Reaper's Revenge

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Reaper’s Revenge ISBN # 1-4199-0456-6 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reaper’s Revenge Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Edited by Mary Moran. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication: April 2006

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 443103502. 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.

Warning: The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been ratedS-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers. Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme). S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

REAPER’S REVENGE Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Prologue Silus Gibbs stared at his companion but was careful not to show the Jakotai brave just how much he despised him. He’d foolishly shared one of his fledglings with the red man, but it hadn’t been out of the goodness of his heart that he’d done so. Gibbs’ heart was as black as tar and there wasn’t a single speck of either compassion or kindness in that withered organ. Gibbs’ ebony engine contained only poison and a strong desire to torture, mutilate and kill—not necessarily in that order. His dark blue eyes locked on the native Terran, Gibbs was filled with a desire to slit the Jakotai’s throat but knew it wouldn’t be an easy thing to accomplish now that the red man had powers very similar to his own. Otaktay felt the white man’s eyes stabbing him but he chose to ignore it. He was too intent on skinning the rabbit he’d shot for his supper. The air around him was filled with venom coming off the man across the campfire, but the Jakotai brave neither feared that venom nor let it concern him. He had other things on his mind this night and the rogue glaring at him wasn’t one of them. “You ain’t much of a conversationalist, are you?” Gibbs sneered. He finished the last of his own meager supper of hardtack and beans, his mouth watering as he watched the red man spit the rabbit and sling it across the campfire. “I speak when I have something to say,” Otaktay replied. His black eyes glittered with hatred. Gibbs snorted then took a sip of his coffee. The bitter brew made him wince but it helped to keep him awake. He wasn’t all that sure the brave wouldn’t attempt to cut his head off if he dared to take a snooze. He glanced at the fast-moving river beside which they were camped. The rogue grinned nastily. “Thought sure I’d drown when I dove in the water,” he said. “That was a better end than the one the Reaper had planned for me.” He chuckled. “Imagine my surprise when I just floated on downstream and managed to pull myself out. Damned parasite must have been surprised too!” The white man’s words meant nothing to Otaktay. He was a strong swimmer and had enjoyed the river near his Jakotai encampment, but since taking the parasite into his body, he had discovered a paralyzing fear of the water. It was the only fear Otaktay had ever had. Such a weakness infuriated the brave, but he wasn’t willing to try diving into the water as the white man had suggested, proving he wouldn’t die. “Hell, you won’t drown. I’m telling you. Look at me. I didn’t!” Truth from the tongue of the white man was not something Otaktay considered likely. He knew the man hated him—just as he hated Gibbs. He would bide his time,

4

Reaper’s Revenge

keep vigilant watch then dispose of the foul-smelling rogue when he was no longer of use. “Whatcha gonna do with that woman of yours when you find her?” Gibbs asked. The sizzle of the rabbit’s fat hitting the fire made his belly growl. A muscle worked in Otaktay’s lean jaw. “I will take her one last time then I will strip the flesh from her, an inch at a time.” “Whoowee!” Gibbs chortled, slapping his hand on his knee. “Sounds like my kind of fun!” Turning fierce eyes to the white man, Otaktay spat out his words as though they were filled with acid. “Only I will lay hands to my woman,” he stated. “Yeah, yeah,” Gibbs said, waving a hand. “But you’re gonna let me watch, ain’t you?” Disgust rippled over the Jakotai brave’s face. He did not answer the white man. The settling of a debt of honor was a personal thing. Aingeal had run from him—not once but three times—and now, to save face, he must punish her for her disrespect by ending her treacherous life. “Don’t cotton to women, myself,” Gibbs said as he stretched out on the hard ground. “I get my pleasure elsewhere. If you know what I mean.” Otaktay looked up from turning the rabbit over on its spit and regarded the white man with loathing. He understood what the white man meant and the thought of such a thing sickened him. It was not something condoned in the Jakotai culture. “Khnum Jaborn once told me something about not mating with women but I paid no heed to him. Didn’t affect me none ‘cause I had no intention of touching no woman in that way.” He scratched at the filthy crotch of his britches. “Don’t recall exactly what it was he had to say about the matter but seems to me he said it was against rogue law.” The Jakotai brave’s eyes narrowed. “I am not governed by your white man’s laws,” Otaktay sneered. “What I do with my woman is my business and no other’s.” “Suit yourself,” Gibbs said. He was becoming sleepy but was still uneasy about closing his eyes around the red man. “No skin off my nose if you want to fuck the filly afore you peel off her skin.” He chuckled at his comment. “Who is this Jaborn about whom you keep telling me?” Otaktay inquired. If there was another rogue nearby, he needed to know of him. “Damn you sure do talk like an edjucated man,” Gibbs said. “Where’d you learn to talk so fancy?” “I speak as I was taught by my grandfather,” Otaktay snapped. “Who is this Jaborn?” “Came from the stars, he did,” Gibbs said, looking up. “Leastways he said he did. Some place way up there. He’s the one what gave me my parasite.” “The stars,” Otaktay repeated. “Such is not possible.” “I didn’t think so neither, but you damned sure didn’t say that to Jaborn’s face.” 5

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Where is he now?” “Reaper got him just ‘fore he came after me,” Gibbs said with a frown. He pointed at Otaktay. “That’s why I told you it’ll take the two of us to bring that bastard down. Jaborn was the best, but the Reaper took him out like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Cleaner than a whistle.” Otaktay looked away from the white man’s florid face. He regretted allowing the man to live the morning he’d found him slaughtering a family of farmers near the place where Otaktay had tracked Aingeal. Had it not been for the questions the white man was screaming at the dying ones, the Jakotai brave would have dispatched him. “He’s running with a woman named Angel or something like that. You’d better tell me where he is!” The farmers had died without giving the white man the answers he’d been seeking. When the rogue had become aware of Otaktay’s presence, he’d spun around and charged, the bloodlust still high on his beefy face. It had taken all of Otaktay’s skill to keep the enraged white man from gutting him with the knife he’d used on the farmers. They’d struggled a few minutes—neither getting the upper hand—until the white man howled as though he were a wolf. Otaktay had been stunned when Gibbs had tossed away his bloody knife and came at him with teeth exposed and fingers curled into claws, his body changing into that of an animal as he ran. But the gods had been with Otaktay that morning. Riders had appeared out of nowhere, bearing down on them with rifles blazing. Gibbs had loped away—still in his wolf form, leaving Otaktay to jump upon his pony and race away as well. They’d come upon one another again near a town twenty miles away. Otaktay had had plenty of time to consider the man who had changed into a beast. He’d heard of the beings called Reapers, knew they went after other beings called rogues. Realizing that was what the foul-smelling white man was and that he was after the same man Otaktay was, the brave decided to learn what he could before killing the man. Cautiously approaching, Otaktay had held his hands out to his side, well away from his weapons. “What the hell do you want?” Gibbs had snarled. “I too seek the man who rides with my woman. What do you know of him?” Gibbs’ eyes had narrowed to malicious slits. While he could never be labeled as intelligent, he did recognize opportunity when it presented itself to him. He doubted he could take the Reaper one-on-one but if there were two against Cynyr Cree, the chances were far better. “Whatcha want with Cree?” Otaktay had hunkered down well away from the white man. “He took my woman,” he answered. “I want her back.” “And if’n you find Cree, what then?” “I will slay him.”

6

Reaper’s Revenge

“Yeah,” Gibbs had sneered. “You and what army?” He hawked up a thick wad of phlegm and spat. “You don’t stand a chance against a Reaper.” Otaktay had puffed out his chest. “I am a great warrior of my People. I—” “You don’t stand a chance,” Gibbs repeated. “Unless…” The Jakotai brave watched the white man very closely. “You know a way I can defeat him with ease?” “Not alone, you can’t,” Gibbs said. “But if’n we join forces—” Shaking his head, Otaktay dismissed that idea. “I have no desire to do this.” “Suit yourself,” the white man had said with a shrug. Then all hell had broken loose. The white man leapt at him with blinding speed, lengthening teeth going to Otaktay’s throat and biting deep. Huge hands had pinned the brave to the ground easily. Dark red blood had gushed from Otaktay’s throat when the white man moved off him. Strangling, unable to breathe, dying, the Jakotai was too weak to fight as the white man flipped him to his belly. He had felt the knife cut on his bare back. The sting had been sharp, but the pain that followed had been so acute, Otaktay had nearly unmanned himself by screaming. Hot agony had wriggled down into the brave’s back and bitten into his organs. He had writhed on the ground—trying to dislodge whatever had invaded his body—but the pain only increased. Frothing at the mouth, blood still spurting from his injured neck, Otaktay watched his life pass before him. “You ain’t gonna die,” the white man had laughed. “You got one of my hellions in you now, boy.” The Transition when it came was much worse than the initial pain in Otaktay’s back. His body had elongated in some places, shrank in others. Musky fur had rippled over his limbs and chest. Talons arched out of his fingers and toes with agonizing tearing of his flesh. His face had altered—his nose becoming a black snout, his jaw jutting forth with fangs exploding from his gums. Fire ate at his insides, licked at his organs until life was nothing more than a series of unending torment. Then as quickly as the Transition occurred it left him, and Otaktay lay shivering on the hard-packed ground, naked as the day he’d come squalling from his mother’s womb. Only later did he learn the white man had cut open his own flesh and extracted the creature he had dropped onto Otaktay’s wound. “You’ll thank me, boy,” Gibbs had growled as Otaktay lay in a fetal position at the white man’s feet. Otaktay would never thank Silus Gibbs for what he had done to him. Hating the man with every fiber of his being, he longed to slice the rogue’s head from his body and carry it about on his lance. No amount of torture would ever satisfy the bloodlust in the brave’s seething mind. 7

