouth, he folded the top of the bag down, went over to his horse and stuffed the candy into his saddlebag. The storekeeper was readying his provisions for him so he had half an hour or so to kill before heading out. The enigma of the stranger across the dusty street intrigued Phelan and he started toward the man, stopping as a buckboard rolled in front of him. When the buckboard rattled past, Phelan scowled. The stranger was no longer in sight nor did the Reaper see him walking along the boardwalk. The batwing doors to the saloon were still but that seemed the only logical place the man could have disappeared to so quickly. Settling his hat more comfortably on his head, Phelan made a beeline for the watering hole, his spurs jangling on the hard-packed street. Pushing open the doors, Phelan let his eyesight adjust to the low light in the saloon. Though it was high noon and the day was sunny and warm, the interior of the building was cool but stank of smoke, tobacco juice and other even less savory smells Phelan tried to block out. He entered the saloon, swept the room with a practiced glance both ways but did not spy the stranger. Walking up to the bar, he gave the barkeep a single nod. “Did a man just come in here?” he asked. The barkeep was polishing a glass. “No, milord. Ain’t been no one in for nigh on two hours.” “You seen a tall man with a brown hat with star conchos, dark blue shirt, fancy double rig worn low?” The bartender squinted. “Aye, milord. That sounds like a fellow named Fontabeau,” he replied. “Didn’t get no first name. Hails from over Exasla way.” “What’s his story?” 12

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A shrug lifted the barkeep’s shoulder. “Don’t know much about him ’cept he’s been here going on a day or two. Keeps to himself when he comes in. Has a few whiskeys, plays a hand now and then. He’s got a room at the Delaware House.” “I went by Constable Redfield’s office but it’s locked. You know where he might be?” “Today’s Wednesday and every Wednesday he leaves Dexter, his oldest boy, in charge, and the constable goes fishing up near the dam. Dex was most likely checking on his new bride. He married Gerry Granger’s girl Sarah.” He winked. “Can’t keep away from her, I guess.” “They got a house in town?” “Down at the end of the street. The one with the red flowerboxes.” Phelan tipped his hat to the barkeep and sauntered out. He was sure the constable would have questioned any newcomer to town, and if there was anything the Reaper needed to know about Fontabeau, perhaps the newly married deputy could tell him. Keeping an eye out for the mysterious stranger as he made his way to the end of the street, Phelan had the unwavering notion he was being watched and though he wasn’t a betting man, he would have laid money it was the stranger’s eyes tracking his every move. The young man who came to the door was barefoot, breathing hard, face flushed, hair tousled, shirt and belt undone, and as soon as he saw who his visitor was, nearly fainted as he stumbled back into the parlor with his hands out. “Sweet Merciful Alel!” he shouted. “A Reaper!” “A what?” a feminine voice inquired. Phelan took the door left open in the young man’s wake as an invitation to enter and did so, removing his hat as soon as he saw the young female standing to one side belting a silk wrapper around a very curvaceous body. “Deputy Redfield?” Phelan inquired with an arch of a thick dark brow. “Aye, milord!” the young man yelled, snapping to attention and saluting. “At ease, son,” Phelan said, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. He swept his gaze to the young woman. “My apologies for intruding, milady, but I have official business with your husband. Would you please excuse us?” Sarah Granger Redfield managed to bob her head in acknowledgement of the Reaper’s request then turned and fled back into their bedroom. The boy—surely no older than nineteen or twenty—was trembling and Phelan decided to wade right in rather than prolong the lad’s fright. “The newcomer named Fontabeau. What do you know of him?” Dexter Redfield swallowed hard, still standing at attention. “He’s from Exasla Territory, Lord Phelan,” he said. “Here with the mining company.” “Hired gun?”

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“Security for Mr. Desdon Brell, the mine owner, milord. Mr. Brell will be in town another day on business with the bank then they’ll be going back up to Haxton Cove,” the lad reported. “You had any trouble with Fontabeau?” The young man shook his head. “No, milord. Stays to himself.” “So I’ve been told,” Phelan mumbled. He rocked his hat on his head. “Relay again my regrets for the interruption to your lady-wife, Deputy.” “Aye, milord!” Dexter snapped, saluting again. “I won’t be in town long,” he felt the need to say. “I’ll be going up to Haxton Cove should I be needed.” “Aye, milord!” the young man said, and relief flooded his worried gaze. Phelan sighed as he exited the young man’s parlor. Sometimes his status as a Reaper made him feel again the shunning he had experienced on his homeworld. There were times it cut him to the quick and today was one of those. Heading back to the general store, he once again felt eyes on him and looked across the street and up this time to the windows above the entrance to the Delaware House. Standing framed in the window with the curtain pulled to one side was Fontabeau, the lower part of his face hidden in shadow. Their eyes met and Phelan felt something shift within him. It was a feeling not unlike a twisting, slithering serpent undulating through his gut. The hairs stood up on his arms, bringing him to a complete stop on the sidewalk. Then Fontabeau smiled. It was a savage, knowing grin, a nasty smirk that lasted only a flicker of a moment then vanished, the curtain closing to shut out the image of the gunman. Phelan stared up at the window—knowing full well he was being watched from behind the lacy pattern of fabric. Being watched irritated the Reaper. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes narrowed and a muscle jumped in his tattooed cheek. “Fuck it,” he snarled, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, his heavy footfalls taking him straight to the entrance of the boarding house. Those he passed stepped promptly aside for the look on the Reaper’s face bode ill for whomever had caused it. The desk clerk smiled nervously when he opened the door and strode in. “Fontabeau,” was all he said. “Room nine,” the desk clerk whispered, the pen trembling in her hand. She watched the Reaper take the stairs to the upper rooms two at a time. He had his fist up, preparing to knock—no, to pound—upon the door when it suddenly opened. Standing framed in the doorway was his target. Black hair, amber eyes, features looking as though they had been sculpted by the hands of the gods, broad shoulders,

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slender waist, he was of the same height and muscular build as Phelan but looked a year or so older. There was no doubt whatsoever in Phelan’s mind the man was a balgair. He had sensed it and now that confirmation had been made the moment he caught a whiff of Fontabeau. “It’s not what you think,” Fontabeau said. “I’m not a rogue.” Phelan’s hand went to the laser whip at his waist. “The hell you’re not. I know what a blooded Reaper smells like.” “Come in and shut the door, Kiel. No one else needs to hear this,” Fontabeau insisted, moving back, keeping his hands away from his hips though his gun belt was looped over the footboard of the bed. Phelan kicked the door shut. “You’re not a gods-be-damned Reaper so you have to be a fucking balgair! You have no clan tat!” “Aye, but I do.” Fontabeau tore open his shirt and there on his left pectoral was a dark blue tattoo, but Phelan only glanced at it. “Mo Regina made me, Kiel, just as She made you,” Fontabeau said. “Who the hell are you?” Phelan bellowed. “They call me Fontabeau,” he replied. “The clan name is Sorn. Unless you have forgotten Reaper history, my clan is one of the Dháréag, the Twelve Clans.” Phelan stared at the man. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” The gunman blinked. “You don’t?” “Didn’t I just say I didn’t?” Phelan shouted. Fontabeau put his hands up. “All right, just calm down. I would have thought She’d have told you.” He lowered his hands. “You’ve never heard the term before?” “No!” “Shit,” Fontabeau said on a long breath. “It makes no sense She wouldn’t have told you but here it is. The first Reaper male was Cainer Cree. The Crees are the Founding Clan, the Bun-Ayraghyn. The goddess did not make him but She was responsible for those who followed. After the Crees—and in order of the Transferring—came the Gehdrin, Coure, Kullen, Belial, Kiel, Tohre, Ben-Alkazar, Belvoir, Tarnes, Jaborn and then the Sorn clans.” “Wait a fucking minute!” Phelan grated. “Ben-Alkazar, Belvoir, Tarnes? They are our Shadowlords, not Reapers!” “They are part of the Dháréag, and if you look, you’ll find they have the tats to prove it. Shadowlords are members of the clan who have not undergone Transference, who were not marked for the honor.” Phelan thought back to the only time he’d ever seen a member of the High Council without his robe. It had been a fleeting glimpse of Lord Tarnes as that man came from the steam chamber as Phelan was entering. On the Shadowlord’s left pectoral had been a dark blue knotwork fish.

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“The salmon, signifying knowledge,” Fontabeau said, plucking the memory from Phelan’s mind. “The Signiat of the Belvoir clan is the bull, meaning strength, and the men of the Ben-Alkazar clan bear the symbol of the lion, signifying nobility. They are the ruling members of the Shadowlords.” “Jaborn?” Phelan asked, thinking of his fellow Reaper squad member Kasid Jaborn. “Are you sure you’ve got the right name?” “Aye, I’m sure. That’s one of the twelve. Why?” “Because the Jaborn I know was once a balgair but is now full-honored Reaper.” “He has the tat of a snake?” “No, it’s a ghoret and he hates it.” “I would too, but the Jaborn clan tat is that of a snake, a cobra in actuality. It signifies rebirth and is an honored Signiat.” “Try telling that to Kasid,” Phelan mumbled. “There is a thirteenth Signiat—the boar—which signifies ferocity. She is reserving that one for a clan She has yet to reveal to us. That clan will not be part of the Dháréag but rather an extension of it with powers of both Reaper and Shadowlord.” “That is a frightening thought,” Phelan muttered. He shot Fontabeau a heated look. “That still doesn’t explain why you have no Reaper smell.” “She brought me here from my homeworld of Moddoilid. I smell different to you because I am a mac imshee.” “A hell hound!” Phelan snarled, his lips quirking with distaste. His eyes raked over Fontabeau, leaving no doubt how he felt. Fontabeau’s chin went up. “Nice to look down your nose at someone for a change instead of having them look down theirs at you, huh, daa-chientyssagh?” It was the wrong thing to have said, that insult to his sexual duality, and Phelan drew back a fist and slammed it as hard as he could into Fontabeau’s face. But the hell hound Reaper didn’t go down. Instead he laughed, and when Phelan drew his fist back again and shot it forward, Fontabeau caught it and jerked Phelan’s arm down and behind him, jerking the Reaper hard against his chest. “You want a piece of me, brother?” Fontabeau whispered. “Then you can have it.” Before Phelan could react, the chiseled lips of the hell hound came slanting down over his. A warm, authoritative tongue slipped inside Phelan’s mouth and claimed it with such precision and sexual intent it took the Reaper’s breath away and he jerked free of Fontabeau’s hold, staggering back to put distance between them. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Phelan shouted with eyes wide, running the back of his hand over his lips. He’d never been kissed by a male and found it unnerving. “Taking what I wanted,” Fontabeau replied with a careless shrug. He folded his arms over his chest.

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Chest heaving with fury, Phelan’s lips peeled back from fangs he had let erupt. The snarl that came from deep within his chest would have terrified a human, but it only seemed to amuse the hell hound Reaper. “Is that the best you can do, Kiel?” Fontabeau asked, head tilted to the side. “I can growl better than that on an off-day.” “Fuck. You,” Phelan said. “I’ll let you, pretty boy, if you promise I can do you next time.” Rage shifted over Phelan’s face, his hand went to his whip. “Be careful what you do, my Reaper. He is one of Mine.” The soft feminine voice pulsed through Phelan’s head, but for just a moment his palm hovered over the dragon-head grip of the Speal, the fiery whip only his hand could activate. “You’d best listen to Her, Kiel,” Fontabeau suggested. “She likes hounds better than wolves.” Phelan’s upper lip arched with revulsion then he spun around, strode to the door and jerked it open. “Stay the hell out of my way, Sorn!” he threw over his shoulder as he slammed the portal shut behind him. Skipping down the boarding house stairs as rapidly as he had ascended them, Phelan stomped out and across the street, shoving the door of the general store open with a curse. “Lord Phelan!” the storekeeper said, jumping. The man put a hand to his chest. “You took ten years off my life.” “Are the provisions ready?” Phelan growled. “Aye, milord. I took the liberty of strapping them to your horse. I hope that’s all right.” “Aye,” Phelan snapped, and reached into his pocket to pull out two twenty gold pieces. He slapped them on the counter. “Keep the change.” Before the storekeeper could reply, the Reaper pivoted on his heel and marched from the store. Within a matter of seconds he was mounted and urging Ulchabhán into a hard canter down the main street. “A touchy little brat, ain’t he, Mo Regina?” Fontabeau said as he watched the Reaper riding out of town. “Go slow with him, My Reaper. He has known great hurt in his young life,” came the gentle reply. “I’ll take extra care with the young one,” Fontabeau told Her. A good century older than Phelan, he had much experience with hot-headed young men.

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Chapter Two As he took the Tail of the Dragon farther up into the mountains, Phelan could not get the gunman out of his mind. The taste of him was still on the Reaper’s tongue and every now and then he would turn his head and spit. He could feel the hardness of Fontabeau’s body pressed against him. “Lord Kheelan?” he asked through gritted teeth, sending his thoughts thousands of miles to the east. “I am here.” “Tell me about the hell hound Reaper Fontabeau,” the Reaper demanded then added a belated please to his request. “Why is he here?” There was silence from the Citadel. “Lord Kheelan?” The High Lord did not respond. Phelan reined in his horse and sat there with his head cocked to one side, listening. There was a rustling along the ether between where he was and the fortress of the Reapers but no words were being spoken. He felt his heartbeat accelerate. “You didn’t know he was here, did you?” he asked. Still there was silence and Phelan could imagine the High Lord conferring with the other two Shadowlords. When at last Lord Kheelan spoke, there was heavy anger in the sorcerer’s voice. “We were unaware of his existence but we have him now,” the High Lord snapped. “We’ll get back to you!” Phelan was sure that meant the Shadowlords had reached down and somehow snatched up the hell hound. He looked skyward, wondering if one of the drones was nearby. Most likely that had been the source of the shifting in the ether and he grinned. “Glad I’m not in your boots, hound,” he drawled. He clucked his tongue and Ulchabhán started forward again, pricking its ears as its rider laughed. By sundown, Phelan had reached Haxton Cove, but he had heard the ruckus from the booming mining town long before the serpentine road led him into the settlement. The pop of gunfire, the rinky-tink of a piano, the hoots and the curses of drunken men, the rattle of harness and wagon braces echoed off the mountains. As his horse clipclopped down the dusty street, he was stunned at the activity of a large city rolled into the tight confines of a small town where men walked shoulder to shoulder amidst the bustle.

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What surprised him most was no one paid any attention to him as he rode in. Usually when he ventured into a new town—a place where he’d never been before and where he was not immediately known—men stepped aside, women and children scattered and even animals slinked out of his way. Here, no one so much as glanced his way, going about their business as though he were invisible, and he wasn’t so sure he liked that. Dismounting in front of what appeared to be the only hotel in town, he tied the reins to the hitching post then turned to survey the busy streets. Men in dirty clothing and soil-streaked faces staggered about amidst younger freshly shaven men in new clothing that had yet to be smeared with dust from the mine. The latter carried brandnew pick axes and shovels with shiny scoops. The former carried bottles of rot gut clutched in their grimy hands. Shaking his head at the vagaries of the human condition, the Reaper stepped up on the boardwalk and ventured into the hotel—the door to which was standing open. Inside, the smell of boiled cabbage assailed him. “Ain’t got no rooms, milord,” the man behind the desk reported. “Unless you be asking me to toss someone out. I’ll do it if that’s your pleasure.” His tone suggested it wouldn’t be to his. That too was a surprise to Phelan. He was accustomed to hotel clerks jumping to make room at the inn for him, or to at least wring their hands and bemoan the fact there were no vacancies. He went up to the desk and cupped his hands over the edge. “I don’t need a room, but I’d like a place to clean up,” he told the desk clerk. “Baths are out back,” the man said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “One dollar for used water. Five for clean.” Phelan’s left eyebrow shot up. “You think I’d bathe behind another man?” There was steel in the gruff way he made the query. For the first time the desk clerk showed a hint of unease. He sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand then sniffed again. “Reckon whereas you might not,” he allowed. “Five dollars then. Towel and soap be a dollar extra.” The Reaper saw red and the tint began to form in his amber eyes. “How ’bout I don’t pay you one cent? How would that be, you thieving bastard?” Watching the crimson glow pulsing from the lawman’s narrowed gaze was enough to put the fear of the gods in the desk clerk and he stumbled back, putting a hand up to ward off the coming fury. “Aye, m-milord!” he stammered. “Whatever you want!” “Then get that bath ready. Now!” It was unusual for Phelan to behave in that manner and it shamed him. He knew the Shadowlords would chastise him for scaring the desk clerk, but at that moment he didn’t give a damn. The man had pushed all the wrong buttons. Cursing, he turned and

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stomped back out the door and to his horse, snatching his saddlebags from the mount. When he came trooping back in, the desk clerk was wringing his hands, bobbing his head and looked on the verge of curtseying. “They’re pouring your water, milord. I got you a clean towel and a fresh bar of soap too.” He tried to smile but couldn’t quite seem to pull it off. “What else can I do for you?” “See to my horse while I’m bathing,” Phelan snapped. “Feed and water him then get him back to me by the time I’m finished.” “Aye, milord. Right away, milord!” The desk clerk all but ran out of the room. Taking a deep breath to release some of the anger boiling inside him, Phelan found the door leading out to the bath house and went through it. The smell of cabbage was stronger as he passed the kitchen and the odor made his stomach roil. He glanced in the cooking room as he went by. An old black woman dipped a curtsey to him and he tipped his hat to her. “Don’t eat here, milord,” she said to him. “Food ain’t fit for humans. You go on up to Miss Lucy’s if you want decent food at a fair price.” He stepped into the kitchen. “I appreciate the warning, milady,” he told her. “Would you tell me what’s wrong with the food here?” “Weevils in the flour,” she explained. “Meat is stringy and dry. Cabbage was beginning to rot when it came to me.” “And he sells that to his customers?” Phelan asked. “Aye, he does, milord, but that ain’t the worst of it. Sometimes the meat is road kill and it’s been sitting there a day or two afore it’s picked up. By the time I get it, it’s mostly rancid.” Phelan felt the bile rising in his throat. “Do the customers know?” “I’d think not, milord, else they wouldn’t eat here but up to Miss Lucy’s.” He switched his attention from the old woman to the pot she’d been stirring. He went over to her, handed her his saddlebags, picked up the pot of boiling cabbage. “Will you get the door for me, milady?” he asked. “Aye, milord, that I will!” she said with a toothless grin, and moved ahead of him to the back door. He carried the big pot outside and dumped it on the ground. The smell was strong as the grayish-green water spread into the dirt. Clumps of unidentifiable meat lay among the cabbage. “Where’s the biscuits you made to go with the stew?” he asked. “In the oven.”

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He nodded and went back inside, carrying the pot with him. He set it on the counter, opened the oven, took a potholder and pulled out the pan of biscuits. They joined the cabbage on the ground. He also added the tins of flour and cornmeal and a few crates of vegetables that had seen better days. “If he asks you what happened, you tell him to come see me,” Phelan said, taking his saddlebags from the old woman. “He won’t do that, milord,” she said with a chuckle. “And if he so much as raises his voice to you, you let me know, and it will be the last sound he ever makes. Understood?” “Aye, milord,” she said, and grinned. Angrier than he had been before, Phelan stomped out of the kitchen and behind the hotel to the bath house. Two slovenly looking women were just finishing pouring hot water into a big copper tub when he flicked the curtain aside and entered. “It’s ready for you, milord!” one of the women said, backing away from him. The other stood stock-still like a deer caught in lantern light with her mouth slack and eyes bulging. “Out,” he said in a tired voice, and the first had to drag the other one away, leaving him alone in the small cubicle. Phelan hung his head. His outrage had given him a wicked headache. He stood there for a moment trying to get the anger under tighter control then flung his saddlebags to the seat of the lone ladder-back chair. Yanking the tails of his black silk shirt from his leather uniform pants, he unbuttoned the cuffs with quick little flicks then ran the buttons down the front, shrugging out of the garment before wadding it into a ball to pitch across the room. “Gods-be-damned little prick,” he insulted the desk clerk. Just the idea of the man charging patrons to eat weevil-infested, rancid food made his blood boil. He stripped off his belt, shucked his boots, stepped out of his pants then kicked the leather garment as hard as he could. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he peeled off his socks then submersed himself in the hot water. If there was one thing a Reaper loved more than sugar, it was hot water. They could stand for hours beneath a shower given the chance. It hadn’t been all that long ago that they would not go near running water for fear of drowning, believing the geis that had been leveled against them by the goddess. Now they knew they could indeed swim and were damned good at it. Water was one of the addictions they allowed themselves without regret. Laying his head along the curved back of the tub, draping his arms over the sides, he slid down in the water as far as his tall frame would allow, but even then his knees were crooked and standing out of the water. That was all right with him at the moment for the water was lulling him, leeching away some of the rage that was prodding him. He closed his eyes and took long, deep, calming breaths in an effort to push the rest of the anger aside. 21

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“He is from Moddoilid.” Lord Kheelan’s intrusive voice snapped Phelan’s eyes open and he jerked, sloshing water over the side of the tub. “She brought him here to work undercover. That is why he does not wear the black. That is also why we did not know of his existence until now.” Phelan ran a hand through his hair. “Where is he now?” “We took him back to Robbinsville. You will no doubt see him again.” The words were spoken with no small degree of irritation. “Why didn’t She tell you about him, Your Grace?” “Who the hell knows?” the High Lord snapped. “You couldn’t get the information from him?” It was pushing it, but Phelan was more curious than cautious. There was a stony silence that caused Phelan to shift uneasily in the tub and when the Shadowlord spoke, he knew he’d best cease asking any more questions. “You do your job and he’ll do his. Work with him if you must. You got that, Kiel?” “Aye, Your Grace,” he answered, and felt Lord Kheelan pulling back. “Whoa,” Phelan said. Apparently the hell hound was more than the Shadowlords had bargained for. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of the Citadel’s High Chamber when they interrogated Fontabeau. For a reason he didn’t understand, Phelan felt pride in the gunman. It was a rare thing for a Reaper to come out with the upper hand in any confrontation with a Shadowlord. That Fontabeau had said volumes for the warrior’s strength of purpose and resolve. “Good on you,” Phelan said as he reached over for the soap and began lathering himself. “Gods-be-damned good on you, Sorn.”

***** Feeling the desk clerk’s angry eyes following him as he strode forth in a fresh uniform he’d conjured to replace the old one, Phelan sauntered across the street with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and toward the loud music pouring from Miss Lucy’s saloon and whorehouse The Ruby Load. The smell of roast beef wafted out to him through the batwing doors, and when he pushed them open, the place was bustling with customers, the tickety-tic of the roulette wheel and the click of dice. In the corner a piano was being played full tilt by a man wearing a black bowler hat, red suspenders and a red-and-white-polka-dot bow tie. His hands were moving rapidly over the keys as he plied the pedal with his right foot, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Garishly dressed whores strolled among the crowd or perched precariously on a miner’s thigh as her breasts were pawed. None of the gilded lilies gave him a second look.

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“Reaper,” he heard someone say, and heads turned toward him, but no one seemed inclined to scatter, to move back or to make themselves scarce. They eyed him then went back to what they were doing. Phelan snorted. Such behavior was not normal and it concerned him as he walked up to the bar, slung his saddlebags on the next stool. “What’ll it be, milord?” the barkeep asked. “Whiskey,” Phelan said, tilting his hat back to get a better look at the nude painting over the back bar. It looked almost lifelike and represented a woman who was by far the most beautiful he’d ever seen. With flaming red hair, dark green eyes and a voluptuous body that made the male in him stand to attention; he studied every detail of the painting from scarlet fingernails to the silver high-heeled shoes that were the only thing she wore. “A real beauty, ain’t she?” the barkeep asked as he poured Phelan’s shot. “That she is.” Looking at her, Phelan felt as though he’d been poleaxed between the eyes she was so lovely. His shaft leapt as he studied the painting. “She don’t normally take on customers, but I know for a fact she’d make an exception for you, milord,” the man said. “You being a Reaper and all.” Phelan paused with the shot glass almost to his lips. He stared at the barkeep. “She’s a real woman?” he asked. “Who is she?” “Me.” The voice was sultry as it breathed into his ear and soft hands slid over his shoulders. The dual press of breasts pushed against the back of his shirt as she leaned into him. Phelan turned his head as she moved to his side, sliding her body along his. Her left arm draped across his shoulders and her right hand curled around his biceps. He saw no fear of him in her gaze. No disdain. No dislike. She was smiling, her red lips glistening. When their eyes met, hers widened as though trying to take in every inch of his face. When she spoke, there was awe in her tone. “Hello,” she said in a throaty, sensuous voice. Phelan’s throat felt constricted as he stared in her verdant eyes. His heart began to pound so fiercely he could hear it thundering in his ears. He had to swallow before he could force any words past his lips. “Hello yourself,” he said, and his cock leapt again. Her gaze shifted from the brim of his hat to his chin. From right cheek to left then she lifted her hand and ran the backs of her nails over the tattoo on the left side of his face then stroked her thumb over his lips. She seemed caught in a trance, her own lips parted slightly, eyelids half closed. “You are Lord Phelan,” she whispered. “Lord Phelan Kiel.” He nodded. He was fascinated by the color of her eyes. He’d never seen eyes that deep a green before and they were looking back at him in a way that stirred something 23

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within him he struggled to understand. He found himself wanting her so badly he burned with the need, ached with it. He shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. “And you are?” he asked. “Lucy,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “Lucy Louise Springbrook. My friends call me Lucy-Lou.” “Lucy-Lou,” he repeated, testing the name. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. It had a playful sound to it, a happy sound. Once more her gaze tracked over his face then settled on his mouth. Her head tilted to one side as she studied him. “What can I do for you, milord?” It was out of his mouth before he thought. “Anything you want to, wench.” Lucy smiled. “I want to give you pleasure such as you’ve never known,” she said. “I want to make you happy.” I want that too, he thought. He felt drawn to her like a moth to flame. He wanted to crush her to him, take her right there on the barroom floor. No one else existed for him at that moment. There was no sound but the soft, excited rush and release of her breath as she looked at him. He could smell her arousal and it went straight to his cock like a lightning bolt. “I am yours for as long as you want me,” Lucy said in that husky voice. The whiskey in his hand forgotten, he felt himself being pulled down into the vortex of her green gaze. Her hand moved down his face, his neck and into the V of his silk shirt where she stroked the mat of hair growing there. He shivered, experiencing a trill of pleasure at her touch that he’d never known. “I’ve heard you are a large man, Lord Phelan,” she said. “I promise you I can take whatever you care to give.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “As much as you want to give for as long as you wish to give it.” Phelan shivered at her words. He found he could take sex or leave it and wasn’t even tempted to take matters in hand—a restriction the goddess had imposed on all Reapers anyway. But he wanted this woman and he wanted her bad. So bad he realized sweat had gathered in his palms. “Who told you that?” he asked. Despite being so aroused it was all he could do to sit there, it annoyed him that a whore would discuss his anatomy so openly even to a woman like the Madame standing there at his side. “A little birdie,” she said with a smile. He slipped into her mind as easily as a hot knife going through butter and read the name of the culprit—which surprised him since it wasn’t a prostitute who had revealed such personal information about him but a young man he’d encountered a few years back. His eyes swept over her. “I want you so bad I can taste it.” 24

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His words shocked him since he had not come into the saloon for sex. He was here on business, yet the temptation her lush body was exerting over him had pushed that business right out of his mind. He found he wanted her hands on his naked flesh, her mouth enveloping him, and wanted to know what her own flesh felt like beneath his calloused palms. He wanted to know the scent of her sex in his nostrils and on his tongue, the warmth of her sheath slicking his fingers. He wanted to pleasure her as she pleasured him. Lucy Springbrook smiled and pulled her hand from the V of his shirt to run it down his body so she could cup the heavy erection pushing at the leather of his pants. She leaned into him, putting her lips to his ear so only he could hear her. “I promise you a ride you’ll never forget.” Her tongue spiked wetly into his ear and she squeezed his cock hard. Another shudder ran through him and it was all he could do not to sweep everything from the bar with the back of his arm, lift her onto it, toss up her skirts and feast on her cunt right there in front of everyone, her legs draped over his shoulders. As though she had seen the image in her own mind, she smiled so evilly it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “I haven’t had but one man in nigh on three months so I am going to do things to you tonight no woman or man ever has,” she promised, and stepped back. She crooked her finger. “Come with me, Reaper man.” No one was paying attention to him and that was a good thing, Phelan thought, since he had a boner the size of Exasla pushing at the front of his pants. It was a good thing he had his saddlebags to place in front of him to hide the erection, plucking them from the barstool to use as camouflage. As it was, he could barely walk, his cock was so tight, his balls on fire with need. She was walking backward, egging him on with that ancient, knowing look all women were born with, her hips swaying from side to side in the black satin gown she wore. Up the stairs, down the hallway—he was like a man in a daze as he followed her into her private quarters. When she shut the door, she came at him like a feral kitten, tearing at his clothes, her mouth on his neck, his chin, his lips as she ripped the shirt from him and tugged at his belt. He gave in to her need and, with a wave of his hands, both his clothes and hers were gone. The pile of red curls atop her head came loose of its pins, tumbling over her creamy shoulders. “Oh,” she said, her voice low and throaty, “I like that!” He backed her against the door and covered her lush breasts with his palms, squeezing the firm flesh. He bent his head to capture one plump button. Her fingers dragged through his hair to hold him to her, closing her eyes as his lips pulled at the taut little buds. His tongue danced upon the straining peaks and she squirmed against him. “Aye, milord,” she whispered. 25

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Then she was on him, lacing her arms around his neck and jumping up to clamp her long legs around his waist, hooking her ankles together behind his back. Her mouth latched on to his and her tongue stabbed into his mouth. He turned and walked with her to the bed, fell upon it, flipping them over so she lay atop him, her legs straightening to bracket his. She was writhing on him like a serpent and his cock was a steel rod between her legs. “Not in you,” he said as he realized she was trying to impale herself on his shaft. “No.” She groaned then slid down him until she could take him into her mouth. Her tongue swirled over his swollen head, flicked at the slit. Her lips encircled him and suckled hard. One hand slid under him to squeeze his balls and the other sent its fingers to his right nipple where she pinched him. Phelan sucked in his breath but the triple sensation of having his nipple tweaked, his cock licked and then his ass probed with a firm, demanding finger made him squirm on the mattress. He let his legs fall wide apart and arched his head back into the pillow as she continued her wicked assault. It didn’t take him long to come and when he did, she swallowed every last ounce of his cum, leaving him drained and sated. “That’s only the appetizer,” she told him as he lay there spent. For the next hour she licked every inch of his body as he lay spread-eagled on the mattress. Beginning at the soles of his feet and working her way up. She paid particular attention to the insides of his thighs and the creases along his groin, his bellybutton and his nipples—which she raked with her nails and worried with her teeth until they were sore. Her fingers ran all over his chest and legs and arms. She dragged her ample breasts over his cock and cupped him in the deep valley between then slowly and methodically arousing him, but let him suffer as she worked her wicked way down his legs once more. Every toe was suckled. Each ball was licked and licked until it was as hard as stone then she settled her lips on his cock and drank her fill still again. Yet she was not finished with him. She made him turn over and started on his backside, her tongue slipping between his butt cheeks to tease and tantalize him as her hand worked beneath him to stroke his swollen cock. She flicked her tongue in the sensitive area behind his knees and at the base of his spine. She writhed atop him and used her legs to push his wide apart so she could slide between them, nipping his ass with tiny little bites that made him squirm. This time she used her middle finger to gain his attention and made him come as she alternately prodded his anal opening with one hand and squeezed his cock with the other. His climax was a shattering experience that left him no more than a limp puddle atop the mattress. “Turn over, baby,” she said, and when he flopped to his back, she moved up so she could position her spread legs over his face. The scent of her arousal was heavy, wet. All Phelan wanted to do was sleep, but he took her hips in his hands and lifted his head so he could lick at the juncture of her thighs. Her hands were gripping the

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headboard, her head thrown back, her long red hair tickling his cock as he laved and licked and drew her clit between his lips. “Aye,” he heard her moan. “Aye, lover. Just like that.” He flicked his tongue down each warm groove then thrust it into her channel. He felt her body ripple with pleasure and slid a finger into her ass. She came hard, and the sweet nectar from her cunt oozed into his mouth as he latched his lips upon her nether ones. He suckled her as hard as she had him and she came again and still again, bucking her hips as he pressed his middle finger into her as far as it would go. She shook her head and her hair fanned over his growing erection. She bore down on his finger and arched her hips forward as he lapped her from back to front. “I would kill to have you inside me,” she said, and slid down his body once more until she was lying stretched out atop him. “I want you inside me.” “Can’t happen,” he said, although he was stunned to realize he wanted it too. He wanted it just as badly but for an entirely different reason. He hooked his legs over hers and encircled her in his muscular arms as she put her head on his chest. “Stay the night, Reaper,” she said. “I need to see to my horse,” he said. She rolled off him and padded to the door, flung it open and yelled for someone named Mack. Leaving the door ajar, she came back to the bed and hopped up on the mattress, scooting down beside the Reaper. A burly man appeared in the opened door. His hawklike gaze settled momentarily on Phelan then skipped to his boss. “You wanted me, milady?” “Take Lord Phelan’s horse to the stable and make sure it gets a good rubdown. Bring his bedroll up here,” she ordered. “And close the door behind you.” The man sniffed, ducked his head in silent compliance to the commands then left, easing the door shut. “Rest now, Reaper,” she said to him, her hand smoothing his chest. “Aye,” he whispered into her hair. He shifted her so she lay alongside him. “I will.” They fell asleep like that, but not even an hour had passed before she woke him again, her lips tight on his cock, her hands kneading his body. “Insatiable, aren’t you?” he teased as he threaded his fingers through her hair. She looked up at him, her mouth tightening on his cock, and winked. Phelan laughed. Who needed sleep anyway?

*****

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Lucy lay with her head propped on her fist, watching the Reaper sleep. His long dark eyelashes were so thick and spiky any woman would kill to have them as her own. The clean slope of his nose gave him a boyish cast but there was nothing boyish about the tall, muscular man lying naked beside her. He was all man. His thick brown hair tumbled into eyes that were such a striking shade of amber she felt as though she were being sucked into them when she looked in them. High cheekbones, a sensuous mouth, a deep cleft in a noble chin, slight dimples when he smiled—these were things that added up to one helluva devastatingly handsome face. But it was the penetrating sadness in his gaze that had tripped her up the moment she’d looked into his eyes. She’d seen pain and hurt and anguish and such terrible need calling out from that gaze. Having experienced more than her own share of pain and hurt and anguish and terrible need, she felt an overpowering urge to bring happiness to Phelan Kiel’s life. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to wipe any grief clear of his mind. Gently she reached out to run her hand over the wiry hairs covering his broad chest. She liked that his pecs were chiseled to perfection and his abdomen ripped, his nipples hard little pebbles and his bellybutton deep. The bulge of his biceps even as he lay sleeping was powerful and intimidating. The mere thought of those brawny arms wrapped around her sent chills down her spine. Her fingers moved to several strange indentions in the flesh of his chest and lingered. She frowned, wondering what had caused the scars—for that was what they were. They were mostly straight lines but a few were curved. They pressed into the skin sharply. One slanted over the lower part of his belly just above the thick pubic hair. “Who hurt you, baby?” she whispered, the tip of her finger following the scar on his abdomen. He snorted in his sleep and she stilled, expecting him to wake, but instead, he turned his head away from her, grunted as he exhaled and seem to fall deeper into sleep—as relaxed as any man she’d ever had lay beside her. “Reapers have a hard time sleeping,” one of her girls had told her. “It’s like they’re afraid to sleep.” Yet Phelan had fallen asleep not once but twice after they’d made love and this time he was deeply under, his mind so at peace she could touch and not wake him. Lucy’s attention lowered to the long, thick shaft that lay crooked over one powerful thigh. She longed to touch it, to stroke it, but she held back. She ached to have that glorious cock deep inside her even though she knew the chances of him asking her to be his mate were slim at best. Reapers didn’t take whores as their lifetime partners but, gods, how she wished he were hers! She’d moved heaven and earth to make him happy. She sighed and snuggled down beside him again, pressing her body close to his. For as long as he allowed it, she would be there for him. In her line of business, she was

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used to pretending. She could pretend he was hers. She slipped an arm across his chest and smiled when he snorted again then began to snore softly. “Oh Reaper, you don’t!” she said, straining to hold back a giggle. She buried her forehead against his taut shoulder, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

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Chapter Three He came down the stairs the next morning sated, buttoning the sleeves of his silk uniform shirt. He’d left Lucy snoring and that made him grin just thinking about it. He’d never spent the night in a woman’s bed before, had never stayed long enough to be surprised to hear one snoring. He found the sounds Lucy was making made him want to throw his head back and laugh. They were cute little sounds and so human it brought a smile to his face as he stood beside the bed and listened. What a pleasant way to start your day, he thought with pleasure as he closed her door behind his exit. His gun belt was buckled and slung over his shoulder, his hat cocked to the back of his head, his saddlebags and bedroll in hand. The smell of frying bacon aroused his hunger as he skirted the gaming and drinking tables to follow the aroma. Putting an absent hand up to rub at the spot where he had injected himself in the neck with a vacsyringe of tenerse, he paused in the doorway to gain the cook’s attention. “You want food, milord?” the scruffy little man at the stove inquired. He flipped a fried egg in the skillet and set the pan back on the fire without looking around. “Aye,” Phelan said with a frown. The people of Haxton Cove seemed neither afraid nor intimidated by who and what he was. If anything, they ignored him, and that was beginning to rankle Kiel. Still not looking around, not showing the respect to which Phelan was accustomed, the cook began slicing half a dozen strips of bacon from the slab. “Pick you out a table, sit yourself down and I’ll bring you out a plate. How do you want your eggs?” “Over easy,” Phelan muttered. “Where’s the coffee?” He tossed the bedroll and saddlebags into one of the chairs. The man used his knife to point to the pot. “Help yourself.” Grinding his teeth, Phelan walked over to the stove, took a potholder, lifted the pot from the burner and carried it over to a stack of cups on the drain board. After pouring himself a cup, he brought the pot back, slammed it down on the stove then spun around and stalked off. As he walked, he felt the cook’s eyes on his back and that irritated him even more. Yanking a chair from under one of the tables, he snatched off his hat, tossed it to the tabletop, plopped down in the chair, shot his long legs out and cradling the hot tin coffee cup in both hands, began sipping the scalding brew. It was strong—just the way he liked it. His narrowed eyes took in the few patrons who were eating their breakfast in silence, none of them so much as glancing his way. While he was finishing the steaming coffee, the cook came out with his plate of food and carrying the coffee pot.