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You’ll have to have Sustenance,” Gibbs had told him. “You can take it wherever you find it. Me, I like human blood better than animal. It’s more potent.” Having to consume what the white man called Sustenance turned Otaktay’s stomach, but he found if he did not drink, the agony in his back was more than he could bear. “And this,” Gibbs had said, holding up a strange-looking weapon, “you will need every morning.” It had been the day after Otaktay’s first Transition—when he lay shivering with agony blazing in his back—that Gibbs had plunged the sharp end of the weapon into the brave’s neck. Horrible fire sped through Otaktay’s veins and he heard himself moan. The shame of that sound would haunt him until the day he drew his last breath, but whatever the white man had done to him had stopped the pain eating away at his back. “It’s called tenerse and the Ceannus makes sure we’ve always got all we need,” Gibbs had announced. “Can’t live without it. The drug keeps us from Transitioning out of cycle.” He’d looked at the weapon. “Thing is though, you get addicted to the shit. I’ll show you how to inject yourself.” While Otaktay had lain as quietly as he could, Gibbs had then explained how their combined strengths could defeat Cynyr Cree. He had warned the brave Cree was a powerful warrior who would stop at nothing to dispatch them if given the chance. “We gotta strike first,” Gibbs stated. “We find him, kill him and you can do whatever you want with the woman.” He’d smiled brutally. “Long as I get to watch.” That was two weeks ago, and with each passing day Otaktay’s hatred of Gibbs grew. He had come to understand the one called Cree would not be easily taken, that he was a powerful warrior with many kills. He did not, however, believe it would take the two of them to bring Cree down. “I ain’t trying to tell you your business, boy,” Gibbs said, “but if’n I was you, I wouldn’t stick my wick in that woman of yours before you carve her up. Seems to me Jaborn was unbending on that. There’s some reason he warned against it.” “She belongs to me and I will do with her what I wish!” Otaktay hissed. “Aye, well, it’s your pecker,” Gibbs said with a shrug. “And it’ll be you to pay for what you do with it, I reckon.” Believing there was nothing left he had to learn from the man who had changed him into a creature ten times stronger than any of his Jakotai brothers, Otaktay made the decision at that moment to cut off the white man’s head before the night was through. There was no reason to keep the unclean one alive and every reason to rid the world of his despicable presence. He would go up against the Reaper alone.

8

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter One Aingeal turned over to find her husband lying with his head propped in his hand, watching her. She smiled. “Good morning,” she said with a sigh. “Good morning,” Cynyr answered. He leaned over his lady and kissed her lips softly, placing his hand gently on her belly. Deep hunger dwelled in his eyes but Aingeal knew it wasn’t from either the Sustenance or the tenerse his body was craving. The train in which they were traveling rattled on toward its destination—Haines City in the Oklaks Territory—less than fifty miles away. At the bottom of the window shade, a sliver of early morning was showing itself. The smell of coffee and frying bacon came from the direction of the dining room area of the private railcar that had been provided for the lovers by the High Council. “You have no right to look so beautiful this early in the morn, wench,” Cynyr told his wife. Stretching her arms over her head, Aingeal felt the sheet slip from her naked breasts. “Oops,” she said, staring into her mate’s smoldering amber eyes. Cynyr slid his hand up to cover the creamy globe of his lady’s breast, molding the warm mound to his palm. “You are a wanton woman, Aingeal Cree,” he accused her as he tossed the sheet to the foot of their bed. His fingers were gently massaging her and Aingeal felt the stirring of heat low in her belly. Among the many talents Cynyr possessed, she regarded his skill at lovemaking as being one of the best. He had come late in life to pleasuring a woman but was making up for lost time every chance he got. “I have done nothing you didn’t want me to, Reaper,” she told him, and laced her arms around his neck to draw him down to her. Slanting his mouth across Aingeal’s tempting lips, Cynyr’s manhood stirred against her thigh. Hot and velvety smooth, his cock oozed interest as the Reaper’s woman arched her shapely hips up in an invitation for him to slip between her legs. Cree’s body was a demanding weight that sent shivers of delight down Aingeal’s flesh as he moved over her and positioned his cock at the core of her heat. His hands were to either side of her as he lay stretched out atop her, grinding his need against her. “My, my, my, mo shearc,” she whispered. “What is that knocking at my door?” “’Tis just my stalwart messenger with an invitation to join me for an early morning ride, a stór mo chroi,” he replied. “He’s a persistent little fella, ain’t he?” she asked. “Aye, wench,” Cynyr agreed, his voice husky. “He’s cold and wishing to come inside to get warm.” 9

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Well, never let it be known that Aingeal Cree was not accommodating to her mate’s messenger,” she said, and lifted her legs to capture her husband’s lean hips. She locked her ankles around him. “Poor little fella must be cared for.” Like silk, her hot sheath closed around him as he slowly thrust his cock into her waiting cavern. Her inner muscles gripped him—welcoming the messenger—and the good man went in as far as he could and seated himself. “Ah, Reaper,” Aingeal said with a sigh. “He is a most welcome visitor.” She arched her hips upward until her husband’s staff was pressed against a barrier that increased her pleasure at having him inside her. “But he can be a restless wagtally,” he told her, and began to move in and out of her with sure strokes. “Aye, well, that he can,” she said, tightening her legs around her lover. “Just look at him coming and going and—” “Didn’t I tell you he was restless?” Cynyr quipped. His naked body was warm upon hers, a light sheen of perspiration forming where her breasts touched his broad chest. Her hips fit perfectly against his, as though they had been cast from the same mold. Aingeal slipped her arms from around her husband’s neck and slid them under his arms until she could wrap them around his back. Her palms slid over the brutal scars that puckered the expanse of his flesh and not for the first time did her heart ache for the torture her man had undergone so long ago. Catching the sad thought that tugged at his lady’s mind, Cynyr wedged his hands under her tight little derriere and lifted her to him, effectively wiping out all thought save the carnal pleasure he was thrusting into her. His rod began pistoning in and out of her with a rhythm. “Mo shearc,” she named him, her voice a breathless purr. “My love.” “A-chaoidh,” he said. At her look, he translated, “Forever.” Heat was building in their loins and with it came an intense itch that only passion could sate. He ground against her after each full stroke and she writhed beneath him, squeezing him with her inner muscles, milking him with tight warmth. His speed increased until his balls were slapping against her. She dug her fingernails into his back, urging him on. Cynyr swept down to claim her lips, slipping his tongue between her lips. Lust had come full-blown within him but his parasite was also stirring, pressing its sharp teeth into his kidney to spur him on. The Reaper had often thought the hellish thing inside him was more like a mistress than a leech. It was a jealous entity who often required his full attention and, when he was in the throes of passion with his chosen mate, would rear its savage head to remind him it was there.

10

Reaper’s Revenge

Aingeal felt her husband’s parasite bunch up under his skin and reached down to press her fingertips against it. Her own parasite—the hellion who now resided within her to give her strength equal to that of ten women—was lying dormant, rarely causing her the pain Cynyr’s caused him. Only in the mornings when her parasite needed fresh Sustenance and the lulling effects of the tenerse did it make its presence felt. “I don’t know, wench,” Cynyr had said when she’d asked him about it. “I’ve never known another female Reaper. Perhaps it’s a sisterhood thing.” “Stop hurting him, you bitch,” Aingeal sent to her lover’s parasite, for she could sense Cynyr’s pain. Intercepting his wife’s order to the revenant worm writhing inside him, the Reaper was surprised when it went still at Aingeal’s command. His body no longer torn between pain and pleasure, the pleasure took over completely and he could feel his cock hardening even more. He was sliding in and out of his lady with fierce strokes that brought heat spiraling through his groin. Aingeal gripped her husband tightly to her and arched her hips up, meeting him thrust for thrust. Spasms of delight were paused at the threshold of her climax and with one hard press of Cynyr’s steely cock, sent the pulses of passion trickling through her cunt to clutch and release, clutch and release Cynyr until he threw back his head and groaned. He stilled deep inside her—his staff pulsing thick jets of cum—and held himself there until the last throb drained him. Cynyr collapsed beside her, sliding from her molten sweetness to lie panting on his back, dragging harsh breaths into his depleted lungs. His neck was arched, his eyes shut, a light sheen of sweat covered his upper torso and dotted the creases of his loins. “You have a damned good little messenger there, Reaper,” Aingeal teased. “He lives to serve,” Cynyr managed to say. He turned so his head was in the crook of his lady’s shoulder and laid a palm across her breast. Reaching out to lovingly stroke her husband’s mane of thick brown hair, Aingeal knew a contentment for which she had longed. For the first time in her life she was wanted and needed and cherished. The man lying beside her was the love she had prayed for so desperately but had never had faith in finding. He was her all and she would give her life for him. “As I would for you,” he said, plucking her thoughts from the ether. His hand returned to her belly. “For both of you.” Covering her husband’s hand with her own, she laced her fingers through his. “I can’t wait for our child to kick for the first time.” Cynyr sighed deeply. “Neither can I.” He rubbed her stomach gently, at peace with himself and the world. They were silent for a long time as they listened to the click-clack of the train’s wheels on the rail. The car was slowly rocking them and that would have lulled them back into sleep had there not come an authoritative knock at their sleeping quarter’s door. 11