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“You want refills on the grub, just holler,” the cook told him as he poured a fresh cup of coffee for the Reaper. “Aye, I’ll do just that,” Phelan growled. Out of sorts now, his neck still stinging from the injection of tenerse, Phelan sat hunched over the table shoveling the food into his mouth and chewing methodically, paying no attention to the taste. His narrowed gaze alternated between his plate and the batwing doors where now and again he saw men walking past—no doubt on their way to the mines. It was too early for drinking, gambling or whoring, and apparently few ate their morning meal at The Ruby Load. It seemed Lucy’s prostitutes weren’t up, and if any of the patrons had spent the night, they were either long gone or sleeping off a hangover above the stairs. The jingle of spurs on the wooden sidewalk brought Phelan’s head up from his contemplation of the remaining bit of runny egg he was sopping up with a biscuit. He knew who was wearing those spurs even before the gunman’s head appeared over the batwing doors and his hands hooked over the edge to push them open. Fontabeau’s dark amber eyes zeroed in on Phelan and his long legs brought him straight to the table. He put a hand on the chair to the Reaper’s left. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. Phelan shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Sliding the chair away from the table, Fontabeau took a seat. He nudged his chin toward Phelan’s plate. “Not bad, was it?” “I’ve had worse,” Phelan replied. “Coffee’s the way it should be.” Fontabeau leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Service leaves a lot to be desired though, doesn’t it?” “This whole town leaves a lot to be desired,” Phelan snapped. The gunman smiled. “Why do you think that is?” “How would I know?” Phelan demanded then leveled his gaze on the man beside him. “What did you think of the Citadel?” “I’ve been to worse places,” Fontabeau answered with a grin. “Those Shadowlords sure had their knickers in a bunch while they were questioning me.” His remark amused Phelan and the Reaper began to relax. “They don’t like surprises—especially the High Lord.” “Kheelan, isn’t it?” Fontabeau queried, and at Phelan’s nod he chuckled. “Certainly doesn’t like it when you don’t answer his questions, does he?” “Could have slapped you in a con cell,” Phelan told him. “They don’t play games at the Citadel. How did you get past telling them what you are doing on Terra?” “Mainly because I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Fontabeau answered. “She brought me here, told me to hire on with Brell, to protect his ass at all cost, and to keep tabs on what he’s up to but not to interfere. I’m supposed to keep a low profile, not let anyone know I’m one of Her Reapers. There hasn’t been anything strange going on that 31

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I can see—leastways not with him—so all I’m really doing is cooling my heels and waiting for Her to tell me what She wants done.” “Nothing strange with him,” Phelan repeated. “But maybe elsewhere?” Fontabeau leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “The miners are an odd lot,” he said. “Every last one of them. News of the mine reopening hasn’t spread that far as yet but we get young men coming in on a weekly basis, hoping to make their fortune. You see them today—smiling and laughing, eager to go to work—and a few days later they’re nowhere to be found.” “So they don’t strike it rich and ride out,” Phelan said, knowing that wasn’t the case. The gunman shook his head. “No, that ain’t happening. They go into the mines with their brand-new picks and shovels but they don’t ever come back out.” “Have you gone down into the mines to check on the disappearances?” “What do you think?” Fontabeau said with a steady look. Reapers were claustrophobic at the best of times. Some handled it better than others and there were the rare warriors who had overcome their fear. Caves could be tolerated to a point, but going into a mine was something else. For most Reapers, any time they had to go deep underground they became nervous. The farther down they went, the worse the phobia became. “Someone is going to have to,” Phelan said. “Aye, well, it ain’t going to be me,” Fontabeau insisted. “I died in a cave-in.” “That’s rough,” Phelan commiserated. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to trek around down there.” “Makes me wonder what the fuck She’s up to, you know?” Fontabeau stated. “She has plenty of Reapers out there beyond Terra. Why me? Why here?” “Well, if it isn’t the handsome Cajun boy.” Both men turned to see Lucy walking toward them, the long red velvet skirt of her dressing gown swishing from side to side as she moved. Her long red hair hung down to her waist in a single tidy braid and her lovely face had been scrubbed clean of makeup. As a result, she looked much younger, even prettier, and not at all like the jaded proprietor of a whorehouse. The Reapers stood and Phelan pulled a chair out for her. She kissed him on the cheek before sitting. Her vivid green scrutiny switched to Fontabeau. “Have you two been discussing me, Cajun?” Fontabeau smiled. “I hate to disappoint you, Lucy-Lou, but your name never came up. We were discussing other things.” “Reaper things no doubt,” she said, staring into his eyes. Phelan gave Fontabeau a questioning glance.

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“Aye, she knows,” Fontabeau said with a sigh. “Don’t ask me how, but she knew the minute I put a hand to that shapely ass of hers what I was.” Phelan felt an instant stab of wild jealousy rip through him. He wanted to smash the gunman’s face, rip him to shreds. His fury was so raw it choked him. Unaware his amber eyes took on a reddish glint as they narrowed, he glared at the gunman. “You slept with her?” he challenged. “I thought your tastes ran elsewhere.” Fontabeau cocked an eyebrow. “You jealous, wolf boy?” he inquired. “Or complaining?” “Stay away from her,” Phelan said. “You touch her again and you’ll have me to deal with.” Lucy looked from one Reaper to the other. There was danger flitting through the air and she could feel it so keenly it made the hairs on her arm stir. “I’m yours only for as long as you want me, Lord Phelan,” Lucy said, hoping to defuse the situation. She turned and raised her voice. “Calvin, bring me the coffee pot and two cups.” Fontabeau grinned. “Don’t share your toys well, do you?” he asked Phelan. “No,” Phelan snapped, one side of his upper lip quirking. “I don’t.” The gunman spread his hands. “That’s okay. I can respect a man’s territorial rights.” “Calvin?” Lucy called again, her tone nervous. “Did you hear me?” “I heard you!” She rolled her eyes. “The man is as lazy as the day is long.” “You still having trouble with your employees, Lucy?” Fontabeau inquired. “Won’t do any more than the absolute necessities and even then it’s done begrudgingly,” she complained. “Backtalk me every chance they get. Even my girls are starting to sass me and that’s something I’m not going to allow. I’ll fire their wide-load asses in a heartbeat if this keeps up.” The cook sidled out with the coffee pot and cups and put all three on the table before turning and walking off without so much as a glance at the Reapers or his boss. “See what I mean?” she said. She picked up the pot—careful to keep the potholder on the handle—and poured coffee for her and Fontabeau, topped off Phelan’s at his nod. “How long’s that been going on?” Phelan asked. He had to struggle not to reach over and take her hand in his. He put his palm to his thigh instead and rubbed until the need passed. “Three, four months,” she said. “Gets worse every week it seems.” She blew across the rim of her steaming cup. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d be inclined to think some Nightwind succubus came in the middle of the night and sucked the soul out of every last one of them.”

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The Reapers exchanged a pointed look. “What about Rossman?” Fontabeau asked. “How’s he behaving?” “Who’s Rossman?” Phelan queried. He was starting to settle down but was fingering the fork as though he might use it as a weapon at any moment. “Ollie Rossman. He’s the man I hired to run the casino,” Lucy replied. She sighed. “Two days ago he up and left without a word. So did Bret, my bodyguard. Now I’ve got to find someone to replace the both of them.” She looked around the room with disdain. “And that’s not going to be easy to do. There’s not a one of these yahoos I’d even consider for the job.” An old man came staggering through the saloon doors, weaving his way to the bar. His clothing was dusty, his hat and boots had seen much better days—both worn through with holes—and his scruffy white beard looked alive with vermin. He hooked a foot on the bar’s brass rail and pounded a grubby fist on the bar. “Whiskey!” he said then swiveled his head toward the lovely woman sitting with the two men. He whisked off his hat. “How do, ma’am.” “Hello,” Lucy replied as graciously as if he were nobility coming to call. “New in town?” “My mule Betsy and me rode in just this morn,” the old coot replied then narrowed his eyes as his watery gaze fell on the Reaper. He nodded then shifted his attention to Fontabeau. The rheumy look narrowed even more. “Here now, boy. Don’t you be looking at me in that way. There ain’t no kink in this man’s rope!” Fontabeau’s eyebrows shot up into the thick darkness of his hair and his lips parted in shock. “He’s got you pegged, Cajun,” Lucy laughed. “Stop ogling him.” “I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Fontabeau’s mouth snapped shut and his own eyes narrowed. “Like I’d want to get next to any of that!” Phelan snorted. “Then stop mentally undressing the poor old man,” he teased, surprising himself. A moment earlier he wanted to rip the gunman’s head off and now he was ragging him. He shook his head, not understanding the conflicting emotions running through him. Fontabeau shuddered. He looked at Phelan. “I’ll do my best,” he mumbled, shuddering again. “Well, I’m gonna leave you two gentlemen to your important discussions,” Lucy said, pushing her chair back. She waved the Reapers back into their seats when they would have stood. “Don’t get all bent out of shape about what I’m gonna say because I’ve already said it won’t happen again, but I had her like I’d never had another woman,” Fontabeau said as they watched her sashaying away, “and I’m willing to bet so did you.” Phelan stiffened. Once again he wanted to plow his fist into the gunman’s handsome face. It was all he could do to refrain from doing so. “I didn’t fuck her,” he

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said then at Fontabeau’s grin, narrowed his eyes again—dangerously so this time. “Did you?” “Sure I did. I’m a hound, wolf boy. We can do what you lupes can’t. There’s no geis against us fucking as many women or men as we want.” Dark crimson color flooded Phelan’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he hissed. He realized it wasn’t so much anger he felt at that moment as shock that such a thing was possible among his kind. “I don’t joke about sex, brother,” Fontabeau said. “Made my living at it before I died. I like women well enough, but it’s men I enjoy the most.” He batted his eyes like a coy woman at Phelan. “Wouldn’t mind tasting you, wolfie.” Phelan shoved his chair back and got to his feet, snatching his hat from the table. He leaned over to retrieve his gear. “I’m not going to listen to this.” Fontabeau chuckled. “Don’t blame you,” the old man said from the bar. “That’s one sick puppy you got there, Lord Reaper.” Phelan jammed the hat on his head, pulled out a gold piece and slapped it on the table. “That should cover it.” Fontabeau heaved a long sigh then scraped his chair back. “Best leave that one alone, son,” the old man said. “Them Reapers are dangerous when riled.” He grinned, showing stumps of rotten teeth. “Aye, he’s right pretty on the eyes but you’d best get over him. He ain’t for you.” “Mind your own business,” Fontabeau shot back. He rocked his hat on his head and followed Phelan out the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” the old man called out with a cackle.

***** Phelan’s long stride ate up the distance between the saloon and the livery at the end of the street. He was hot under the collar and castigating himself for the wild thoughts that refused to be swept aside. It was all he could do to keep from broadcasting them, and they were thoughts he sure as hell didn’t want Fontabeau knowing. His first sexual experience had been with the magistrate’s pretty daughter—a young woman seven years older than him and far beyond her first boy. Though she wouldn’t let him enter her, her hands and mouth had given him such pleasure he thought he might die from it. His second encounter had been with the same man’s handsome son, five years older than Phelan, and his hands and mouth had been almost as experienced as his sister’s. The two had been jealous of one another and had used Phelan as a living chess piece in their ongoing war with one another. They tried to outdo each other in pleasuring Phelan but neither would allow Phelan to enter them nor did the brother ever enter Phelan.

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Truian had been one of them and Phelan had loved them both, though Truian he had loved the most. That he couldn’t and wouldn’t choose between them had set the fateful events of his ultimate destruction into motion. “Never again,” he said. “Stay away from her,” he’d told the gunman. “You touch her again and you’ll have me to deal with.” What the hell was wrong with him? he wondered. He found he couldn’t get Lucy out of his mind. Her shapely body and sultry voice had followed him every step he’d taken from the saloon to the stable. There was a reason a Reaper was allowed only one mate. “What about Eanan?” “Leave me alone, Mo Regina!” Phelan snapped. “Be careful how you speak to me, My Reaper,” came the immediate warning. “I don’t want nor do I need a mate!” “Every Reaper needs a mate,” the goddess whispered. “Even you.” Phelan stumbled to a halt at the suggestion. The thought of Lucy’s ripe body beside his every night sent a shiver of delight racing through his body. He could see himself loving her, spending time with her. “Lucy-Lou, I need you,” the goddess said then drifted out of Phelan’s mind. Stopping in the opened doorway of the stable, Phelan stared at the blacksmith who was pounding a red-hot rod of iron into submission. That was exactly what he felt like most of the time when Morrigunia interfered in his life. The Triune Goddess would pound him with Her velvety fists until She had him just as She wanted him. He’d had no say over his own life since the moment he’d awakened in Her arms all those centuries before. The blacksmith twisted his head around, looked at Phelan for a moment then returned to his work. “You need something, milord?” he asked. Shaking his head to rid himself of the desire to pulverize the goddess, the Reaper flung out an irritated hand. “My horse!” Phelan barked. “I need my gods-be-damned horse!” Without so much as a flinch, the blacksmith set aside his hammer, wiped his hands on the leather apron he wore then walked between the rows of stalls to fetch Ulchabhán. He took the horse’s halter from where it hung on a post, opened the gate and slung the halter over the mount’s head and led him from the stall. Not one word did he say to Phelan as he saddled the beast nor did he cast his glance toward the Reaper. “What the hell is wrong with you people?” Phelan demanded. The smithy pivoted his head toward the Reaper. “There’s nothing wrong with us,” he replied. “We are as we should be.”

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His answer surprised Phelan, and when the Reaper stared deep into the other man’s eyes, tried to delve into his thoughts, he was shocked to find there were no thoughts to be examined. The man’s mind was a complete blank, concealing nothing, revealing nothing. It was a barren canvas upon which nothing seemed to have been written. He stared back at Phelan with no expression whatsoever, extending the reins without a word. “Get my mount while you’re at it.” Phelan turned to find Fontabeau a few feet away. Had the gunman been his enemy, Phelan would have had little time to protect against him had Fontabeau’s purpose been deadly. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” he growled. “Didn’t,” Fontabeau said. “You were otherwise too engaged to hear me.” He cocked his chin toward the smithy. “Tell me that isn’t bizarre behavior,” he said as the smithy ventured down the row of stalls again. “He said he was as he should be,” Phelan said as he slung his saddlebags onto his horse and began tying the bedroll in place. “Aye, I heard him. What do you suppose that means?” “I don’t know, but I need to contact Lord Kheelan. There’s something not right about all this,” Phelan said. He moved past Fontabeau. “Are you headed up to the mines?” “Thought I’d ride with you,” the gunman replied. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll pull you off your horse and rape your virgin ass before we get there.” Phelan growled in warning and Fontabeau chuckled, causing the younger man to curse. Phelan stomped away to lead his horse out into the daylight. He stuck his foot in the stirrup and swung atop his mount, allowing the animal to prance as he waited for his fellow Reaper to join him. When Fontabeau came out, he arched an eyebrow at the thunderous look on the other man’s face. “What happened?” Fontabeau’s upper lip arched. “Nothing. It was just the look he gave me that pissed me off, that’s all.” “What kind of look?” “Like he knows something I don’t.” “Well, he most likely does, although I probed his mind and there wasn’t a gods-bedamned thing in it.” “That you or I could detect,” Fontabeau reminded him. “Aye,” Phelan said, frowning. “That we could detect.”

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Putting knees to the steeds, the two men struck out down the dusty street, missing running over a couple of miners who walked right in front of them as though the Reapers weren’t even there. About a mile up the narrow, winding road that led to the mines, Phelan reined in, holding his hand up for Fontabeau to do the same. “Lord Kheelan?” “I am here.” “There’s something going on in Haxton Cove. People are behaving as though they’ve been possessed and I’m beginning to think it has to do with those sleeper cells you told us about.” Fontabeau shot Phelan a puzzled look. He had heard the Shadowlord’s words— that wasn’t the cause of his bewildered glance. It was the term sleeper cells that baffled him. “You may indeed have stumbled upon a portion of them,” Lord Naois said from the Citadel. “We have been monitoring you so we know of the strange behavior of the inhabitants of the Cove. It concerns us.” “Do you need help or will the hell hound suffice as backup?” the High Lord snapped. Fontabeau stiffened. “I don’t like being called a hell hound.” “Get over it,” Lord Kheelan told him. “You get over it,” Fontabeau threw back at him. “I don’t work for you, BenAlkazar!” Phelan’s eyes widened. No one dared speak to the High Lord in that manner. Well, almost no one. He knew of a female who did, but it was best not to think on that. There was a long silence from the Citadel and when the Shadowlord spoke again, his voice was hard as nails and twice as sharp. “You had best hope She takes you back to that vulgar pleasure world from whence She dredged you, Sorn, for if I ever get my hands on you, I can promise you I will make you wish you’d never spoken to me in that fashion!” Fontabeau started to respond but Phelan hissed at him. “For the love of Alel, don’t!” Phelan warned. “You don’t know him like I do. Let it go.” “I’m not going to sit here and let him…” “Aye, you are!” Phelan cut him off. “We’ve got a job to do and we’re going to need his help to do it.” Fontabeau changed the subject. “What the fuck is a sleeper cell anyway?” “A nest of cybots left here by the Ceannus, programmed by them to awake at their command to wreak all manner of evil on the inhabitants of Terra,” Lord Naois explained. “We’ve been searching for them.”

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“If they are down in those mines, the drones would not have detected them on the fly-overs,” a third voice spoke. “That’s Lord Dunham,” Phelan told Fontabeau. “Underground in a shallow burrow is one thing, but a mine with serpentine tunnels is another. It will be hard to take them out from the air,” Lord Dunham continued. “It will have to be done where they can be physically reached.” “I’m not going down into any gods-be-damned mine!” Fontabeau declared. “If you think Kiel needs help with taking out the ’bots, you’d better send another Reaper or two.” “We’ll send Lord Cynyr,” Lord Naois replied. “He’s closer than any of the others.” “Hold off until I see what’s going on,” Phelan said. “If it’s a matter of setting a charge or two and blowing the bastards to Diabolusia and back, I can do that without having to pull Cynyr away from his territory.” “We can take out the ones aboveground with the drone,” Lord Dunham said. “I’m sending it now.” “That’s not a good idea either,” Fontabeau spoke up. “You’ll alert the rest of them that we’re onto them. We need to keep this secret until we know what our plan of action is going to be.” “He’s right,” Phelan said. “I’d just as soon not walk into a trap.” “Then we’ll delay sending the drone,” Lord Kheelan said. “But get on with it, Lord Phelan. The longer it takes to rid us of these creatures the more humans will be killed.” The Reapers could feel the Shadowlords withdrawing, the air no longer crackling with energy. “What did he mean about humans being killed?” Fontabeau asked. “That’s what the ’bots are doing,” Phelan said. “They are abducting the Terrans, taking their organs and blood and using it to create cybots to replace the humans.” “Using their organs and blood?” Fontabeau repeated. “Why?” “To make them look human,” Phelan replied. “To make them appear human— breathing, heart beating—so our drones will think them real. Unknown to the Ceannus, Lord Naois has programmed the drones to zero in on such creatures though.” “How?” “DNA. The Shadowlords sent the drones over the entire country collecting samples from the inhabitants. They did it a month or two ago. Anything changed after that will show up on their grid as a false human, a cybot who looks human but is far from being one.” “Which explains why the citizens of the Cove and the miners exhibit little or no emotion and don’t have any fear of us. A ’bot wouldn’t,” the gunman surmised.

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“Aye, that’s precisely why. They are taking out all the human emotion and memories, and that’s the reason I could not find any thoughts in the mind of the smithy.” “If that’s the case, then there must be some kind of laboratory underground where they’re doing it. Somewhere hidden away where no one will stumble on it.” “Aye and my guess is a Ceannus or two is down there with them supervising.” “So what’s your plan?” Fontabeau asked. “You can’t just ride in there wearing the black and not have them know what you’re up to.” Phelan thought about that for a moment. “Aye, you’re right. Mayhap I should dispense with the uniform and go in as a new miner.” “Then you run the risk of them trying to change you. Why not go in as a hired gun in my employ? Brell gives me carte blanche to hire men as I see fit. You could take over as my right-hand man.” He glanced down at the Speal. “But you’re gonna have to lose that laser whip.” Phelan rested his hand on the dragon handle. He would feel naked without the weapon. “Here,” Fontabeau said, drawing the gun from his left holster. He handed it to Phelan. Taking the heavy weapon, Phelan turned it side to side, admiring the workmanship. “It’s a sweet piece,” he commented, and started to hand it back. “Take aim at that sapling over there,” Fontabeau said. “Cock it and then gently pull the trigger.” Phelan frowned. “I know how to fire a six-shooter,” he said, leveling the gun at a pine sapling. He cocked the weapon, squeezed off a shot, the blast from the end of the barrel hitting a rock and ricocheting to two other small trees, which it disintegrated. The Reaper stared down at the weapon, his mouth sagging open. “It’s a gods-bedamned laser pistol!” he breathed. “Aye, and it will do what a Speal does but quicker and more efficiently. Now cock it and pull the trigger gently this time.” He pointed at another sapling. Doing as he was told, Phelan watched the sapling simply vanish before his eyes as soon as the crimson beam touched it. He whistled. “Where did you get this?” “She provided it,” Fontabeau said. “I’ve no idea from where, but my guess is some distant world where it’s commonplace. I have four extra. I can give you two of them.” “We have laser rifles but the Shadowlords don’t let us use them very often. Recharging is a problem,” Phelan said, running his free hand over the barrel of the pistol. “See that small gray slick spot there on the handle?” Fontabeau said, and when Phelan opened his palm to see where his fellow Reaper meant, he told Phelan it was a photo cell. “Just like with a Speal, you put it in direct sunlight and leave it for an hour or two and it recharges to full capacity, which is the equivalent of about fifty rounds. Don’t 40

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ask me how it works ’cause I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know it’s like having a fully loaded bandolier in a three-inch-long grip.” “Fifty rounds?” Phelan said, awe running through his voice. “I have a regular six-shooter on my right hip, but the left is the laser pistol. The only drawback to it is, unlike the Speal, any hand can activate it.” “Damn,” Phelan said. “So conjure you up some different clothes and a dual rig,” Fontabeau said as he twisted around to open his saddlebag and take out one of his extra laser pistols. In the blink of an eye, Phelan fashioned a blue chambray shirt, faded jeans and a gun belt with dual holsters. His black hat vanished and in its place settled a creamcolored one. A spiffy red bandana circled his neck. “What do you suggest I do about my tat?” Phelan asked. “Use the bandana to conceal it.” Phelan sneered. “Oh, now that would look real cute,” he said. “Why don’t I just get a fucking bonnet with ribbon streamers to dangle at my chin?” Fontabeau rolled his eyes and swung a long leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground. “Shit! Dismount, Kiel,” he ordered, “and let me show you what the fuck I mean!” Phelan cursed under his breath but dismounted. He reached up to untie the bandana and handed it to Fontabeau, “Lucky for you the tat isn’t as big as most and spreads more along your forehead than down your cheek,” the gunman said. Fontabeau folded the bandana into a triangle, flipped the point over Phelan’s head, tied the two ends in a half square knot just below the curve of Phelan’s head. He pulled the point across the half square knot then finished tying the knot over the top of the point, pulling the point down very tight to keep the point secure. “Where’d you learn to do this?” Phelan asked. “Pirates,” Fontabeau said, but didn’t elaborate. “Now stick a gold hoop in your left ear and you’re good to go.” Phelan whipped a hand over his left ear and a gold hoop materialized. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Fontabeau said, nodding. “Covers the tat perfectly.” He tilted his head to one side. “Makes you look sexy as hell, Kiel.” His voice turned husky, went low. “Not that you weren’t to begin with.” The two Reapers stared at one another for a long moment. Identical sets of amber eyes were intent, cautious. The seconds ticked by, filled with tension. Fontabeau lifted his hand to run the backs of his fingers along Phelan’s taut cheek. “So handsome,” he said almost in a whisper. “So filled with hurt.” Phelan backed away, putting distance between them. “I’d rather you not do that.” “I too was betrayed by someone I loved. He gave you up like Giles did me and you—”

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“She gave me up!” Phelan stated. “She gave me up because I would not choose her over her brother. Truian loved her brother Tylan more than she loved me and didn’t want him to suffer the same fate she made gods-be-damned sure I met! I loved her more than I loved Tylan but she wouldn’t believe me. She stood in the dock and swore my life away rather than have Tylan accused. I couldn’t choose her over him because he swore he’d kill himself if I did.” “Did he?” “I don’t know!” Phelan shouted. “I wasn’t alive to find out!” Fontabeau patted his mount as the animal shied at Phelan’s angry outburst. The horse skittered sideways, tried to rear, but the gunman kept the beast’s hooves on the ground. “She loves to set temptation before us, doesn’t she?” the gunman asked. “Temptation she knows we can’t resist.” Phelan wanted to jam his hand through his hair—a habit he had when he was irritated—but didn’t want to dislodge the bandana. Instead, he scraped his palm over the lower portion of his face and cursed. “I get so tired of Her messing in my life!” he snarled. “We all do, but the alternative would be our ceasing to exist here on this world and I am really beginning to like Terra.” He snorted. “Sure beats being a punching bag on Moddoilid.” Phelan knew next to nothing about the pleasure planet whose name meant whoredom in the old language. What he did know was enough to make a cold shiver run down his spine. “That must have been awful,” he said. “I have the mental and physical scars to prove just how awful,” the gunman said. “I’m sorry,” Phelan said. “It wasn’t all bad. I like sex—probably a lot more than I should—and it made most of it bearable. I like men and I like women, and I knew long ago it took both to keep me happy, to satisfy me. But I’m lonely, Phelan,” he said. “Why be lonely, why spend your life alone, when you don’t have to?” “I don’t think—” Phelan began, but Fontabeau shook his head, moved closer. “Aye, Phelan. Don’t think,” came the command. Phelan backed away. “No,” he said, putting up a staying hand. “You’re offering something I don’t want.” Fontabeau’s handsome face turned hard. “Or maybe it’s something you’re ashamed to admit you want?” Phelan shook his head. “I loved Truian. I truly did, but I felt something for her brother too. Looking back on it now, I realize it wasn’t love. It was simple curiosity. We were skinny-dipping in the river, tussling like boys will then he put his hand on my cock. At first I shoved him away, thinking he’d grabbed me by mistake, but when he 42

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did it again, my cock got hard as a fucking rock. He was rubbing me, tugging at me. I liked what he was doing. It felt good. When he dove beneath the water and took me into his mouth, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. It felt as good as when Truian did it to me.” He looked up at Fontabeau. “When I left that river I was confused. How could I take such pleasure from both of them?” “It’s easy,” Fontabeau said in a harsh voice. “Pleasure is pleasure. You take it from wherever it’s offered. It doesn’t matter if it’s from a female or a male.” The Reaper shook his head. “I used to believe that,” Phelan said. “That kind of thinking is what put me here.” The gunman stiffened. “You think it wrong? Degenerate?” “No, I don’t. Love is love. It matters not if it is between a man and woman or between two men or two women. The heart knows what it wants the same as the body does.” “I want you,” Fontabeau said stubbornly. “Tell me you don’t want me.” “For an hour’s pleasure?” Phelan countered. “Sure, we could do that, but it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t mean anything.” He searched the gunman’s eyes. “You are looking for a mate and that isn’t me, Beau.” “How do you know it isn’t?” Fontabeau pressed. “I just do,” Phelan said. He laid his palm over his heart. “I don’t feel it here. If I don’t feel it here, I know it isn’t right for me.” “Maybe it will come later,” the gunman insisted. “Let me—” “Beau, I’ve never been tempted before so I didn’t know how I’d deal with it when I was. Didn’t know which way I would go. I do now. It isn’t a man I want or need to make me happy.” “You want to find a woman,” Fontabeau said in a dejected voice. “I may have already found her,” Phelan said. Fontabeau blinked. “Don’t tell me you mean Lucy?” he gasped. “Maybe,” Phelan said. “Maybe not. I don’t know for sure yet. All I know is I feel things with her I’ve never felt before. I’d like to have the time to see if she’s the one.” “Well, ain’t that a kick in the balls,” Fontabeau said on a long sigh. “Never thought I’d lose out to a female in anything. I suppose you just want to be friends?” Phelan held out his hand. “I’d consider it an honor if you’d accept my friendship.” The gunman snorted then slapped his hand to Phelan’s. “If that’s all you’re willing to offer, I can accept it. Don’t like it worth a gods-be-damned shit, but I can accept.” He jerked his hand back and whipped around. “Always a fucking usher and never the groom,” he said under his breath. Phelan watched the gunman stomp over to his horse and swing himself into the saddle.

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“You gonna stand there all day? We’ve a job to do, Kiel,” Fontabeau snapped. “Best we get to it!” He drummed his heels into the flanks of his mount and shot forward before Phelan could reply.

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Chapter Four When Phelan caught up with the gunman, Fontabeau’s lips were set in a grim line. “I’m sorry, Beau,” he said as they forded a small stream, feeling the need to apologize but not understanding why. Something inside him wanted to make up to Beau for having turned him down. “Hey, can’t win ’em all,” the gunman snapped. “It’s just that—” “Let it go, Phelan,” Fontabeau said. “There’s no need to discuss it further. You’ve made your decision. No sense in beating a dead horse.” They rode for another twenty minutes before the mine could be seen through the trees. There was little noise as men walked in and out of the adit leading into the mine. The buildings surrounding the operation—the headframe, the hoist house, the office— were devoid of activity and equally devoid of noise. “Tell me that isn’t strange,” Fontabeau commented as they rode up to the hitching post in front of the mine captain’s office. He pointed to the barracks where the miners lived. “If you go in there, the bunks are as unruffled as an old maid’s cunt. No clothes lying around, no smokes littering ashtrays, no rank odor of unwashed male. No man— and especially not a miner—lives the way these men do. I’ve yet to see any of them sitting around playing poker, chewing ’baccy or throwing dice.” “Aye, well, chances are they aren’t men but ’bots,” Phelan muttered. “Sure is starting to look that way to me,” Fontabeau allowed. Dismounting, the Reapers tied their mounts and went into the captain’s office, not surprised to find it empty at that time of day. A half-consumed cup of coffee sat on the desk alongside the remains of breakfast, dried egg yolk hardening on the plate. “That doesn’t look fresh to me,” Fontabeau said. “Where’s Brell’s office?” “Back in town,” Fontabeau replied. “He’s been under the weather the last few days so I’m looking after things up here for him.” Phelan shot Fontabeau a tight look. “Under the weather how?” “He has headaches like we Reapers do, and this one has been particularly bad. He refuses to take tenerse for it so he just shuts the drapes and lies in bed ’til it passes. Could be a day or it could be a week. I once knew him to suffer with it for nearly two weeks before the gods-be-damned thing passed.” He took out his kerchief and swabbed at the sweat on his face. “Cluster megrims, I think the healer calls ’em.” “Aye, my aunt had them,” Phelan said. “That’s a tough row to hoe.”

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“I hear that,” Fontabeau agreed. “I hate getting the headaches.” “So what do you think?” Phelan asked. “Should we go looking for the captain and do a bit of reconnoitering?” “You can do all the reconnoitering you want to,” Fontabeau snapped. “I told you I’m not going down into that mine, and I’m not sure you should either.” He narrowed his eyes. “Leastwise not in humanoid form.” Phelan thought about that. “You’ve got a point.” He looked about, spied a copse of trees around which no one was milling. “I’ll just wing my way in.” “As an owl?” At Phelan’s nod, Fontabeau relaxed. “Can you shield your passing like one of my kind can?” “They’ll never see me,” Phelan said. “I’ll wait here for you to return,” Fontabeau said, taking off his hat and hanging it on a peg on the wall. He mopped at his sweaty face again. “I’ll never get used to the heat on this world.” Phelan moseyed on over to the door and over to the copse of trees, not surprised in the least that no one looked his way or stopped to watch him. The men coming from and going into the mine kept their eyes straight ahead, shambling along as though the weight of the world were on their shoulders. Once in the cover of trees, Phelan shifted from his humanoid form into that of a small burrowing owl then took to the air, winging straight through the mine entrance, staying close to the wooden roof supports as he followed the rail system deeper into the gloom of the mine. What struck Phelan as being even stranger than the quiet outside the mine was the silence within. There was no sound of metal wheels clicking over the track, no shriek of chain, no thump of pick or scrape of shovel. The mine was eerily quiet with only the shuffling of the feet of the miners over whose heads he flew. Around him the air was of good quality—suggesting the intake pipes were functioning well. It was cool and dry, and the deeper he went, the atmosphere grew more claustrophobic for him, the tunnels seeming to close in, become narrower. He knew it was an illusion but it made him uneasy and at one point he flew to a roof support and perched there, swiveling his head one hundred and thirty-five degrees as he took in his surroundings. One by one the miners trudged along with their eyes never wavering from the path in front of them. It was dark with only a lantern every twenty feet or so, but the miners didn’t seem to notice. They ambled along as though they were following an inner beacon. The silence was unnerving and Phelan was reluctant to spring from his perch and continue on, but somewhere within the vast complex of twisting and turning tunnels— many bisecting the rail track at forty-five- and ninety-degree angles and venturing into total darkness—was a place where humans were being turned into automatons. He had to find that place and put an end to the Ceannus’ evil plan. He flew past the inclined shaft where several levels of tunnels stretched into ebon stillness then circled back, winging his way to where a cage sat unused beneath what he 46

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reasoned was the headframe building. Flying down the shaft, he met only more darkness without so much as a flicker of light in the pitch black. He spied the skip hoist sitting idle along with several two- and three-car wagons on the tracks. None of the conveyors by which he passed were in use. There did not appear to be any work being done in the mine. Flying down one of the galleries, he detected a faint light far ahead and increased his speed. No one was headed this way, but the hint of light in the unrelieved darkness needed to be investigated. The closer he got to the speck of illumination the stronger his sense of claustrophobia increased. He knew he was far below the surface and going farther still, but at last there was light in this torturous gloom. It was into a large cavern he flew where several lanterns flickered from brackets hammered into the rock wall. A lone metal door stood partially open and it was from behind this mysterious portal that strange humming noises were coming. Dropping to the floor of the mine, Phelan wedged his feathery body into the crack, trying to see what was beyond the door, but all he spied was the metal legs of long tables. Using the cloaking ability given to him by the goddess, he bound into the air to fly into the room unobserved. Finding a metal roof truss, he alighted and looked down at a scene straight out of hell. On the long metal tables lay the naked bodies of what had once been living, breathing men. Only now their torsos had been splayed open and the vital organs removed. On a long shelf above the tables sat their heads with the top part of the cranium sliced away, the brain missing. A harsh beam of light passed over the features of each decapitated head in a grid pattern, mapping the features and then translating those features to a glowing green screen where a rapid set of numbers scrolled. To one side of the room two hideously formed creatures worked over a single table. At least seven feet in height and rail-thin with overly long arms and spindly legs, bulbous heads completely devoid of hair, the creatures were a pale gray in color and their flesh was mottled with warts. Their thin, delicate hands had four long fingers and a spatula-shaped thumb that ended with sucker-like pads at the tips. When one turned so Phelan could see its face, the Reaper was taken back to Calizonia and the Ceannus he had seen there. The black, slanted eyes devoid of pupils, the sharply pointed chin and the broad, flat nose with its triple rows of vented nostrils were unnerving. When it spoke—if that was what it did—it made clacking sounds between twin rows of very small, very sharp barbed teeth. Even in his owl form Phelan Kiel shuddered at the sight of the beings hunched over what had to be a new cybot they were fashioning. He swept his gaze about the room and counted over fifty monstrosities the Ceannus had already created with the remains of at least that many humans awaiting transplantation into new bodies. Taking in the rows of equipment that lined the other two walls of the rectangular cavern, he couldn’t begin to imagine the function of the various machines.