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Breakfast is ready,” Harold Warrington, the servant provided for them by the High Council, announced. “I will be laying out your plates momentarily. Please be on time for once!” That said, the snippy little man left, his heavy footsteps sounding on the carpet. “How can a man not even five feet tall and weighing less than my saddle make so much noise when he walks?” Cynyr asked. “Attitude,” Aingeal suggested. She prodded her husband into moving so she could get up. “I don’t suppose we have time for a bath.” “Not when His Majesty has decreed we be on time,” Cynyr grumbled. He swung his long legs from the bed and with a wave of his hand was dressed in a fresh black silk shirt and leather britches. “Show-off,” Aingeal accused. She was up and slipping into the black denim jeans her husband had provided for her. He had yet to show her how to fashion her own clothing from thin air and she doubted he ever would. It seemed to be a matter of pride to him to be able to provide for her. Cynyr was watching his lady and trying to hide the smile that was tugging at his lips. Like her Reaper brethren, Aingeal had long since dispensed with wearing underwear. As she was buttoning the black cotton blouse over her ample bosom he was reminded of the disagreement they’d had concerning his choice of clothing. “I prefer a white shirt,” she’d argued but her husband had been adamant. “Your nipples can clearly be seen in a white blouse, wench,” he’d said. “It’s black for you!” Admitting he was right didn’t take away the sting of disappointment of not getting her way, although she had admitted that wearing an outfit so close to the uniform he wore wasn’t so bad. When they had been at the Citadel—the headquarters of the High Council—she had been required to dress in womanly fashion with all the accoutrements she now found restricting. She was glad Cynyr didn’t require her to dress in gown, camisole and bloomers. “I’d prefer you butt-naked but such would be a distraction,” he said, once more intercepting her thoughts. “Mick would probably like me like that,” she teased, and laughed at her husband’s low growl. Her friendship with the town barber in Haines City was a tad too close for her husband’s comfort. Cynyr was preparing their vac-syringes of tenerse and as he loaded his frowned. “What’s the matter?” Aingeal asked. “My back isn’t paining me,” he said. “The queen is lying still for once.” “She’d better,” Aingeal quipped. She turned her back to her husband and swept her long hair aside for him to administer the drug to her. A sharp, biting pain drove straight through the Reaper’s back and he nearly dropped his vac-syringe. Striving not to let his wife see his agony, he stepped up 12

Reaper’s Revenge

behind her with hands trembling from the brutal pain chewing through him and stuck the needle into Aingeal’s neck. He bent down to kiss the spot where a single drop of blood had appeared. “I guess I’m getting used to it,” Aingeal said. “That didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it usually does.” Unaware her husband was being tortured by his parasite, Aingeal picked up the other vac-syringe and turned to give him his shot. She felt terrible when she watched his face pinch from the discomfort racing through his veins. “Do you give yourself more tenerse than me, mo shearc?” she asked. “Aye,” he said, reaching up to rub at the agony spreading down his neck and shoulder. “It’s given according to your weight.” He forced a smile to his lips. “You weigh less than the down from a fledgling bird.” She snorted. “You’ll change that in the months to come,” she said, “when I’m waddling around like a fat pig.” Cynyr put out his hand and laid his palm over her flat belly. He couldn’t seem to stop doing that. It was there his child was growing and he loved touching his lady so she could feel how proud and delighted he was with her pregnancy. She covered his hand with hers and when he lowered his mouth to hers, welcomed his kiss. The knock hit the door only once but Harold’s imperious voice sound like a barrage against the panel. “Breakfast is upon the table!” he barked, each word spat out like a cannon shot. Shaking his head, Cynyr ground his teeth. He was going to have a talk with Warrington—who had informed him the High Council had assigned him to be the Crees’ servant in Haines City. Opening the door for his lady, Cynyr put his hand to the center of her back and ushered her from their sleeping quarters. Harold was stomping down the corridor ahead of them, not bothering to look around to see if they were following. “Have you ever noticed how he walks?” Aingeal whispered. “Not until today,” Cynyr replied, and was amused as he watched Harold’s ass swaying to and fro like that of a woman. Having positioned himself behind Aingeal’s chair, Harold was waiting impatiently for his charges to gain the table. His pencil-thin mustache twitched, his very thin lips pursed as they approached. “I am told we will be arriving in Haines City around noontime,” Harold informed them as Aingeal took her chair and he pushed it up to the table for her. Snapping her napkin, he laid it in her lap and walked around to take up Cynyr’s to do the same. “Thank you, Harry,” Cynyr said, knowing how much the nickname annoyed the fussy little man. He could hear Harold’s teeth grinding.

13

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Before each of their plates was a large goblet of chilled Sustenance. The dark red liquid in the goblets stood out against the pristine white of the starched tablecloth with its white china dishes. “Will there be anything else?” Harold inquired with a sniff. His beady eyes were surveying the bowls of bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, crisply fried potato chunks, buttered toast and—much to his disgust—the mound of grits that had been spooned onto the lady’s plate. “Everything looks delicious as usual, Harold,” Aingeal assured him. A faint smile tugged at the little man’s face and he bowed, thanking her for her compliment. With that done, he turned toward the kitchen at the front of the railcar. Taking up the Sustenance first, husband and wife downed the liquid that allowed them to exist peacefully with the parasites nestled within their bodies. “How do you think the town took to Arawn and Bevyn?” Aingeal asked as she ladled scrambled eggs onto her husband’s plate. Cynyr shrugged. The two highest-ranking Reapers had volunteered to go on ahead of Cynyr and his lady to protect the town from the threat of Silus Gibbs and the Jakotai brave who were looking for the Crees. “I expect Moira put them to work chopping wood for her,” Cynyr replied. “Nothing intimidates that lady.” Aingeal grinned around a mouthful of her precious grits. “I’m glad you are going to ease her pain, mo shearc. She deserves to live her last years in comfort.” “I would have started on that before we left, but there just didn’t seem to be time,” he said. He’d regretted having left Haines City without taking away the elderly woman’s pain. As she was buttering her toast, Aingeal stopped and looked up at her husband. “Why are their tattoos different from yours?” she asked. Cynyr’s left eyebrow crooked up. “You were looking so closely at them you saw that, wench?” He wasn’t so sure he liked his woman staring at the other Reapers’ faces. “I noticed it right off but I guess it didn’t hit me until now. Do they belong to Morrigunia too?” “Every Reaper I’m familiar with does,” Cynyr said. He hated to think of the Triune Goddess of Life, Death and War who had turned him from a dying man into a bloodthirsty beast. “I’ve seen tats on the rogues too, but they’re usually elsewhere on their bodies, like their backs.” “And she gave each of you a different tattoo.” “No, the tattoo is different for each clan, not each man. Arawn’s is a heron because he is a Gehdrin. There are seven symbols of the Reapers. There is the heron, blackbird, hawk, crow, owl, seagull and raven. Each has meaning for Morrigunia.” “The Cree clan is the raven,” she said, looking at the dark blue tattoo fanning out from the corner of her husband’s right eye. 14