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All except one. One medium-sized machine was spitting out rubies and sapphires in what no doubt was meant to be their natural form. It didn’t take a genius to realize the stones were being manufactured by the Ceannus to preserve the illusion of mining operations going on as they should. As the dual bins in the front of the machine filled, they were dumped on a small conveyor belt then tracked from the room through a long tube in the cavern’s wall.

***** “Will you be able to find your way back to that hellish place without much difficulty?” Fontabeau asked when Phelan returned and told him what he’d discovered. “Aye, that’s not the problem. Getting back down there with a charge to blow this operation sky-high is going to be the challenge.” “And getting back out before it blows,” Fontabeau said. “Aye, there’s that too,” Phelan agreed. He paced about the mine captain’s office. “I didn’t detect a single human in that mine, Beau. Not a single one!” “Then that means the captain’s been changed,” the gunman suggested. “I’m thinking I can load charges into the cage and the skip hoist then send them down as far as they will go. The room where they are making the ’bots is farther down than that, but if we cause a cave-in at the top—sending tons of mountain down on their warty heads—I don’t think they’ll be able to escape.” “Unless they have a bolt-hole,” Fontabeau said. He looked skyward. “What about a ship sitting up there ready to snatch them up?” “The Net wouldn’t allow it,” Phelan said, and explained about the security system ringing the planet that prevented alien ships from entering Terran atmosphere. “Morrigunia can go and come as She pleases, but those She brings through say it hurts like hell. Anyone else who tries would simply disintegrate.” “So that’s why I felt that gods-be-damned pain when She brought me here!” Fontabeau said. “Where would the mine captain keep the explosives?” Phelan asked. “I’m guessing in the storage shed under lock and key,” Fontabeau replied. “We can break the lock though. The laser pistol can cut through any metal.” But once they had blown the lock off the metal cabinets where the gunman thought the explosives would be, they found nothing. A thorough search of the shed and the surrounding buildings turned up nothing they could use to blow the mine to bits. “Then we’ll have to ride back to town and get what we can there,” Phelan said, annoyed at the delay. “I don’t know why we would be able to find anything in town. The general store leaves a lot to be desired in the way of supplies other than picks, axes, shovels and

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things the miners need to come to work up here,” Fontabeau said, “but maybe Brell can tell us where the explosives are being kept.” “All right, then we’ll go back to town, get what we can and if there’s nothing to be had in Haxton Cove, I’ll contact the Shadowlords and have the supplies brought up to us from Robbinsville. We’ll come back here tomorrow and blow the hell out of the place.” “What about any humans in town who might be headed up here?” Fontabeau asked. “We can’t allow them to be harmed.” “You said Brell expects you to see to the mine,” Phelan replied. “That’s what you’ll do. When we get back to town, we search out the humans and hire them on. We tell them to stay in town until we can haul them up to the mines. One thing puzzles me though.” “That being?” “Why She wants your boss protected at all cost,” Phelan replied. “What makes him so special?” “Now that I can’t tell you,” the gunman answered. “He’s nice enough, but there’s something very mysterious about him. Something in his eyes that sends chills down a man’s spine.” He scratched his nose with a hooked finger. “Like a spider crawling down your back, you know?” “What do you know of him?” Fontabeau shrugged. “He’s very rich and very powerful in the mining game. Has mines here and in Parmeny. Single, though I hear he has a mistress in Pittsadel in the Parmeny Territory. Where he came from, I have no idea, but I get the feeling it wasn’t Terra.” Phelan’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a Terran?” “I could be wrong, but I don’t think he’s Terran.” “She brought him here for a reason then,” Phelan said. “My guess is they don’t know about him at the Citadel.” “They do now.” It was Lord Naois’ amused voice. “Intrusive bastards,” Fontabeau snapped. “Do they always spy on you?” “Unfortunately so,” Phelan acknowledged. “Lord Naois? Will you send your drone to chart out the humans and non-humans at the Cove? I’m sure you’ll have it pass over Brell while you’re at it.” “Count on it.” “Also, I may need to have you send detonators and charges to me from Robbinsville if I’m to shut down the mine.” “They are already on the way to you, Lord Phelan.” “My thanks.” The Shadowlord pulled back.

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“I’ve a question,” Fontabeau said. “She’s all-powerful. Why did She allow the Ceannus on this planet to begin with? Why doesn’t She just pounce on them with vengeance and rid us of these threats?” “She may not be as all-powerful as She would have us think. I believe there’s a limit to Her powers here,” Phelan said. “Unless She is in direct confrontation with Her foe, I don’t think She can eliminate them. We are Her eyes and ears and sword hands on this world. She put us here to do Her fighting for Her. The Ceannus haven’t been the only creatures we Reapers have fought to keep the humans safe. There were ghorets brought here by the Ceannus, the drochtáirs up in the Provinces and vile creatures called zombies down in my part of the woods. We’re also concerned there is another—even worse— threat somewhere along the seaboard that’s waiting to rear its ugly head.” “Oh, that’s a cheerful thought. What kind of threat?” “We don’t know, but one of my teammates thinks he brought the evil with him from beyond space and that it’s biding its time, waiting for the right moment to strike. It could be in Vircars or down in Flagala. We won’t know until it strikes.” “Not good,” Fontabeau commented. “No,” Phelan agreed. “Not good at all.”

***** They rode back to town under a darkening sky. Low rumbles of thunder came from the west where the horizon flexed with lightning. The air smelled of ozone and the horses were becoming skittish. “Storm coming,” Fontabeau said. “Maybe it will keep everyone inside until we can get rid of the imposters.” A loud crack of lightning split the air and the first droplets of rain began to fall. Urging their mounts to a faster clip, the Reapers tried to outrace the impending tempest. By the time they reached the Cove, the rain was coming down with force and they were drenched. The smithy was gone from the stables when they took their horses inside, rubbed them down and gave each a portion of hay and buckets of water. A wave of their hands had put dry clothes on them and fashioned slickers they would wear when they headed across the street. “Maybe it’ll slack up soon,” Phelan said as they stood in the doorway watching the deluge. “I’m in no hurry to venture out in that mess,” Fontabeau said, and went over to a hay bale to sit. “Although I could use a shot or two of whiskey.” Listening to the rain pelting the tin roof of the stable and the wind howling beyond the opened doors, Phelan took up residence on another hay bale and leaned his back against a roof support. “Tell me about your teammates,” Fontabeau suggested to pass the time. 50

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“Well, let’s see. Arawn Gehdrin is our Prime. He’s from Annwn and oversees the Oklaks Territory along with Eanan Tohre, twin brother to Owen. Those two are from Draíoct. Owen has charge of Wismin and Moilia. Second in Command is Bevyn Coure. If memory serves he’s from Críonna and he’s over in Armistenky. Next there’s Cynyr Cree from Cairéal. His territory is Exasla. Glyn Kullen is from Breathnóir and he patrols Micinoh. Down at the end of Serenia is Flagala and that’s run by Iden Belial from Othar. We also have Kasid Jaborn who more or less oversees the lands closest to the Citadel. He’s from Akhkharu.” “A diverse bunch,” Fontabeau said, “and all from the Old Worlds of the WindWarriors except for the Akhkharulian.” They were silent for a moment then the gunman asked which of the men were mated. “Legally Joined?” Phelan asked. “Both.” “Legally, Arawn, Cynyr, Owen and his twin Eanan and Glyn. Bevyn is mated but they’ve yet to tie the knot. Kasid has a woman he’s courting, but I get the feeling he’s not all that serious about it. Iden has no mate nor the prospect of one to my knowledge, and then there’s me.” “And you’re sitting on the fence.” “Aye, I guess I am.” “Best make your mind up before you leave here,” the gunman advised. “What about the hellions? Have any of the females been Transferred?” Phelan stretched out his legs. “All but four of the legal mates of the Reapers have been given a hellion. The exceptions being the Gatekeepers who belong to Eanan and Glyn’s lady. The Shadowlords have cracked down on making new Reapers because Glyn dared to Transfer one of his revenant worms to his lady’s girl-child to bring her back to life.” “A child?” Fontabeau asked. “That’s not good.” “No, but she is under the tutelage of both the goddess and a Worldly One as well as learning athletic skills from an Amazeen.” Fontabeau whistled. “Then she will be a formidable opponent and a handful for whatever mate she chooses.” “I’ve a feeling the mate has already been chosen,” Phelan said. “By you know Who. The goddess leaves no stone unturned.” “A Worldly One, eh?” The gunman smiled. “I am partial to those egotistical little beings. The owner of the brothel where I was kept had a male and a female she served. I learned a thing or two from them.” “Aye, we serve them, that’s for sure!” Phelan declared. He chuckled. “Lord Kheelan hates Elfinish.” “Does he now?” Fontabeau drawled. 51

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The building shook beneath a loud boom of thunder and the rain increased. “At this rate, we’re going to be here all night,” Phelan complained. “Whatcha say we make a run for it? My belly is starting to rumble.” “Might as well,” Phelan agreed. Gathering their saddle bags, they dashed across the muddy, puddle-riddled street against the howling wind and into the saloon, surprised there were no patrons and the piano lid was pulled down over the keys. “Where the hell is everybody?” Phelan asked, dropping his saddlebags to a table. “Lucy?” Fontabeau bellowed, dropping his saddlebags to the floor before racing up the stairs. Phelan’s heart was pounding as he streaked up the stairs behind Fontabeau. Fear had put an iron taste in his mouth, and when Fontabeau came up against Lucy’s door, found it locked then slammed his shoulder into it, Phelan drew his six-shooter. “Lucy!” Phelan howled. Something was blocking the door and he plowed into it. Beyond the door there was a scraping sound. “She’s got the dresser shoved up against it,” Fontabeau said, and added his shoulder to Phelan’s until the door jamb cracked and the door opened. It took them only a second or two to push the dresser aside. “Damn it, Lucy, where are you?” Phelan yelled. “We’re down here,” came a small, shaky voice. Phelan holstered his gun then dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. Two sets of gleaming eyes stared back at him. “What the hell are you doing under there, wench?” “Hiding,” Lucy said in a small voice. She reached a hand toward him. “Help me out, Phe.” Phelan took her hand and pulled her out from under the tight confines of the bed where she had been wedged. As he helped her to her feet, he grabbed her in a bear hug. “Woman, don’t scare me like that ever again, you hear?” he roared. He cradled her against him as though he’d never let her go, his heart pounding with the fear he’d lost her. A dark hand reached out to Fontabeau and he took it. Phelan was relieved to see it was the elderly black lady from the hotel. “Rossman came back and brought Bret with him,” Lucy said against Phelan’s chest. “They weren’t right. I knew it the minute I saw them.” “I came here looking for you, Lord Phelan,” the old woman said. “Merciful Alel help me, I was so scared.” “I grabbed Nellie by the arm and dragged her up here and hid, but no one came after us.”

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Fontabeau drew the frail woman into his arms and held her, patting her back clumsily. She was trembling, her shoulder blades standing out like the points of a picket fence on her thin back. “You’re safe now, Nellie.” “Where are the other women?” Phelan asked. “Gone,” Lucy said. “They began to disappear one right after the other soon after you two rode out of town.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know where they are.” “I think we’re the only normal ones left in this here town,” the old lady said. Fontabeau’s eyes flared. He pushed Nellie away. “Shit! I need to find Brell!” He tore out of the room like a bat out of hell. “Come on,” Phelan said. “Let’s get you in another room and lock the door. I’ve got to help Beau.” The women followed him out into the hall and to the next room down. Leaving them at the door, he inspected the room then motioned them inside. “Lock the door and push the dresser against it. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” He removed his sixshooter and handed it into Lucy’s keeping. “Aim for the head.” As he pounded down the stairs, he heard the thump of the dresser hitting the door and felt a modicum of relief. Before sprinting across the street to the hotel, he drew the laser pistol from its holster and cocked the trigger to prime the weapon then darted across the sodden street and through the door the gunman had left standing open. He called Fontabeau’s name. “Up here!” Taking the stairs two at a time, Phelan found Fontabeau standing beside a bed, a muscular man sitting on the mattress before him. “This is Kiel,” Fontabeau said, and the man shifted dark gray eyes glittering with unspeakable pain to the Reaper. “I won’t be of any help to you until this passes,” Desdon Brell said just above a whisper. “I told him what’s been going on,” Fontabeau explained. “We need to get him with the women.” “I am shamed I am too weak to fight alongside you.” The man on the bed tried to stand but his legs gave out from under him and he sat down. “I’m handy enough with a sword but couldn’t hit the side of the barn with a six-shooter.” “I’m wondering why they didn’t try to turn you,” Phelan said, suspicion darting through his amber gaze. Brell struggled to lift his head. “Someone—or something—came in, looked down at me then left. Maybe they thought I was dying or too weak and not worth the effort.” “That’s most likely the reason,” Fontabeau said. Phelan nodded in agreement. “Could be. They only pick the healthy and fit it seems. That’s probably why they left Nellie alone. She’s too old.” 53

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“What about the old coot?” Fontabeau asked. “I didn’t see him about.” “We’ll need to look for his ass. I don’t know where everyone is, but if they come back tonight, we need to be together where we can fight them off.” “Help me get Mr. Brell up,” Fontabeau ordered. “Call me Des,” the man on the bed said. “We’re all in this together now.” Phelan and the gunman hefted Des from the bed and walked him to the door. It was a struggle for the man was heavy and dead weight. Phelan suggested one of them carry him fireman style or it would take all night to get him to the saloon. Grunting, Fontabeau took his boss’s weight and hooked an arm over Des’ legs. The three of them made it down the stairs quickly and out into the pouring rain. Once in the saloon, Phelan took the burden of the limp man’s body on his own shoulder and hefted him up the stairs with Fontabeau right behind. “Lucy? Open up. It’s Phelan.” There was a loud scraping as the dresser was pulled away from the door then the portal cracked open. “You still you, Reaper man?” Lucy asked, the gun pointed right at him though it wobbled as her hand shook. “I hope so.” He carried Des into the room and dropped him on the bed. “What’s wrong with him?” Lucy asked. “Megrim,” Fontabeau replied. “A really bad one.” “The gods bless you, son,” Nellie said. “Let me get you a cool wet cloth.” She went over to the pitcher and ewer she had moved to safety on the bedside table. “Do you know where the old man who came in just before we left this morning might have gotten himself off to?” Phelan queried. “Deal Pederson?” Nellie asked, looking back as she poured the water. “Long white beard? Smells like a privy what’s overflowed?” “That would be him,” Phelan replied with a grin. “He’s holed up in the bathhouse,” Nellie reported. She dropped a washcloth from the dresser into the bowl of water then wrung it out. “Said wouldn’t none of them strange folk think to look for a body there.” “Let’s hope he was right. I’ll go check,” Phelan said. “Stay here, Beau. If I’m not back in ten minutes, I most likely won’t be coming back. Get everyone out of here and to safety. Contact—” Fontabeau shot out a hand to grip Phelan’s cheek. “Shut the fuck up! You’d better get your ass back here, Reaper. Don’t make me have to come looking for you.” “You heard him,” Lucy snapped, holding her hand for the washrag. “Don’t be talking nonsense, Phelan Kiel.” She put the rag on Brell’s forehead. “Now go,” the gunman snapped, “and watch your back.” “Take care of our wards,” Phelan said. 54

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“Just be careful,” Lucy called from the bed. “Should have gone with him,” Fontabeau said as he shoved the dresser against the door once more. “He’ll be fine,” Des said. “I feel it.” “I hope so,” Fontabeau said. He moved to the window and pushed the curtain aside, although the heavy downpour made it impossible to see anything on the darkened street. Even his enhanced vision did him little good for all he saw was Phelan running across the street. Lucy walked over to the window. “Something I need to know, Cajun?” she asked. “About what?” he countered. “You and Lord Kiel?” “Nothing to tell,” he said then glanced around at her. “I saw the way you looked at him,” she accused. “Doesn’t mean a thing,” he said. “Leastwise not to him. I offered. He turned me down flatter than a flapjack.” Lucy stared into his eyes for a long moment then nodded. “I see.” “The door’s wide open for you if you’re of a mind to walk through it, Lucy-Lou,” he said. “Ain’t no guarantee he’ll be waiting on the other side but…” “There are never any guarantees in life, Cajun,” she said. “What’s to be, will be.” “Aye,” he said, turning away from her. “You got that right.” “But you’re wrong. He won’t be asking me to be his mate. Not with me being what I am,” she said. “You think that matters to one of our kind, Lucy?” Fontabeau demanded. “There’s not a one of us who didn’t die for crimes we committed—imagined or not. He doesn’t see the whore when he looks at you. He sees the woman you could be.” Lucy bit her lip. “I’ve baggage, Cajun. There are things in my past that could rear up to hurt us.” “Then tell him, but I don’t think it will make a hill of beans worth of difference to him. He’s already made his mind up even though he doesn’t know it yet.”

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Chapter Five “Gods-be-damn it, that hurt, old man!” Phelan had a hand to the back of his head where a wooden washboard had connected with his skull. He was hunkered down in the bathhouse, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. The pain was so intense it made his eyes water. “Then don’t go sneaking up on a body then!” Deal Pederson growled. “How was I to know you weren’t one of them whatevers lumbering around?” “You stink to high heaven so I’m assuming you’re all right,” Phelan said, getting to his feet. He wobbled for a moment then pulled his hand from his head and looked down to see black blood streaked on his fingers. “Son of a fucking bitch! You broke the skin.” “Well shit, boy. Ain’t no sense in hitting somebody lest you do it hard enough to stop ’em in their tracks,” Deal said with a sniff. Phelan was losing what little patience he had. “You need to come on over to the saloon with the rest of us. We can’t protect you otherwise.” “Who says I’m the one needing protection?” the old codger grumbled. “Seems to me you’re the one with the bump on your noggin.” Nevertheless he went over to collect his bedroll and saddlebags. He squinted his watery eyes at Phelan. “Well, what the tarnation you waiting on, son? An engraved invitation to head out?” “I ought to leave your smelly ass right here,” Phelan griped. “Yap, yap, yap. That’s all you young whippersnappers know how to do. Less lip, boy, and more action!” Deal commanded, pushing Phelan none too gently toward the curtain that served as the bathhouse door. Grinding his teeth to both the pain in his head and the rancid odor rolling off the old man, Phelan tried to stay downwind of the old coot as they trudged across the street that was nothing more than a quagmire now. He didn’t mind the rain lashing at him since it helped the agony between his temples, but once they were inside the saloon, the ripe stench wafting to him from the old man’s sodden clothing made him gag. “Mother of the goddess, don’t you ever bathe?” he gasped, putting a hand under his nose and over his mouth. “Hell no!” Deal snapped. “Bathing is highly overrated.” Trudging up the stairs with the old man right behind him, all Phelan wanted to do was lie down until the pain passed. The hit had been delivered with more strength than he would have thought the old bastard had in his withered arms. He put his hand up and flattened his palm on the door. “Beau, I’m back.” 56

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There came the scraping sound of the dresser against the hardwood floor then the portal opened. One look at Phelan’s face and Fontabeau’s crinkled with concern. “What happened?” “Son of a bitch hit me with a fucking washboard,” Phelan replied, shuffling into the room. “Nearly caved in my skull.” The old man made a rude noise with his rubbery lips. “Didn’t do no such thing,” he snapped. “If’n I’d wanted to kill you, boy, you’d be in the arms of the Gatherer.” He grinned his toothless grin. “Again.” “I think he gave me a concussion,” Phelan complained. “You’re a Reaper, boy. You’ll heal,” Deal said with a snort. “Come lie down next to Des,” Fontabeau said. “You look like you’re about to pass out.” Lucy hurried forward to take Phelan’s arm. “He does!” she exclaimed. “Come on, baby. You come stretch out beside Des.” Phelan tried to shake his head no, but the pain elevated to a sharp crystal shard between his temples and his knees buckled. Luckily Fontabeau was there to catch him as the Reaper’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. “Well hell,” Deal said, craning his neck to see around the burly gunman as Fontabeau carried Phelan to the bed. “Didn’t think I hit the little bugger that hard.” “Where are his saddlebags?” Lucy asked. “He’s gonna need some of that stuff he told me he takes every morning, don’t you think? He said it was for megrims too.” She spun around and glared at the old man. “You hit my man again and I swear I’ll run my dagger from your crotch to your gullet, you hear me, old man?” “Tenerse,” Fontabeau replied as Deal backed away from the furious woman. “And aye, he will need it, Lucy. The bags are downstairs. I’ll go get them.” He laid Phelan down, touched his cheek then straightened. As he passed the old man, he gave him a mean look. “Don’t you be looking like that at me too. Keep them evil eyes off me, you little pervert,” Deal grumbled. “Bad enough that foul-tempered harridan done read me the gods-be-damned riot act!” When Fontabeau returned, he brought with him a tray filled with things he took from the kitchen—smoked sausage, cheese, a couple of loaves of bread, some tins of peaches and a few tart apples. He went back for jugs of water then the dresser was once more shoved in place. “This ought to tide us over until we can get you all to the stable and a carriage,” the gunman said. “Once we have you safely in Robbinsville, we’ll come back up here to stamp out the ’bots.” “What’s a ’bot?” Nellie asked. “Is that what all them folks are turning into?” “Aye,” Fontabeau answered. He began loading one of Phelan’s vac-syringes with a small amount of tenerse. 57

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“Are they turning the Terran people down in the mine?” Des asked. “Aye, they are. Phelan found a room where they’re doing it and we intend on blowing the entire mine to smithereens, but just so you know,” Fontabeau locked gazes with Des, “I don’t think there’s any gems in the mine. It looks like the Ceannus were manufacturing them from some kind of machine.” “A duplicator,” Des said. “I once saw one on Ionary.” Fontabeau came closer to the bed. “All right, it’s time you leveled with us, Des. Where are you from? You didn’t even bat an eye when I said Ceannus so that tells me you know what they are. Where’s home?” “Chale,” Des replied. “And I know all too well what the Ceannus is.” “And you’re here on Terra to do what exactly?” “I’ve absolutely no idea. She has never said, but I had no idea it had anything to do with the Ceannus.” “You’re not a Reaper,” Fontabeau said. “I’d know if you were.” “As you well know there are Reapers and then there are Reapers, mac imshee,” Brell said. “But no, I’m not a Reaper. I’m…” He held the gunman’s gaze. “Something else entirely. If you want to know what, you’ll have to ask Her because I’m not at liberty to say.” “He’s out like a light,” Deal observed as he came around to the side of the bed on which Phelan was lying. “Didn’t mean to hurt the poor lad.” “Well, you did, so get the fuck away from him!” Fontabeau snapped. “You’ll suffocate him with that stink of yours!” Deal mumbled something nasty under his breath but moved away from the bed, going across the room to slump down in the room’s only chair. Fontabeau reached down to turn Phelan’s head to the side, felt along his neck for the heavy vein then injected the tenerse into the young man. Phelan moaned, flinched, his eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t awaken. “Giving that to him when he’s unconscious might make him dream,” Des said. He was staring into Phelan’s face. “Let’s hope it’ll be a good dream,” Fontabeau replied as he unbuckled Phelan’s gun belt and eased it from beneath him, hanging it on the headboard so it would be close should the Reaper need it. He stepped back then turned to Deal. “You come help me pull some mattresses into the room so we’ll have a place to sleep tonight, old man.” “All right,” Deal grumbled. He hitched up his loose pants. Pulling the dresser from in front of the door, Fontabeau commented that the obstruction probably wasn’t necessary. “I don’t think there’s any of the inhabitants left save us.” “What if there are though?” Lucy asked. “Humans, I mean. They’re most likely terrified out there alone. We need to find them and bring them here.”

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“I’ll take care of it,” Fontabeau told her. “Move as much furniture as you can out of the way if you would, ladies, to make room for the mattresses.” Going into two rooms, Fontabeau and Deal plucked covers and pillows off the beds. Unwilling to allow the old man to touch the sheets and pillows with his filthy hands or hug them close to his smelly body, the gunman made Deal drag the mattresses back to the room while he carried the linens. “Take advantage of an elderly man what ain’t got all that long left on this world,” Deal complained as he wrestled the mattress. Fontabeau ignored him, just pointed to where the mattress should go. When the two mattresses lay on the floor, it was difficult to walk in the ten-by-ten room without stepping on one. “Anything else you want me to do, your grace?” Deal queried Fontabeau with a sniff. “Take a bath?” “Ain’t gonna happen,” Deal stated, and plopped down on one of the mattresses. “Where are you going, Beau?” Lucy asked as the gunman started out of the room again. “I need to contact the Citadel and I can’t do it in here.” “Why the hell not?” Deal muttered. “Because it doesn’t feel right and I doubt the Shadowlords would like for me to make you privy to their business,” the gunman snapped. “And besides, you’re too nosy by far, old man.” “Who you calling an old man, you whippersnapper?” Deal sputtered. Going down the stairs, Fontabeau checked the saloon but there was no one else in the place. He made sure the doors and windows were locked then stood staring out into the slanting rain. “Are you there?” he asked. “We are.” He didn’t know which of the three Shadowlords had answered, but there wasn’t any anger in the voice that spoke so he didn’t think it was the High Lord. “Can you tell how many untouched humans are in the Cove?” “Three.” Fontabeau frowned. He hoped that meant Lucy, Nellie and the old coot. “How many inhabitants in all?” “Six and aye, that constitutes those presently under Lord Phelan’s protection.” “Where did the rest of them go?” “Those we found straggling out of the town have been dispatched by the drone. The rest have gone up to the mine.” “How did they get past us?” Fontabeau asked. 59

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“They kept to the deeper woods. Obviously you weren’t meant to see them. They did not enter the mine until you and Lord Phelan were out of sight.” “But they didn’t get into any of the communities down the mountain?” “It would appear not.” “That’s a relief,” Fontabeau said, wiping a hand over his face. “At first light, the deputy from Robbinsville will bring you the explosives. Rain or shine, the task needs to be completed. Do you understand, Lord Sorn? We can’t afford to let even one loose for fear they will take another human life.” “Aye, I understand.” “We do not believe you are in danger, but remain vigilant. Send the women and old man back with the deputy.” “What of Brell?” Fontabeau inquired. “The Ridge Lord will remain with you.” “Ridge Lord?” Fontabeau questioned. “What is—?” But he realized the connection to the Citadel had been broken, his query left unanswered. At least, he thought, he knew what Brell was if not what it meant. Trudging wearily up the stairs once again, Fontabeau rapped lightly on the door. “It’s me, Lucy-Lou,” he said. “Is there anyone left in the Cove?” Lucy asked. “Afraid not,” Fontabeau told her. With the rain continuing its deluge, the wind pushing against the windowpanes, the room’s inhabitants settled down on the mattresses to eat a cold but adequate supper. Phelan woke with a slight hangover from the dose of tenerse and declined any of the food. Instead, he swung his legs from the bed and sat on the edge with his head down. “You need Sustenance?” Fontabeau inquired. “Aye.” The gunman unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, extended his arm to Phelan. The old man and Nellie turned away from the sight of the Reaper feeding, but Lucy watched, brows drawn together in concentration. “I spoke with one of the Shadowlords,” Fontabeau informed Phelan. “We’re all that’s left of the Cove. The others have either been destroyed or are up at the mines. The deputy from Robbinsville will bring the explosives up tomorrow and we’re to send the civilians back with the deputy.” “I’ll stay,” Brell said. Fontabeau nodded. “The Shadowlord said as much.” He leveled his attention on Brell. “He called you a Ridge Lord. What is that?” Desdon Brell scooted up in the bed, leaned his back against the headboard. “I am a WindWarrior. That is all I can tell you.”

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“A sorcerer,” Phelan stated. “A very powerful sorcerer if memory serves.” “One without powers at the moment,” Brell replied. “Until the headache leaves me, I am no more potent than the old man.” “She brought you here for a reason,” Fontabeau said. “I don’t think it was to fight the threat from the Ceannus.” “I told you I don’t know why the goddess brought me here,” Brell reminded him. “But even if I did know, I could not tell you.” Phelan snapped his fingers. “Now I remember! Ridge Lords are the High Rulers of the WindWarrior Society. They are dispatched when there is an evil too great for mortal…” He stopped, staring hard at Brell. “You are immortal?” Brell laughed, wincing at the sound. He put a hand to his head. “No, Lord Kiel. I am not an immortal. I can die—just as you can if someone lops off your head. It just takes a bit of effort on the part of the one trying to do the killing.” “Phelan was going to say an evil too great for mortal man to fight, wasn’t he?” Fontabeau asked. “Does that mean you might have been brought here to battle a demon?” “That could be the reason. I won’t know until She tells me,” Brell admitted. “Let it rest, will you, Sorn? My head is splitting apart.” “I have plenty of tenerse,” Phelan suggested. “I do not use it,” Brell said. “I can not. There is nothing that will help except the passing of time for the pain to leave me. How is your headache?” “Fading,” Phelan replied. “No thanks to that old codger over there.” Deal snorted. He was lying on his side on the mattress with his back to the others. “I hate to be a bother,” Lucy said, “but I need to use the facility.” She looked to Phelan. “Will you escort me down the hallway?” “You don’t have a chamber pot under the bed?” Fontabeau asked. Lucy raised her chin. “I will not do my business in front of four men and another lady! If there are no,” she waved her hand, “whatever you called those things lurking about to be worried over, I would like the privacy to attend to my needs!” “Oh, all right,” Fontabeau snapped. “Come on.” “I want Phelan!” Lucy protested. “I’ll take her,” Phelan said, getting to his feet. “You sure you feel up to it?” the gunman asked. “I’m just a bit dizzy.” “All right then, but you’d best take your weapon with you. When you come back, I’ll make another trip to the kitchen for more food,” Fontabeau said. “We’ll get it,” Phelan told him as he swung his gun belt around him and buckled it low on his waist. “No sense in you having to make still another trip downstairs.” He looked at Nellie. “You need to go too, milady?” 61

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The elderly black woman shook her head. “No, milord.” Phelan went out into the hall first then took Lucy’s hand to lead her to the door she indicated housed the saloon’s bathroom. He checked it first then closed the door behind her when she went inside. Leaning against the wall, he rubbed the back of his head. “Gods-be-damned old bastard put a fucking dent in my head,” he said, fingering the stiffness of his hair where blood had dried. Keeping an eye peeled toward the stairs, he used his psychic abilities to scan the area beyond but there was no movement—not even that of a rodent or insect. Satisfied, he took out his gun, made sure it was loaded then put it back into the holster. He fingered the grip of the laser pistol but did not remove it from its leather sheath. He felt a bit naked without the Speal that usually hung at his hip. “Phelan?” He turned his head toward the closed bathroom door. “Aye, Lucy.” “Would you come in here, please?” His eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth to ask why, but the scent of her fear through the door caused any questions to still on his tongue. He pushed the door open, ready to do battle with anything that might be a danger to her. He blinked when he saw her standing by the toilet, her hands clenched in front of her. “What’s the matter?” he asked. Lucy raised her chin. “I’m a whore,” she said. “That’s how I’ve made my way in this world since I was twelve years old.” He flinched at that news. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Would you close the door?” she asked, twisting her hands together. He did as she asked, sensing she had something she needed to say. His head was pounding still so he leaned against the door, his hands thrust into the pockets of his pants. “It was my mother who turned me out,” she said. “Me and my two sisters before me and my three sisters after me. There were seven of us girls, but our baby sister died when she was only four. She was the lucky one of us.” “Your mother ought to be horsewhipped,” Phelan said through clenched teeth. “She contracted a terrible disease and died raving like a lunatic,” Lucy told him. “She got back what she deserved and then some.” “It would seem so,” he agreed. He was sensing there was more so he didn’t push, didn’t encourage. He just stood there leaning against the wall, willing to give her however much time she needed. “The,” Lucy hesitated then flung out a hand as though searching for the right word, “place where our mother sold us held auctions. Virgin girls went to the highest bidder.” She looked down at the floor. “I was lucky in that the man who bought me was a kind person who did not abuse me as some of the girls were. He was gentle with me.”

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He was grateful for that. A woman’s first time should never be one she looked back upon with shame or horror. A child the age Lucy had been should never have been asked to view the terrible things she must have witnessed. “He said I reminded him of his little girl,” she said, and Phelan winced at those words, wondering what sort of degenerate would want to sleep with a child that reminded him of one of his own. “He had a house where he took me and I lived there until he died.” “How old were you when that happened?” She looked up at him. “Fifteen.” Her lips trembled. “His son came one day with the sheriff and they threw me out with only the clothes on my back.” She lowered her head again. “I didn’t even have on shoes and it was snowing.” Phelan released a long, angry breath. Though it had happened many years before, he felt the injustice of it, the wrongness of it as strongly as though it had been his own misfortune. “Where did you go?” She shrugged. “Where was there for me to go except from whence he’d taken me?” She rubbed her arm. “I went back to the brothel and stayed there until I was seventeen.” Once more she looked up at him. “By then my youngest living sister had turned twelve and our mother brought her there. It was the last time I saw my mother.” He sensed something darker in her words, something evil lurking behind her moist green eyes and he knew whatever it was she was about to reveal would lay the groundwork for whatever might come of their relationship in the future. Lucy tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and eased down on the closed toilet lid, perching there as though the wood was scalding hot beneath her shapely rump. “There was a man named Silus Barker,” she said, twisting a portion of her skirt between her hands. “He was a mean son of a bitch.” She closed her eyes. “He liked to hurt the girls.” “Did he ever hurt you?” Phelan asked between tightly clenched teeth. “Many times,” she said. “Once, he beat me so bad I couldn’t walk for several days.” She shrugged again. “That was just the way he was.” “Where is he now?” She acted as though she hadn’t heard him. “He bought Lanette,” she said. “My sister. He usually didn’t want the virgins. Said he didn’t like having to break them in, but Lanette was so pretty.” A single tear fell down Lucy’s pale cheek. “She was so pretty.” Phelan watched her lift her head and realized she was no longer aware of him being in the small room with her. She was staring into space, her eyes glazed with memories that had put haunting shadows in the green depths. “I knew where he lived and I went there to beg him not to hurt her. I was going to offer myself to him,” she said. “Tell him whatever he wanted to do to me he could if he just wouldn’t hurt Lanette.”

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Fury lashed through Phelan Kiel. He withdrew his hands from his pockets to double them into fists. “When I went into that room I knew it was too late,” he heard her whisper. “My sister was lying on the floor, her body bruised, her head twisted at a strange angle.” Another tear fell. “He was sprawled on the bed—drunk as a jester.” She tugged at the twisted garment in her hand. “I went into the kitchen, got a knife and then I stabbed him.” She took a hitching breath. “Then I stabbed him again and again and again until he stopped breathing.” Phelan went to her, hunkered down in front of her, drawing her surprised attention back to him. For just a flicker of a moment she looked as though she didn’t recognize him then she tried to smile. “I killed a man, Phelan,” she said. “I killed him and I knew the law would be after me. I knew if they caught me I’d hang so I ran. I took every bit of money I could find in his pockets and I ran. I kept running. When I ran out of money, I whored for it, I stole, I cheated, I did whatever it took to get me to the Exasla Territory. I changed my name so no one would know who I was. I worked the seediest brothels between here and Calizonia until I had enough money to hire my own stable of girls.” “You did what you had to,” he said, placing his hands over hers to still their agitated twisting. “The law is after me, Phelan. The law will always be after me,” she said. He caressed her hands with one of his and reached up to push a stray wisp of hair from her face with the other. “Lucy, I am the law,” he said. “I killed a man,” she protested. “Where did this happen?” he asked. “In what territory?” “Wismin.” “That’s Owen Tohre’s jurisdiction. As I see it, you carried out a sentence he would have had he known what Barker had done. I’ll talk to him. We’ll see you’re cleared of any murder charges.” Hope entered her eyes. “You can do that?” she asked. “I can and I will,” he said. “Barker didn’t deserve to live. I want you to give me the name of that brothel, and if it’s still being run, if they are still selling little girls to pedophiles, Owen will shut them down and bring the owners and johns to justice.” He reached up to cup her chin. “I’ll make it right for you, dearling.” Lucy slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. She was trembling with the emotions rippling through her. “Are you ready to go back to the room?” he asked, knowing she needed to be around other people to get her mind from the past. She hiccupped. “I haven’t peed yet,” she admitted. He laughed, getting to his feet, her arms slipping from his body. “Then hop to, wench.” 64

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Lucy was sniffling as he walked to the door and opened it. “You’ll be right outside?” she asked, wrestling with her gown. “Aye,” he said, closing the door behind him. He stood outside in the corridor, wishing he could resurrect Silus Barker and tear the guts out of the bastard. When the door opened a crack, he glanced around. “Phelan?” she whispered. “Aye?” He could smell her heady arousal and the only thought that went through his mind at that moment was she was picking a piss-poor time to want to get amorous. The door opened fully and he saw her standing there—as naked as the day she’d been born. “I’ve got a problem,” she said, running her tongue over her lips. “And what’s that, milady?” he asked. She opened the door a bit wider, her slender hand caressing its edge. One bare thigh crooked between the jamb and the portal. “I think you know, Reaper.” He pushed away from the wall and turned to face her. “Don’t you think this is a bad time to be—” Her hand shot to his shirt and her fingers—stronger than he could have imagined— gripped his arm. She flung the door open, pulling him into the room with her before releasing him, slamming the door shut and putting her back to it with her hands behind her. “Humor me,” she said, arching her back so her lush breasts rose in invitation. “Lucy…” he drawled, her name a warning. “Phelan,” she replied with a twist of sultry lips. He heard the snick of the lock as she sealed them in the room. “I want you,” she said then shook her head. “No, I need you.” “Now?” he questioned, although his cock was throbbing so hard it was outpounding his headache. “I need you,” she repeated, and he could see the desire in her eyes mixing with something that—should he deny it—might crush her gentle spirit. He had allowed the magistrate’s son and daughter to lead him into experimenting with sex and to set the tone for what would come. Truian would not allow him to take her as a lad takes his lady for she dared not lose her virginity before Joining with whatever suitable male her parents chose for her. Oral sex to her was something she delighted in receiving and giving so their lovemaking pleasured them both. Her brother Tylan, on the other hand, had preferred the giving rather than the receiving, wanting only Phelan’s hands on his shaft but never the younger man’s mouth—engaging in some kind of morbid fear that his cock would be bitten off during the act or some such

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rubbish. Nor would Tylan allow Phelan to thrust inside him because Ty had felt it wasn’t sanitary. So it was that over the years, Phelan tended to continue being rather passive with his sexual encounters. He could take or leave them, though joking about such things gave him a great deal of pleasure. He very rarely initiated the act and though he never left a partner frustrated or wanting, the only oral sex he’d given had been to the women whose mouths returned the favor. The men with whom he’d spent passionate times had used their mouths and hands on him, but he had not returned the favor. “Don’t you want me?” she asked, hurt entering her gaze. “Aye, wench, I do.” She lowered one hand to rub at the rise her nearness was eliciting. She arched a brow. “What do we have here, Reaper?” At that moment, something wild shot through the Reaper. He wanted her—no—he needed her too. He grabbed Lucy, molding his palm to her firm, plump breast. He was frantic to have her, to be inside her. Something strange was happening to him, overwhelming him, taking complete charge of him. But it felt right. It was right! he thought. “Lucy-Lou, I need you,” he heard the goddess whisper in his ear. “I need you!” he hissed. “Merciful Alel, I need you, Lucy!” “Aye,” Lucy breathed. He was fumbling with the buttons of his pants, huffing in frustration, but then he cursed and flung out his hand to render himself naked. “That is such a useful talent!” she said with a giggle. Jamming his hands under her luscious rump, he lifted her higher against the door and she wrapped her legs around his as though she were a vine. She wriggled against his jutting cock, jockeying for a better position from which to impale her moist sheath on his shaft. His fingers digging into her buttocks, he shifted her a bit higher then rammed her down on his erection, going into her heated channel as deep as his shaft would reach. He heard her grunt from the pleasure-pain of his penetration. He dipped his head and his lips circled her nipple to draw hard upon it. Her hands were buried in his thick hair. His hips were rhythmically rocking forward and back against her—not hurriedly but with firm determination. He was thrusting into her slick tunnel, forcing her up the door with each firm stroke. “Aye, my Reaper,” she whispered, squeezing the muscles of her cunt around his shaft. “Harder. Do it harder!” He arched his back and drove into her with all his strength. The feel of her hot, wet cunt around him was making his head spin. He’d never known such wondrous delight from the mouths of the whores and men who had serviced him over the years. Plunging into her slick, heated channel, having her tightening her cunt around his hard shaft,

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inhaling the combined scent of his pre-cum and her vaginal juices were all combined to do things to him he had never dreamed of feeling. “Lucy,” he growled, his lips against her soft breast. “I love this.” He looked up at her, shocked by the realization that had seized him. “By the gods, I love it!” Lucy smiled. “Then come for me, stud,” she said. “Come hard and long for your woman!” Her words were like a prod goading him on and he increased the speed of his thrusts, grunting with each forward movement of his hips. He adjusted his stance and the muscles of his taut ass tightened as he slammed into her. The sound of their flesh meeting made him growl again. “Come for me,” she said again as her own need soared higher and higher. He could feel the release building in his loins. It was a burning, itching, frenzied pain he knew would become an overwhelming pleasure the moment it came to fruition. He was pounding against her. Her grip on his hair was almost painful as she held onto him. He widened his stance once more then the climax came—powerful and strong—so potent he saw black stars skittering across his vision. The ejaculation was thick and full, and when it shot out of him, he thought he’d pass out. The sound that came from the very core of him was filled with acute, intense pleasure and he continued to thrust into her until the very last drop of semen oozed from his cock. At some point he had felt her own climax gripping him—pulsing, rippling, undulating over his flesh—so he knew he had pleasured her, but it was his own immense satisfaction that made his knees weak. He gripped her ass tight and turned, going over to the edge of the claw foot tub to sit down on the rim with her cunt still clinging to his withering cock. He sat, dropped his head to her shoulder—breathing hard, heart pumping, sweat glistening on his chest and upper arms. “I’d say you enjoyed that,” Lucy said, stroking his hair. “You gods-be-damned near killed me, wench,” he panted. “Aye, but you claimed me, Reaper. I am your mate now and we will never be apart, one from the other.” He lifted his head and looked into her smiling eyes. There was enormous satisfaction glittering there and he wasn’t altogether sure she hadn’t laid a silken trap for him, but there was something else he was stunned to recognize. She was gazing back at him with affection. “You’re my mate,” he whispered, awe rife in his husky voice. “That I am.” She toyed with a curl of his chest hair. “I will make you a loyal, loving mate. I swear it, Phelan.” “I have a house in Vircars,” he said, and winced at how stupid that sounded. “Where you are, I will be,” she said. “You won’t mind leaving the life you’ve been living?” he asked.

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She pivoted her head so she could gaze up at him through her lashes. “Will you miss the occasional bawd and lusty male?” He shook his head. “No, I will not.” “Then you have your answer,” she said with a sigh. He held her for another moment or two then rose to his feet, letting her slide down his body. He waved his hand and they were dressed again—this time he had adorned himself in the black clothing of his station. She was clothed in a somewhat more demure count that covered much of her spectacular bosom. “We’d best get down to the kitchen,” he said, going to the door and undoing the lock. “They’re going to wonder what’s keeping us.” “They’ll know,” she said with a wink. Phelan felt a faint tinge of heat creep onto his cheeks. He poked his head out the door just to be on the safe side, saw no trouble lurking, and reached back to take her hand. Together they went downstairs, their fingers locked. Aye, he thought, they would know for he felt himself walking as though he were ten feet tall.

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Chapter Six The sleeping arrangements had proven very satisfactory. Deal had kept one of the mattresses for himself since no one was inclined to share the stench that rolled off the old man in waves. Although Lucy would have preferred to sleep beside Phelan, she had shared a mattress with Nellie. Phelan and Fontabeau had taken turns keeping watch, catching a few winks on the mattress occupied by Brell when they could. It rained all night long and the air turned frigid. When the first rosy fingers of dawn scratched at the windows, there was a decided nip in the air and frost rimming the rooftops. “Hopefully Deputy Redfield will be along shortly,” Phelan told Fontabeau. They had gone downstairs to light the stove and make a pot of coffee. He shoved a cord of wood into the potbellied stove. “I’ve been pondering the question of what the hell the turned townspeople are doing up at the mine,” Fontabeau said. “It makes no sense. Why not either leave them here or send them out to other towns?” “Something is going on up there,” Phelan said. “Maybe the Ceannus are further enhancing them in some way.” “By the goddess, that’s a frightening thought,” Fontabeau allowed. “What is?” Both men turned to see Lucy standing in the door. “Wench, why aren’t you upstairs where we left you?” Phelan snapped. He strode over to her and gripped her upper arm, shaking her. “What were you thinking coming down here unprotected?” “I’m not unprotected. I am where I should be, warrior,” she replied, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She rubbed against him. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” “Aye, you know I am,” he said, and circled her waist with an arm to draw her to him. He lowered his head and kissed her soundly. There was a knocking at the saloon door. “Hello?” “Must be Redfield,” Fontabeau said, and headed out of the kitchen. “Aye, we’re coming! Hold your horses!” Lucy smiled at Phelan. “Do you think the other Reaper mates will like me?” “I can’t imagine why they would not,” he answered. He scooped coffee from the tin and put it in the basket of the percolator. “They are good women.” “Good women,” she repeated, shadows gathering in her eyes.

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“Bevyn’s mate worked in a brothel too,” he told her—omitting the part that Leah’s job had been one of housekeeper and not whore. Lucy’s face brightened. “She did?” Phelan nodded, feeling guilty for not telling her the entire truth. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a filled vac-syringe. “You might as well get accustomed to giving this to me.” “It hurts you, doesn’t it?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as he gave the vac-syringe into her keeping. “It stings like hell,” he said, “but for only a little while.” He pulled a chair away from a small table and sat. “Run your fingers along the side of my neck to find the jugular. Now stick the needle into the vein and press the plunger at the back of the syringe.” Lucy took a deep breath and injected her man with the drug. His flinch brought tears to her eyes but she sniffed it up, determined not to let him know it bothered her to have hurt him. “I’ll need to take Sustenance from one of the horses when we go outside,” he said. “I—” She offered him her arm. “Take it from me.” He smiled. “Not this time, sweeting. Later though. I need to drink hearty because I’ll be needing it for later this morning.” The reminder that he would be going up to the mine and into danger caused Lucy’s bottom lip to tremble but she said nothing, only nodded at his words. “Redfield is going down to the stable to get a carriage hitched up,” Fontabeau said as he came in with Nellie close on his heels. “As soon as everyone has had breakfast, he’ll drive them down to Robbinsville.” “You want me to give you your tenerse?” Phelan asked. “I took it already,” the gunman replied. “We should go down to the stables though and take care of business.” “Aye.” Phelan cupped Lucy’s cheek. “You stay here, wench. You hear?” “I’ll set a table for us then,” Lucy said. “How many will be eating?” “I’m not hungry,” the gunman stated. “Then just you, Nellie, Deal,” Phelan said. “I don’t know about Brell.” He looked at Nellie. “Is he up and about?” “Lord Brell will be down shortly,” Nellie told the men as she began gathering things to make a quick breakfast. “Deal said he’d watch after him.” “Is he feeling no better?” Fontabeau inquired. “Says his megrim ain’t as bad but he’s as weak as a newborn kitten. Can’t walk all that well on his own what with his head spinning and all,” Nellie answered.

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“He’s not going to be of any help to us at the mine,” Fontabeau told Phelan as they left the kitchen together. “What do the Shadowlords think he can do?” “I can keep watch for you,” Brell said from the stairs. The old man had a grip on the younger man’s arm, helping him negotiate the steps. “And I can hit the side of a barn if you give me a big enough gun.” He smiled. Phelan laughed. “With our guns, you don’t even need that much aim, milord.” “Des,” Brell insisted. He stopped—leaning against Deal—then stepped from the stairway. “That took more out of me than I expected.” “Do you really think you can sit a horse?” Fontabeau asked. “My horse knows me,” Brell said. “He’s smarter than your average steed.” “Then have some breakfast while Phelan and I see to things in the stable. We’ll be riding out within the hour.” Brell nodded and Deal helped him to sit at one of the gaming tables. “Our Ridge Lord looks like death warmed over,” Phelan commented as he and Fontabeau walked out into the muddy street. “The pain must be fierce,” Fontabeau replied. Redfield had the horses for the carriage harnessed and was leading them into the carriage traces when the Reapers arrived. He tipped his hat then told them he had packed the charges and detonators into saddlebags. “Have the old man ride up top with you,” Phelan said. “He reeks to high heaven and back.” The deputy grinned. “I got a cold anyways so I most likely won’t smell him.” “You’ll smell him,” Fontabeau said. “A dead skunk could smell him and come to life to court him, he reeks so bad.” Shrugging, the young man asked how many he’d be escorting down to Robbinsville. “Two ladies and the old gent,” Fontabeau replied as Phelan entered the stall where someone’s horse was stabled and bent his head toward the steed’s neck. He saw Redfield glance that way, swallow hard then look away again. He asked Redfield if he’d had breakfast. Turning a strange shade of green, Redfield shook his head. “I’m not hungry, milord.” “A good cup of coffee might help that cold though. Why don’t you go on up to the saloon and have yourself one. We’ll finish up here.” Eager to be away from the Reapers, Redfield bobbed his head and all but ran out of the stable. “Boy’s got a queasy stomach,” Phelan commented as he walked toward Fontabeau. “Aye, well, it’s no wonder,” Fontabeau said with a snort. “You were slurping your breakfast.”

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“I gods-be-damned sure wasn’t,” Phelan grumbled. Fontabeau snickered. “I’m going on up to the saloon and get our saddlebags. I’ll bring Brell back with me.” After the gunman had gone, Phelan led the horses pulling the carriage out to the hitching post. He glanced around to see Lucy walking toward him. “Beau took one whiff of the bacon and decided to grab some food after all,” she told him. “He’ll be awhile by the looks of the plate he piled high.” Phelan smiled. “Did you want something, wench?” Lucy wrapped her hands around the top rail of the hitching post. She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth—a nervous habit Phelan was coming to cherish. “What’s eating at you, sweeting?” he encouraged. “Do all the Reaper mates get the gut-rolls when their men go off to do what they do?” He put out a hand to cup her cheek. “I think all women do.” He caressed her cheek. “That’s been the way of it since time began.” She covered his hand with hers. “I’m scared shitless for you, Phe.” “No cause to be,” he said. He slid his hand to the back of her neck and guided her around the hitching post and into his arms. “I’ll be just fine.” She snuggled against him. “I’ve spent my entire life wanting what I thought I’d never have. Other women got husbands and homes and babies. I got a passel of whores to tend. I never thought I’d ever find out what it meant to be respectable.” She looked up at him with tears shimmering in her green eyes. “I’m afraid the other women will think me unworthy to be a Reaper’s mate. I’m terrified they won’t like me and the other Reapers will think I’m not worthy of you. I’ve never been anything but trash and I like sex way too much to ever be a good girl.” He glanced around, saw they were alone and reached down for her hand. “And speaking of which…” He led her into the stable and to a darkened stall, pushing her against the wall. “I need to say a proper goodbye to my woman,” he said, swooping down to slant his mouth across hers. The gown she was wearing had a scoop neckline with puffed sleeves—making it easy for the Reaper to pull the fabric down to expose her breasts. He bent his head to claim one dusky nipple as he hefted the weighty globe in his hand. His other hand plucked at the gown’s skirt, drawing it up her legs until he could slide his fingers into her wet sheath—grateful she had foregone underwear. She ran her hands up his arm and gripped his shoulders. “Down,” she said, and stepped back so she could draw him with her to the mound of hay in the corner of the stall.

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Reluctantly Phelan released her, but she was already sinking to the floor, her gown rucked up around her waist, the smooth flesh of her long legs and the triangular tuft of hair at the apex of her thighs beckoning him. She held her arms out to him. “Come here, Reaper,” she said in a sultry, husky voice. He growled low in his throat, making quick work of freeing his engorged cock and came at her like a starving man before whom a banquet had been spread. His shaft was like warm steel as he thrust it into her—giving credence to the old saying that it wasn’t the length of the scythe but the way it was wielded that counted. The moment he penetrated her cunt, he went deep with a grunt and withdrew only to return again with a pistoning motion that had her grunting along with him. She brought her legs up, hooked them around his hips, flung her arms around his back and dug her short nails into the scarred seams that lined his flesh under the shirt. With every slap of bare flesh to bare flesh, the pleasure grew until it was an itch that had them both squirming like vipers in the hay to quell the tickle. “Harder!” she hissed in his ear, latching her teeth onto the lobe. She felt him shudder beneath her and smiled as she clung to his flesh. Pounding into her, Phelan wanted not so much to pleasure himself as to bring her intense delight. He felt the surge of release coming. At the moment he spilled his juices into her, he slammed his hands under her buttocks and yanked her to him, wanting to bury himself as deep inside her sweet, understanding body as he could get. The ripple of climax overtook her and she cried out, straining her head toward him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder as the hard little squeezes milked his softening shaft. Collapsing atop her when her last undulation died away, he was breathing hard, sweating—his shirt stuck to his back, straw clinging to his clothing. She was soothing him with soft little cooing sounds as she stroked his back. “I am a very lucky girl,” he heard her say. “No, sweeting,” he told her. “I am the lucky one. I have found what I didn’t even know I was looking for.”

***** Long after Phelan had left her, Lucy sat in the carriage staring out the window with tears easing down her cheeks. She’d never been so happy and yet so worried at the same time. What had she done to merit finding such a wonderful man? Such a good man? Such an understanding man? she wondered. How had she managed to find a man who was willing to accept her as she was—warts and all? She sniffed, plying the already-damp handkerchief in her hand. Thrust into the business of pleasuring men when she was little more than a child, she’d never known any other life. She was accustomed to polite society snubbing her, fingers being pointed, lips quirked in distaste, eyebrows raised with disdain. She’d been

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called many things over her lifetime—soiled dove, harlot, slut, whore. The range of insults had been varied and deep. Having a home and a man of her own to care for her had been nothing more than a passing thought, a fantasy she longed for, dreamed about, wished would magically happen. But now she would have that home with a mate to care for her. She could put her past behind her and start anew. Worries over being arrested, brought to justice, hanged for what she’d done had never been far from her mind. Now at last she thought she could lay those fears to rest. Though she was more than a little afraid of how the other Reapers’ women would react to her, she was willing to do whatever it took to earn their respect and friendship. She was determined to make sure Phelan never regretted his choice. She looked around at Nellie. “Nell, do you believe in second chances?” Nellie nodded. “I surely do.” “But what about the other people at the Citadel?” Lucy asked. “Do you think they’ll shun me? Make Phelan regret having asked me?” “Can’t see that happening, Lucy-Lou,” the older woman said. “He wouldn’t have chosen you if he thought it would make your life harder. That ain’t the way of them.” “Aye,” Lucy said, chewing on a thumbnail. “I guess you’re right. I’m just worried he’ll come to see he took the wrong woman.” She turned her face toward the window again. “The wrong kind of woman to be his mate.” “Don’t you go borrowing trouble now,” Nellie advised. “You’ve got a good life waiting for you. From here on out you need to thank the gods for what They are giving you.” “Oh I do!” Lucy said, looking around. “I do, and I’ve been saying prayers like crazy to the Triune Goddess for it was She who sent Phelan my way.” “Then add a prayer for Her to give you some peace of mind in this so you won’t be worrying about whether you did right in accepting his offer. To my way of thinking, you did good, girl.” “My biggest worry is for him,” Lucy said. “I’m so afraid he won’t come back, and the very thought makes my heart hurt something fierce!” She twisted around in her seat to face the other woman. “It’s more than me losing everything that’s been promised, Nell. Home, respectability, permanence. The very thought of never seeing Phelan again hurts so bad I can barely breathe.” “Maybe you’re falling in love with him,” Nellie told her. Lucy’s chin quivered. “I think I am already in love, Nell. I think I fell for that tall drink of water the first time I saw him.” “Happens,” Nellie declared with an understanding smile. “This is going to be the longest day of my life,” Lucy said, fresh tears starting down her cheeks. She turned back to the window. “Please, please, Mo Regina, keep him safe!”

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***** “You didn’t get permission to mate with that woman, Lord Kiel!” Lord Kheelan’s voice was hard as steel as it interrupted Phelan’s thoughts. Phelan released a long sigh. He’d been expecting the accusing words from the Citadel since he’d taken Lucy the evening before. When they hadn’t come, he realized the Shadowlords must have been too busy with other matters to pay attention to his breach of policy. When he’d taken her earlier that morning, he’d felt the censure and had braced for it, but it hadn’t come until now. “And I’m sure you’ll make me pay for not having done so, won’t you, Your Grace?” he queried, but there were no other words from the Citadel. “Make you pay how?” Fontabeau said, his chin up. He was riding beside Phelan but had heard the condemning words as clearly as though they’d been addressed to him. “Time in a con cell at the very least,” Phelan said then shrugged. “It won’t be the first time I’ve paid a visit to that hellhole.” He held up his hand when Fontabeau would have argued. “Let it go. I owe my allegiance to the Shadowlords. I am under their authority. They can do with me what they will.” “We’ll just fucking see about that!” Fontabeau swore. He clucked his tongue and set his horse into motion, taking to the trail that wound up into the thick canopy of the mountain forest. Phelan sighed again. He had a feeling life with Fontabeau Sorn as a friend was never going to be easy. As he followed Sorn, he thought about Lucy and knew he was happy to have her in his life. He sighed, shaking his head. Might as well make it official. “May I take the woman as my legal mate, Lord Kheelan? May I Join with her at the Citadel?” For a long moment there was no reply then Lord Dunham spoke, making it clear the High Lord was too angry to answer. “Do as you will, Reaper. You will anyway, no matter what we say or do.” Phelan winced at the implied warning in those words. “There is a slight problem—” “Lord Owen has been apprised of the situation and is handling it,” Lord Dunham interrupted. “We will discuss the matter when you return.” “What situation?” Fontabeau asked as Phelan drew abreast of him. “She killed a man.” “Did he deserve it?” “He did.” “Then there’s no problem,” the gunman decreed. “And I’ll go to bat for you and her if you need me to, Phe. I’m your friend and I got your back. Guess I won’t ever be your 75

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lover, but I’ll be the best gods-be-damned friend you’ll ever have. Just let that ass-wipe Ben-Alkazar try giving you a ration of shit!” Nope, Phelan thought, life was not going to be easy from here on out.

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Chapter Seven “As quiet as the tomb,” Fontabeau observed as he, Phelan and Brell rode toward the mine captain’s shack. “Not a single, solitary soul in sight.” “My guess is their souls are gone,” Brell said. Though he had not tumbled from his mount, he was clinging to the pommel with every last ounce of his waning strength. “I keep thinking about my friend Owen Tohre,” Phelan said, “and what a Ceannus female did to him out in Calizonia.” When he didn’t elaborate, his companions slipped into his mind and as they saw what his memory had in store for them, pulled back. Both warriors had a pained look on their faces. “Luckily it grew back,” Fontabeau said, shifting in the saddle. He shot Brell a sidelong glance. “Mine wouldn’t have,” Brell answered the unspoken question. “I don’t heal like you Reapers.” “What do the Ceannus look like anyway?” Fontabeau asked, wanting to change the conversation. “Evil personified,” Phelan said. “Even in your worst nightmares you couldn’t conceive of just how ugly the things are.” “I saw one once,” Brell said then shivered. “Tall with a huge oval-shaped head and large black eyes that had no pupil, triple row of jagged teeth in a lipless mouth. Long legs and arms, and their flesh was the color of a drowned man’s after a week in the water.” “Lovely,” Fontabeau said as they reined before the shack. “He was an ugly prick,” Brell finished. “How could you tell it was a he?” Phelan asked. “Neither the male or females have genitals.” “I just knew,” Brell said. He was wobbling in the saddle and Phelan dismounted and came over to help him down. “Let’s get you in the shack.” Fontabeau threw a leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground, keeping a close eye on their surroundings, though it was unearthly quiet without so much as a bird twittering in the trees. He preceded them into the cabin, checking to make sure no one was hiding within. He pulled a chair up to the window. “You can watch from here,” he told Brell. “What are you going to be doing?” Brell asked as he took a seat.

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“I’m going to help set the charges on the skip hoist and cage. I’ll run one down while Phelan sees to the other.” “I need to set a few charges along the passageway that leads down to the lab as well,” Phelan said. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to have to worry about anyone seeing me go into the mine with the explosives.” Fontabeau’s eyes widened. “You know they are down there, Phelan,” he said. “I need to find out why they’re down there,” Phelan said. “Something is up, Beau. Something we need to know about. There was a reason the Ceannus brought the changed inhabitants back up to the mine. We need to know what that reason was,” Phelan said in a voice that stated there would be no further discussion of the matter. “I’m just concerned, Phelan,” Fontabeau said. “I’ll be careful,” Phelan told him. The two men locked gazes for a moment then both turned away. “I’ve got two laser pistols for you to use,” Fontabeau told Brell. “I also have a laser rifle on my horse. Use them like you would a regular weapon but remember to squeeze the trigger very gently.” “Else they have one helluva kick,” Phelan put in. He checked both his six-shooter and the gun Fontabeau had given him. This time around he was also wearing his Speal—the laser whip he trusted more than any gun. “Raise the window for me,” Brell said. “As long as I can prop against the sill, I’ll be fine.” He smiled. “I’m a better shot than I let on.” “Somehow I figured as much,” Phelan said with a grin. Brell stuck out a hand. “Good luck, Reaper,” he said. Phelan took the proffered hand. “Word is I may need it.” Fontabeau flinched at his friend’s comment but said nothing, pressing his lips together tight to keep from begging Phelan not to go into the mine. For the first time in his life, he was ashamed of the crippling phobia that kept him from going below ground. “You never told me what happened to make you so fearful,” Phelan said as the two of them removed the saddlebags full of explosives strapped to their horses. He had intercepted his friend’s wayward thought. “That’s a story I’ll gladly tell when all this is done,” Fontabeau said. “Let’s not be talking about cave-ins right now.” He handed his saddlebag to Phelan then pulled the laser rifle from its boot. “I’ll take this in to Brell.” Phelan waited for Fontabeau to join him before they struck out for the headframe to set the charges on the cage. Their boot heels crunched the loose gravel underfoot, making the only sound in the stillness. “What kind of charges are we carrying here?” Fontabeau asked.

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“The explosive is a malleable plastic substance. I don’t know what they call it. All I know is it makes a gods-be-damned big bang when it goes off,” Phelan said. “A block of the explosive is attached to a slapper detonator that can be activated by one of the laser flash lamps the Shadowlords sent along. Each detonator requires a different laser pulse aimed its way in order for it to ignite. Block one gets two pulses. Block two required four. That’s a safety feature so all the blocks won’t go off at the same time. Once the explosives are in place, we’ll fire up the flash lamp and in sequence set off the whole shebang.” “How many charges do we have?” “Redfield said they sent six. There are three in each saddlebag. So if we set up six blocks, that last block would require twelve rapid laser pulses before it would blow. We’ll set one each in the cage and the skip hoist and a third over at the slope mine. I’ll set one just beyond the main entrance of the mine and take two in with me. One I’ll put close enough to the lab to crush it to cinder and the other mid-point the tunnel system. That should be enough to bring the mountain down on the Ceannus.” “A big bang,” Fontabeau agreed. They had arrived at the headframe and were relieved to see the cage right at the top of the pulley system. Opening the iron frame door, Phelan went in, knelt down and opened his saddlebag to place the first charge. Carefully and with precision he pressed the off-white material into one corner of the cage and very pierced the malleable material with a small tube-like aluminum cylinder that he told Fontabeau was filled with a combustible chemical. “When I fire the laser pulse, a spark inside the slapper will fire to ignite the chemical which in turn will explode the cylinder and the resulting friction and motion will set off the block of explosive.” They moved on to the skip hoist and repeated the operation. That charge set, Phelan straightened his shoulders, looked Fontabeau in the eye then turned away without saying a word since there was nothing to say. Fontabeau watched Phelan disappear into the maw of the mine and took a long, slow, ragged breath. “Watch over him, Mo Regina,” he whispered. A soft breeze wafted over the gunman. He put up a hand to wipe at the moisture that had gathered in his eye, cursing himself for a maudlin fool. He’d never had a friend before and he didn’t want to lose him.

***** Even with his acute Reaper hearing Phelan detected no sound inside the mine. There was no distant squeak of bat or drip of water or pop of settling rock. Surrounding him as he moved deeper into the semidarkness—lit only by the dwindling light of lanterns running out of oil—was perfect silence with only the crunch of his boots breaking it. The experience was unnerving.

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Stopping at each intersection of tunnel—listening, probing the darkness beyond— he became increasingly more concerned. If there were other living, breathing things in the mine, he had yet to sense them. Sniffing the air, he discovered no blood smells and that in itself was odd. His brows drew together in consternation and he tried using his psychic abilities to contact the Shadowlords, but apparently he was too deep underground and possibly surrounded by iron ore that would block the transmission. Placing one charge where he thought it would do the most damage, he moved on, suddenly developing the urge to get out of the hellish place as quickly as possible.

***** “Lord Sorn.” Fontabeau jumped. His heart had nearly stopped at the sound of the Shadowlord’s voice and he snarled, his lips drawn back over fangs that had erupted of their own accord at his discomfort. “Aye?” “Where is Lord Kiel?” “He’s in the mine setting the charges,” the gunman replied. He recognized the haughty voice of the High Lord and automatically his hackles rose. “We did not sense him,” Lord Kheelan said. “There must be iron.” There was silence from the Citadel then sharpness to the High Lord’s words. “What concerns you?” “It’s too quiet,” Fontabeau replied. “Not one sound. No birds, no insects, not even a hawk flying overhead. Absolutely nothing. I don’t like it.” Another silence then, “Neither do we.” “How close is your nearest Reaper?” Silence again that lasted longer then a second Shadowlord spoke. “Lord Dunham here. We sense your fear of the mine, Lord Sorn, and know the Ridge Lord is not well. Lord Cynyr Cree is the closest and we will dispatch him if you think his help is needed.” “But your fear of going into the mine prevents you from being of any help to Lord Kiel,” the High Lord said. “Should we send Lord Cree?” Fontabeau was standing just outside the headframe, staring at the block of explosive inside the cage. He strained to hear something—anything—but only the telltale silence came back to him. “Aye, I believe you should. I fear for Phelan,” he said. “Then he is on his way,” the third Shadowlord said. “Contact us if you need to.” But it was not the Shadowlords Fontabeau wanted reassurance from at that moment. He closed his eyes and called out to the Triune Goddess, hoping Morrigunia was close by to hear his call. When after the third attempt he gave up with a long, ragged sigh, he heard the High Lord’s soft voice.

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“We too are trying to contact Her, Lord Sorn. We will keep trying.” “Does it seem to you She is always around when you don’t need Her and never around when you do?” he asked with exasperation, and was surprised to hear the High Lord laugh. “Aye, that it does!” “I too am trying to reach Her.” Fontabeau turned around to find Brell at the door of the captain’s shack. “You feeling any better?” “My head hurts like a Diabolusian warthog’s inside it nibbling away,” Brell reported, “but at least I can walk without staggering. Do you want me to go after him?” Fontabeau knew the Ridge Lord wasn’t up to the task but was grateful the warrior offered. “We’ll wait for the Reaper they are sending. Hopefully it won’t be long before he reaches us.” “I don’t like this quiet,” Brell said, sweeping his gaze over their surroundings. “Something is definitely not right about this and what’s that gods-awful smell?” He pointed at their horses. “Even they are reacting to it.” The horses were skittish, snorting, their eyes rolling as they stamped at the ground. Fontabeau had been so absorbed with speaking to the Shadowlords and trying to raise Morrigunia he hadn’t noticed the oily scent that appeared. He drew a deep lungful into his body and almost immediately his head began to hurt. “I don’t know what it is,” he told Brell. “It’s making my eyes water,” Brell said as he reached up to wipe at his eyes. “And it’s setting my nerves on edge.” “Aye, mine too. I guess that’s why the horses are so jumpy.” “Let’s hope so.”

***** Deep in the tunnel system, Phelan was wiping his own eyes. The farther he went, the stronger the odor became. It had a familiar stench about it but he couldn’t quite place where he’d encountered it before. He didn’t remember the Ceannus having such a rank smell when he’d ventured down there the day before. But the odor put him on his guard and he stopped to see if he could gain a direction from which the scent was coming. Putting a hand to his aching head, he shifted his shoulders. The feeling that something slimy was sitting on them, draped around his neck, was overwhelming and it added to his unease. He removed the saddlebag slung over his shoulder because its weight was causing even more apprehension.

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Once more he tried to contact the Shadowlords, though he was sure they couldn’t hear him. He tried calling out to Morrigunia as well. “So nice to know they’re watching my back,” he mumbled to himself as he reached an intersection where three tunnels met. Something clinked off to his right and he snapped his head toward the sound, cocking it as he listened. His amber eyes tracked back and forth in the low light as he concentrated, and when the sound came again, he straightened, starting in that direction.

***** Cynyr Cree kissed his wife Aingeal goodbye, touched his son on his chubby little cheeks then walked out of the house. Ten steps past the front porch, he shape-shifted into raven form and took to the air. He could move faster, cover more distance in his avian nature than he could on horseback or in a lupine state. Something had been nagging at Cree all morning. He had been restless, gaining Aingeal’s irritation as he’d paced the living room. He had just come off an assignment and had been looking forward to a few days of down time to enjoy playing with his son and loving his woman. He suspected Aingeal was pregnant again, but she was hiding the knowledge from him. Soaring over the tops of the Osage orange trees filled to overflowing with their warty pale green fruit, he contemplated having another son. Thanks to the evil bastard who had kidnapped her, she had miscarried their first child. Losing little Ancyn had hurt her. She had her heart set on a dynasty of Cree boys for them to love and spoil. “After Briton, there will be Chastain then Dayton, Evan, Finian, Galvyn, Harold…” “Oh hell no!” Cynyr had bellowed at his lady. “No Harold!” The mere thought of them naming a son after their fussy little steward set his teeth on edge. “Then Harbin,” she said. “Acceptable,” he’d agreed with a sniff. “Then Ionatan, Jamison, Kenyon, Lorcan, Malone, Nolan, Oisin, Padraig, Quinlan…” She’d smiled. “Ranger, Sloan, Taegan…” “Enough, wench!” he’d cried, hands up. “That isn’t a dynasty. It’s a litter!” “Aye, well, if you aren’t up to the task…” she’d goaded. He’d shown her that he was. Now he suspected she was carrying little Chas within her. Just as he knew she’d planned. Not that he minded. He was right proud of himself for impregnating her even though Harold kept giving him looks that said he thought his employer was a satyr of the highest, rankest order.

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“Please leave Harold alone, Cyn,” she’d pleaded. “You keep glowering at him and when you do, he burns things.” “I hate that prissy little fruit!” he’d told her. “No you don’t,” she’d replied. “He’s grown on you.” “Aye, like a canker,” Cree had grumbled. “Behave or I’ll have to nip you on that stubborn ass of yours,” she’d warned with a twinkle in her eye. Goddess, how he loved his lady. She had turned his world from a dark-stained existence to the brightest life a man could have. Her smile was enough to make his heart pound, and when she gave him one of her patented saucy looks… His wings shuddered as he flew, the blood within his avian body heating as lecherous thoughts invaded. He should be in his nest with his lady-bird, he thought, and not winging his way to Phelan’s aid. “What have you gotten yourself into now, Kiel?” he asked.