Reaper’s Revenge

“Aye.” Cynyr answered. “The bird symbols are related to knowledge, bloodshed and skill.” He glanced at her. “That pretty much tells you what Reapers are, doesn’t it?” “What do the other symbols mean?” “I don’t know, wench,” Cynyr confessed. “The raven is a symbol for healing but—” “The heron symbolizes vigilance and Lord Arawn most definitely is a cautious man who carefully watches over his men,” Harold said as he came up to the table. “The blackbird is enchantment, a strong mage, and Lord Owen Tohre is a very adept magician. The crow symbolizes wisdom although that is Lord Bevyn Coure’s clan and I hardly think he qualifies as being a wise man. Hawk is for observing and that holds Lord Glyn Kullen in good stead for he is most definitely a keen observer. The Owl symbolizes patience yet Lord Phelan Kiel has the least patience of any Reaper I know. Lord Iden Belial’s tattoo, however, is the seagull and that symbolizes great versatility. He is good at everything he attempts.” “You know quite a lot about Reapers, Harold,” Aingeal said. Harold sniffed. “I make it my business to know all I can about my charges, Lady Aingeal,” he stated. He looked down disdainfully at her plate. “Up to and including their strange predilections for foul food.” She smiled at him and Cynyr was surprised when the snotty man returned her smile with a lopsided one of his own. Aingeal put her elbow on the table and braced her chin in her hand. “If I were to get a tattoo—” “Which you won’t,” Cynyr interrupted. She ignored her husband’s remark. “What tattoo should I get, Harold?” The little man cast a sidelong glance at Cynyr. “Well, Lady Aingeal, you are now a member of the Cree clan so it would be a slightly altered version of the raven tattoo, however—” he lifted his chin “—I would think the telling symbol for you would be the swan for it signifies grace and sincerity, both attributes you possess in quantity.” “Are you flirting with my woman, Harry?” Cynyr inquired in a conversational tone. Harold stiffened. “Most assuredly not, Lord Cynyr!” he responded, his beady eyes flashing. “I know my place!” With that said he spun on his heel and stormed off toward the rear of the railcar. The sound of him making the Crees’ bed was interspersed with loud wheezing noises coming from the short man’s nose. “Stop baiting him, Reaper,” Aingeal chastised. “But he’s so baitable,” Cynyr said innocently. Turning away from her husband’s smug look, Aingeal watched the scenery passing by the train window. “Do you think,” she asked, “Otaktay is out there somewhere?” Cynyr reached across the table and took her hand, pulling it down from her chin. “Wench, you have nothing to worry about where the Jakotai is concerned. I will never allow him to hurt you.” 15

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

She turned worried eyes to her mate. “You will have to kill him, mo shearc. There isn’t any other way he’ll ever leave me be.” “I thought I had killed him,” Cynyr said, wondering who the Jakotai brave was he had shot between the eyes. “I’ve no compunction about dispatching him, mo chroi.” Her husband’s handsome face was set with determination. At that moment, she loved him more than ever. Until she had ventured upon his campsite many weeks before, she had never had a man look out for her. Not even her father had been particularly protective. After all, he had handed her over to the likes of Donal Greeley and that had proven to be a bad mistake. “Not all men are like your first husband,” Cynyr said, picking up on her memories. “I know,” she said. Harold came stomping by to inform them he had tidied their sleeping quarters. He gave Aingeal a gentle look then glanced back at her husband with something akin to aversion. “I don’t think Harry likes me,” the Reaper said loud enough for the little man to hear. “Harold,” the fussy man stressed, turning around to spear Cynyr with an arch look. “It is Harold, my Lord Cynyr, not Harry!” He shuddered delicately. “That is such a common name.” “I’m sure Lord Cynyr will try to remember, Harold,” Aingeal said in a sweet voice. Harold sniffed and continued on his way. “I believe that man has a serious sinus problem,” Cynyr commented.

16

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter Two Arawn pitched a twenty-dollar gold piece into the pot. “I’ll see your bet, Brady, and raise you ten.” “Too rich for me,” Brett Samuels said. “I fold.” “Me too,” Brett’s brother-in-law Verlin Walker agreed. Bevyn Coire looked down at his cards. His hand wasn’t that great so he too folded. Mick Brady didn’t bat an eye. He slid a silver onto the pile of coins. “Gotcha covered, mo tiarna. Let’s see what you got.” The Prime Reaper fanned his cards out on the green baize tabletop. Four aces lay side by side along with the ten of spades. Arawn leaned back, satisfied he’d won. Mick laid his cards down and the men at the table as well as those standing close by gasped. The barber had a straight flush with a jack of diamonds as the highest card. “Son of a bitch,” Bevyn said with a whistle. Arawn never lost at poker. He was one of the luckiest men Bevyn had ever seen play the game. The Prime Reaper reached up to scratch at his tattoo. “Not my morning, gents,” he stated, watching Brady rake in the pot. “That’s what comes of ye lollygagging around the saloon instead of doing me chores like ye promised, Arawn Gehdrin,” Moira McDermott snapped as she came through the batwing doors of the saloon. Her hunched back was painful to watch but the glint in her eye was unnerving. “Losing serves ye right.” The men all jumped up as the little old lady came up to the table. Each of them had a guilty look on his face. She pointed a finger at Bevyn. “And ye don’t do nothin’ but encourage him either, Bevyn Coure!” She narrowed her rheumy eyes. “What became of that wheelbarrow ye was putting a new wheel on?” Bevyn glanced at Arawn but the Prime Reaper was standing with his head down, face flaming. “I’m on my way right now, Miss Moira,” Bevyn said. “The train will be in here in less than an hour and all ye menfolk just sitting around playing silly games,” Moira berated them. “Shame on the lot of ye! Don’t ye have nothin’ better to do with your time?” Men scattered under her glowering gaze until only Arawn and Mick were left at the table. Even the saloonkeeper John Denning had disappeared. “I don’t have any customers until noontime, Miss Moira,” Mick defended himself. “Can’t get ye shop spanking clean instead of doing the demon’s work by encouraging the likes of this young fool?” she asked, turning her narrowed gaze on the Prime Reaper.

17

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Yes, ma’am,” Mick agreed. “I can do that.” He cast Arawn a parting look and hurried out the door. “You’d make a damned good drill sergeant, Moira McDermott,” Arawn told her. “What ye need is a woman to whip ye ass in line, Arawn Gehdrin,” Moira replied. “Wouldn’t hurt ye none to be paying attention to that little filly of the Brewers.” Arawn winced. The young woman in question had been tagging along behind him for days and was beginning to show up even in his dreams—a very strange occurrence, indeed, for Reapers did not sleep well and dreams of anything save violence was rare. At first he’d simply ignored her—thinking if he glared at her sharply enough she’d turn tail and run. That hadn’t happened. If anything Danielle Brewer was around far too often for his peace of mind. He was surprised she wasn’t stuck at the hip to the old woman standing there giving him the evil eye. “Aren’t you the least bit afraid of me?” Arawn asked Moira. “And why should I be?” she countered, putting her frail hands on her hips and straightening her bent posture as best she could. She cocked her head to look up at his six-feet-plus height. “You’re nothing but an overgrown boy.” The Prime Reaper could see why Cynyr had taken such a shine to the old woman. Moira gave as good as she got and her twinkling eyes made him want to pick her up and squeeze her with affection—a strange proposition for a man such as himself. “Well?” Moira demanded. “Well, what?” Arawn threw back at her. “Wood ain’t gonna chop itself, lad,” Moira said, rolling her eyes. “How much wood do you need?” the Prime Reaper asked, and could have kicked himself at the whine he heard in his voice. “Enough to warrant me making you another blueberry pie for supper,” Moira replied, turning around and heading for the door. “No more wood? No more pies for the likes of you.” Arawn watched the old woman struggling to walk and wished she’d allowed him to heal her, but she’d made it clear that was a task only Cynyr Cree would be permitted to do when he returned. Sighing, the Prime Reaper jammed his hat down over his forehead and followed Moira at a pace that allowed the old lady her dignity. He kept a step behind her, his hand ready to steady her if needed. “She’s just your type, ye know,” Moira said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Aye, so you keep reminding me,” Arawn agreed. He knew all too well to whom the old lady was referring. “And ye ain’t gettin’ no younger, Arawn Gehdrin.” “No, ma’am, I’m surely not,” he said, teeth clenched. “And I’m getting older by the minute.” 18

Reaper’s Revenge

Moira stopped and peered up at him. “Just how old are you, boy?” Arawn’s amber eyes sparkled. “Older than you by a long sight, Moira McDermott,” he said, “so you should have some respect for your elders.” Moira gave a very unladylike snort and continued on her way, deliberately slowing her step so the Reaper could think he was protecting her.

***** The trill of the whistle pierced the late morning silence that had fallen over Haines City. People had been milling around waiting for the arrival of the train, awaiting Cynyr and Aingeal’s return. At the sound of the locomotive approaching, a general exodus began flowing toward the depot. “You’d think they were returning monarchs,” Arawn said. The Prime Reaper was leaning against a building, his arms crossed, his black hat cocked down over his amber eyes. Bevyn couldn’t get over how friendly the townspeople were toward them. He was used to having men step aside, women run and hide whenever he appeared in a town. When they’d landed on the outskirts of Haines City they’d shifted from their eagle forms back to their human shapes and had come walking into town side by side. Expecting the locals to hightail it, they were surprised when people simply stopped what they were doing and watched them. No one had run. Not one man had crossed the street to avoid them. The sheriff had come out of his office to greet them but there hadn’t been any fear in the man’s curious eyes. “What can we do for you, my lords?” Sheriff Dan Brewer had inquired. “Lord Cynyr sent us ahead of him,” Arawn said. Frowning, the sheriff came a bit closer. “The reason being…?” “There are two he was afraid might cause your people trouble,” Arawn replied. “We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Two men came forward, neither showing the least bit of apprehension. They tipped their hats to the Reapers and introduced themselves as Brett Samuels and Mick Brady. “Our Reaper sent them to protect us,” the sheriff informed the men. “Cynyr takes care of his own, don’t he?” Samuels asked. Arawn and Bevyn looked at one another. Their reception was not what they’d been expecting. Other men were walking over to them, nodding politely then thanking them when the sheriff explained the Reapers’ presence in town. “We had a family murdered a couple of days ago,” the sheriff said. “Could have been done by rogues. Me and my posse chased ’em but they just vanished on us.”

19

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“It was a horrible thing,” Samuels injected. “Lost everything they owned to a tornado a while back and then massacred as they were. A real horrible end to some good folk.” “Was it a white man and a Jakotai?” Arawn asked. The sheriff nodded. “S’pect so.” The Prime Reaper took off his hat and armed the sweat from his forehead. “The white man would be Silus Gibbs and the brave is called Otaktay. My guess is the Jakotai has been turned by now.” “Damn, but ain’t that a kick in the danglies? A Jakotai rogue. That just ain’t right,” the sheriff complained. Mick Brady shook his head. “Couldn’t be,” he said. “Cynyr killed him.” “He shot the wrong man,” Arawn told him. “Ah hell,” Samuels said. “That gives that red man even more reason to hate Cynyr, don’t you reckon?” “Cyn already has the woman the brave considers his,” Brady replied. “I’d say he don’t like us none either, since we winged him when he came busting through Aingeal’s window.” “We’ll find the rogues,” Bevyn spoke up. “If not us, then Cynyr will. One way or the other, those two murderers will be put down.” One of the men gathered around them introduced himself simply as Guthrie. “I own the hotel and you are welcome to free rooms.” “We pay for what we use,” Arawn said. “Just like Cynyr,” Samuels said with a grin. “Damn if you men aren’t a sight better than those other two Reapers what came through here a few years back,” the sheriff said. “They expected the town to wait on ’em hand and foot.” “Do you recall their names?” Arawn asked. If his men acted in such a way, he wanted to know of it and remedy the situation. “Kullen was one of them,” Bevyn said. “He mentioned he’d been here a few years back.” “That sounds right,” the sheriff said. “Don’t recall the other one’s name though.” He looked at the other men but they shook their heads. “I’ll ask Miss Moira,” Samuels said. “She’ll remember it.” “Is that the old crippled lady?” Arawn asked, and was stunned when the men around him burst out laughing. “Don’t you make the mistake of saying that in her hearing,” Brady warned them. “She’ll box your ears for sure!” “And call her old at your peril,” the sheriff joked.

20

Reaper’s Revenge

Standing with Arawn as they waited for the train, Bevyn couldn’t stop smiling. “What’s so amusing, Coure?” Arawn asked. Bevyn reached up to tip his hat back. “I was just thinking of the first time we met Miss Moira.” Arawn grunted. “That’s a day I’m not likely to ever forget.” “So which one of ye is the Prime?” The querulous voice came at them from behind as Arawn and Bevyn were walking to the Guthrie House. They turned to see a little old woman hobbling toward them, her cane stabbing into the dusty street as she moved. Both men removed their hats as she approached. “You must be Miss Moira,” Arawn said. He was staring at the hump on her back that bent her frail body forward at a heartbreaking angle. “Who the hell else would I be?” she demanded, craning her head to look up at them. “Ain’t but one of the likes of me, lads.” “Cyn said as much,” Arawn agreed. “I’m Arawn Gehdrin, the Prime.” “Well, come on with ye,” she said. She turned around so quickly, both men hurried forward, afraid she’d fall. “Where are we going?” Bevyn asked. “For supper,” she replied. “From the looks of ye, ye could do with a good homecooked meal.” “We don’t want to put you out, ma’am,” Arawn said, and was a bit surprised at how fast the old lady could walk. “Ye ain’t,” she said. “Saves me from having nobody but that good-for-nothing daughter-in-law of mine to sit with while I eat.” “That would be Annie,” Bevyn said. The old lady had stopped and cocked her head to look at Coure. “Cynyr told you about that worthless chit?” “Aingeal did,” Bevyn replied. Moira narrowed her eyes. “Ye got a mate, don’t ye, boy?” Bevyn glanced at Arawn. “Aye, Miss Moira. I do.” She’d swung her head the other way. “What about ye?” Arawn shook his head. “No, ma’am, I—” “We’ll remedy that,” Moira announced, and commenced walking again. “She’s set on foisting Danielle Brewer off on me,” Arawn complained. He straightened up for the train was in sight, its engine slowing down. “Speaking of the little minx,” Bevyn said, “here she comes.” 21

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Arawn groaned and unfolded his arms to thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather uniform pants. “Hey there, Arawn,” the lovely young woman said as she came strolling up to them, twirling the parasol that rested on her shoulder. “Miss Danielle,” the Prime Reaper acknowledged with a cold tone. Bevyn tipped his hat politely, but the pretty blonde only nodded at him, sweeping her pale blue eyes over him briefly before settling her gaze on the Prime Reaper. Arawn refused to meet the young woman’s gaze although he could feel the heat of it crawling over him. “It’ll be good to have Cynyr and Aingeal home again,” Danielle said. The Prime Reaper merely grunted, keeping his hawklike stare on the coming train. “You aren’t planning on going right back to the Citadel now that Cyn’s home, do you?” she asked. “You are going to stay a while and enjoy our hospitality a bit more, aren’t you?” Bevyn’s lips twitched and he had to turn away to keep from laughing at the pained look on his leader’s face. Arawn lifted his head and glared at the young woman. “Why the hell aren’t you folks afraid of us?” he demanded. “Do you have any notion of how dangerous we are, wench?” “Oh pooh!” Danielle said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m sure there might be other Reapers who are uncivilized and rough-edged, but no one could say the three of you handsome men could be considered such.” “We kill people,” Arawn said, coming close to the young woman and glowering at her. “With this!” He laid a hand on the laser whip that hung from his right hip. “Well, of course,” Danielle agreed. “That’s what you have to do to protect folks like us. Why should we fear you? You are here to keep us safe.” Gritting his teeth, Arawn spun on his heel and stalked off toward the crush of people crowding the train platform, his shoulders hunched. “I’m not giving up,” the young woman stated firmly. She turned her face toward Bevyn and lifted her chin. “I’m not.” “You ever heard the old saying that anything worth having is worth fighting for, Miss Danielle?” Bevyn asked. She nodded. “Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna,” Bevyn quoted. “Which means?” “However long the day, the evening will come,” he translated the Gaelach. Danielle Brewer thought about that for a moment then grinned. “Aye, Lord Bevyn, that it will!” Flouncing her skirt she hurried off for the train had pulled into the station.

22

Reaper’s Revenge

Bevyn chuckled to himself for the pretty young thing was making a beeline for Arawn, her skirts sashaying around her shapely rump. “The gods help you, Gehdrin, but she’s got you in her sights and you’re done for, man,” Bevyn said. The train came to a full stop and a crew of burly men streamed out of one of the passenger cars and headed for a flatcar piled with rails and crossties. Two men jumped up on the car and began picking up a barrel that took both of them to lift. “Wonder what the heck’s going on?” Brady asked as he joined Arawn and Bevyn. “Side rail,” the Prime Reaper stated. “For that next to the last car.” Those gathered craned their necks to see the fancy private car coupled to the caboose. As soon as Cynyr was seen in the car’s opened doorway, a loud cheer went up. “They gave him a railroad car,” Brady said after a low whistle. “Ain’t that something?” “All Reapers have their own railroad car,” Bevyn announced, and caught Arawn frowning at him. He ducked his head. Cynyr felt self-conscious at the greeting and hesitantly lifted a hand to the crowd. He turned away to offer his hand to Aingeal as she started down the metal steps. The Reaper heard the crowd moving toward him and shrugged his shoulders as though a burden had been placed on the broad width. “Welcome home!” Sheriff Brewer called out, the first one to reach the Crees. “Sure is good to have you folks back in Haines City.” Aingeal was smiling, reaching out to hug several of the town’s women who had hurried up to her. She even hugged Mick Brady, and that brought an instant scowl to her husband’s face. Though no one put out a hand to welcome Cynyr, folks greeted him warmly— sensing his reluctance to shake hands. Smiles were bestowed upon him as well as friendly words, but they stepped politely aside as he headed toward the depot and the two Reapers waiting there for him. “I guess I didn’t have to worry about how they were going to take to you showing up here,” Cynyr said as he gained the platform. “Surprised the hell out of us,” Bevyn told him. “I can see why you’d make the town your home, Cree.” Arawn nodded at Cynyr though neither man put out a hand to the other. “There’s been trouble,” he said. Aingeal glanced toward the platform where her husband and his brethren were talking. She could tell by the set of Cynyr’s shoulders that problems had arisen while they were gone. She looked to Brady. “What happened?” Mick’s smile slowly slipped away. “The Sheenans,” he said. “The farm family who lived on the west edge of town?” At her nod, he told her about the family’s murder.