***** Kiel was wondering the same thing. The closer he came to the occasional clinking sound, the more his head hurt and his eyes watered. He’d been forced to pull out his kerchief and blot at the tears rolling down his cheeks. The musky scent had a biting acridity to it that burned the lining of his nostrils. He’d smelled it before, but for the life of him he couldn’t place the stench. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he associated it with a jail cell but that made no sense. Ahead there was a dim glow wavering over the tunnel walls. The clinking sound had stopped but shadows moved in the flickering light. Careful to be as quiet as possible, Phelan inched closer to the luminescence. The odor was stronger, his eyes and nostrils burning with the stench. He was finding it harder to breathe. His heart was pounding with what he realized was fear—an insight that puzzled him. Though the Ceannus were an ugly-ass lot, he saw no reason why the things should make him as apprehensive as he was fast becoming. He could feel sweat gathering in his palms, under his arms, tracing a rivulet down his chest. Suddenly there was a brighter flare of light and then a low rumbling sound that shook the rocks behind his back. He flattened himself against the tunnel wall as the sound died down. The light diminished then faded altogether and he heard words he knew had to have been spoken by one of the Ceannus. “That is the last of them. You may shut down the BlackMoon.” BlackMoon? Phelan mentally repeated, wondering what it was. He edged closer to the flickering light. “Our work here is done,” one of the Ceannus said. “Now we wait.”

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Phelan hunkered down and withdrew one of the two remaining charges. His initial plan had been to place one of the charges in the lab where the ’bots were being manufactured and another midway the tunnels. Instinct told him here would be a better place to set one of the charges. Whatever the BlackMoon was, it needed to be destroyed, but he did want a look at it beforehand. After placing the slapper detonator in the block of explosive, he rose to his feet and began to cloak himself with the psychic shield that would make it possible for him to boldly walk into the room with the Ceannus and not have them see him. He had to get a glimpse of the BlackMoon, gain a mental picture of it to transmit to the Citadel. His corporeal body began to fade and when he knew he was no longer visible to the naked eye he slipped into the room. The Ceannus were standing off to one side—each flanking a large platform with a black matte floor. The platform was curved in a crescent shape with soaring polished tin sides that appeared to have no seams or rivets. Above the platform, running its length, were five rows of what had to be lights—each light encased in a shiny mesh-like metal. Running lights along the perimeter of the platform pulsed a soft green color. Phelan took a few steps closer to the platform, speculating about its purpose. He kept one eye on the Ceannus who had not moved but rather seemed to be watching him with their unnerving black insect-like eyes. That silent regard sent a cold chill down his back and he had to remind himself that they could not see him. Another step and he turned his full attention on the platform. His eyes moved from top to bottom, left to right—tracking a mental image of the curious platform that would be stored in his brain for the Shadowlords to retrieve. That accomplished, he stepped back—his scrutiny now on the Ceannus as he walked backward out of the room. Outside the room’s opening, he turned as the shield began to dissolve and plowed into a hulking creature whose arms came around him in a punishing grip.

***** Fontabeau went to the window to peer out. “What the hell is taking so long? He should have been back by now!” Des ran a shaky hand over his sweating face. “Something must have happened.” Fear shot a sharper arrow through the gunman. He felt as though his chest were already ventilated with an entire quiver of the debilitating things. He put a hand to his heart, flexing his fingers over the pounding organ. Twice he’d gone to the door and twice drawn back his hand. He was having trouble drawing breath as he thought about going down into the mine. “He knows you’re claustrophobic, Beau,” Des said. “Aye, but what kind of man does that make me that I give in to it? What kind of Reaper does that make me? What kind of friend?” “I used to have a fear of high places,” Des said. “I was terrified of climbing even the shortest ladder.” 84

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The gunman looked around. “You sound like the fear is in the past. Did you get over it?” “With a lot of help from the goddess,” Des replied. “She put me in a situation where I had two choices—let a friend die or get over my fear.” He shrugged. “There was no choice.” Fontabeau winced. “What you’re saying is I’m a coward,” he said, hanging his head, digging his fingernails into his palms. “No, that isn’t what I said. We deal with our imperfections in different ways, Beau,” Des said. The gunman turned back to the window, laid his head on the cool glass. “Gods, that stink is making my head split wide open. It’s hard to think!” “Aye, it is,” Des agreed. For a moment longer Fontabeau stood where he was then with a violent curse he straightened and strode to the door. “It’s been too long,” he said, snatching open the portal. “The gods help me, I’m going after him! He needs someone he can trust at his back!” Des said nothing. The stench was making him nauseous and the headache was worse. He could not hold his head up and the moment Fontabeau was out of the cabin, Brell slumped on the cot, his legs giving way beneath him.

***** Cynyr dove toward the coordinates Lord Naois had sent to him, skimming the tops of tall pines and oaks, surprised to find no other birds soaring through the warm day, no small creatures walking in the forest below. But it was the stench permeating the clearing to which he was gliding that brought him up short, causing him to bank away steeply with a loud caw of protest. “What the hell…?” he shrieked as he landed on the branch of the tallest pine he could find. His talons gripped the limb. He knew that smell all too well and it sent a shudder of revulsion and terror down his spine. “Damn it to the Abyss, Kiel!” he hissed, his avian eyes searching the clearing for anything that moved. “Damn it!” He saw a man he supposed had to be the hell hound walking beside one of the buildings. He zeroed his gaze onto the area around his fellow Reaper. He cursed vehemently, greatly disturbed by what was causing the sheer terror that was invading his system at that moment. He took a deep breath and flew to another branch lower down, once more searching the ground and environs. Another breath, another branch and the Reaper became aware of his presence. The tall man glanced up and frowned. “Cree?”

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Cautious, Cynyr launched from the branch and sailed across the clearing, landing on the roof support of the building directly over the hell hound’s head. “We’re alone,” the man told him. “Except for Brell in the captain’s shack.” He glanced that way. “Brell? Show yourself. Cree is here.” Another man came out of the shack and cradled in his arm was a laser rifle. Cynyr made a hissing sound. He had reason to hate laser rifles for he had met his death at the business end of one. “What’s your problem, Reaper?” the man beneath him demanded. Cree swept his keen gaze over the ground again then pushed away from the building, shifting into human form as his feet touched the rocky terrain. “Don’t you fucking smell that?” he asked, amber eyes blazing. “Hell yes we smell it,” the man in front of him snapped, “but there isn’t much we can do about it!” “Don’t you fucking know what it is?” Cynyr yelled, aware the other man was walking toward them, the laser rifle pointed at the ground. “No, we fucking don’t know what it is,” came the answer. “What the fuck is it?” “Ghoret!” Cynyr bellowed. “It’s ghoret stink!” The man walking toward them came up short and Cynyr saw his head whipping from side to side, watched him spin around to pin the ground with intense scrutiny. The laser rifle came up in a flash. Ordinarily seeing a grown man grab a handful of cable and pull himself up a wall would have been comical, but Cynyr wasn’t in the mood to laugh when the man beside him did just that. “Ghoret? Where?” “In there!” Cynyr said, pointing to the mine entrance. “Phelan is in there,” the man said, eyes widening. “I fucking figured as much!” Cynyr snarled. His hand was on the handle of his laser whip, fingering the dragon hand. The other man came loping over to them. “What do we need to do?” he asked, wobbling as he came to a standstill. “We need to fry them to a crisp!” Cynyr said then yelled Lord Naois’ name at the top of his lungs. “No need to shout. The drone is on its way!” came the immediate response. “I’ve never encountered a ghoret,” the hell hound said. “Me neither,” the other man stated. “Is it as lethal as they say?” “To mortals, aye. To Reapers, it’s hell on earth. Was that smell around when Phelan went down into the mine?” Cynyr demanded. “Kiel must have stirred up a nest.” “I’m going in with you,” Fontabeau said, unaware his voice had broken on the words. 86

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“All right,” Cynyr said, slapping Fontabeau on the back for encouragement since he had been told of the man’s fear. “Let’s go get that damned Phe. If he’s been bitten and those bites are as bad as the ones that laid me low, he’s going to need a revenant queen to replace the one that will no doubt be either dead or dying by now.” Fontabeau flinched. “He can have mine!” “Lord Naois…” Cynyr began. “We’re sending Lords Arawn and Eanan,” the Shadowlord told him. “It will take awhile for them to reach you but they are on their way. Do the best you can.” Cynyr turned to the Ridge Lord. “Brell, go into the cabin and seal off every possible entry into it except the door, but have something handy to seal that when you see us bringing him out. Take some boards and shutter the window where nothing can get through the glass and into the room. Understood?” “Aye,” Brell agreed. “The tunnel looks dark. Do you think the lanterns have gone out?” Fontabeau asked. He was trembling, his lips quivering but there was determination in his eyes. “I’ll relight them if they have,” Cree said. Brell put out a hand. “They could be out of oil.” “Then I’ll create the gods-be-damned oil,” Cree snapped. “I can wield magic when I need to.” Brell nodded. “Aye, I know you can.” “Prepare a place where we can lay Phelan down. Have a sharp knife handy, booze if you can find it and buckets of water. You’ve got tenerse? Have it handy and we need thick leather gloves and rags to wash him down.” Cree swept his head around. “Your mounts need to be secured where the ghorets can’t get to them.” “I’ll take them into the equipment shed,” Brell said. “It’ll be a tight squeeze but I’ll get their asses in there.” “Be sure to seal the door from the outside,” Cree warned then started toward the mine entrance. “Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat,” Brell said. “We’ll need more than the Wind at our back but thanks!” Cree mumbled.

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Chapter Eight Though Phelan had fought the cybot that picked him up as though he were no more than a feather, he was no match for the brute strength of the creation. It flung him onto one of the long metal tables and held him there effortlessly with a splayed hand pressed painfully to Phelan’s sternum. “It is futile to fight the Coadagh,” one of the Ceannus said. “It is invincible.” Phelan was beginning to see the truth in that statement. The being towering over him, staring down as though he were an insect pinned to a collector’s board, was immense with shoulders that were at least a good three feet wide. Its massive hand was spread out over the majority of the Reaper’s chest with the digits pressing into Kiel’s flesh. No amount of force he exerted on the immovable arm either lessened the pressure or moved it. Using his legs to kick at the thing didn’t so much as budge it. It stood rock solid at the side of the table with twin slits of ebon cold glaring back at the Reaper. “I have seen the Coadagh tear a grown male human in half with no effort at all,” the same Ceannus commented. “And it seemed to take delight in doing so,” the other Ceannus put in. “Although it is said there was no such emotion as enjoyment programmed into it.” “Only exacting hatred of all things human and the express will to prevail at all costs.” “Actually though, Master Symykin, the Reaper is no longer human.” The two Ceannus looked at one another. “True, Master Umbra, but Lord Kiel looks like a human and therefore he is the enemy of the Coadagh who was programmed to detest all things human.” “Get. This. Thing. Off. Me,” Phelan panted, barely able to breathe for the ’bot was pressing the air from his tortured lungs. “In good time, Lord Kiel,” Master Symykin replied. “All in good time, but first we must see to the interfering of your teammate Lord Cree and the hell hound.” Phelan blinked. He had no idea Cynyr was there. He couldn’t sense his fellow Reaper, but with the mention of Cree’s name, the source of the smell that had eluded him came at Kiel like a runaway locomotive and his eyes widened. Master Symykin walked to the bank of machines and touched one of them. The glass covering the surface of the object flared into life, causing Phelan to turn his face toward what he realized was a viewing window of some sort. He wanted to groan when he saw Cynyr and Beau creeping through the tunnel. Now and again they stopped at a lantern, Cynyr waved his hand and it flared to life. Fontabeau looked pale but resolute as he followed in Cynyr’s wake. 88

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“Such blind loyalty,” Master Symykin said on a long sigh. “You humanoids are so predictable. They know they are walking toward their worst nightmare, but in order to save you, they will swallow their fears, tamp it down and come anyway.” The Ceannus made a tsking sound. “So foolish. So utterly foolish. They’ll never reach you in time and will pay the ultimate price for trying.” Phelan’s blood ran cold to think of his friends walking to their doom. Cynyr had known the bites of several ghorets and had nearly succumbed to them. The convalescence had been brutal. It was the stink of the poison-saturated sweat rolling off Cree’s body in a jail cell as he fought for his life that Phelan remembered. The pain Cynyr had endured had been agonizing. His gaze settled on Fontabeau and he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Watching Beau overcoming his claustrophobia made him so proud of the man, but he wished with all his heart his friend had stayed put and out of harm’s way. “Leave them out of this,” Phelan said. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me but leave them alone.” Master Symykin turned from the viewing window and glided to the table. He tilted his bulbous head to one side in contemplation. “You have feelings for these men.” “I have feelings for all living things,” Phelan answered. The oversized head tilted the other way. “Yes, but you have deep feelings for those like yourself.” Phelan could feel the man probing his mind. Phelan saw no benefit into admitting anything to the alien scientist. He was sure his own life was forfeit and most likely Cree’s and Beau’s as well. He would not give the Ceannus the satisfaction of hearing him plead again. “Very noble of you, Lord Kiel, but—again—the sentiment is misplaced,” Master Symykin told him. He turned his insect eyes to the ’bot. “Strip him.” Irrational fear washed over Phelan and he screamed in denial. Memory of what the female Ceannus had done to Owen Tohre went through him like a hot knife through butter and he fought like a demon trying to break free of the Coadagh’s hold but the ’bot kept that iron-like hand on Phelan’s chest while it used the other to rip the clothing from the Reaper’s body, plucking at his boots, his weapons, as though they were lint on a coat. When he was naked, he quieted, unaware tears had formed in his stricken eyes as the Ceannus invaded his mind once again. “He believes we are about to carve his manhood from him!” Master Symykin observed. “No, Lord Kiel, no!” Master Umbra said, hurrying forward with a laugh. “We have no intention of emasculating you! Calm yourself. Such is not our intention.” “Besides your organ would only regenerate,” Master Symykin stated. “Of what use would it be for us to pull it from its root?”

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A hard shudder went through Phelan at that mental image. He couldn’t lower his hands over his exposed genitals to cover them for the Coadagh’s rigid arm was blocking the way. Master Umbra seemed to be staring at the organs. “How would one go about gaining pleasure from placing a tube inside another tube?” he heard the Ceannus inquire. “Keep your thoughts on our assignment, Umbra, and not on what you would like to do to the Reaper,” Master Symykin ordered. “But I would like to mate with him. He is not unacceptable to me.” The thought of the Ceannus touching his cock chilled Phelan to his core. “Keep the hell away from me!” he snarled, fangs showing. Master Umbra smiled—if the stretching of the thin slit of an opening beneath his vented nostrils could be considered a smile. “Coadagh, turn him to his belly,” Master Umbra directed the ’bot. The Ceannus laughed as the ’bot took hold of Phelan and flipped him over like a flapjack, pinning him to the cold metal table with a giant hand to the small of his back as Kiel struggled in vain to get loose. He bellowed. He shrieked. He cursed. “See to his arms,” Master Umbra said. “I will restrain his legs.” “No!” the wild, insane yelp echoed through the lab, but Phelan might as well have saved the wear and tear on his vocal cords for the Coadagh held his flailing right hand to the table as Master Symykin locked his left into a thick band that rose up at the left side of the table. As his right wrist was similarly imprisoned, first his left then right ankle was secured with bands that restrained him. Lying spread-eagle upon the cold slab of metal with his cheek pressed against its hardness, Phelan Kiel knew a moment of complete and utter helplessness. “They are coming,” Master Symykin said, nodding toward the viewing window. “Perhaps they will get another hundred yards or so before they meet their fate.” Phelan was trembling, fearful the Ceannus would climb onto the table and place its sickening body over his. The mere thought of that warty gray skin covering him, thrusting into him was enough to make him gag. “He believes you are going to mate with him, Umbra,” Master Symykin said with a sound that perhaps passed as a chuckle. “Ah, if only I could,” Master Umbra said, running his cold, reptilian hand down Phelan’s leg. The spatula-shaped fingers slid up the inside of the Reaper’s thigh and flexed around his balls, squeezing them. “Please don’t,” Phelan heard himself say, and was ashamed of his inability to keep from begging. “Relax, Reaper,” Master Umbra said as he circled Phelan’s cock with those frigid digits. “If I were to mount you, I would do great damage to your humanoid body. Killing you has never been part of our plan, you see.”

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“You wanted to know what the BlackMoon is,” Master Symykin said as he walked over to a cabinet and opened a set of double metal doors. “It is in actuality a transportation device. It can transport objects from one point in space to another. We used it to send our newly made ’bots to other places around Terra.” “Across the oceans to other countries where they will begin to create new ’bots in anticipation of our arrival,” Master Umbra said. He dug the nail of one digit into the slit of Phelan’s cock, causing pain. The nail began to grow, traveling down the Reaper’s urethra, cutting into the spiral groove that lined the channel. The Ceannus twisted the nail from side to side until he heard Phelan whimper. “We could send those ’bots back to our homeworld were not the Net so effectively blocking us from doing so,” Master Symykin said. “As it is, we could send you right into the midst of the Citadel when we are finished with you, but of course we won’t.” Phelan was in such agony as the blade of the Ceannus’ fingernail pierced his cock he could do little more than writhe on the table, digging his own fingernails into his palms to keep from whining. He wasn’t listening to what the two of them were saying. “Aren’t you curious to know what it is we are going to do to you, Lord Kiel?” Master Symykin inquired. He shoved Phelan’s shoulder. “Are you listening to me?” “Go to hell,” Phelan said, his body quivering beneath the pain spiraling up his cock. “Pray stop torturing the man, Umbra!” Symykin snapped. “I want his full attention!” Master Umbra seemed reluctant to release Phelan but he did. He withdrew his nail, stepping back, and Phelan screamed in agony.

***** Cynyr armed the sweat from his brow, thankful he’d thought to leave off in fashioning a hat when he’d swept his hand over him to create his black uniform. His breathing was shallow, quick—fear wriggling up and down his spine with every step he took. The stench of the ghoret was much stronger inside the mine. Every now and then he would stop and listen for the secretive rustling sound that would signal the viper’s whereabouts but he heard nothing. If Phelan was still alive, he was far down in the mine system—perhaps too far away to be heard. If his fellow Reaper had been taken down by the ghorets, he might even now be in the arms of the Gatherer. “Where are You, Mo Regina?” Cree whispered. “Why the hell aren’t You here with Your Reapers?” “She’s never around when you need her,” Fontabeau whispered back. The men took another step then heard a piercing scream. Fontabeau’s heavy hand came down on Cynyr’s shoulder. They both stopped breathing to listen, and when the scream came again, they took off running toward the sound.

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***** “Fascinating,” Master Symykin said as he watched Cree and Sorn running like madmen through the now-dark tunnels. “Humanoids are so predictable.” Phelan was staring at the viewing window, wishing with all his soul he could warn his friends. “Just a few yards more and…” Phelan saw Cynyr come to a skidding stop—hands out in front of him, whip clutched in his right fist. There was true terror on the Reaper’s handsome face as he stared at what was before him. Phelan could see it too, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to watch his friends’ destruction. “My, he is not as brave as he thought he was, is he?” Master Umbra asked with a twitter. Phelan wedged his eyes open and saw Cynyr tearing back through the tunnels, running faster than any human ever could, the gunman close on his heels. Behind them—dropping from the ceiling, slithering down the walls, rolling over and over one another, wriggling in their wake, striking at their boot heels—were thousands upon thousands of ghorets. “Run,” Phelan prayed. “Run like you never have before!” “Oh they will, Lord Kiel, but to no avail,” Master Umbra told him. “All they are doing is leading the ghorets to the outside. There is no escape for them or,” he touched the viewing window and it went dark, “you.” He didn’t care what they did to him, but the torture of a good friend, a partner and a man brought to this world to fight evil was a tragedy Phelan could not endure. He prayed the Reapers would make it through the ordeal, but he could only hope Brell would survive as well. To know the men would suffer hurt him more than the stinging, burning pain in his penis where the Ceannus’ nail had raked him raw. Master Symykin took a rolling cart from behind the double doors and pushed it over to the table. Upon it was a cloth covering what might be containers of some kind. Beside the covering was a strange-looking knife—the purpose of which Phelan had no doubt. “Yes, we are going to remove your hellion,” the Ceannus said. “As well as all her fledglings. You knew we would.” He uncovered one of the containers, which proved to be made of glass, and removed its lid. “We will take the revenants with us in the BlackMoon to the countries across the great ocean and there we will set about making a new generation of balgairs, beyond the reach of you and your fellow Reapers.” Rogue Reapers, Phelan thought with dismay. Men with the same powers as him and his teammates and Beau, but as evil as the night was long. Dedicated to the eradication of humans and the triumph of Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls. The rogues had been eliminated from Terra, but now they would be resurrected elsewhere—another threat to humanity that would need to be eradicated.

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Master Symykin picked up the knife and placed the tip just above Phelan’s right kidney. “I’m afraid this will hurt, friend Reaper, but that can not be helped.” Phelan tensed as the blade sliced deep into his body. He knew the cut would be nothing compared to the pulling out of the revenant queen and her nestlings. One by one their extraction was a burning, tearing agony as he ground his forehead against the hardness of the metal table, clenched and unclenched his fists. “He’s handling this quite well,” Master Umbra said, running his warty hand over Phelan’s left buttock. “Do not do what you are contemplating, Umbra,” Mastery Symykin warned. “I will punish you if you do.” He tugged on a fledgling then dropped it with the others into the glass container. “Yes, he is a very brave man, our young Reaper.” There was no doubt in Phelan’s mind what Umbra had been about to do for he had felt the fingers creeping toward the crease of his ass. He was almost grateful to Symykin for having stopped the bastard. “The queen is proving to be very elusive,” Symykin stated as he thrust his whole hand into Phelan’s back, rummaging around inside for the queen who had coiled up under the Reaper’s right lung. Pain ripped through Phelan as the Ceannus took hold of the queen and jerked hard, bringing her spiny body up through the cut with a harsh snap of his wrist. He managed to hold on to consciousness by a mere thread. Sweat was running off him in rivulets for he was determined not to make another sound. His jaw was clenched so tight he felt his teeth cracking, but he would not open his mouth to vent the cry that threatened to erupt. “Such a stalwart man,” Symykin said. “I am very impressed. It is a shame we must treat you with such brutality then depart.” “But we will not leave you empty, Lord Kiel,” Master Umbra said as he came to the table. “We would not be so unkind.” “No, most certainly not,” Master Symykin stated as he dropped the queen in with her offspring then put the glass cover in place. “We will trade our catch for your queen and her nestlings.” With fanfare he swept the covering from the second container. Phelan sucked in a horrified breath. Coiled inside the container was the deadliest entity in the universe. Two feet from broad, triangular head to the tip of its glistening tail, the creature’s body was striped molten silver and green. Hornlike scales jutted out over the elliptical eyes and dual twoinch-long fangs erupted from a pale green mouth. The tubular fangs could kill a humanoid within two ticks of a clock’s sweep hand as it destroyed the nervous system, heated the blood to boiling and pulverized its victim’s internal organs. The fluorescent blue venom had no antidote. No creature could survive the viper’s bite except for the Reaper and even then it was an experience to be avoided at all costs. Having seen what Cyn had gone through when he’d been struck by several of the creatures, Phelan’s heart ceased to beat and bile shot up his throat. His eyes bulged from his head. He knew what 93

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they were going to do to him and he howled, pulling against his bonds. He heard his wrists and ankles snap yet still he struggled. “Oh gods, no, don’t!” he yelped. Master Symykin nodded to the Coadagh. The Coadagh stepped forward as Symykin and Umbra stepped back, opened the jar and reached its huge metallic hand inside, plucking the ghoret from its container. The ’bot held the squirming, hissing viper aloft, well out of the way of the two scientists. Using one giant hand to splay open the incision in the Reaper’s back, the ’bot brought its other hand over the wound to thrust the writhing viper inside. Phelan screamed like a wounded animal caught in a vicious trap. “As you know ghorets are ovoviviparous, Lord Kiel,” Master Symykin lectured over Phelan’s shrieks of denial. “Meaning her young spring from eggs. The one we transferred to you is quite pregnant, ready to lay her eggs any moment.” “And she’s going to lay them inside you!” Master Umbra said.

***** Cynyr and Fontabeau streaked through the tunnel, feeling as though the ghorets were breathing down their necks. Their shoulders were tight bands of pain that expected one of the serpents to drop down on them at any second. They could hear the rustle of their vile bodies tumbling over one another as they slithered after them. The stench was overpowering—washing over the two Reapers like a sodden cloak. Once more Cyn tried to call out to the goddess—pleading for Her help—but there was no answer. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst free of his rib cage. Sweat and the stink of the ghorets were blinding him as he raced through the pitch-black darkness with only his Reaper senses to guide him. When he shot out of the mouth of the tunnel, the nearest ghoret was only three feet from his boot heel. “Blast them, Naois! Blast the fuckers!” he yelled. Fontabeau stumbled—having trouble keeping his feet—as he streaked behind Cynyr, cursing with every pounding boot fall. From above him came a strange hissing sound and a blast of heat that knocked him off his feet. It caused him to stumble again as he headed for the shack, watching the door opening too slowly, too little it seemed to him in his headlong rush. He didn’t dare look behind him. With the last of his ebbing strength, he sprinted to the cabin and the door opened just enough for him and Cree to plow through, slamming after they each hit the far wall with a resounding crash that propelled Cynyr backward and to his ass where he landed with a loud whump of air escaping his gasping mouth. The gunman clutched the wall as though he would scale it. Brell was frantically stuffing a blanket under the bottom of the door, wedging it just in time for something heavy hit the door as well as the outside walls. The sickly aroma of burning ghorets filled the air and made the men gag. 94

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“Thousands of them,” they heard one of the Shadowlords say. “There are thousands of them pouring out of the mine!” “Tell me about it,” Cynyr rasped as he scrambled to his feet. He was bent over trying to drag breath into his depleted lungs. Sweat ran freely down his taut face. “Phelan?” Brell asked. In between gasps, Cynyr told him, “We heard him scream but we couldn’t get to him.” His face took on a look of mortal shame. Fontabeau peeled himself off the wall. He shuddered when he spoke. “At l-least we t-think it was P-Phelan.” “There are two more Reapers headed our way,” Brell said. “Between you, surely you can get to Phelan in time.” “No matter how many hits he took, he won’t die until his hellions do and hopefully we can get to him before that happens and give him a new queen,” Cynyr said. He ran a shaky hand through his damp hair. “He’ll just wish to the goddess he had.” Fontabeau staggered to the window and leaned toward a thin slit between the boards he had nailed over the opening. He pulled back, blinked and then looked again, his words spoken in a low whisper. “Holy fucking shit.” Cynyr and Brell hurried to his side and jockeyed for positions so they too could see out into the clearing before the mine. What they saw made both of them gasp. Every single foot of ground from a two-foot section in front of the mine to the cabin, from headframe to hoist house to equipment shed to barracks was covered with the crisped and smoldering carcasses of ghorets. There was not a single inch of dirt to be seen. Rather the expanse was a charred blanket of black that resembled smoking charcoal. “You think the Shadowlords got them all?” Brell asked in an awed voice. “I hope to the gods they did,” Fontabeau replied. “As best we can tell, we have,” Lord Dunham reported from the Citadel. “Lord Cree?” “Aye, Your Grace?” Cynyr said, looking up at the ceiling. “Lords Arawn and Eanan have arrived and are sitting perched on your rooftop. They are not happy warriors.” “I sensed them, Your Grace.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you think it safe for us to go outside?” “We believe so, but please be cautious.” “Be vigilant as well. There could be more vipers within the mine.” It was Lord Naois issuing an unnecessary warning. Cynyr went to the door and reached down to pull the blanket away. Warily he cracked the door open, his lip quirking upward when he saw the mound of fried ghorets piled in front of the portal. “By the gods that stinks!” Fontabeau complained, holding a hand to his nose.

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“And it doesn’t get any better as the day wears on either,” Cynyr informed him. He stepped outside, wincing as his boots crunched crispy critters beneath them. “Remind me to take leave the next time you need help, Cree.” Cynyr looked up to see the Prime Reaper Arawn Gehdrin glaring down at him from the tin roof where he sat beside Eanan Tohre. “Blame Phelan,” Cynyr said. “This was his assignment, not mine.” “You’ll not blame Phelan at all!” Fontabeau snapped, pushing past Cree to turn his glower on the Reapers sitting above him. “I am Fontabeau. Who the fuck are you?” “Arawn Gehdrin, your Prime,” Cynyr whispered. “He might be your Prime but he’s not my Prime,” the gunman decreed. “Dusken Kullen is my Prime!” One moment Arawn was on the roof and the next he was nose to nose with Fontabeau. “Kullen?” the Prime Reaper hissed. “From whence?” To give him his due, Fontabeau did not back away from the intense look on Gehdrin’s face. “Breathnóir,” came the reply. “Son of a bitch,” Arawn said so softly only Fontabeau heard him. “He is not!” the gunman growled, and reached out an angry hand to shove Gehdrin. Both Cynyr and Eanan—who landed on the crackling ground with a grunt—made a grab for Fontabeau and pulled him back. “My Prime is not a son of a bitch!” “No, but he is the son of the same man who fathered one of my Reapers,” Arawn said with a grin. “A brother Glyn Kullen thought was dead.” Fontabeau’s mouth dropped open. “Phelan told me of this Reaper Glyn Kullen but it did not register with me.” He shook his head. “Not even when he said Kullen hailed from Breathnóir. Kullen is a common enough name there.” Arawn motioned his men to released Fontabeau then shot out his hand. “It is good to meet a teammate of Glyn’s brother.” Fontabeau gripped the Prime’s wrist warrior-style. “My apologies for the shove.” Arawn pulled the man toward him and hooked an arm around his neck. “Let’s get something straight, Reaper. As long as you are on Terra, you are under my command so that makes me your Prime for now.” He stared into the other man’s eyes. “Are we clear on that?” “The goddess brought me here and—” Fontabeau began, but Arawn tightened his grasp on the other warrior’s neck, cutting off his words. “She brought us all here, but She made me Prime. I’ll not ask anything of you that I would not ask of myself or my other men. Do we have an understanding?” Fontabeau nodded. “Aye, milord, we have an understanding.” 96

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“And one other thing,” Arawn said. “Cyn was not blaming Phelan for this disaster. My men are as close as brothers and in some cases even closer. They taunt one another. They berate one another. They insult and verbally abuse one another. They might pound on one another, and they have even been known on rare occasions to tease one another. But through it all they are friends, brothers in arms, comrades and consummate warriors. Is that clear to you? Do you ken what I am saying?” “Aye, milord. I do,” Fontabeau acknowledged. When Gehdrin released him, the gunman stepped cautiously back and out of the Prime’s reach. “Good, now where is Phelan?” Arawn asked. “Still in the mine and most likely in great pain,” Cynyr said. “Then let’s go get the little bastard before he causes any more trouble for us,” the Prime said with a hard glint in his amber eyes.

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Chapter Nine The Ceannus had fled in the BlackMoon, leaving Phelan in sheer agony, writhing on the table so savagely his wrists and ankles—abraded and cut by the thick band securing them—were slick with his own black blood. His back lay open now that the queen was gone for without her the wound would take a long time to close. Black blood ran down his sides, pooled beneath him on the table, and was smeared on the metal surface as he writhed. It dripped to the floor. A low keening sound was all his throat could emit for he had screamed himself hoarse, strained his vocal cords as the ghoret expelled her eggs and the nasty little things hatched almost instantly. He could feel each of them squirming around inside him. Though the vipers did not bite, the slick coating from the female’s birth canal and the fluids within the eggs when they broke open was a burning, stinging, ravaging torment. His screams had echoed through the tunnels but there had been no one to hear. He heard the running of feet and sensed who was coming. Blood had been exchanged between two of the men rushing to his rescue, making it possible for him to catch their scent. He would need to do the same with the third man as well as Fontabeau when he was able. At that moment in time, all he could think of was stopping them from touching him, from getting too close. As soon as Cynyr came into the room, Phelan shouted as loudly as he could. “Don’t!” he grated. “Don’t touch me!” Fontabeau halted just inside the lab, stumbling forward a bit as Arawn and Eanan crashed into him. His eyebrows slashed together. “Why not?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” “He’s sweating,” Arawn said, reaching out to grip the gunman’s arm to keep him from getting too near Phelan. “The poison is all over him. You touch it and you’ll become contaminated.” Cynyr flinched for he remembered all too well what effect ghoret poisoning had on humanoid flesh. “How many times were you bitten, Phelan?” Arawn asked. “Stay away,” Phelan said. He was staring into Fontabeau’s terrified eyes. “Fluid is leaching through my skin.” “We’ve got gloves,” Eanan said, fashioning thick leather gloves on his hands. He started forward. Unlike Arawn and Cynyr he had no experience with the ghoret, did not understand the danger. “No!” Phelan gasped. “Stay back! My back is open.”

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“They took your hellion and the fledglings. I figured they would,” Arawn said. “How many times were you bitten, Phelan?” “One escaped them,” Phelan grated, seeming not to have heard the question. “I felt it boring into my lung and I’m having trouble drawing breath, but it’s alive, hiding. It’s struggling to give off antitoxins.” “Thank the gods for that! Hopefully the new hellion won’t kill the little one when she takes over but will accept her into the nest for her help in keeping you alive,” Arawn stated. He too started forward but Phelan shrieked. “They put it in me, Arawn! It is inside me and it laid its eggs! The fluid from the birthings is leaching through my pores. I think it may be in my bloodstream too.” “Fluid? What did they…?” Arawn came up short, his face turning as pale as fresh buttermilk as realization set in. “They put a ghoret inside you?” he asked. “Aye,” Phelan whimpered. Cynyr and Eanan took a step back. They too had paled at Arawn’s question. Each looked as though he might heave up his breakfast. Fontabeau’s knees sagged and he would have gone down had Arawn not grabbed him. “You can’t touch me,” Phelan whispered. “The fluids will get all over you.” “Those things have to come out, Phelan!” Arawn hissed. “We can’t leave them in you!” He started forward again, but Phelan’s ululation of agony stopped him. “It’s not just one or two, Arawn. There are twenty or more inside me,” he said, his voice almost gone. “Oh my gods,” Cynyr whispered, face turning a putrid green shade at that news. Fontabeau put out a trembling hand. “Phelan,” he said, his voice breaking. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you.” “We need to get him to the Citadel,” Eanan suggested. “Once we get him outside the drone can pick him up. They can put him in quarantine and find a way to extract the bastards.” “And just how do we get him to the Citadel, Tohre?” Arawn snapped. “If we can’t pick him up, how do we get him out of this room?” “BlackMoon,” Phelan croaked. “What?” Arawn came a bit closer. “Transport,” came the last word Phelan could force out. His gaze went to the machine. Arawn walked to the machine, stared at it, but had no idea what it was. Eanan joined him. “It’s a transfer vessel,” Tohre said. “I saw one once on Caillaigh. You stand on the platform and it flings you through time and space to another destination.” “How?” Arawn demanded. He was searching for buttons to push, levers to pull. Eanan shrugged. “I don’t know. How the hell would I know? Would Lord Naois?”

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The Prime Reaper chewed on his bottom lip for a moment then glanced at Phelan, who managed to nod in agreement. He turned to Eanan. “Memorize everything about it then get outside and contact Naois. See if he knows how we can utilize the thing!” Arawn ordered. “Try reaching Her again too! Make it quick, Tohre!” Eanan didn’t need to ask whom Arawn meant. He took off running as fast as he could through the tunnel, shouldering Fontabeau out of his way. “What can we do, Arawn?” Cynyr asked. He was hurting for his fellow Reaper, remembering his own pain. “We need to find water and rinse him down,” Arawn replied. “That will at least wash some of the irritant off his flesh.” He locked eyes with Phelan. “Is that all right with you?” “Don’t come too close,” Phelan grated. “We’ll keep at a safe distance,” Arawn assured him. “All right?” Phelan nodded. He was panting from the extreme heat enveloping his body, the toxins attacking his organs, his nervous system. Each breath was labored, grating in his throat. He no longer had the strength to writhe beneath the pain so lay inert, suffering, wishing he could cease to be. “Hold on, my friend,” Cynyr said. “Just hold on.” “Is he going to die?” Fontabeau asked as he walked beside Arawn to fetch water. “If he’d been bitten by a score or more of the creatures, then I’d say there was a very good chance he wouldn’t survive with all but one of his revenants gone,” Arawn said, “but it’s not venom that is doing this to him. It’s the fluids given off from the birthings. That remaining fledgling is working overtime to produce antitoxin to combat the fluids. Let’s hope that will be enough until we can get him to the Citadel.”