23

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Was it rogues?” she asked. She remembered the family and her first sight of them after the tornado. Cynyr had asked if they needed help but the man of the house had waved him away. “Aye,” Brady said. “Looks like it was Gibbs and that Jakotai brave from what Arawn says.” “Arawn, is it?” she countered, and grinned. Brady shrugged. “He and Bevyn are good folk. They’ve been a help to us and since they arrived, there hasn’t been the first hint of trouble in these parts.” Cynyr was listening to the Prime Reaper’s report on the Sheenan murders but he was watching his wife and Brady. It bothered him that the barber seemed to have an easy relationship with Aingeal. They were walking together, their heads down, and he wanted to grab Brady by the neck and strangle him. “I went out reconnoitering and found their trail,” Arawn said. “It led up into the mountains.” “We’ve been taking turns having a look around the area,” Bevyn said. “We thought about going after them together but then the town would have been left defenseless,” the Prime Reaper put in. Cynyr narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?” “A day or two after we got here, one of the local boys came in to tell us he’d seen something falling out of the sky,” Arawn said. “He said it crashed into the mountain but there wasn’t any noise when it hit.” “A ship?” “Looks that way,” Arawn agreed. “I went out that time but the closer I came to the pass where Arawn had followed the rogues’ trail, the darker I felt. Something was up there and if I’d continued on, I knew I’d be riding into a trap.” “It’s the Ceannus,” Arawn stated. Cynyr exhaled a long breath. The thought of the mad scientists working for Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls and the originator of the revenant worm, being once more upon Terra sent chills down his spine. “Have you informed Lord Kheelan?” he asked. “He knows of it, but he and the other members of the High Council haven’t been able to pinpoint where the ship landed. Something is blocking their efforts.” “It would stand to reason that in all the time Reapers have been on Terra,” Cynyr said, “the Ceannus have been working on how to remain undetected once they came back.” “At last count, there were three rogues scattered about the western territories. We’d all but wiped them out.” “Why do you suppose they come out here?” Bevyn asked.

24

Reaper’s Revenge

“Why they congregate here is obvious,” Arawn said. “The vastness of the landscape keeps them well hidden.” “You think the Ceannus have brought more rogues,” Cynyr said. “I’d be willing to bet next month’s salary they have,” Bevyn said with a snort. “And I’d be willing to bet these rogues are much worse than the ones brought here in the first place,” Arawn agreed.

25

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Three Aingeal found her husband sitting on a bench in Moira McDermott’s backyard. He was staring toward the dark pyramids of the mountains to the west. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Too much noise for you?” she asked. A few of the friends they had made in Haines City and the other two Reapers were in Moira’s immaculate little house after having shared a wonderful supper prepared by the old woman and her moody daughter-in-law. “A bit,” he answered, and reached up to cover her hands with his. He held onto her soft flesh and continued to stare at the mountains. “What’s bothering you, mo shearc?” Cynyr didn’t want to worry her, but he knew he had to prepare her for what was coming. “Arawn sent for the others,” he said, knowing she’d understand who he meant. “Why?” “From all indications, the Ceannus have come back to Terra,” he answered. “The Ceannus?” she questioned. “You’re slipping, wench,” he teased her. “Don’t you remember me telling you of the Ceannus? They are scientists from beyond this galaxy who brought the first rogues here mostly from the Cairghrian and Diamhair galaxies before the Burning Wars. When Morrigunia brought the first Reapers back, the Ceannus fled, leaving behind instructions for the rogues on performing Transferences of their parasites.” “Oh yes. I remember now.” She frowned. “What do you mean when Morrigunia brought the Reapers back? Had they been here before?” “Before the Burning Wars, there were several. Morrigunia snatched them, their families and friends up and took them away before the destruction of Terra began. She looks after her own.” “Arawn told me that. I am slipping! What happened to the rogues who were here? Obviously some survived,” she commented. “Unless I miss my guess the rogues were in positions of power and helped cause the destruction of Terra in the first place. Raphian would have had a hand in such evil. Once the Reapers came back, we began hunting down the rogues, decimating their ranks. We had almost wiped them out and now this.” His wife slid her hands from his shoulder and skirted the bench to sit down beside him. Nestling under the protection of his arm, she settled against his side and weaved her fingers through his. “You think the Ceannus are back to make more rogues?”

26

Reaper’s Revenge

“Arawn and Bevyn believe they brought rogues with them. Balgairs—rogues—more dangerous than the first batch.” “What do you think?” “I can sense them, wench,” he said. “Just as Bevyn and Arawn do but there is something else I’m picking up on and whatever that something is, it is causing me great unease.” She turned to look toward the mountains. “You think they’re up there?” He nodded. “We’ll go after them in the next day or two.” At his words Aingeal felt her parasite shifting and though it caused her no pain, she knew it was a warning of sorts. “You could be riding into a trap,” she said quietly. “The Shadowlords will be with us,” he said. At her surprised look, he shook his head. “Not in physical form but with the full force of their powers directed at the balgairs and the Ceannus. I’ve no doubt we’ll wipe them out this time.” “Yet you are still worried,” she said. “Aye,” he whispered. She lightly delved into her mate’s mind and could see a spreading blackness that concerned her. “You fear you won’t survive,” she said, her fingers tensing around his. “I don’t know what it is, wench,” he admitted. “Something just doesn’t seem right.” She could not allow him to go into battle thinking he might not return. “You are the strongest man I know,” she said softly. “And you are the man I love.” He smiled at her and leaned in to claim her lips. His kiss was whisper-soft yet as searing as a bolt of lightning. It took her breath away. “You can overcome anything they throw at you, mo shearc. I know you can.” Cynyr laid his head against hers and returned his gaze to the forbidding mountains. His woman was in his arms, her soft body pressed along his side, and she was the dearest thing he’d ever held. In his life, no one had ever loved him. No one had ever feared for his safety nor cared if he lived or died. He knew should anything happen to him, he would be subjecting Aingeal to a lonely life for—because of his selfishness—she was a Reaper and Reapers mated for all eternity. “It’s getting late,” Aingeal said, “and your woman has designs on you.” He lifted his head and looked down at her. “Designs, eh?” “Wicked designs,” she said, sliding her hand across the juncture of his thighs. “Hot, thrusting designs.” She cupped him, massaging the growing erection that met her fingers. Cynyr caught her hand and pushed it away from him, getting up from the bench to pull her into his arms. His hands went to her shapely butt and molded her tightly to his tall frame. “You are shameless, wench.” “Aye,” she said, grinding herself against him. “Best make hay while the brattling is nestled inside me and not wailing his lungs out to be changed or fed.”

27

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

At the mention of their child growing within Aingeal’s womb, Cynyr’s unease deepened. His parasite buckled beneath his skin, sending a shaft of agony through his back. It was all he could do not to gasp, not to show his lady the pain invading his body. She moved back, pulling his hand from her rear and tugging him toward the house. Her eyes were bright, her smile pure delight as she walked backward, drawing him with her. Whatever evil lurked about them turned Cynyr Cree’s blood cold. He dawdled in his mate’s wake, casting his eyes from side to side, searching for whatever it was that caused such deep alarm to send shivers down his spine. There was nothing and no one nearby, but the apprehension followed them into Moira McDermott’s house and stealthily climbed the stairs right alongside them. Even when he shut the door behind them, malevolence hung in the air like a wet, heavy curtain.

***** Otaktay lowered the field glasses from his eyes for just a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. As soon as a light blazed in an upstairs room of the white clapboard house, he swung the binoculars up and zeroed in on the white lace curtain behind which the silhouette of his woman appeared. Fury drove deep in the Jakotai brave. Another man was standing in front of Aingeal and she was pressing her body to his. The white man’s hands were on her breasts, his lips upon her shoulder. “Faithless bitch,” Otaktay swore. His cock grew hard as he watched the white man unbuttoning Aingeal’s garment. He reached down to unconsciously rub his erection. When Aingeal’s covering was peeled from her shoulders, the brave growled low in his throat, his bloodlust rising. Unable to continue watching, Otaktay threw the field glasses down and buried his face in his hands. Since his father had given the white woman to him, he had been unable to take another. No other enticed him as Aingeal did. No other held appeal for him. Though he had treated her shamelessly—as his father kept reminding him—by allowing other men to mate with her, Otaktay had strong feelings for the woman. “Why do you permit your friends to abuse her?” his father had asked. “To teach her a lesson!” Otaktay had defended himself. “She belongs to me to do with as I please, yet she persists in running away.” “You have made a whore of your woman,” Chief Akecheta, Otaktay’s father, said with sad eyes. “You are to blame for her running away. Had you treated her with care, she would have had no reason to leave you.” Guilt nipped at Otaktay’s heels with every step he took away from his watching place. With the acute hearing he now possessed and the strange powers his Transition had granted him, he knew the moment the Reaper took what by right belonged to the Jakotai brave. He barely noticed the tears easing down his hot cheeks as he swung onto

28

Reaper’s Revenge

the back of his pony. Drumming his moccasin-clad heels into the beast’s side, he sped back toward the mountains.