***** Eanan braked to a halt in the center of the clearing, panting. He bent forward with hands on his knees for a moment then straightened as Brell came hurrying toward him. “How is he?” Brell asked. Eanan held up a staying hand until he could swallow, calm his gasping. “Not good,” he reported. “They put a pregnant ghoret inside him.” Brell’s mouth dropped open and his eyes flared. “Lord Naois?” “I’m here.” “Get inside my mind and see what you make of what I need to show you!” Eanan declared. He felt the Shadowlord probing, heard a loud hiss then a short rapid exchange between the three Shadowlords in a language he did not recognize. The only words he understood were Phelan and ghoret. “The Ceannus are gone?” Lord Kheelan asked.

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“I think so. They must have used the machine. Phelan said it’s called a BlackMoon.” “Made by Tappas Industries,” Lord Dunham said. “The same ones who made the Fiach runabouts.” “It is a transfer vessel that requires coordinates from there to wherever you are sending the traveler,” Lord Naois told him. “Aye, I knew that, but how do we make it work? We need to send Phelan to you ASAP.” “I have no idea how it works, but I might be able to figure it out if I could study it for a few days,” Lord Naois admitted. “We can transport him via the drone. Just get him to the surface—” Lord Dunham started to say. “We can’t!” Eanan cut him off. “His entire body is throwing off the fluids from the ghorets and his back is laid open. The things are in his back and the ghorets could come out at any moment.” “Shit!” It was Lord Kheelan’s harsh expletive. Once more the three Shadowlords began conversing in the unknown tongue. Whether it was the furious emotions roiling around inside the Shadowlord’s mind or the pain in his immortal soul, something caused the wind to come rushing across the clearing with a loud, unearthly howl. The trees shook, the ground beneath their feet rumbled and dark gray clouds began to swirl across the clear blue sky. “I think you just got Her attention,” Brell said in a worried tone. A dark shape loomed on the horizon, speeding toward them with forty feet of wingspan beating the turbulent air. Bright copper scales caught the vanishing rays of the sun and sparked orange and green fire. Two slit-pupil dark green orbs glared out of a giant spade-like triangular head on a long serpentine neck. Upon the gargantuan head, two long spiny horns curved backward toward the twelve-foot-long torso. Talons as thick as a man’s thumb curved downward from wide, massive forepaws. The powerful haunches ended in large hind feet whose talons were thicker still. The sixinch-thick tail of the beast ended in curving barbed fins projected upward from a bony spade that rode the rip. When it opened its maw, rows upon rows of sharp, needle-thin fangs glistened amid soft pink flesh. The roar that came from that giant mouth shook the ground. “Oh hell, She’s pissed,” Eanan whispered. No sooner had the words left his mouth than thick streams of curling fire blasted from the mouth of the beast, steam shot from the two flaring nostrils and the large scalloped ears that slanted downward twitched. “How dare they hurt my Reaper?” the beast roared, emerald orbs sizzling with fury. “How dare they do this to him!” “Oh yeah, She’s really pissed,” Eanan amended.

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The beast landed amidst the crisped ghorets. Once more the ground shook and rocks tumbled down the mountain. The long tail swished from side to side with irritability, rose up then smashed against the ground. “I was across the megaverse when I heard Ben-Alkazar calling to me. I had to put that call aside for what I was doing meant the very existence of life as others know it. I came as quickly as I could.” The long neck jerked as the goddess became aware of the situation. She sniffed the air then a low groan of pain escaped Her as She no doubt sensed the depth of Phelan’s pain. In the blink of an eye, She changed from dragon to beautiful woman. “Follow me, Tohre!” she ordered, and strode toward the mine entrance, her coppercolored gown swishing against her long legs. Eanan was having trouble keeping up with the long-legged stride of the goddess as She rushed down the tunnel. No words came from Her, but he could hear Her sniff from time to time as though She were scenting Phelan. “Keep your eyes off my ass, Reaper!” She snarled at him, whipping Her head around to fix him with a green glower as cold as a wintry day in Virago. “Aye, Mo Regina!” he was quick to reply. He bit his lip. Morrigunia continued down the tunnel, hissing with anger. When She reached out to drag Her long copper-colored fingernails along the rock wall, Eanan cringed at the sound. “Pussy,” the Triune Goddess insulted him without looking around. “Aye, Mo Regina,” he agreed with a flinch. “Iron ore,” She mumbled. “I hate places where there is iron ore. It inhibits my powers. I won’t be able to shift to dragon shape in here!” “Aye, Mo Regina.” She turned on him quick as lightning, Her green eyes pinning him where he stood. “One more Mo Regina out of your pretty little mouth and I’ll do to you what I did in Daliohm.” The green orbs narrowed. “Would you like that, Reaper?” Eanan knew better than to speak. He shook his head in denial. “Then zip it!” She growled, and spun around to continue walking. “Can’t fly in here because I’m too gods-be-damned big anyway. Can’t teleport because of the iron.” She clenched Her fists. “I don’t like walking where there is iron. I hate this place!” The Reaper stayed a good five paces back from the Triune Goddess. He remembered all too well what She’d done in Daliohm and he never wanted a repeat of that humiliating time. Arawn and Cynyr were standing just inside the lab when Morrigunia and Eanan entered. Phelan was making little hitching sounds that were pitiful to hear. “He’s in terrible pain,” Arawn said, brushing at the telltale moisture he was ashamed had gathered in his amber eyes. “We tried to sluice the poison from him and

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made matters worse. We dared not get too close to him so the water did little good. More splashed around him than on the wound in his back.” The goddess flashed Her Prime an understanding look. “You did what you thought would help. Now find a glass container for pussy boy’s queen and harvest it for me.” She strode toward the table where Phelan’s body had turned a bright red color. She put a hand to his head and caressed his damp hair. He stopped making the hitching sounds and opened his glazed eyes just a fraction. She made quick work of the bands restraining his arms and legs. “Tohre, I’ll need your queen to give to Phe,” She told him. “He can have mine,” Fontabeau spoke up. He was standing a few feet away with his arms wrapped around him, shivering as he stared at Phelan. “No, he can not. You are a hell hound. The queen must come from his own kind,” She told the gunman in a not unkind voice. “Are you going to remove the ghorets here?” Arawn asked, the only Reaper brave enough to risk Her ire by asking. “I can not,” She said. “I will need to take him to the polar boot in order to do that.” Arawn frowned. “Why not to the Citadel, Mo Regina?” “And have one get loose in that facility?” She countered. “Think before you open your mouth, Reaper!” “My apologies,” Arawn said. He motioned Eanan to one of the tables as Cynyr brought over a container. “Phelan?” Morrigunia said, stroking Her Reaper’s head. “I want you to sleep, my Reaper. Sleep very deep and dream sweet, hot dreams of your mate. Do you understand?” Phelan’s lips moved but no sound came from him. “Then sleep, Phelan Kiel,” She ordered, and the amber eyes flickered shut. When She was satisfied he was under, She walked to the BlackMoon and studied it. “I have seen one of these before.” She looked around at Eanan. “Where have I seen one of these before, pussy boy?” Eanan blushed. He was stretched out facedown on the metal table with his hands curled over the top edge. “Caillaigh,” he answered. “Show respect for your queen, Tohre!” Arawn hissed at him. “Give Her Her title.” “He knows he’d best not.” The goddess smirked then turned back to the transport machine. As Cynyr cut open Eanan’s back and Arawn reached inside to harvest the Reaper’s queen, She studied the machine, turned to study the glass panels across the room, went to one and placed Her palm on the dark surface. Instantly the lights above the black platform of the teleporter flared to life. “Ah,” She said. The glass panel had triple rows of strange symbols running down the left side of it. She put a fingertip to one and a number appeared. “I thought as much. Now to find the coordinates for the polar boot.” 103

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“May I ask why there, Mo Regina?” Arawn asked. He dropped Eanan’s queen into the glass container, wincing at the barbed spines that had raked his hand and the vicious bite the hellion had clamped onto his thumb. “Vipers are cold-blooded creatures, my Reaper,” She reminded him. “They do not like the cold and where is it colder than at the bottom of Terra? The cold will not hurt Phelan—especially not with his body temperature as high as it is at this moment—but it will completely incapacitate the vipers. They will cease to move and as soon as I remove and toss them into the snow, they will begin to die. I, of course, will fry them long before they take their last evil breath.” “What of the hellion?” Cynyr asked. “Will that hard a cold damage her?” “I will keep the hellion warm, Cree,” She told him. “Have no fear on that account. Before I place her inside Phe, I will pack snow into his wound. It will melt and help to flush out the poisons so she can do her work. After that happens, I will pack him in snow and let the cold waters cleanse him of the venom sweat.” “What of the little fledgling?” Eanan asked, and blushed when his fellow Reapers turned to give him a surprised look. He mumbled that he was just asking, embarrassed at showing his more tender nature. “There is one left?” Morrigunia said then sniffed. “Aye, there is! She has kept my Reaper safe for me. Good girl! I will remove her and keep her safe before giving Phelan his new queen. It would take far too long for her to grow to adulthood and he needs the powers of a hellion now. If I do not remove the little one, the new hellion would destroy her. They can be jealous bitches.” “I wasn’t sure how that would work. I take it the cold won’t hurt You either,” Arawn said. “I don’t matter,” Morrigunia said, looking away. “All that matters is my Reaper. I came when I could so do not curse me for not being here when I was needed. You are not the only life in the megaverse. You are not my only Reapers.” Arawn and Cynyr glanced at one another but neither dared comment on the goddess’s words. “She’s cold-blooded too,” Eanan whispered to Fontabeau. “The cold is bound to slow Her down and cause some…” “Daliohm, Tohre!” the Triune Goddess growled. Eanan stopped speaking. The wound in his back had closed and he sat up to swing his legs over the side of the table and slide to the floor, ducking his head like a schoolboy at the reprimand. “Arawn, I want you and Cynyr to return to your homes and retrieve your mates and offspring. Take them by train to the Citadel. Prepare to stay a while so make sure your stewards accompany you, your children’s nannies, and have your neighbors see to your interests while you are away,” Morrigunia ordered. She turned Her gaze to Eanan. “You will take Sorn and Brell to wherever Phelan’s mate is and then catch a train to the Citadel. Bring with you the old man and the dark woman.” 104

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“Who?” Eanan asked. The goddess’s left eye cocked upward. “I’ll ask Sorn,” Eanan muttered, face red. “Arawn, contact Lord Kheelan and tell him to call all my Reapers home. I want all of you in the Citadel by the time I return with Phelan.” “May I ask why, Mo Regina?” Arawn queried. She ignored his question. “Tell Kheelan there is to be an indefinite lockdown. No one is to leave the Citadel for any reason, so tell him to prepare accordingly. I also want a quarantine room for Phelan. The healers will need to wear the suits that were found in the lower portions of the building. Those should protect them from any residual ghoret poisoning. Phelan will be ill for several more weeks as the new queen hatches her nestlings.” She waved Her hand over Phelan’s prone body and a pair of black long-sleeve silk pajamas covered him. Easing him to his back as though he were an infant, She slid Her arms under his back and legs and hefted him from the table, carrying him onto the platform of the BlackMoon. “Bring the hellion and place her at my feet,” She ordered. “Why is She using that thing?” Fontabeau asked Eanan. “Use your head, Sorn, for something other than upon which to place your cute little hat! Not even I can use my powers in this hellish iron-infested place nor can I fly in this form, you stupid hell hound,” She snapped. “And even if I could, I could not hold both Phelan and the hellion.” “My apologies, Mo Regina,” the gunman said. Arawn brought the glass container to the platform. “I want you warriors to leave now. The charges are set to destroy this facility and I want you to make gods-be-damned sure it is demolished. Make sure there is a charge in this very room. Place it right where I am standing. Nothing and no one must ever be able to transport here using this machine. It must be destroyed.” “Wouldn’t this be a worthwhile device to have at the Citadel?” Arawn asked. “It will be and I will see that one is brought to the fortress,” She told him. “Now go. Time is of the essence here.” The warriors nodded to Her then left. Once in the tunnel a bright flash behind them signaled the start of the BlackMoon device. There was a sizzle through the air, the ground shook then the flash died away and the vibrations ceased. “I’d kinda like to take a trip in that thing,” Cynyr commented as they made their way up to the mine’s surface. “Me too,” Eanan admitted. “Don’t worry, boys. Something tells me we will,” Arawn said on a long sigh.

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Chapter Ten Taken out of the bitter pain that had racked his body for hours, Phelan found himself drifting on a warm summer breeze filled with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. Beneath him was a lush green meadow carpeted with red clover flowers and bright yellow dandelions, Exasla bluebonnets and stalks of lavender. To the east lay pristine snow-capped, blue-tinted mountains soaring above an azure lake beside which graceful willows swayed. To the west, the sun was a soft orange ball hovering in a lavender sky. He sighed as he settled to earth. Naked as the day his mother birthed him, his bare feet touched the coolness of the ground and he inhaled of the perfumes wafting on the air. Closing his eyes to better savor the intoxicating scents, he felt more alive than he had his entire life. After a while he opened his eyes to survey his surroundings. Nothing moved in this placid stillness, yet he knew he was not alone. The one he loved was close by, heading toward him. Perhaps from over the gentle rise there by the lapping waves of the lake or maybe from just around the bend in the silver-shot stream where the emerald leaves of mighty oaks rustled. He was at peace, so calm, so devoid of troubles or worries. The clover caressed his feet and the dandelions tickled his bare calves as he walked. Near the winding stream that bubbled over glistening dark gray rocks, he came upon a stand of blood grass—the blades brushing against his thighs. He ran his palm over the spiky leaves, smiling at the tickle. Birds sang to him and he looked up as a white-tail deer bound through the tall grasses. Meandering across the meadow, he made his way to the shores of the lake. His heart soared for there on the banks was the one he loved. She turned and waved to him, beckoning him to pick up the pace. She was laughing—happy and carefree. “Is this paradise?” he asked as he drew closer. “Aye, I believe it is,” Lucy agreed. She was sitting cross-legged on a quilt and she held her arms up to him, her naked breasts arching in invitation. “Kiss me, Phe,” she said. He sank down beside her, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, almost chastely, then wrapped his arms around her as she settled against his bare chest. “I like it here,” Phelan said, looking about the fertile valley, the grass sprig clenched between his teeth bobbing up and down. “I could stay here forever.” “I could love here forever,” Lucy said as she trailed the tips of her fingers over Phelan’s chest. She rubbed his nipple and smiled. As with most dreams, things shifted without warning. Phelan found himself lying on his back looking up at the beautiful blue sky. His mate’s hands roamed over his willing body— touching him everywhere he so longed to be touched. Her touch was soft as a feather. She lay on his right side facing him, leaned over to capture his lips. Her sweet tongue slipped past his lips,

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probed deep into his mouth as the fingers of her right hand rolled his nipple into a tight little bud. She dragged the tip of her fingernail over it. Her hand wandered down Phelan’s side and hip to enclose his cock in a firm grip. One slender thigh lay over his as she stroked upward, her soft fingers moving over Phelan’s balls with each downward pull. She put her lips to his ear to swirl her tongue inside. Shivers ran down Phelan’s sides. His toes curled beneath the assault. Lucy’s mouth went back to devouring his. Her hot tongue flicked at the corners of his mouth, swept over and around his lips, darted inside. Her fingers moved to his nipple to tweak it. Again the dream changed. Lucy was on all fours, tossing her beautiful hair over her shoulder as she looked past it to smile up at him. Her beautiful breasts swayed with her movement. “I love you, Phe,” she said. He entered her cunt on a slow, languid glide that pushed her hips forward, made his thighs tense. “I love you, Lucy-Lou,” he replied. He flicked his tongue along her neck, nibbled. He began the slow thrust into Lucy’s creamy sheath that made their bodies rock in unison. Change. Phelan knelt over Lucy with her cunt to his lips, his cock to hers. A quivering shiver and Lucy came, her lips tightening around Phelan’s cock, arching her neck to allow him to slide farther down her throat. But before he could release the building climax in his own body, the dream changed again. Lucy sat astride his rock-hard cock. She rode him hard. Her thighs flexed as she pushed upward then sank down upon his stiff rod. The sound of his cock going in and out of her slick wetness, the scent of it, was lustful. She tossed her head from side to side, causing her long hair to whip about her face. Her hands were tight on his pectorals, fingernails digging into his flesh. It hurt but it was a delicious pain he savored. The climax was striving to erupt, but once again the dream morphed. Over and over again he reached the verge of release only to be drawn back by a greedy hand, a hot channel, a wet mouth. His cock felt as though it were ready to explode with the pressure building higher and higher with each shifting of the dream. One moment he was burning with fever as Lucy passed her knowing mouth over every inch of him. The next he was shivering with cold as her hot cunt took him to the very limits of endurance. He shuddered. He writhed. He groaned and moaned and whimpered. He grunted and growled and panted. He grasped and took and gave away. And through it all, the climax hovered just out of his reach. He wanted the surcease from the pleasure-pain stirring within him. He ached. He desired. He needed. “Please,” he begged.

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Morrigunia sat hunched over the sleeping Reaper as She waited for the cold to penetrate his body. Voyeur that She was, She delved into his dreams to watch while She waited for his heart to slow, his blood to go sluggish, his breathing to quiet. What She saw excited Her and She knew very soon She would have Her way with him. It had been a long time since She’d known the pleasure of Phelan Kiel. Too long. She wanted his seed within Her, the feel of his cock pressing against Her very fertile womb. Another son or two by him would not be amiss. A visit to his quarters once he was healed was something for which She could look forward. Trembling from the cold, for Her species was just as susceptible to the frigid polar ice as the ghorets, She blew Her hot, incendiary breath over Her hands to warm them. She then turned her attention to the glass container where the hellion moved sluggishly and laid Her hands upon it to warm it as well. The hellion reacted with a bit more animation, gazing up at the goddess with something akin to affection. “Soon, little one,” She promised the hellion. “Soon you will have your new male.” Now and again she would touch Phelan’s lung where the little fledgling struggled to stay alive. Her touch kept the organ warm enough to sustain life in the brave little entity. “Your work will not have been in vain, sweet one,” She cooed. “I’ll not let you die, my sweet girl. My good little girl.” Another half-hour and She thought She could safely remove the dying vipers then place Eanan’s hellion queen within Kiel. It was not that She feared the hellish things for She did not. Morrigunia feared nothing. Though they were a part of the fiendish demon-god Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls, they could do Her no real harm. What She feared was one of the vile creatures striking out at Phelan as She pulled it free of his wound, biting him, injecting venom into an internal organ. A bite to the flesh wouldn’t be that bad but an organ? No. It was best to wait—no matter how uncomfortable and agonized She was—rather than risk more harm to Her Reaper. He was far more important than She. His safety was all that mattered. It was night at the polar boot. Freezing cold sliced into Her like razors, turned Her flesh a strange mottled blue color. She was lethargic, wanting nothing more than to lie down beside Phelan and sleep, but that would do neither of them any good. In his weakness, She was not altogether sure the intense cold would not eventually take the Reaper’s life if She were not careful. That She could not chance. And so She waited, looking out over the white expanse of sparkling ice beneath a full moon where nothing moved, with only the Wind and an unconscious Reaper as company.

***** Slow, sensuous licks swept up his cock then down again. Like a piece of rock-hard candy he was being tasted by beautiful lips that parted to draw the cock head into the wet warmth of

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Lucy’s mouth. She swirled her tongue over his tip, plunged it into the slit. She drew him far down her throat until the sensitive bulb could feel the press of her tonsils against it. “Lucy,” he sighed. His hands twisted in the blanket. She massaged his balls with slowness and expertise as she slid her mouth up and down the length of him then nibbled at the head. He shuddered and sighed. The dream changed. She sat at his feet and plied each of Phelan’s toes—rubbing them, caressing them. A long, heartfelt moan slipped from Phelan’s mouth and he turned his head to one side. The sheer beauty of the moment was not lost on him, yet he was growing agitated that he could not release the climax that had built to such intensity within him he was trembling from the force of it. “Please,” Phelan whispered. “I need…” “I know what you need, Reaper,” Lucy said, and bent her head once more to suckle his balls. She slid one questing finger past his tight rim to probe deep. “Please!” The one word was a prayer more than a plea. “In time, my love,” she assured him. “In time. Be patient.” Like summer lightning striking out of the blue, the dream changed focus still again and this time he was flat on his belly with Lucy’s sweet hands kneading the taut muscles of his shoulders. She was sitting on his upturned rump. The spiky curls over her nether lips tickled him and he wriggled beneath her. “Be still, warrior,” she said. She was massaging Phelan’s scalp. “You must learn to relax.” “I need to come,” Phelan said, grinding his hips into the quilt. “I have to come!” “Not yet,” Lucy denied. “It isn’t time yet.” This time a whimper escaped Phelan’s lips. He squeezed his eyes shut. Pressing his hard, swollen cock against the quilt, he tried to raise his hips but Lucy would have none of that. She raked her nails down his back and told him to lie still. Her nails hurt and Phelan squirmed beneath that unexpected pain. “For the love of Alel, I am begging you!” he croaked. “Please let me come!” “Not yet,” she said. The world around him spun crazily for a moment and he felt intense, debilitating pain deep in his back. His eyes popped open but he could see nothing for there was only darkness and a cold so bitter it brought tears. “Go back to sleep, Reaper,” a soft, soothing voice said, and a warm, phantom hand touched his head. “Go back to Pargys.” Gone was the cold, the pain, the spinning world. He was once again in the soft green meadow with birds chirping in the trees, a soft wind soughing around him, jasmine scenting the air and the warm sun beating down on his face. On his back, he looked up into the beautiful face of his mate. “Where did you go, Phe?” Lucy asked. 109

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He couldn’t answer, but there was no need to. He ached between his legs. Nothing seemed to matter but the release of the juices that seeped from the tip of his engorged cock. “Lucy, I can’t take much more of this,” he said. She knelt between his legs and drew him into her warm mouth. Again and again the dream pulsed from one change to another. She put her hands on him. She put her mouth on him. Not one inch of his body was left untouched and untasted. Still he could not let go. He hurt so bad with the need to spill his seed he was panting. Sweat was glistening on his flesh. His stomach spasmed, quivered, shook. His hips ached with the grinding, the arching. His legs splayed open, knees falling wide apart, heels digging into the quilt. “Please!” he bellowed. He squirmed. He writhed. He began to cry. “Hush, Reaper,” a soothing voice whispered to him. “Hush now. It is almost over.” Soft arms—arms he recognized—cradled him against lush breasts he knew he had once tasted. A familiar scent filled his nostrils. He looked up past a beautiful chin and into sultry green eyes. He blinked. “Who are you?” he whispered. She smiled. The needle-sharp fangs glinted. A firm hand slid down his body to his wrap around his cock. “Don’t you know?” She fondled his genitals and in that moment he realized who—or rather what it was—that held him. “Mo Regina,” he said on a sigh. “You are my mistress.” “Aye, Reaper. That I am.” He relaxed. Once more She had saved him. With despair he wondered what price he would be required to pay Her this time.

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Chapter Eleven Lords Kheelan, Naois and Dunham stood at the tempered glass window of the quarantine room watching the goddess deposit an unconscious Phelan upon the bed. The Reaper’s naked flesh was mottled with red splotches, dried black specks. In a few places his body oozed a bluish substance the Shadowlords knew was ghoret fluid. Morrigunia stepped back to allow the healers in the thick white suits to come forward. Attired in a copper gown that swept to the floor—it was hard to look away from Her beauty. When She appeared to be satisfied with what the healers were doing, She exited the quarantine room and came to stand with the Shadowlords. “It was touch and go with him,” She said. “The ghoret bitch was not quite incapacitated when I drew her out. She bit him on the shoulder, punishing me for having destroyed her young.” She shrugged Her elegant shoulders. “As a mother, I could overlook that. As Phelan’s protector, I could not. The bitch suffered before I fried her to a crisp. Thankfully I managed to get the hellion inside him before the venom could spread. The little fledging was safely removed and is nestled within me. I have just the future Reaper to which to give my brave little warrioress.” “Phelan will survive though?” the High Lord inquired. His tone made it clear he cared nothing about any Reapers beyond his own. “Aye, Kheelan, he will,” She replied, putting a tired hand to Her temple. “Now I must rest, but before I do, what is the status of my other Reapers?” “We’ve contacted all but Iden. They’re on their way home,” Lord Dunham answered. “We have not been able to raise the young one.” The Triune Goddess nodded. “I feared that might be the case. We may have lost him.” “We could send—” Lord Kheelan began, but the goddess hissed like a cornered viper. “My people stay here where it is safe, Ben-Alkazar!” She yelled at him. “When I said lockdown that is what I meant!” “What is it You fear, Mo Regina?” Lord Kheelan asked. “What has come to Terra that has You so worried?” “The Nikkeson,” She said, locking eyes with him. “Know you of it, Kheelan?” Lord Kheelan’s face turned white. “The Fadeyrys?” he questioned. “The Prophecy has come to pass?” Morrigunia nodded then held up a hand before the High Lord could question Her further. “Call a meeting of the High Council as soon as the others have arrived,” She 111

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ordered him. “It distresses me to speak of this evil and I would do so but once before you all. Say nothing of the Fadeyrys to the others. I will explain then I will see to Iden’s plight.” “As you will,” Lord Kheelan mumbled. His dark eyes were filled with terrible hurt. He did not feel Lord Dunham’s hand cupping his shoulder in sympathy.

***** “Why are you crying, MOM?” The High Lord heaved a great sigh. He knew what MOM meant yet he could not berate the child who insisted on addressing him by the title. No matter how many times he explained to Valda that he wasn’t a Mean Old Man the mini-Reaper ignored his statement. “I had something in my eye,” he said. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” the six-year-old chanted, wagging a finger at him. “You’re gonna get your mouth washed out for telling a fib. Isn’t he, Precious?” Kheelan flinched, looking up to see the Worldly One staring at him with unblinking eyes. The Elfinish was regarding him solemnly, her little tuft of fur atop the otherwise hairless head tilted to one side. “Allow me to speak with MOM in private for a few moments, Lady Valda,” the Elfinish told the child. “All right,” Valda said, and skipped off, her dolly tucked lovingly under her arm. “He’s an old stick in the mud anyway!” Padding down the steps to perch beside the High Lord, the Elfinish continued to regard him with gravity. “What ails you, Lord Kheelan?” the feline inquired. He had agreed not to tell anyone of the Fadeyrys, but he had not vowed to not let the word drift through his mind. “Ah,” the Worldly One whose name was Bumble Bee but who preferred to be called Precious said, drawing the word out. “Bad times are ahead for the humans.” “Aye,” Kheelan agreed. “I fear that is so.” The feline lifted a paw to place it on the Shadowlord’s thigh. “You have experience of Yn Drogh Spyrryd,” she said. “I do,” he admitted. “It was through me my world was destroyed. I was the first to unleash the Nikkeson. I was tried; I failed. Now Glyn Kullen has set in motion the same on this world what I did on Rysalia Prime, except now the Prophecy has been called into play.” “Correct me if I am wrong—and I am never wrong—but in order for the Fadeyrys to commence, many lives and much blood had to be sacrificed beforehand to Yn Drogh Spyrryd by General Spiosyn and his Flaiee?”

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“That is what they say,” Kheelan replied. “Which means Lesh Spiosyn and his demon troopers were turned loose on another world as they were turned loose on Rysalia Prime and now that world is dead. How many others they have destroyed, only the goddess knows.” He ran a hand over his face. “But because Kullen was tested and failed, the Nikkeson has once again been set free from his megaversial prison and is now here on Terra to fulfill the Prophecy.” Precious patted Kheelan’s thigh. “You lost much in your war with General Spiosyn, didn’t you?” Kheelan bowed his head. “I lost everything, Worldly One,” he answered. “Everything and everyone.” “Not this time,” the Elfinish told him, and when he raised his head and looked at the feline, she shook her head, the little tuft quivering. “It will not happen here under my watch. This I swear to you.” “There is a woman—” “One you love more than life itself,” Precious said, cutting him off. “Aye, I know. Nothing will happen to her but, Kheelan…” She removed the paw from the High Lord’s leg. “You must put her from your mind. She belongs to another. There will be a woman for you one day.” “When?” he asked with a sardonic snort. “A year from now? A decade? Another century or two?” “Sooner than you think,” the Elfinish said as she hiked her hairless tail and pranced down the stairs. “But I am lonely now!” he called after the feline, but the Elfinish did not look back at him. He bowed his head, covered his face with his hands and spoke words that were filled with self-pity. “I am so gods-be-damned lonely.”

***** Two trains from the western territories arrived at the station below the Citadel within a half-hour of one another. One train carried Arawn Gehdrin and his lady-wife Danielle as well as Cynyr Cree and his lady-wife Aingeal. Also onboard were Cree’s steward Harold Warrington and Gehdrin’s steward Ashton Rhys-Norbert. The Crees’ nannies, Moira McDermott and her daughter-in-law Annie, were also onboard along with two jet black stallions—Gehdrin’s Corr and Cree’s Fiach—riding in the livestock car. “Pray sit still, old woman,” Harold was heard to chastise Moira as the saucy septuagenarian rushed from window to window getting a look at the grounds surrounding the train station. “Póg mo thóin!“ Moira snapped, bidding the prissy little steward kiss her ass. Cynyr gave his wife a look that made Aingeal snicker. She knew her husband was worn out from the constant bickering between Harry and Moira.

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“Go ahead and laugh,” Cynyr grumbled. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.” “I think it’s funny too,” Danielle Gehdrin said. “They’re like children.” “Mean, hateful old children intent on making my life miserable,” Cynyr said with a sniff. “Why can’t Harry be more like Ash and Moira more like Annie?” He glanced at the young woman sitting by the window. When she looked back at him and smiled, he winked at her. Annie blushed. “Because Ash doesn’t have a stick up his ass,” Arawn said as he snapped closed the newspaper he’d been reading then laid it aside. He stood, leaned over his wife to peer out the window. “I think that must be Bev and Owen’s train.” “Aye, I believe so,” Cynyr agreed. That meant Bevyn Coure, Arawn’s second in command, and his lady Lea as well as Owen Tohre and his wife Rachel, their twin sons and nanny along with their two stewards would soon be filing out of the train to await a carriage that would take them up the mountain to the Citadel. “Hopefully the train carrying Eanan and the others will be arriving later today,” Arawn commented as he plucked his hat from the seat behind them and settled it on his dark head. He adjusted the brim. “I’m sensing Glyn and Kasid are here already and of course Phelan, but I’m not getting anything on Iden.” “I tried reaching out to him to tell him about Phelan, but he’s not answering,” Cynyr said, and both men frowned. “That can’t be good,” Aingeal told them. “Aye, well, we know there has been trouble with contacting one another,” Arawn reminded them. “Let’s hope this is something we can remedy.” “I’ve never known the Citadel to go into lockdown before,” Cynyr said. “Have you?” Arawn shook his head. The Reapers and their mates exited the train to greet the others leaving theirs. Three carriages awaited the arrivals. Once everyone was seated, the black vehicles began the steep climb to the imposing building at the top of the mountain. “I heard Lord Naois is going to be putting in what he calls a cable car next spring. It would hold twenty at a time,” Arawn told Cynyr, Bevyn and Owen who were riding with him in the first carriage. Their wives and children were in the second carriage and the stewards and nannies in the third. “Do you think they’ll install the BlackMoon?” Cynyr asked. “What’s a BlackMoon?” Owen asked. When Cynyr explained, Tohre whistled. “That sounds like a helluva machine. I can’t wait to experience it.” “I’ve been in something similar,” Bevyn said. “Gives you a bitch of a headache.” The shrill sound of a train whistle signaled a third train was pulling into the station.

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Arawn closed his eyes to send his thoughts to the approaching train. He opened them. “Other than Iden, looks like we’re all here now,” he said. “Did Eanan think to bring his mount?” Owen asked. “I reminded him,” Arawn said, probed the train again then nodded. “He did.” “Little bastard would lose his head if someone didn’t remind him to keep it attached,” Eanan’s twin mumbled. “Remember, Owen,” Bevyn said, “your brother has three women to satisfy. I think we can forgive him any momentary lapses in memory.” The Reapers laughed at Eanan’s predicament then began discussing assignments they’d been on when summoned by the Shadowlords. By the time the carriage pulled up to the portico of the Citadel, the warriors were more relaxed from their trip, ready to get down to whatever matter had brought them home. The first thing on their agenda was going to the quarantine section of the building to check on their teammate. “His mate will want to look in on him too,” Arawn said. “Mate?” Bevyn queried. “He’s got a mate?” “I’m told the woman’s name is Lucy,” Arawn answered. Bevyn looked at Owen, eyebrows elevated. Owen shrugged. “What can I say? Our speculations about the boy have been laid to rest.” “It’s none of our business anyway,” Arawn told his men. “And the hell hound, by the way, gave us the name of his Prime on Breathnóir. The warrior is none other than Dusken Kullen, Glyn’s long-lost brother.” “No shit?” Owen exclaimed then grinned. “Another brother brought back from the dead.” “Have either of you had experience of Ridge Lords?” Arawn inquired. When both Owen and Bevyn shook their heads, he told them about Brell. “A sorcerer, eh?” Bevyn said. “Things must be worse than we thought if She brought one of them here.” The men broke off their conversation when their mates’ carriage arrived and went to help their ladies down. Together, they climbed the steps of the Citadel with their entourage bringing up the rear. Once they were all settled into their quarters, Moira and Annie oohing and ahhing over their separate rooms and Lacy Boulbé—Owen’s nanny—having inspected hers, word was sent that the Reapers and Lady Reapers were to come to the High Council’s chamber. “In uniform,” they were ordered. Healer Dresden and his assistants Healers Anton Sorrel and Benjamin Tate, along with Penthe Aracnea—the Amazeen who was head of Citadel security—and Sir Giles D’Brickashaw, the Primary Guide, were standing outside the chamber doors when the

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Gehdrins, the Crees, Bevyn and his lady-mate Lea, Glyn Kullen, the Tohres—all three of them—and Kasid Jaborn walked up. “The Shadowlords and Gatekeepers are within with the Ridge Lord,” Giles reported. “They will call us when they are ready.” “Is She here?” Arawn asked. “The goddess asked to be summoned when all are settled in the chamber,” Giles replied. “No word of Iden yet?” “I am afraid not, milord,” Giles responded. “They aren’t going to require my little one to be here, are they?” Glyn asked. He had yet to transfer one of his fledglings to his lady-wife but his wife’s child—the little girl of Kullen’s heart if not his body—had been turned to bring her back to life. It was a decision for which Kullen had paid dearly. “Valli is a bit young for this kind of thing.” “No, Lord Glyn. She won’t be needed,” Giles told him. “But the Elfinish will be in attendance.” “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Arawn chuckled. The sound of footsteps behind them made the Reapers and their ladies turn. Coming toward them was the newest addition to their warrior family and though Arawn, Cynyr and Eanan had met the newcomer, the others had not. “Lord Fontabeau Sorn, ladies and gentlemen,” Arawn introduced the gunman. “It’s an honor,” Fontabeau said, bowing to the ladies then accepting each of their hands in turn and kissing it. He shook hands—warrior fashion—with Bevyn and Owen and Kasid. He bowed to Penthe but refrained from extending his hand to her. He shook hands with the healers and nodded at Sir Giles, whom he had already met. “Phe’s lady get settled in?” Cynyr inquired. “Aye. She’s not happy they wouldn’t let us see Phelan, but she likes his room well enough,” Fontabeau replied, glancing at the healers. “We haven’t been allowed to see him either,” Arawn said. “I did get the report that he is resting comfortably but still unconscious.” “That is the goddess’s doing,” Healer Dresden explained. “He is still in quite a lot of pain. She is keeping him asleep while the irritant is cleansed from his bloodstream.” “But he’s all right?” Fontabeau pressed. “As well as can be expected, milord,” Healer Dresden said. “We anticipate a full recovery.” “By the gods I hope so,” Fontabeau said on a long sigh. “It tears the heart out of me knowing what he’s been through.” “Phe is a fighter,” Owen said. Fontabeau raised his chin and looked Arawn in the eye. “Did the High Lord tell you what my punishment is to be for disrespecting him?”

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Arawn grinned. “Got on his bad side, did you?” He put a heavy hand on Fontabeau’s shoulder, squeezed. “There won’t be any punishment, Sorn.” A few times before the Reapers and their ladies had come to this round subterranean room with its high-vaulted ceiling and walls as black as night. The huge room was lit only by numerous cast iron hanging torches set five feet apart. Underfoot was a thick black carpet that muffled their footsteps. Upon the carpet were two concentric gold-rimmed circles. In the space between the two circles, on a lighter gold background were five blue alien symbols. The inner circle was black with a five-pointed star, its intersecting lines placed in the middle of the circle. Each point of the star was a different color—dark blue, dark green, dark brown, gray and red. A long dais sat at the top point of the star and upon it was three throne-like chairs upholstered in crimson. It was there the Shadowlords sat. Slightly apart from them was a blue chair and it was to this seat Brell headed. To the right of the Shadowlords were three gray chairs in which sat the Gatekeepers—Argent Ben-Alkazar, Corallin Tarnes and Aureolin Belvoir. To the left of the Shadowlords were three green chairs reserved for the healers. On a velvet perch all her own, the Worldly One sat preening, licking her hairless paws one after the other. “Be seated,” Lord Kheelan ordered, and the Reapers and their ladies took their places in black chairs placed in a semicircle before the dais while Sir Giles and Penthe flanked the door as sentinels for the assemblage. When all were seated, the High Lord took a deep breath. “We are all here save Belial, Mo Regina,” he said. Morrigunia, the Triune Goddess, materialized between the dais and the black chairs. She was dressed for battle with a short white toga over which She wore a brightly polished breastplate of hammered copper, the stippling on the armor giving the impression of scales. Knee-high boots of dark brown kid fit Her shapely legs. Upon Her head was a winged helm. In Her right fist She carried a Dóigra—the deadly weapon of choice of the Amazeen warrioresses—its star-shaped head gleaming in the low light. “Fear not for Iden, My Reapers,” She said. “He is alive though he is being held prisoner. I will leave shortly to free him.” She held up a hand, anticipating the questions. “He is in no immediate danger. Let me speak first then you may ask what you will.” Everyone remained quiet as the goddess paced back and forth before the dais as though She sought the right words. When at last it seemed She had, breaths were collectively held for no one missed the import of the moment nor the urgency hovering over them all. “There is evil,” She said, “and then there is Evil.” Her green eyes met each of the Reapers. “You have fought Raphian thus you know what defines evil. The demon is a wily adversary but He is not the most malevolent entity in the megaverse nor is He the most dangerous to humankind. There is one far greater in wickedness than Raphian

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will ever be. His name is Yn Drogh Spyrryd, the Evil One.” She looked at Glyn. “Some have intimate knowledge of just how evil He can be.” Glyn nodded agreement. “For those of you who do not know of Yn Drogh Spyrryd, I can only explain Him by telling you His is a brutal path upon which those who worship Him take great delight in traversing. Where His venture, death and destruction follow. “He resides on a world called Treigeilys, which in the Old Language means a place of abandonment. It is where those go whose evil is so great, not even hell will take them. In Treigeilys, He has four Higher Archdemons who preside over the Peccoil, the Sinful. Seven more Archdemons—known as the Focal Fiends—direct the Peccah Shiaght, or as we know them—the Seven Deadly Sins. “There is among the Higher Archdemons one known as Kerreyder. He presides over the punishment of those who rebel against Yn Drogh Spyrryd and those who refuse to worship the Evil One. It is Kerreyder who holds the keys to the torture chambers deep beneath Treigeilys and he who is the warden of Prysson, the megaversial prison where the worst of the worst are interned. The worst of the worst is called the Nikkeson. It is the vilest of the vile, the most depraved monster humankind has ever known. “Dredged up from the watery muck beneath the lowest level of the Abyss, the Nikkeson was called forth by Yn Drogh Spyrryd to carry out His vengeance against those who oppose Him. But the Nikkeson proved nearly impossible to control. When it is not exacting retribution for its master, it is kept chained within Prysson.” The goddess shuddered. “Through no fault of his own, Glyn Kullen has set into motion the Fadeyrys, the Prophecy of Doom written many millennia ago and in doing so has set the Nikkeson loose from the frozen pit of its lightless cell. At this moment, it is somewhere among the vast waterways off the coast of Flagala or Vircars.” A gasp went through all those assembled except for the Shadowlords, the Ridge Lord, the Elfinish and the Gatekeepers—who were already privy to the terrible news. Morrigunia waited until quiet descended on the High Council chambers. Her face was filled with sadness as she said, “The Fadeyrys reads… Amid the days of Jerrey Souree innocent blood will flow, In the Land of the Chosen where life will be no more; Sacrificed flesh will be offered up this fateful day. Chants spoken in the ancient tongue shall find the ear, Of the greatest Evil mankind has reason to fear; And the Path shall be opened to show Him the way.

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A warrior tried through no fault of his own shall fall, His weakness shining like a beacon, his cry a siren’s call; To lure the Nikkeson unleashed from His cell into the fray. Unto a new world and to new blood shall the demon fly, And drink His fill while tears gather in every eye; Where the innocent can not hold His fury at bay.” Unease shifted through the room but it was Cynyr who spoke. “Does this thing— this Nikkeson—have Iden?” His wife put a hand on his leg to comfort him for Iden was a good friend to her husband. “No, Lord Cynyr,” the Triune Goddess answered. “Though I can not prevent you from worrying about your friend, I assure you he is not in any immediate danger, but should I not retrieve him soon, the Nikkeson will discover his whereabouts and go after him.” “That’s why you brought us here,” Arawn said. Morrigunia nodded. “You must be kept safe from this evil for you are not equipped to fight him.” She looked to Brell. “That is why the Ridge Lord is here. It will take a powerful sorcerer to send the Nikkeson back to Prysson.” “Why not just kill it?” Kasid Jaborn inquired. “Because it can’t be killed,” Lord Kheelan said. “If that had been possible, believe me when I tell you it would have been seen to long ago.” “Have you fought this evil, Your Grace?” Owen asked, for there was something in the High Lord’s demeanor that suggested he had. Lord Kheelan looked to the goddess with what was obviously pleading but She turned Her face from him. “Long ago there were two friends,” She said. “Where one went, you would find the other. From childhood it had been so. “The two grew into manhood, enlisted as was required of them in the militia of their homeworld. Their people were at war so they fought side by side for the glory and honor of their homeland, became national heroes—much loved and deeply respected. Hailed as the salvations of their world, they were given mates who were considered to be the most beautiful women in the Quadrant. The two warriors Joined with those mates in a dual ceremony on the same evening at the stroke of midnight and the two handsome heroes along with their two beautiful spouses became inseparable. “But one of the men wanted what the other had. Though he loved his own wife, gave her his seed to bring forth a young girl child into their world, he lusted after his friend’s mate. His days were spent tracking her with his eyes, his nights spent dreaming of her and plotting ways he could be with her, for this woman, this weak and willful

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woman, encouraged the warrior’s attention, attention he has trouble keeping from other men’s wives.” Gazes went to Lord Kheelan who was staring straight ahead. He sat so stiffly, so straight he resembled a statue rather than a man. “One day when this man’s wife and child were visiting her parents on Serenia and his boyhood friend was seeing to matters elsewhere, the two adulterers came together. They consummated their passions on the very bed where his wife had given birth to their girl-child.” Lord Kheelan’s eyes fluttered. “For many months the illicit affair continued until one day—suspicious of what he feared was going on—the man’s friend pretended to go about his business but instead doubled back. Lurking outside his own bedchamber window, he heard the cheating ones indulging in their sinful pursuit. The knowledge destroyed all that was good within the man’s friend that day.” Pain filled Lord Kheelan’s handsome face. “Fury and betrayal lashed at the man’s friend. In his pain, he called out to the most evil demon he could conceive and promised himself to the demon’s service if only the man he had loved and trusted, respected and admired would be punished for the sin he had committed against their friendship. With him in his punishment, the friend wanted his treacherous wife to share in the retribution.” The High Lord’s jaw clenched, a muscle bunching. “What the friend did not know—or else had forgotten in his grief—is when you bargain with evil, you give up more than just your soul. Evil wants everything. It wants all. In exchange for punishing the lovers, the Evil One wanted innocent blood, innocent lives as well, and because the friend was so stricken with hatred, he agreed to Yn Drogh Spyrryd’s terms. “‘You will stand at the head of my army’, the Evil One ordered. ‘You will be my general and command the Flaiee.’ “Seeing only the revenge, the retribution he so yearned to have at hand, the friend signed the agreement in his own blood. This friend—Lesh Spiosyn—became the general of the Flaiee, the demon warrior horde that was unleashed upon his homeworld in a bloody frenzy that had never seen the like.” A single tear slid slowly down the High Lord’s cheek. “Let loose, the Flaiee raped and ravaged and destroyed everything in their path, but these vile entities do not just kill when they fall upon their victims. They annihilate. They eradicate, obliterate, exterminate, extinguish all living things with which they come into contact. By the time they were through, other than the general and his demons, there was no one left alive on Rysalia Prime save one man and one woman. No field had been left unsalted. No water had been left without poison. Everything was burned to the ground, trampled, torn asunder. Nothing moved upon the entire face of the planet nor would for over a thousand years. Thankfully a few dozen inhabitants 120

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had fled the planet before the destruction. One of those was the infamous hero’s mother who was pregnant with a sister of the great man.” Lord Kheelan hung his head, put a trembling hand over his eyes. “Lesh Spiosyn had his revenge. His wife had been the plaything of over fifty demons before her body was crushed and broken. Her lover had been brought to ground, bound to a tree and made to watch as the woman he lusted after was torn apart before his very eyes. He was forced to watch as the four-year-old child he loved more than his own life was ravished in front of him, her body fed to the war-hounds. Nearly insane with grief, he spent two days lashed to that tree with the screams of his people, his mistress and his child ringing in his ears.” Morrigunia turned Her face toward the High Lord. “As his own punishment for what he had helped to bring about, Lesh Spiosyn changed from a handsome warrior to a hideous demon that fated day. His body became twisted and pebbled with warts, his hands turned to claws, his feet to paws, his fingernails to talons and teeth to fangs. All because a selfish man had given in to his baser side and helped to destroy an entire world.” The goddess pointed a rigid finger at Lord Kheelan. “I found this disgraced warrior whimpering like a lost child as he hung from his chains on that dead tree. He pleaded with me, begged me to kill him, but I refused. That would have been too quick, too easy, and he needed to atone for his crimes so I made him a Shadowlord and brought him here—away from the mother and sister who were the only kin he had left. I did, however, relent and allow him to be reunited with the sister.” “But you’ve made him suffer ever since,” Lord Naois said. The Triune Goddess nodded. “Aye, he suffers, Naois, and he will continue to suffer for he has yet to learn from his mistake. Even now, he is ruled by Rouanys, the Archdemon of Lust. Even now he yearns for what will never be his. He aches for what he knows he can not have.” Her green eyes flashed verdant fire. “For what he knows I will never allow him to have!” Aingeal flinched when her husband reached out to cover her clenched hands with his own. She looked at him with tears misting her eyes. “Cynyr—” she began. “Shush,” Cynyr said. “You’ve no reason to apologize.” “No, she does not,” Morrigunia said, “for she has done no harm. She can not help what this weak, pathetic man feels for her. But he is not the only one suffering. If he hears the screams of his people dying around him, his baby girl crying for him to come to her aid, his mistress pleading for her own life, he also hears the piercing phantom shrieks of the wife he betrayed each time Lesh Spiosyn impaled her upon his thorny shaft before she died!” A pitiful sound escaped Lord Kheelan’s throat and he shot up from his chair. He skirted the chairs where his Reapers and their ladies sat, running as he made for the

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High Council chamber doors. Neither Penthe nor Giles opened the portal for him, but he didn’t seem to notice as he jerked it open to flee the room. The Reapers and their wives had turned to watch the High Lord’s departure in stunned silence. Slowly they turned around in their chairs to look at the goddess. “He is a good man,” Lord Dunham said. “Aye, he is a good man, but he is a man still in need of atonement,” Morrigunia agreed. “How much longer will that take, Mo Regina?” Naois asked. “When I am satisfied he has atoned,” She replied. She looked at Cynyr. “Do you trust your lady?” “With my life,” Cynyr answered. “Then go to him, Lady Aingeal,” the goddess told her. That said, the Triune Goddess vanished in a puff of pale orange smoke. Aingeal’s face crinkled. Her hands were beneath her husband’s. “It’s all right, mo shearc,” Cynyr said. “He needs you.” She searched her lover’s eyes. “He’ll never have me. You do know that, don’t you?” Cynyr smiled. “Aye, I do know.” She found him curled up on the floor of the solarium with his hands tucked between his knees. He was sobbing like a child, his shoulders heaving. The tiles beneath his cheek were slick with his tears. The sounds coming from him tore at her heart. Sitting down beside him, she lifted his head to place it in her lap, smoothing the dark hair back from his high forehead. “Hush now, sweeting,” she said. “You’ll make yourself sick.” She said nothing else, just let him cry himself out because she realized he needed the release of all the hurt and anger that had been building up in him for so long. At last his hitching breaths ceased and he lay quiet—one hand hooked around her knee. “You can tell me anything, Kheelan,” she said. For a moment she didn’t think he was listening but then he began to speak. “I have begged Her to let me die but She won’t allow it,” he said. “I want to die, Aingeal. I am so gods-be-damned tired of living!” She stroked his back. “Don’t say that, Khee,” she said. “No one would miss me if I left this place,” he said. “No one!” “That’s not true,” she said in a reasonable tone, but a tone that she knew she would one day reserve for her young son. “I would miss you.” She cupped his cheek. “I would mourn you, Kheelan Ben-Alkazar. Outside my husband and son, you are the most important man in my life.” “Yet you can’t stand for me to touch you,” he accused.

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She was silent for a moment then stroked the tears from his cheek. “I think I know how that woman felt,” she said. “Your friend’s wife.” She pushed his hair back from his temple. “You are an easy man to love.” Bitter laughter erupted from the High Lord and he pushed out of her lap, crabwalking his way to the wall, pressing his back against it, drawing his knees up. He wrapped his arms around his chest as though he were freezing. “Oh aye, I am a fucking lovable old bastard, ain’t I, Aingeal?” he snarled, wiping the back of his hand under his chin where tears were dripping then hugging himself again. “People are standing in line to visit with me, to invite me to sup with them.” Another sour laugh came forth. “My card is so fucking full I don’t know who to ask to dance first!” He wiped his palm along the edge of his jaw. “Shit, I’m just the beau of the ball is what I am!” Aingeal sighed and drew her knees up to lock them within the circle of her arms. “You can be a son of a bitch when you want to and I think that’s most of the time, but you know what?” She canted her head to one side, watching him. “What?” he snapped. “It’s all an act,” she said. “It’s a way to keep people at arm’s length because you’re afraid they’ll get too close and either they’ll hurt you or you’ll hurt them.” His dark eyes narrowed. “Aye, well, look at my fucking track record, wench! That seems to be what I do best! Hurting people, destroying them. Hell, I fucking destroyed a whole gods-be-damned fucking planet!” “One more fucking and I’m going to get up and leave,” she told him, chin in the air. “I mean it.” The bravado seemed to go out of him like air out of a balloon and his shoulders slumped. He let out a small, frustrated moan. “I hate myself, Aingeal,” he said, lowering his head. “I fu…” He pursed his lips, frowned then ended by saying, “I hate myself.” “Hate the man you were if that makes you feel any better, Khee, but don’t hate the man I know you really are.” “You don’t know the real me, Aingeal!” he yelled at her. “If you did, you’d get the hell out of here and never look back!” “Then tell me who the real Kheelan Ben-Alkazar really is,” she said. “Make me understand the man you think you hate.” “There’s no thinking about it,” he growled. “I do hate him. I hate him more and more every day.” “And I grow fonder of him more and more every day even if he is a mean-spirited, arrogant, haughty, overconfident, self-centered, self-absorbed, egotistical, pigheaded, conceited know-it-all with a god complex.” “Hey, don’t hold back now, wench!” he snapped at her. “Tell me how you really feel!”

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“Are you going to stop blubbering like a little girl?” she countered. Kheelan made a rude noise, flung out a dismissive hand, top lip quirked with disdain. “If you don’t stop insulting me, wench, I swear I’m going to blow snot on you.” Aingeal grinned. “Now that’s the High Lord I’ve come to know and love.” The Shadowlord slowly raised his head to give her a piercing look. He searched her eyes. “Don’t say what you don’t mean, Aingeal.” Her grin slipped away. “All right, Kheelan. We’ve danced around this for months. Let’s talk about it. Tell me what you want to, what you need to and I’ll listen then we’ll never bring it up again.” “And that’ll make it easier?” he countered. “No, but it will be out in the open. Everyone in the Citadel knows how you feel. It’s not a secret.” He banged the back of his head against the wall once, twice, three times then shook it as though clearing it of treacherous thoughts. “By the gods, I’m as evil as Morrigunia paints me, aren’t I? Sitting here lusting after another man’s wife. You’d think I’d learned the first time what harm that can do.” “Where is Annwn?” she asked. Kheelan’s forehead furrowed at the sudden change of subject. “What?” “Where is Annwn?” she repeated. “Rysalia,” he bit out. “Why?” “And Rysalia is divided into how many actual worlds?” “What has that got to do with…?” “Humor me,” she said. “How many worlds constitute Rysalia?” He rolled his eyes. “The Federated Moons of Rysalia are in the Cairghrian galaxy of the Aduaidh Quadrant of the megaverse. There are three sectors of planets among the Federated Moons. The Northern Sector is Rysalia Prime, the Southern Sector is Basaraba and the Middle Sector is Annwn.” “From whence came Lord Arawn.” “Aye, though he was born on one of the moons, he is not really a Rysalian. Only those born on Rysalia Prime are considered true Rysalians.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What does it matter?” “I once heard Arawn, Cynyr and Phelan talking about famous warriors. They were discussing the heroes of…” She frowned. “I can’t remember the name of the capitol on Rysalia Prime.” “Asaraba,” he supplied, looking away from her. “Aye, that was it. Arawn brought up the Battle of Asaraba and how the two cocommanders of the Rysalian Fleet almost single-handedly destroyed an entire armada of Diabolusian ships. Cynyr asked the names of the co-commanders and Arawn said that was well before he was born but he remembered one of the men—Lesh Spiosyn. I

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remember that name because all three men shuddered. I asked them why that reaction. Arawn said it was because Spiosyn had gone from a treasured national hero to a despised demon whose name was never spoken aloud on Rysalia.” “Nor is the name of the man who fought that battle alongside him,” Kheelan admitted in a quiet voice. “Both names are cursed.” “Why?” “Why?” he repeated, eyebrows elevated. “Because of the evil the two of us did!” “Yet here you are,” she said. “You sit as High Lord of the most strategically important country on this world, seeing to the welfare of its inhabitants, keeping them safe from evil. Your word is law on this world and even if you are feared, you are greatly respected. Your men would lay down their lives for you.” “They might have before Morrigunia told them what a craven bastard I am,” he countered. “Now when they look at me, all they’ll see is an adulterous prick whose lust destroyed an entire world.” “A world that prospers from what Arawn says of Rysalia.” “Aye, well, it took three thousand years for it to become what it is today,” he grumbled. “Holy shit!” she said, causing him to look up at her. “Are you really that old, BenAlkazar?” His lips twitched. “Aye, wench. I am really that old.” “Huh.” The one word was an expression of astonishment. She shook her head. “Ain’t that a kick in the danglies?” He smiled. “You’re good for me, Aingeal. You know that? You have this way of whittling a man down to size. I think that’s why I fell in love with you.” She scooted back so she too could lean against the wall. “When did you decide that, Kheelan?” She was giving him the opening to bring it out into the light of day yet for a moment he didn’t answer. Finally, he stretched out his long legs out and dropped his hands into his lap. “The first time I saw you was through Cynyr’s eyes,” he said. “I sensed great anger coming from the Reaper and so I slipped into his mind. It was in that alley where Cynyr saved you from being raped. He barely glanced at you—more concerned with dispatching the man who had attacked you—but I saw the expression on your face. You were terrified at what you’d seen, shaking like a leaf in a strong wind yet even though seeing a man’s head sliced from his body you followed Cynyr to his campsite. You had courage.” “I was cold and starving,” she said. “I hoped when he went to sleep I could rummage through his saddlebags and find a biscuit or some hardtack.”

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Kheelan smiled. “You went after him with every intention of becoming his woman, wench, because you knew he protected women and you needed protection from Otaktay.” “That too,” she said then returned his smile. “And he was so cute.” Kheelan chuckled. “If you say so.” “He was and still is.” “And you weren’t in the least afraid of him,” he said. “I found that remarkable since most women are terrified of Reapers. I lurked there in his mind watching the two of you sparring, amused by the whole thing. I think the moment I began to love you was when you goaded him into showing you his fangs. He—and I—thought once he did that, you’d back off, but instead, you just stared at him. I’ll never forget your words, ‘Damn. No wonder you guys are so feared. Bet you could open a can of beans with those in a heartbeat, huh.’” He laughed again. “I believe that’s when Cynyr began to love you too.” “We made love right after that,” she remembered. “Did you watch that too?” “Gods no!” he said, horrified she’d think he would. “I’ve never watched any of our Reapers and their ladies and especially not you and Cynyr!” “So it was my feisty nature that attracted you,” she said. “That and I wanted nothing more than to protect you. I ordered him to bring you with him to the Citadel.” He winced, thinking back on something else he’d told Cynyr. “What?” He released a long, harsh breath. “I told him he didn’t deserve a woman like you.” “Why would you do that?” she asked, brows drawn together. “Because I hadn’t felt that kind of attachment in my soul for another human being for millennia, Aingeal—what soul I have left at any rate. I wanted you here so I could meet you. I knew you were off limits but it didn’t matter. I just wanted to be in the same room with you.” “Egad, Kheelan. Do you know how sad that sounds?” she asked. “Aye, I do,” he admitted. “So, was I everything you thought I’d be?” she questioned. “And more. Do you remember when you were taken to watch his punishment? Do you remember what happened there at the end?” “Vaguely.” “Liar,” he accused. “You remember every moment of it.” “I try not to remember it.” “You came to Level One with the decision that you would not grovel to the High Council. You would bestow grudging respect upon me and my fellow Shadowlords, but you would not kowtow to us. I respected that in you. I admired it. I regretted ordering you to witness Cynyr’s Transition, to see him in such a state. I saw the pain on

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your face, the shame on his. Then you demanded that I end his punishment. You were looking at me with such contempt, such hatred, and you didn’t back down in ordering me to stop the punishment. I think if I hadn’t, you would have come after me.” “I would have,” she admitted. He shook his head. “No one had ever spoken to me in that way. No one would have ever dared yet there you stood with your chin in the air, your eyes locked on me and I backed down. I had no choice. You didn’t give me one. I ordered his punishment stopped.” “I was grateful that you did,” she told him. “More grateful than you’ll ever know.” “Then you astounded me even more by going into the con cell to give him the tenerse.” He cocked his head to one side. “Do you know how scared I was, Aingeal? I was terrified he’d attack you, hurt you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life to allow you to walk into that cell and do what you did.” He stared at her for a long, long time. “That is the moment I knew I would love you forever.” Aingeal drew a long breath then exhaled. “I love my husband, Kheelan.” “I know you do.” “Yet a part of me has feelings for you that run very deep. Is it love? Aye, it is a type of love.” “The love of a friend,” he stated. “No, it goes deeper than that. It’s more like family, like a brother.” “Oh for joy!” he said, not unkindly. “That’s always what a man wants to hear.” “It will never be anything more than that kind of love, Kheelan,” she told him. He gave her another long, silent look. “Do you know how much power the goddess gave me all those millennia ago?” he queried. “How powerful I really am?” “No.” He lifted his hand, held it out with the palm turned upward. Slowly he closed his hand into a fist. Aingeal felt the tugging upon her body. She had to strain to keep from sliding across the floor and into his lap. Her eyes widened. “At any time, Aingeal,” he said. “At any time I could have raised my hand to summon you to me and you would have had no choice but to come. You would have come straight from your husband’s bed into mine without as much as a blink of your eyes. You would have done whatever I asked for as long as I asked it of you. You would have forgotten Cynyr Cree and your infant son and even the one growing inside you right now.” Aingeal covered her stomach with her hands. “All I would have needed to do was implant a tiny seed in your mind and I would have become your entire world. Nothing and no one else would have mattered.” “You wouldn’t have done that,” she stated.

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“No?” “No.” He waved his hand. A scene from many months earlier in this very room flashed before her. She had gone searching for Kheelan to demand Owen Tohre’s sentence be reduced. “What can I do to help change your mind about this, Kheelan?” “Don’t put this on a personal level unless you are willing to deal with the results, Aingeal,” he cautioned her. Her chin came up. “Name your price.” His eyes narrowed. “And if the price is too high? If it’s one you’re unwilling to pay?” She did not respond to his goading. She held his hot stare with her cool one, daring him to do his worst. Minutes ticked by and neither blinked. At last it was the Shadowlord who gave in to the silent contest of wills. “All right, Aingeal,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Here’s the deal—I want a kiss from you. Not some perfunctory bussing, no fleeting press of your lips to mine, no simpering touch of mouth to mouth but an honest to goodness, solid, sensual kiss—your honeyed tongue halfway down my gods-be-damned throat—your body jammed so hard against mine I’ll feel the imprint of your nipples and, baby, you’d better put everything you’ve got into that kiss if you want me to even think about changing my mind.” Aingeal stepped back from him. She could see the heavy erection pressing at the front of his robe and the fists he kept clenching and unclenching as he stood there. Sweat was clinging to his upper lip, his eyes were flint hard, his breathing harsh and ragged as though he’d just run a race. His smile was slow and hated and infuriating. “I didn’t think so,” he said with a snort, and turned to walk away. She grabbed his arm to jerk him back around. She pulled him to her and her arms went around his neck, her body slammed into his and her mouth was on his before his arms slid around her to mold her to him as though they were one entity. Her tongue thrust between his lips and dueled with his until she heard him groan low and deep, and knew the sound had come from his very soul. Neither one of them realized how brutal that kiss was going to be until he broke away from her, putting distance between them. He was trembling from head to toe, his chest heaving and one hand out as though to keep her at bay. “Great god almighty,” she heard him whisper. She recovered first. She cleared her throat. “Six months.” He shook his head. “Eight.” “Not good enough,” she said, wiping a hand over her mouth. “Seven.” “Eight,” he stated. He met her stare “I want your word he’ll be out in time to be there when his son is delivered.” 128

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He nodded. “Just so you know,” she said, edging toward the door. “I will tell Cynyr about this.” He shook his head. “No, you won’t.” “Oh but I will,” she said. “I won’t keep something like this from him. I…” “You’ll forget it the moment you leave this room,” he said, holding her glower. “Oh no…” “This whole thing will be wiped from your mind the instant you walk out the door.” “You have that much power?” she asked. “More than you can imagine,” he responded. “And just so you’ll know, if I had wanted more than a kiss, I would have taken it, Aingeal. If I had been a less honorable man, I would have demanded your body to seal the deal, not just your lips, and I would have gotten that too. Now get the hell out of here while I’m still an honorable man because that gods-be-damned honor is dissolving fast!” Aingeal scrambled for the door, fleeing as though the hounds of hell were after her. The moment she stepped outside the room, the memory of the kiss vanished. She put a hand to her lips. “You kissed me.” “Aye, I did, and I could have done more. You would never have known.” “But you wouldn’t have,” she said. “Could you have lived with it if you had?” Kheelan released a ragged breath. “No, my love, I couldn’t have and that is why I would never bring you to me.” His eyes misted with moisture. “I want to. The gods know I want to, but it will never happen.” Aingeal got to her feet. A part of her wanted to go to him but she knew that would be asking for trouble. It hurt her to see him so unhappy, so alone. “Kheelan, I…” He held up a hand. “Go, Aingeal. Please. We’ve said everything we need to. Go back to your husband and your son.” “But…” “I made my bed and I have to lie in it. Now go.” He turned his face from her, dismissing her. “And forget that scene I showed you. I don’t want you remembering the kiss. It’s bad enough that I do.” She turned and ran from the solarium, her heart breaking for him. Long after she’d left, taking with her what little brightness he had left in his dark world, he sat there staring at the door. A wry, sad smile pulled at his lips. “I made my bed,” he whispered, “and I have to lie in it.” Bitter tears fell down his cheek as he hung his head. “Alone.”

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***** The women were sitting in a circle, polite smiles of welcome on their faces. As the wife of the Prime, Danielle had called the meeting of mates to induct into their very private world the newest member—Lucy Louise Springbrook. “From left to right,” Danielle said, “are the Gatekeepers of the Citadel—Argent, Corallin and Aureolin, wives of Eanan. Beside them is Aingeal, wife of Cynyr; Lea, mate of Bevyn; Rachel, wife of Owen; Mystery, wife of Glyn and I am Danni, wife of Arawn.” Lucy was nervous as she greeted each of the women in turn. Her hands were trembling, her mouth dry, but she held her head high even though every instinct told her to slink away. “Welcome, Lucy,” the woman identified as Aingeal said. “We are happy to have you as one of us.” “I wasn’t sure you would accept me,” Lucy said. She didn’t want to start her association with these women on a false note, with a lie. It was important to her that they accept her for who she was, not what she had been. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” the one called Rachel said. “You’ll find no woman here who was without sin before she became a Reaper’s mate,” Lea said. “It matters not what went on before you took his hand as mate,” the one called Mystery said. “Each of us brings our own trials and tribulations to this room, but when we leave it, those issues remain behind.” “Has he spoken to you of taking one of his hellions?” Lea inquired. She looked to the other women but no one shushed her. “It is your choice, you know.” “It can not be one of the new hellions,” Aingeal said. “But there is the one from his first hellion that is stored in the lab.” “There are advantages to being a Lady Reaper,” Rachel said. “I would gladly go through it again if it was required of me, but you must make the decision for yourself.” “True,” Danielle said. “Some of us would not have taken the hellion had it not been thrust upon us.” “She means me,” Lea said. “I fought it tooth and nail, but like the parasite it is, it is beginning to grow on me.” She smiled. “Would I allow it if I had it to do over?” She shrugged. “I honestly can’t say.” “I would,” Aingeal said. “In a heartbeat. I love being a Lady Reaper.” “I have asked my husband for one of his fledglings and he’s agreed,” Mystery said. “I’m scared, but my daughter is a Lady Reaper and I know it would please Glyn.” “His pleasure shouldn’t be the criteria,” Lea stated. “You and you alone should make the decision, Lucy. If you want it, that’s fine. If you do not, tell him now. He will

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not force it upon you.” She looked down at her hands. “I can’t say the same for the goddess.” “I do want it,” Lucy said. “I believe it would make Phelan happy but we haven’t discussed it. We haven’t had time.” “It hurts,” Lea said. “I won’t lie to you about that. It is an ungodly pain that will make you think you are being ripped apart. Your flesh stretches. Your bones pop and break. The organs inside you shift and change. Fur sprouts all over you.” “Lea,” Danielle said. “There is no use in sugar-coating it for her, Danni,” Lea protested. “She needs to know. The more she knows the better prepared she will be.” “Aye, it hurts,” Aingeal said, “but think of the rewards.” She held up her hand, doubled her fist and raised her thumb. “You have the strength of ten women.” Her index finger came up. “You will live ten years to every one a normal person lives.” Her middle finger popped up. “You can shapeshift to a creature that can run the fields alongside her mate and believe me when I tell you there is no freedom quite like that.” “You can talk to your mate even when he is thousands of miles away from you,” Rachel said. “Your thoughts and his are always together.” “He will be able to find you wherever you go,” Mystery said, “although that would sometimes be a nuisance when you don’t wish to be found!” The other women laughed, nodded at her words. “Weigh the pros and cons then make your decision,” Danielle said. “Nothing needs be settled today. He’s still in quarantine anyway and would want to be the one to give you the hellion if that is what you decide you want.” “I believe it is,” Lucy said. She looked from one face to another. “Will you walk me through exactly what happens so I’ll be prepared?” “If that’s what you want,” Aingeal said. Lucy nodded. “It is. I want to be as much to Phelan as I can and as close to him as I can.” “There’s nothing closer than a Lady Reaper to her mate,” Rachel agreed. “We’d like to hear too,” the beautiful silver-haired woman who was one of Lord Eanan’s wives said. “Not that we are entertaining the notion, but it is always a consideration.” “Aye,” her sister Corallin agreed. “We would like to know what it is like.” Danielle looked to Aingeal. “Aingeal, since you were the first to be given a hellion, why don’t you start?” she asked. “Well, it was like this…” Aingeal began.

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Chapter Twelve Two days later Fontabeau and Lucy were allowed to go down to Level One where the medical facilities were located. It was the first time anyone other than the healers, their staff and the Shadowlords had ventured to the room where Phelan Kiel was being treated. Getting into the quarantine facility proved to be more complex than either realized. After entering one thick door into a small vestibule with well-sealed interlocking doors so that no two could be open at the same time. Once the entry door was locked behind them, they were shown into a second vestibule. There were told to disrobe and to drop their clothing into a slot on the wall. Though surprised at the command, they did as they were ordered, feeling self-conscious as they stood waiting for their guide to take them deeper into the facility. Both were shocked when a fine mist wafted down on them from the ceiling. While the mist was warm, it had a very unpleasant smell to it and it coated their bodies like a fine sheen of oil. Upon being disinfected, they were shown to still another vestibule where they were instructed to clothe themselves in soft white gowns that covered them neck to wrist to toe and to don strange-looking hats that molded to their heads to conceal their hair. “This is all so strange,” Lucy said. “Unsettling too.” “I’ve been through a quarantine process before a long time ago,” Fontabeau told her. “I’d forgotten how depersonalized it can be.” “But is all this necessary?” she asked. “Apparently so. I imagine Phe is so weak they don’t dare risk him catching something we might bring in.” A healer opened the vestibule door and ushered them into the quarantine facility proper. Soaring glass walls enclosed several rooms while others were shuttered with strange-looking overlapping plates. It was to a glass-enclosed room they were shown. Phelan was sitting up in bed though it appeared he might be sleeping. His head was on his chest, his hands in his lap. The white cloth pajamas he wore made his flesh look washed out. “Phe?” Lucy questioned, and was rewarded with her mate lifting his head. He looked so weak, so tired, his eyes bloodshot with black streaks. His hair was tousled, but that did not detract from the handsomeness of his face. If anything it added a boyish look that endeared him all the more to his lover. “Hey,” he said, his voice sounding strained. He swung his legs from the bed and padded barefoot to the glass wall. He put the palm of his hand against the glass and Lucy placed her smaller hand over his.

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“You look tired,” she told him. He shrugged. “I’ve been better, but at least I can get up now and walk. I was going stir crazy in that bed. They’re keeping me here until they’re satisfied I’m completely well and pose no danger to anyone.” “How do you feel?” the gunman asked. His eyes were filled with worry. “You look like you’ve lost weight.” “I probably have. I haven’t been able to eat anything since they brought me in. I’ve been living off Sustenance and tenerse.” “How’s your back?” Fontabeau asked. “Healed. The hellion has hatched enough fledglings that they are combating the residual stuff floating around in my bloodstream. They still wear the protective suits around me though. One drop of that shit could kill ten healers.” “We were told we couldn’t stay long but we wanted to see you,” Fontabeau said for them both. “Lucy was worried.” “And you weren’t?” she countered, looking up at him. “Not in the least,” he replied. “Phe’s a Reaper. He’s indestructible.” “I sure as hell didn’t feel indestructible,” Phelan told him. “I wasn’t so sure I’d get through it. That’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.” “It’s over and done with,” Fontabeau stated. “They said you should be out of here by the end of the week. We’ll let you rest and come back tomorrow.” “I miss you,” Lucy said, her lips trembling. “So much.” “I miss you too, mo shearc,” Phelan replied. He flexed his hand on the glass as though he could touch her. He wavered a bit then pressed his forehead to the glass. “Go lie down before someone has to come in there and pick your sorry ass up off the floor,” Fontabeau said in a stern tone. “Now, Kiel. Go lie down!” Phelan nodded. He pushed away from the glass, walking with difficulty. By the time he reached the bed, his visitors were gone. “Beau?” he mentally called out to his friend. “Aye?” “She looks so worried,” he said. “Get her mind off me.” “You rest. I’ll see to your lady.” No sooner was he stretched out on the bed with an arm flung over his aching eyes than he heard tapping on the glass. He opened his eyes to peer beneath his arm. He grinned. “You look silly, Cree,” he said. The white gown and hat looked comical on the muscular Reaper. “You look like shit, Kiel,” Cynyr replied. “I feel like shit.”