***** Kasid Jaborn looked up as the red man appeared out of the night. In the glow from the campfire, dark shadows flitted across the Jakotai’s face and turned it even more savage than normal. There was a brutal cast to Otaktay’s features that had not been there when he’d ridden out to spy on the Reapers camped below. “You found your woman?” Kasid asked. “She is with the one called Cree,” Otaktay reported. He withdrew his knife and hunkered down before the fire. He stabbed the blade into the sand repeatedly, seeming to release the fury bunched in his brawny body with each thrust. Beyond the campfire the Ceannus were talking quietly amongst themselves. He— like his twin brother Khnum—hailed from Akhkharu and even though he spoke many languages, did not understand Ceannusian. Neither could he delve into the Ceannus’ mind to discover what it was they were plotting. Otaktay turned his head and looked to where Jaborn was staring. He snorted. “They fashion their plans and it is up to us to see those plans to completion.” His mouth twisted into an ugly line. “They will not put themselves into danger.” Kasid nodded his agreement. He hated the Ceannus almost as much as he hated the Reapers. He had borne no love for his twin—the man Cynyr Cree had killed—but he was honor-bound to take the life of the bounty hunter who had murdered Khnum. He tore his attention from the Ceannus and leveled it upon the brave. “You delivered the shipment?” A sneer lifted Otaktay’s upper lip. “I did as I was instructed. What good such things will do is—” “You have no notion of how deadly that shipment is,” Kasid interrupted. “If you had not handled it carefully, believe me when I tell you, you would now have more respect for what you delivered.” Otaktay shrugged away the other man’s words. There was nothing he feared and the twenty-four strange black ovals he had placed near the edge of the white man’s settlement had held no threat to him. “No,” Kasid said quietly, holding Otaktay’s stare, “but had one of the ovals broken open, you would not be sitting there glaring back at me. You would know what evil truly is.” Otaktay snorted his contempt of Jaborn’s words and continued to stab his weapon into the sand. The muscles in his naked chest glistened from the sweat that ran over his flesh as he knelt before the roaring fire. Kasid studied the Jakotai carefully. Their skin was the same shade of burnished sienna and their hair of a similar texture and blackness. Even their eyes bore the

29

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

unmistakable shape of a common ancestor. They were both desert dwellers and carried within their breasts an identical hatred for white men and their ways. Both were cruel hunters and savage opponents, and neither had it within him to show consideration to an enemy. In another time, under different circumstances, they might well have been friends—though neither had ever wanted or sought out such an alliance. “How did you manage to kill Gibbs?” Jaborn asked the brave. Otaktay’s smile was brutal. “I had no desire to be in the same world with one such as he. The gods steadied my hand as I took the foul one’s head.” He looked over to his grisly prize perched upon a sharpened stave. “It’s not an easy thing to do to dispatch a fellow balgair,” Kasid observed. “He must have let down his guard.” “He was no warrior,” Otaktay stated. “It was an easy thing I did.” “What of his parasite?” A shadow passed over the brave’s stony face. “What of it?” “Did you destroy it when you hacked off Gibbs’ head?” Otaktay shook his head. He stabbed his knife one last time into the sand then hunkered there with the blade buried to the hilt, his fingers tensing around the handle. “What became of the parasite?” Kasid asked, a cold finger scratching down his spine. The Ceannus had ceased speaking and were looking at the Jakotai, awaiting his answer. Eleven other sets of eyes were staring at Otaktay as the balgairs who had accompanied their Ceannus masters to Terra turned their attention to the brave. Otaktay was staring into the fire, leaping flames reflected in his cold, black eyes. He was clenching and unclenching his fingers around the knife handle. “What became of the parasite?” Kasid repeated, but Otaktay did not answer. Lexis Acklard was the High Lord of the Ceannus team that had been sent to Terra with the new rogues. Acklard’s was a powerful voice among the Assembly and he had been personally chosen by Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls, to lead this expedition to the backward world. He was a man the other members of the Ceannus feared, for Acklard had the great god’s ear. When he locked his penetrating glower on the Jakotai brave, everyone there held their breaths. “What did you do when you killed Gibbs, savage?” Acklard demanded in a fierce tone that brooked no disobedience in answering. Otaktay slowly raised his head. “It was still inside the foul one’s body when I sent it over the cliff.” He shrugged as though what he’d done was of no importance but his eyes flickered uneasily toward Acklard. Acklard’s hostile stare bored into the brave. “Fool!” he named the brave. “You had better pray to whatever entity you worship that the revenant worm perished as the body decayed.”

30

Reaper’s Revenge

Enraged at being called such an insulting name, Otaktay stood, dragging the knife from the sand. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, the knife gripped tightly in his hand. His jaw was clenched—a muscle working—as he glared back at Acklard. “Try me,” the Ceannus high lord said so softly everyone there had to strain to make out his words. “You will not find me so easy a prey as Gibbs.” There was something terrible in the gleaming black gaze of the high lord that made Otaktay think twice about engaging the man in battle. Evil such as the brave had never felt oozed from the being standing before him, and for the first time in his life, the Jakotai backed down before another man. Keeping his gaze locked on the strange one, Otaktay sheathed his weapon. Kasid watched the brave drop back to the ground, hunkering down before the fire to stare into the flames. He let out his breath and watched as Acklard turned his back on the Jakotai, seemingly dismissing any threat that might have been forthcoming from Otaktay. “He is not a man to be challenged,” Kasid told Otaktay. The brave made no comment to Kasid’s remark but continued to stare unblinkingly into the fire. Settling back against the rock behind him, Kasid shifted his attention from the red man reluctantly to the High Lord. Although he tried not to look at the Ceannus any more often than absolutely necessary, he could not stop from assuring himself where they were at any one given moment. As was the same with the other two members of the Ceannus who had brought the balgairs to Terra, Acklard was well over seven feet in height and rail-thin with overly long arms and spindly legs that had far too much flexibility to them for a humanoid man’s comfort. Completely hairless, the heads of the Ceannus were very large in proportion to their body structure. Their thin—almost delicate—hands had four exceedingly long fingers and a thumb, which ended in bulbous sucker-like pads. Likewise, their feet had long toes with the same type pads. The beings did not possess ears and the slit of their mouths was lipless, opening to reveal a pale white orifice bracketed with twin rows of very small, very sharp barbed teeth. With pale gray warty flesh upon which no clothing was worn, oversized black slanted eyes devoid of pupils, a sharply pointed chin, and with a broad, flat nose with its triple row of vented nostrils, the Ceannus appearance was enough to make the hair stir on many a man’s arms. No other creatures in the megaverse were as gruesome in appearance as the Ceannus. Not even the Saurian race of reptilian beings held the same unsettling countenance. Combining their appearance and the total lack of any visible reproductive staff, the Ceannus’ look was one of malevolent strangeness. Shivering, Kasid tore his scrutiny from the trio of Ceannus. He considered himself to be a brave warrior but the sight of the beings troubled him so greatly he knew his dreams would be filled with them that night. Even his parasite shrank down into the protection of his body and did not move when one of the beings was close by.

31

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

***** Cynyr could not sleep. Aingeal lay beside him but she appeared restless, her dreams apparently disturbing her as she slept. He could feel the edginess of both Arawn and Bevyn and knew the Reapers were as wide-awake as he. Lying with his head cupped in his laced hands, Cynyr stared at the ceiling. He was listening intently to the night sounds coming in through the open window. A light breeze wafted at the lace curtains and on it came the scent of evil that had plagued the Reaper since his arrival in Haines City. “What is that smell?” he sent to Arawn. “I’ve no idea,” Arawn sent back. “But it disturbs me.” “It disturbs me as well,” Bevyn interjected. Easing out of the bed, Cynyr was careful not to wake his lady. She needed rest for both herself and the child growing in her womb. Tucking the covers securely around her, he padded to the window, closed and locked it, shutting out the stench of evil that drifted upon the wind. Stealthily, he picked up his boots, shirt and britches and dressed quickly, not wanting to expend any energy in using his Reaper powers to clothe himself. When he was dressed, he retrieved his holster, laser whip and hat and left the room. Like a cat, he descended the stairs and was out of Moira’s house before anyone knew he was gone. Arawn and Bevyn were waiting for him on the old woman’s porch. Although nothing had been said of it, the implication was clear—the Reapers had to find out what was causing the vile odor that so disturbed them. “Which of us stays to guard the town?” Bevyn asked. “You stay,” Arawn said. “Cree and I will hunt done this foul stink and see what is causing it.” Cynyr was buckling his holster low on his hips. “There is death in that smell,” he commented. “Aye, but it is neither human nor animal carcass we smell,” Arawn said. Bevyn looked out over the still prairie. “I’ve never smelled anything so tainted or vile. Be careful out there. I sense great malevolence coming from whatever is causing the stench.” “And it is coming this way,” Cynyr said. “I sense that too,” Arawn agreed. While Bevyn took up guard at the outskirts of the town, the other two Reapers walked to the stable to get their horses. Being as quiet as they could, they saddled their mounts and rode out, taking the trail that led toward the mountains.