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“That’s a pretty mate you chose.” “She is, isn’t she?” Phelan queried. “Thought sure you’d bring us a male mate. You lost me money in the pool, you know that?” Cynyr quipped. Phelan laughed then coughed, annoyed when he hacked up specks of black blood. He wiped his hand on the sheet. “How are you really doing?” “Tired and my head feels like it’s in a vise.” “I remember the feeling all too well,” Cynyr said, having been a victim of ghoret poisoning himself. “I didn’t want Lucy to know how bad it is.” Cynyr held his hand to his heart. “She won’t hear it from this wolf.” “Any word on Iden?” Cynyr cocked a shoulder. “Morrigunia says not to worry about him. He’s being held prisoner.” “By who? Or should I say by what?” “Something or someone She’s not too concerned about, but She wants him here before She sends the Ridge Lord after the Nikkeson.” Phelan flinched, his face turning paler. “By the gods, Cyn. Is that what we’re up against now?” “Aye, it is,” Cynyr said. “We’re in lockdown here until Brell can send the bastard back to Prysson. She says we’re not capable of fighting the water demon.” “I doubt we are,” Phelan replied. “I know I’m not right now.” Cynyr tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled on it. “What’s stuck in your craw, Cyn?” Phelan asked. “I was told I couldn’t stay long but I need to talk to you, Phe.” “Then talk. I’ll tell the healers to take a flying leap if they come in to run you out.” Still Cynyr hesitated. “Out with it. What’s bothering you, brother?” The Reaper took a deep breath, speaking as it left his lungs. “You recall awhile back when we were debating about who the greatest warriors of all time were?” “Aye.” “Lesh Spiosyn was mentioned. Do you remember?” “I remember.” “We couldn’t remember the other man’s name but we agreed that until Spiosyn went demonoid he and Lesh were the fiercest, most powerful warriors ever to have drawn breath.” 134

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“I think I recall that, aye.” “Do you also recall us discussing the reason a respected, revered warrior would turn on his own people and set into motion events that would demolish his homeworld?” “I do remember that. Didn’t we decide he must have fallen under the spell of something evil to…?” Phelan’s eyes widened. “The Nikkeson?” “Yn Drogh Spyrryd,” Cynyr corrected. “The demon who unleashed the Nikkeson from beneath the Abyss in the first place.” “I’ve heard of that demon. How did He manage to take Spiosyn’s soul?” Cynyr lowered his head, looked down at his bare feet beneath the hem of the white cotton gown. “Spiosyn bartered his soul to the demon for revenge,” he said. “Revenge?” Phelan questioned. “For what?” Cree was silent for a moment then raised his head, his eyes boring into Kiel’s. “The other warrior was a boyhood friend of Spiosyn’s. They were closer than brothers. After the Battle of Asaraba, they were given brides—the most beautiful to be found—for their meritorious service. This other man whose name we couldn’t remember wasn’t satisfied with the bride he was given and decided to take Spiosyn’s instead. He made her his whore. In retaliation, Spiosyn swore vengeance on his friend, summoned Yn Drogh Spyrryd and sold his soul to him in exchange for settling the score on the man who had cuckolded him.” “That’s what destroyed Rysalia Prime?” Phelan asked. “A woman two men wanted? If the other warrior needed to stray, why couldn’t he have picked some other man’s wife and not his best friend’s?” “And that was back when Rysalia Prime had more women than men, long before their scientists accidentally murdered every female on the planet so he would have had his pick of the litter,” Cynyr said. “Precisely,” Phelan said. He deliberated over what Cree had said then thought he understood the reason his friend had brought it up. “Cyn, if you’re worried about Aingeal falling under the High Lord’s spell…” “The other man?” Cynyr interrupted him. “That other warrior whose name escaped us?” “Aye?” Phelan said, drawing out the word. “Was Kheelan Ben-Alkazar.” It took a moment for that news to settle in and when it did, Phelan’s eyebrows shot up and his lips parted. “Aye, that Kheelan Ben-Alkazar,” Cynyr said, a muscle bunching in his cheek. “You don’t think he would…” “I know the son of a bitch better not,” Cynyr snapped. “By the gods I’d do my gods-be-damned best to tear him apart piece by piece if he so much as laid a finger to my woman!” 135

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“Cynyr, think about it,” Phelan said, pushing up in the bed. “Lord Kheelan is our lawmaker, the man who wields those laws. He’s such a stickler for making us toe the line and observe the laws he wouldn’t dare break them himself.” “Mo Regina stood before us all a few days ago and told everyone in the room what that bastard had done on Rysalia Prime, what a prick he’d been. She made it clear She wouldn’t allow him to step over the line, but if he did it once he could do it again, goddess be damned!” “No, I don’t think so. If he had been going to seduce Aingeal, he’d have tried it before now and she would have told you.” “He’s a fucking Shadowlord, Kiel!” Cynyr yelled. He lowered his hands, doubled them into fists. “Who would know what he did? Who could stop him? Would she even be aware he was using her?” Two healers came running at the loud words but neither came any closer when Cynyr whipped around to shoot a heated glare their way. They backed away but remained nearby. “Calm down, my friend,” Phelan said. “Let’s talk about this. We…” “I’m telling you right now, Kiel,” Cynyr said. “If he goes after my woman, I’ll bring the fucking Citadel down around his gods-be-damned ears!” “Don’t you trust Aingeal?” Phelan asked. “Aye, I trust her. It’s him I don’t trust!” Phelan opened his mouth to say something else but Cree spun around to storm off, shoving the healers aside as he made his way for the vestibule door. “Is everything all right, Lord Phelan?” one of the healers asked. “Aye,” Phelan said. “I hope so.” He closed his eyes. “I pray so.”

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Chapter Thirteen No one had seen the High Lord for several days. Lord Kheelan was keeping to his quarters, leaving instructions he was not to be bothered unless it was a dire emergency. There were two other Shadowlords who could handle things in his absence. Cynyr and Aingeal likewise had made themselves scarce. No one dared speculate why. On the day Phelan was released from quarantine—twenty pounds lighter— Fontabeau showed up to fetch him. Lucy was a bit under the weather, had stayed in Phelan’s quarters. “She’s pregnant,” the gunman said as they took the stairs to the Reapers’ floor. “I know gods-be-damned well she’s pregnant. She puked.” “She couldn’t be. Not this soon,” Phelan said, stunned by the suggestion. “Must have been something she ate.” “It only takes one load of shot to hit the target, Kiel,” Fontabeau said. “It could be yours,” Phelan said, and the thought made his heart ache. “I can’t father children, son,” the gunman told him. “They saw to that long ago when I was working on the pleasure planet. They snipped me.” Raking an unsteady hand through his thick hair, Phelan tugged at the tousled strands. “I’m not ready for this,” he said. “What man ever is?” Fontabeau asked. “I was talking to Eanan Tohre. Now that man is in deep shit. He’s got three women and all three are pregnant with twins!” “Poor bastard,” Phelan agreed. “Poor bastard, nothing,” Fontabeau scoffed. “He’s having the time of his life screwing those three little beauties, and they can’t keep their hands off him. By the time this lockdown is over, they’ll have worn his pecker to a nubbin!” “What a way to go though, eh?” Phelan laughed. “Aye, well, he’s starting to walk funny, but that’s to be expected I guess,” Fontabeau observed. “I suppose,” his mate agreed. Lucy was feeling better when the two Reapers entered Phelan’s room. She’d brushed her teeth and hair, dressed demurely and was seated on the loveseat with a book of poetry in her lap. “My handsome man,” she said. She laid the book aside, rushing to Phelan to throw her arms around him. “I missed you!” “I missed you too, sweeting,” he said, squeezing her. He kissed her. 137

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“Lady Aingeal and Lady Danielle are planning the Joining for us. It will be at the end of the week,” Lucy said, her eyes bright. “We’re becoming good friends and Lea is a real sweetheart!” Phelan looked to Fontabeau. “Did you get permission for the Joining as I asked you?” he asked. “Aye, I did,” Fontabeau said. “From Lord Dunham since the High Lord seems to be incommunicado at the moment.” “Hiding is more like it,” Lucy said then when her lover shushed her, she turned to him. “Everyone is talking about it, warrior. They all know how he feels about Lord Cynyr’s lady, but everyone is also in accord that he’d never do anything about it. Not just because Lord Cynyr would retaliate, but because the High Lord has suffered a long time for the mistake he made. He’ll not make that same mistake again.” “Even if he thought he could get away with it?” Phelan inquired. “The people of the Citadel feel pity for him,” Lucy spoke up. “That’s the last gods-be-damned thing he wants,” Phelan said. “A proud man like him?” “The women feel sorry for him. I’ll wager there are more than a few who’ll be after him now. Tortured hero stuff,” Lucy stated with a nod. “Gets women every time.” “So the people aren’t blaming him as the goddess no doubt intended?” Phelan asked. “I saw it as Her way of warning him to leave you-know-who alone,” Fontabeau said, “and I didn’t even know the lady in question at the time.” “You may be right,” Phelan said. He looked down at Lucy. “There’s something we need to discuss, sweeting.” Lucy curled her arm around him. “I’m all ears.” “That’s my cue to depart,” Fontabeau said. He winked at Lucy before strolling away. “Well?” she prompted. He swallowed hard then asked if she had anything she needed to tell him. “Like what?” she countered, her eyes sparkling. Phelan ran a finger under his collar, which felt much too tight for his neck. “You know,” he said. “I’m not a mind reader, Phe,” she said with exasperation. “Spit it out.” “Are you pregnant?” he asked in a rush of breath. “Aye.” Phelan Kiel paled, staggered from the answer. All he could say was, “Oh.” “And if you’re worried who the father is, I can tell you for a fact that it is you because like I told you, I only slept with one man in the last three months and that was

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Beau. I imagine he told you he’s sterile,” she said, and at his nod started forward, leading him toward the bed. “Now no more talking.” He balked, digging in his heels. “Won’t that hurt the baby?” he asked. “No, silly.” She tugged him forward, put her hands in the center of his chest and pushed him to the bed. She was over him before he could protest anything else and when she rolled with him, bringing him atop her, he stared down at her with wonder. “I dreamed of you every night I was in quarantine,” he said. His gaze wandered over her face. “In my dreams there wasn’t a part of me you didn’t touch. Now I want to return the favor.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, turned her wrist so he could place a soft kiss on the underside, his eyes never leaving hers, and lowered his head. His lips pressed against her flesh, his tongue darted out to sweep fleetingly along the vein pulsing in her wrist, and then he raised his head. “I want you with every breath I take, every beat of my heart. All I think of is you. My entire being ached to be with you when we were apart.” “Do you know why?” she asked softly. “Aye, wench. Your man has fallen so hard in love with you he is completely lost.” His words made her groan, brought tears to her eyes. She reached up to return his lips to hers. Her breasts were pushing against his chest as she clung to him. His kiss deepened and he slid one hand to her rump to mold her tight to him, grinding his swollen cock against her belly. He shifted down her so he could clasp her breast through the bodice of her gown. The fullness of it in the palm of his hand made his head swim. He pulled back and lowered his head, arched his body almost painfully so he could plant hot, fevered kisses down her neck and onto the plain of her chest, tugging the bodice down as he went. He strained to get his mouth on her nipple, but he couldn’t jackknife his body that sharply. Frustrated, he pushed himself up, grabbed the bodice with both hands and ripped it open to reveal her lush breasts. Lucy writhed beneath him, the wiggling doing spectacular things to the bold erection that was straining so desperately between his legs. “Bad Reaper!” she accused, and shoved him off her, straddling him before he could stop her. “Gowns don’t grow on trees, Phelan Kiel!” “I’ll buy you a thousand gowns, wench!” he countered with a growl, and reached for her but she batted his hands away. “Behave!” she warned, the cleft of her ass directly over his shaft. She jerked the ruined gown over her head and tossed it aside. Full with dark areolas and taut nipples he longed to suckle, her breasts were made for a man’s hands. He covered them gently—feeling the hard little nubs pressing into his palms—and massaged them. Her head fell back and her chest pushed toward him

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as she offered herself to him like a virgin sacrifice. He wanted the taste of her in his mouth. Lucy squealed as he reared up and flipped them over, sprawling beneath him as he poised over her, his hands still upon her breasts as he switched positions with her. But instead of sitting astride her as she had him, he slid his long legs down hers until he was reclining atop her, his head at her chest. When his lips closed around one aching nipple, she writhed beneath him and he moved a leg to wedge it between hers and push her thighs apart. “Phelan,” she sighed, and threaded her fingers through his thick brown hair. For the longest time he worshipped at the altar of her breasts—moving from one nipple to the other. He laved those dusky tips, plucked at them with his teeth, licked them, and suckled hard then gently then hard again as he molded her breast in his hand. All the while he kept his heaviness from completely crushing her, putting most of his weight on his left hip. His knee had crept up to press firmly between her legs and she was unconsciously rubbing herself against him even as her hands tugged at his brown locks. He knew it was time to move on. His hand inched lower until the tips of his fingers touched the springy curls at the juncture of her thighs. Her loud groan sent chills down his spine and he had to force himself not to thrust into her. He moved his hand onto her belly. He was aching, his cock a burning brand in his pants as it pressed against her but he took his time, rubbing her abdomen, fanning his fingertips over the top of the wiry thatch. With each lift of her hips he moved a tad lower until he was almost to the area between her legs he knew touching would drive her wild. He took possession of her mouth again to distract her, thrusting his tongue deep, allowing the weight of his chest to press her down. He dueled with her tongue— breaching her defenses on two levels at once, not giving her a chance to enjoy one before he alternated to the other. He moved lower still until the very tip of his middle finger touched that tight little bud. Lucy gasped and groaned and her hips shot up as he touched her. She clawed at his shoulders in an attempt to drag him over him. He took that moment to slide one finger down the soft crease of her folds and into her hot, wet heat. He flinched for her fingernails raked down his arms but he moved his finger inside her, going as deep as he could. She pulled her mouth from his and stared up at him with eyes wide as saucers. “Phelan!” He smiled gently and eased his finger out of her only a little. “No!” she cried out, and clamped one hand on his wrist, trying to push his finger back inside her. “Easy, mo rúin,” he said, calling her sweetheart in the most intimate way. “Lie still.” 140

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She squirmed at his words, her hips grinding against the ground. When he pulled his hand from her, she hissed with frustration. “Wait,” he cautioned. “I’m just beginning.” A whimper pushed from her throat and she put a fist to her mouth, her gaze beseeching as she undulated her hips once more. “Please,” she begged him, writhing. “Not yet.” He glanced up to find her eyes squeezed tight together and her cheeks shot across with color. Her lips were trembling behind the barrier of her fist and she was panting. Her breasts quivered with every gasping breath. She was wet for him—the scent of her sex coming up to slam into him like a battle ax. It was a heated, wet smell that made his blood thicken and his cock stir. He eased his palm to her mound then pivoted his hand so he could insert a finger into her moistness once more. “Does that feel good?” Her head whipped back and forth on the ground. “Aye!” “Does this?” He put another finger into her, stretching her just a bit. She said nothing but nodded eagerly. He eased his fingers in and out of her in a slow, coaxing rhythm. “Then relax,” he said in a soothing voice. “Relax and let your man take you.” She shivered hard for a moment then seemed to make a supreme effort to put her arms to her sides. The vein in her neck was pulsing rapidly and her body was as stiff as a board, but he continued to move in and out of her until she was oozing with juices and began to slowly relax. “Do you like this?” he asked. “Aye,” she whispered. “I crave it!” He moved so he was lying beside her again—waving a hand to rid himself of his clothing before stretching out so his front touched her side. He leaned over to draw a nipple into his mouth, suckling as he continued the in and out cadence between her legs. He added a third finger and turned his hand so his thumb could stroke her clit. Lucy nearly levitated off the bed the moment he touched that ultrasensitive spot. Her hips shot up and at the moment they did, Phelan drove as deep inside her as his fingers would go while rubbing the pad of his thumb over her swollen bud. “Phelan. Phelan! Phelan!” she cried out. He increased the speed of his thrusts, feeling the tightening inside her that signaled the coming climax. Once more she clapped her hand to his wrist but instead of trying to stay his movements, she jerked at his arm in an attempt to increase the speed. “Aye,” he said, and moved his lips to her ear, sending his warm breath through the channel to raise chill bumps on her flesh. “Aye, wench. That’s what you want.”

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Lucy was writhing beneath him and flexing her hips. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted. She was gasping for breath and, at the moment the release came, she started to scream, the sound cut off by Phelan’s mouth covering hers. He felt the ripples of her climax tugging at his fingers and her fingernails clawing at his back as she came again and again. He made three quick thrusts into her heat then pushed deep and held it as she continued to come. “That’s what my woman needed,” he said, and slowly slid his fingers from her hot sheath. “That’s what she needed.” He brought his fingers to his mouth to lick away her juices. “You’ve no notion what seeing you do that does to me,” she said in a throaty tone. He gathered her to him. There would be time to sate his own raging hunger that was burning his cock like a wildfire. For now he had something more important that needed to be said. “I love you, Lucy-Lou. I need you. I want our life together to last forever.” She flung a leg over his hip. As the last tremor faded away, she began to sob, burying her face against his shoulder. “I love you, Phe,” she whispered. “I love you with all my heart.” “Shush, little one,” he said, kissing her forehead. His hold on her was possessive and in that moment had anyone dared to separate them, he would have torn out the bastard’s throat. When her sobs at last died into tiny little hiccups, he looked down into her face. “There is one other thing, milady,” he said. She gazed back at him with such love, such trust, he thought his heart would burst. Phelan took a deep breath. “Have you decided whether or not you want to have a fledgling?” Lucy tucked her lip between her teeth. “I’ve thought a lot about it,” she answered. “I talked with the other women and they told me what to expect. Lea said she hadn’t wanted it and Danielle hadn’t either, but both said they were accustomed to it now and that it wasn’t so bad. They’ve accepted it. Mystery is eager for hers and Rachel said she was glad she’d been given one because now she’d always be with Owen.” “Did you make a decision then?” Phelan asked. “I have,” she stated, “and I want it.” She looked into her mate’s eyes. “Today. While I have my nerve and the encouragement of the other women sustaining me.” “You’re sure now?” he pressed. “There’s no hurry. We can wait.” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is what I want. I am very sure.” Two hours later Lucy was lying on her back with her paws in the air, sound asleep. Her little muzzle was twitching. She’d taken the Transition in stride, better than Phelan could have hoped. He’d held her throughout the transformation from human to

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wolflike creature as the pain engulfed her, whispering to her, cooing to her, soothing away the hurt as tears fell down his cheeks. Once she was no longer in human form, when the popping, cracking, stretching sounds had ceased, she sprang away from him to leap with a yip across the room. She made a barking noise that was so unwolflike it made him laugh. Around and around she chased her tail. She shook herself, seeming to take delight in the soft mahogany-colored fur that covered her. She took great joy in licking her paws, scraping her claws on the floor. Her tail was thick and bushy and it seemed to annoy her at first, but then she ignored it as though it were a train on a fancy gown. “She is absolutely gorgeous!” Fontabeau whispered as her paws flexed as she slept. “Aye,” Phelan whispered back, in awe of the rich red color of her coat. Her eyes, he noted, were still that miraculous, gorgeous green color—now fringed by spiky lashes. Lucy was sixty pounds of playful she-wolf as she had frolicked about the room, nipping at her lover until he too Transitioned and joined in her playfulness. She swatted him with her soft paws, rolled over and over with him on the floor then backed up to him to tease before scooting away with a growl of delight when he tried to mount her. She sniffed and sniffed and squatted to mark her territory then scratched her muzzle and pranced off to discover something else new and exciting. She was in constant motion until her watch spring wound down and she plopped down on the floor. Within moments she had fallen asleep. “She’s going to wear me out,” Phelan predicted as he Transitioned back into humanoid form. “When she wakes up, she’s gonna wanna fly,” Fontabeau said. “Is there somewhere within the Citadel where you can teach her to do that?” “The Catacombs,” Phelan said. “Deep below Level One are tunnels where all the ancient records are kept in vaults. There are corridors for miles and miles. I can teach her there but I’m not up to it now.” They turned their gazes to Phelan’s lady. Lucy’s front paws were flexing even more rapidly as though she were running all out in her lupine dream. She made little huffing sounds as her flews quivered. “You get ’em, girl,” Phelan said softly, his eyes filled with love.

***** “I tried speaking to him but he wouldn’t answer,” Arawn told his Reapers and Lady Reapers the next morning. Both their littlest Reaper Valda was in attendance as well as the resident Amazeen. “Should I go…?” Aingeal asked, but seventeen voices all shouted no at the same time—her husband’s voice the loudest among them. “But I could,” Valda suggested, and all the adults turned to look at her. The little girl shrugged. “He would have to let me in.”

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“Not necessarily, babban,” her stepfather Glyn told her. “He would,” Valda asserted. “Precious said he would.” “Perhaps the child would be the best emissary,” Kasid said. “But wouldn’t she remind him too closely of his own little girl?” Danni asked. “I sense he’s hurting. Don’t you think it would be like rubbing salt into his wound?” “That’s why Precious says I should be the one to talk to MOM.” Every Reaper smiled at the name, even the newest Lady Reaper. “What are you going to tell him, Valli?” Bevyn asked. “That we love him and want him to stop being such a silly goose,” she said, bouncing her ever-present dolly on her little leg. She sighed. “I don’t really love him— yet—but like Mama says, he’s like kudzu. He grows on you whether you want him to or not.” Laughter filled the room where the Reapers were meeting. “Precious said there’s gonna be a lady for him real soon,” Valli said, swinging her doll from side to side. “He won’t be lonely too much longer.” “The Worldly One said that?” Aingeal asked. “Really?” “Uh-huh,” Valli answered. “Precious said the lady was already here at the ’Del.” Eyes turned to Penthe Aracnea, who held up her hands. “Don’t look at me! It isn’t me!” “Then who?” Owen asked. “I don’t know, but it sure as hell ain’t me,” Penthe declared. “I’m gonna go see MOM now,” Valli said as she slid off her chair, her dolly clutched tightly under her arm. Eanan opened the door for her, winking as she grinned at him. He closed the door behind her. “She’s gonna be a heartbreaker one day, Kullen.” “Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Glyn said. “I’ll be fighting the boys off with a stick.” “Just bite them, Reaper,” Penthe said. “That should do the trick.” Glyn snapped his teeth at her then grinned, fangs extended. “Are you all right?” Aingeal asked her husband. He’d been quiet throughout the meeting. “Aye,” he answered. “What are you thinking about?” “Donal Greeley,” he mumbled. Aingeal frowned. “My ex-husband? Why?” “I was thinking of going to Farmington to find him.” She gave him a warning look. “Because…?”

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“I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, that’s why,” Cynyr said, clenching his teeth. His wife said nothing for a moment then reached up to cup his cheek, turn his angry face toward her. “Him or Lord Kheelan.” “Both of them!” he hissed, and she shushed him. He lowered his voice. “Both of them.” “Well, you’ll do nothing of the sort,” she stated. “You’ll leave them both alone— especially Donal. He has a wife and children. Just leave the man be.” “I want to smash his ugly face in,” Cynyr growled. “Actually Donal used to be a rather handsome man,” she said. “He won’t be when I’m finished with him!” “Big, bad Reaper,” she admonished him. “Gonna go attack the poor weak little human man and turn him to road kill.” She batted her lashes and put her hands to her heart. “My hero.” He snapped at her, fangs extended, and she laughed, knowing she’d drawn him out of the fury she’d sensed spiraling in him for the last few days. “I’m trying to be a badass here and you’re making fun of me,” he fumed. “You are a badass, Reaper,” she said, and bumped him with her shoulder. “You’re my badass.” “I want to pulverize Donal Greeley,” he grumbled. “I’ve always wanted to pulverize him. I want to rip out his guts and feed them to him. I want to pull his head off and stuff it up his ass. I want to…” “You know what, mo shearc?” she asked, and when he looked down at her, she wrapped her arms around his biceps. “You have something he’ll never have, do you know that?” “What?” he snarled. “Me.” She pulled him to her and claimed his hard lips—lips that softened to her warm, loving kiss. “He’s done for,” Eanan told his brother Owen as they watched the byplay between the Crees. “Yep. I’ve always known Aingeal Cree was a very dangerous woman.” “What I wouldn’t give to be a gnat on Kheelan’s wall when Valda talks to him,” Danni told Lea, Bevyn Coure’s mate. “Me too,” Lea said. “Is he that bad?” Lucy inquired. She was proud of the black Reaper outfit her man had fashioned for her. She wore it with elegance, her long red hair flowing in a tight braid down her slender back. 145

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“Not really,” Rachel Tohre—Owen’s wife—answered. “Just misunderstood.” “Rachel sees the good in everybody,” Danni said, smiling at Rachel. “No, not everyone,” Rachel said, and shadows filled her pretty eyes. “Some people have no redeeming qualities within them at all.” “I was going to suggest we ask Aingeal to join us for tea, but from the looks of things, she’s going to be soothing her Reaper’s ruffled feathers for a while yet,” Danni said. “So what do you say, ladies? Shall we go find us a place where we’re not drowning in testosterone?” “Would you like to come too, Penthe?” Lea asked the Amazeen who seemed surprised to be included in the invitation. The tall warrior woman almost—though not quite—smiled. “Aye, I would.”

***** “Are you not seeing your lady now, Kasid?” Phelan asked Jaborn. The dark man shook his head. “No, that ended rather badly and I’d rather not go into it,” he admitted. “So you’re looking again, huh?” Bevyn inquired. “Aye, I’m looking again.” There was sadness on Jaborn’s handsome face.

***** Arawn and Glyn were off to one side quietly discussing Glyn’s plans to transfer a hellion to his lady-wife Mystery. The lady in question was eager to join her husband as well as the ranks of the other women who had embraced her so lovingly into their fold. “You have the permission of the High Council?” Arawn inquired. “Aye, I have both Lord Naois’ and Lord Dunham’s. They said they thought it would be okay with the High Lord.” “I’m worried about him,” Arawn said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look of shame on his face when She told us about him.” “She shouldn’t have done that,” Glyn said. “It really served no purpose that I could see.” “She wanted to hurt him, to humiliate him for whatever reason, and she did,” Arawn said. “It may be that She did more harm than She could have ever imagined. This isn’t like him to tuck his tail between his legs and hide out in his quarters.” “Well, let’s hope our baby Reaper will be able to put things to right,” Arawn said.

*****

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Whatever was said between the High Lord and the little Reaper was never made known to the inhabitants of the Citadel, but from that day forward a not uncommon sight was seen within the hallowed walls of the fortress. It was not unusual to see the child—dolly under her arm—fall into step beside the mighty sorcerer as he went about his duties. Nor was it unusual to see a tiny hand slip into a larger one. And if a keen observer was watching this rather surprising behavior, that watcher would always see the two hands clench for just a moment before releasing—man and surrogate daughter parting to go his or her own way.

***** Owen caught up with Phelan as his fellow Reaper was coming out of the solarium where he had left his new bride dozing in the sunlight. “Do you have time to discuss that matter you asked me to look into?” Owen inquired. Phelan nodded, glancing back toward the solarium door. “Let’s take this somewhere more private.” The warriors found a small conference room where they would not be disturbed and went inside, locking the door behind them. Phelan rested his hip on the long oak table, folded his arms and waited while Owen took a seat in one of the thick padded chairs. “What did you learn?” Phelan inquired. “Well, for one thing,” Owen began, sitting forward with his elbows braced on his knees and his fingers threaded together, “the dead man was a very important personage in the Wismin territory. His son is the territorial governor.” Phelan frowned. “That’s not good.” “No, it isn’t.” Owen searched Phelan’s face. “You know there’s no statute of limitations on murder, Phe.” At Phelan’s slow nod, Tohre licked his lips. “The arrest warrant for Susan Patricia Bardsley is still in force. Getting it put aside is not going to be an easy task.” “The bastard was a pedophile.” Owen locked eyes with his teammate. “Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, Phe, but we only have Lucy’s word that he was.” White-hot anger shifted over Phelan’s face. “I believe my wife.” “I believe her too,” Owen was quick to assure him, “but it’s still her word against a whole shit-pot full of character witnesses for Barker who swear he was a fine, upstanding family man who gave regularly to the local orphanage. Proving otherwise is going to be hard.” “Because?” Phelan questioned, a muscle working in his lean jaw. “If Lucy remembers any of the other girls’ names and if we can find them—and that’s a big if—we’ve got to convince them to testify against Barker. Like I said, his 147

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family is very powerful. They have long arms and deep pockets. They could buy testimony easily.” “He was a pedophile!” Phelan repeated then held up a hand before Owen could speak. “Is that brothel still open?” “It’s still on the tax rolls,” Owen said. “But as soon as we’re out of lockdown, I’ll close the doors on it, and if I find they’ve been pimping children, I’ll hang every last one of them.” “I promised Lucy I would clear her,” Phelan said, pushing away from the table to pace. “And we will,” Owen told him. “You know we’ll close ranks around her, Phe. No one is going to come after your lady.” Phelan stopped, looked around. “Have you talked to the Shadowlords?” “I had to report to them,” Owen replied. “I couldn’t start going through records without their okay.” “And what did they say?” “That we have to prove Barker was what Lucy said he was. Until then, Lucy must stay here. With the lockdown, that’s a moot point right now, but Lord Kheelan said if we can’t find the proof we need, Lucy won’t be allowed to leave the Citadel. We’ll not take a chance of the Wismin court finding out she’s here.” “Not leave?” Phelan asked, shocked. “What about my duties? What am I supposed to—?” Owen cut him off. “Lord Kheelan had another suggestion and it’s one I think you should consider. What would you say to exchanging territories with Kasid?” Owen asked. “Kasid?” “Since he broke up with the wench he was seeing, Jaborn has been chomping at the bit to get out of here and kick somebody’s ass. I don’t think he’s particular whose. He seems to think he can find a mate out there…” Owen flung out a hand. “You know how the men of his race are. They think women were put on this world to serve them. Kasid’s gonna have a hard time finding a wench who’ll put up with that kind of attitude.” His grin was reckless. “I know mine sure as hell wouldn’t.” Phelan laughed. “Mine either. You know, if I had this territory I’d be home almost every night,” he said. “I’ll discuss it with Lucy. She likes it here so maybe it wouldn’t be a bad exchange at all.” He frowned. “I’d rather you not mention any problems with this Barker thing to her.” “My lips are sealed,” Owen promised. He stood, walked over to Phelan and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Phe. We’ll fix this somehow.” “By the gods, I hope so,” Phelan said on a long sigh.

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Epilogue

Two weeks later Panting after having chased his playful wife through the twisting, turning corridors of the Catacombs, Phelan sat down on his haunches, tongue lolling. Transitioning back into his human form, fashioning the customary black uniform, he thrust out his long legs, crossed his booted ankles, leaned his back against the wall and lowered his head to take a well-earned nap. He yawned, put up a hand to scratch at his jaw then folded his arms over his chest. He was bone-tired—in more ways than one. “It is not unusual for a pregnant Lady-Reaper to want sex three or four times a day,” Healer Dresden had explained to a stunned Phelan. “Just humor your mate. Otherwise, things might get a tad—shall we say—disruptive in your household.” The three or four times a day had nearly doubled it seemed. Whenever Lucy got that gleam in her pretty green eyes, Phelan groaned. Hearing the scurrying of claws on cement, Phelan sighed. She was running back this way. He lifted his head, turned his face toward the sound and saw her running fullout toward him. She barked. He sighed again, shook his head. She barked once more. He shook his head and watched her change shape in mid-run, coming at him like a freight train—bare breasts jiggling, red hair flying behind her. “You’re no fun, Phe!” she accused as she dropped down beside him. Before her head hit his lap, she waved her hand and his clothing was gone. “Lucy-Lou, I am tuckered out,” he complained, “and I wish I’d never taught you how to do that.” “I’m horny,” Lucy said as she straddled his lap. Writhing on his jutting shaft, Lucy reached under her and grabbed what she wanted, rubbing her thumb over the tip. “Lucy,” Phelan warned. He tried to pull out of her grasp but she held him tighter. “Phelan,” she countered, drawing the name out. “In. Me. Now!” Shooting his mate an exasperated look, Phelan dug his fingers into her hips until she released him then with one expert move—having perfected that move in just the short time they’d been lovers—he entered her, going deep. “That’s more like it!” she chirped. “You’re a bad woman, Lucy,” he admonished. 149

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She gave him a saucy grin. “Would you have me any other way?” “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t. You are perfect for me, wench. Just what I didn’t know I needed.”

***** Sitting at the long dining table in the room reserved for the Reapers, Arawn Gehdrin had just sat down, having given the blessing over the food he and his teammates and their mates were about to consume. They were all there—Danni beside her Ari; Bevyn and Lea; Cynyr and Aingeal; Owen and Rachel; Phelan, Lucy and Fontabeau; Glyn, Mystery and Valda; Kasid Jaborn and Eanan with his three Gatekeepers, and Penthe Aracnea who was fast becoming one of the Reaper Force and who had asked to be given a hellion as soon as it could be arranged. The only one of their team not there was the youngest—Iden Belial. As second in command, Bevyn raised his glass. “Shoh slaynt as shee as eash dy yea, as maynrys son dy bragh,” he toasted. “Myr shen dy row eh!” the others replied in response. Phelan leaned down to translate for his lady. “Bev said here’s health and peace and length of life and happiness for ever. We answered so mote it be.” “Teach me to say it?” she asked. He nodded, took her hand in his to bring it to his lips. Suddenly there was a flash that startled everyone. The Reapers were on their feet immediately, turning to the intrusion, but it was only the goddess and at her side was Iden Belial—looking much the worse for wear. “Your young one is home, My Reapers,” Morrigunia proclaimed. “Leave him be until he is ready to tell you the tale of where he’s been and why.” Iden looked about him as though he were in a daze. His black silk uniform shirt looked rumpled and there was a rent in the knee of his black leather pants. His guns and hat and boots were missing. “I will fetch the Ridge Lord and we will be on our way. Pray for us, My Reapers, for we will need all the help we can get!” the Triune Goddess declared. “Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat,” everyone save Lucy and Valda called out as the goddess disappeared in a puff of orange smoke. “What did you say?” Lucy asked. “May the Wind be always at your back,” Phelan answered. “It is the Reaper blessing.” “I’ve so much to learn,” she said. Arawn and Bevyn walked over to where Iden still stood. The young warrior appeared dazed, lethargic and he looked at them with empty, glazed eyes as they advanced on him.

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“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said in a voice everyone thought sounded hollow. “You don’t have to until you’re ready,” Arawn said. He swept a hand toward the table. “We were just about to eat.” “I’m not hungry,” Iden mumbled. He backed away from his Prime and 2-I-C then turned and walked out of the dining room. “Something is very wrong, Ari,” Bevyn said. “Aye,” Arawn agreed, his eyes shadowed with concern. “That man is not the Iden we know.” Trudging up the stairs to his quarters, Iden nodded at those who greeted him. He made note of the happiness on their faces that said they were glad he was home. He said nothing in passing to them but rather seemed to look right through them. He felt dirty as he opened the door to his quarters. No, he corrected, he felt unclean. He doubted even an hour-long shower would rid him of the slimy feel that had been all over his body for the last few weeks. Too tired to use his powers, he stripped the clothing from his body and threw it into the fireplace. He knew he would take great delight in burning the wretched things for they had a scent on them that made him sick to his stomach. Going into the bathroom, he turned the water on as hot as it would go then stepped under the flow. He braced his hands on the wall and lowered his head so the stream would beat down on his shoulders. Steam filled the shower, water cascaded over his hair to wash away the tears streaming down his cheeks. “It will be all right, My Reaper,” the goddess had said as She’d lifted him into Her arms. No, he thought as he hunkered down in the shower, wrapping his arms around his crooked knees. He began to tremble. It would never be right again.

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About the Author Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 40 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 Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis IV anthology Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction II anthology Dancing on the Wind Fated Mates anthology Ghost Wind HardWind In the Arms of the Wind Journey of the Wind Passion’s Mistral Shades of the Wind WesternWind 1: WyndRiver Sinner WesternWind 2: Reaper’s Revenge WesternWind 3: Prime Reaper WesternWind 4: Tears of the Reaper WesternWind 5: Her Reaper’s Arms WesternWind 6: My Reaper’s Daughter WesternWind 7: Embrace the Wind WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche WindVerse: Hunger’s Harmattan WindVerse: Phantom of the Wind WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco WindWorld: Longing’s Levant WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian WyndRaider

And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com): BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn Desert Wind In the Wind’s Eye Taken By the Wind

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

www.ellorascave.com