32

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter Four Otaktay sat brooding by the campfire, his powerful legs crossed beneath him. Stripped down to only his breechclout, the night wind chilled his bare back while the flames of the fire heated his chest. Around him, the rogues were sleeping fitfully. Now and again a wretched cry would be torn from their throats as hideous dreams invaded. The Ceannus had retreated back into the shiny interior of the strange coach that had brought them down from the skies. Kasid—the rogue appointed leader over those who had traveled from the stars with him—lay a few feet away, twitching in his uneasy sleep. Measures had been taken by the Ceannus that would alert them to the stealthy approach of a Reaper. Those measures included several outlandish beings High Lord Acklard had called cybots that kept vigilant watch over the winding trails and access ways leading up into the mountains from the prairie stretched out below. Despite the bravura Otaktay presented outwardly to the other rogues, he was afraid of Acklard and the two other Ceannus beings. Their appearances not only frightened Otaktay, it sickened him that such things could exist. As disturbed by the Ceannus as he was, he was as equally unnerved by the four cybots that kept sentry around him. He did not trust the small sand-colored beings that moved so quietly along the ground they could not be heard. Their bulbous eyes bothered him for they saw everything—even that which could not be seen by human eyes. From their hands sprang lightning that could kill a venomous sidewinder in a flash of fire, reducing the serpent to ashes. When the strange coach had descended from the sky, Otaktay had been terrified and had hidden among the rocks, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to be seen. The beings who had stepped down from the shiny coach had so stunned the brave, he had squatted there shivering, urine running down his bare legs. When the Ceannus had turned those horrible black eyes in his direction, he had felt his parasite taking over his body and despite all his efforts he had stood up, allowing the beings to see him. “Greetings, brother,” one of the gray monsters said to him. “We are here to aid you in your destruction of the Reapers.” Then the rogues had stepped from the bizarre coach. They did not look that much different from Otaktay, though they were obviously white men—except for the one called Kasid. Realizing these men hosted parasites inside their bodies, Otaktay had crept forward, wary of the strangers from the sky but curious enough about them to thrust his fright aside. That had been several days before and with each passing day Otaktay grew more and more uncomfortable around the strangers from beyond the stars.

33

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The Jakotai was out of his element with both the Ceannus and the rogues. He did not like being where the eyes of the cybots could observe his every move. The one called Kasid irritated him, for that one thought to govern what Otaktay was allowed to do and the high lord made the brave’s testicles tighten each time his dark stare settled upon Otaktay. Making up his mind to leave the company of the strange ones, Otaktay uncrossed his legs and got quietly to his feet. His knife was strapped to his lean thigh and only his bow and quiver needed to be fetched. He dared not get near his horse for fear the beast would nicker a greeting and give away its master’s approach. After slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder, the brave silently made his way from the camp and toward the lone cybot that patrolled the section of the trail leading down the mountain. Holding his breath as he neared the creature, he glared at the thing—daring it to interfere in his leaving—but the sand-colored being had been set to keep Reapers out and not to stop a rogue from departing. It ignored the Jakotai. Feeling sweat dripping down his chest, Otaktay did not relax until he was well out of range of the cybots and their unwavering stares. He was making good time down the trail for the moon was high and lit a pathway that kept him from tripping over strewn rocks. The only thought in his mind was to get into Haines City and retrieve the woman who belonged to him.

***** The stench was getting stronger. Cynyr and Arawn shifted in their saddles, the odor falling over and around them like a sodden cloak. It gave them a violent headache, made their eyes water with the pain. Even their mounts were skittish, being hard to keep under control. Musky with a biting acridity that burned the lining of their nostrils, the smell so overpowering it beat at the Reapers. “By the gods but I can feel it sliming my skin,” Arawn said, dragging his palm down his face. “What the hell is it?” Cynyr asked. “I’ve smelled rotting corpses that smelled better than this shit.” “Whatever it is, it’s making my horse tremble.” Arawn reached down to pat the steed’s neck. “And it’s close by.” Overhead, the moon drifted behind a bank of clouds, casting the trail in partial darkness. A shriek sounded off to their left and the Reapers looked that way. The cry had come from a small animal and from the sound of it, the yelp would be its last. “Look there,” Arawn said, pointing then tugging on the reins to halt his horse. A ripple of bright blue color lit up the sand about twenty feet away. The intensity of the hue faded almost immediately but it had been enough to garner the interest of the Reapers.

34

Reaper’s Revenge

Cynyr dismounted, tossing his reins to Arawn. “I’ll check it out.” Arawn felt a tremor of apprehension shimmy down his back. “Wait up, Cree,” he said. He swung a leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground. “I don’t like this.” Something moved off to Cynyr’s right—scratching against the rocks—and he stopped, looking that way. His night vision was excellent but that which had caught his attention had stopped moving. He kept his gaze locked on the place where he had heard the sound, however, there was nothing but stillness and a crawling feeling along his spine that made him tense. “Whatever it is, we’re right in the middle of it,” Arawn said softly as he came to stand to Cynyr’s left. The left-handed Reaper was fingering the hilt of his laser whip. “Aye,” Cynyr agreed. Both Reapers remained perfectly still. Their acute hearing and heightened eyesight played over the sand. The malevolent odor wafted all around them, enclosing them within its vile perimeter, left an oily feeling residue on their exposed flesh. There was movement to their left and they slowly pivoted their heads in that direction. Then there was movement behind them—drawing closer, closing in. Their eyes met, their hands moved in front of their bodies to the laser whips hanging at their sides. Thumbing away the retention strap to release the dragon-claw whip handle on their gun belts, they eased the deadly weapons from the silver sheaths. “You take the left and back,” Arawn said. “I’ll get the right and front.” Cynyr nodded, gripping the whip tightly in his right hand. He shifted so his weight was on his left leg then pivoted quickly, the whip shooting out behind him in a fiery arc that lit the area around them as bright as the vanished moonlight. Arawn did the same and as the sizzling glow from his whip shone light upon the ground, both Reapers’ eyes went saucer-wide.

***** Aingeal woke to find her husband gone. She knew before she even turned over and reached for him that he was not there for the room felt empty. Sitting up, she looked to the chair where he had slung his gun belt. She sighed when she saw his weapons missing. Flinging the covers back, she scooted her feet into her slippers and reached for the wrapper lying on the foot of the bed. Knowing there would be no more sleep for her until Cynyr returned, she quietly opened the bedroom door and descended the stairs. The house was still and silent save for Moira McDermott’s wheezing snore coming from the downstairs bedroom. Too crippled now to climb the stairs, the old lady had turned what had once been her husband’s smoking parlor into a nice little room for herself. After making herself a cup of tea, Aingeal opened the back door, went out into the yard and sat down in the ancient swing that faced the vast prairie beyond. Kicking out

35

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

of her slippers, she tucked her feet beneath her and leaned her left elbow on the swing’s wooden arm as she sipped the steaming cup of tea. Scudding overhead, the moon drifted in and out of gathering clouds, playing peeka-boo with the owls and night birds flitting about the sky. Somewhere in the distance a lone coyote crooned to the celestial light and a wolf answered. There was a slight breeze playing through the trees and upon it was a scent Aingeal couldn’t place. Behind her, there came a low cough and Aingeal turned in the swing to see Bevyn Coure walking toward her. She smiled at the Reaper and patted the swing. “They wouldn’t let you play with them?” she asked softly. Bevyn snorted good-naturedly. “Somebody has to watch the civilians and keep them out of mischief,” he replied. He shook his head when she patted the swing seat again. “Don’t want to get too comfortable.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the tree under which the swing sat. “How long have they been gone?” she asked. “Hour or two,” Bevyn reported. “They went looking for the source of that godawful stink.” Aingeal sniffed the air. The scent wasn’t particularly unpleasant to her but it was sharp. She started to tell him so but a light flashed out on the prairie and she turned her head toward it. “Was that lightning?” she asked. Bevyn tensed, unfolding his arms and taking a step or two away from the tree. His hand went to the dragon-claw handle on his gun belt. “No, that wasn’t lightning.” He was staring intently at the series of light flares. There was no mistaking the arc of a laser whip in the night. “What’s causing that?” Aingeal questioned. “Get back inside,” Bevyn said. The flares from the whips were almost constant— signaling rapid use—and the Reaper had a sense of foreboding that made his testicles draw up between his legs. “Bevyn, I—” “Get the hell back inside, now, wench!” Bevyn snapped. “And bolt the door. Make sure all the doors are securely fastened.” He spun around and started back around the side of the house. “Where are you going?” she asked him. “To get the men together,” he replied. “Now, get moving and stop asking questions!” Aingeal had almost made it to the back door when she heard a grunt of pain that could only have come from Bevyn. She didn’t stop to wonder at the sound but started around the side of the house to go to his aid. She took five steps then her world came crashing down around her, the teacup falling from her hand.

***** 36

Reaper’s Revenge

Otaktay slung Aingeal over his shoulder and started running. His hands were slick with the blood of the Reaper he had gutted. The white man had gone down but he wasn’t dead. The Jakotai was furious he hadn’t gotten the chance to finish him off, for Aingeal had taken that moment to come running. The brave had stepped into the shadows then hit her on the side of the head with his fist as she passed him, catching her as she fell forward unconscious. Reaching the horse he’d stolen from a ranch a few miles away, Otaktay draped Aingeal over the mount’s back then swung himself up. He could hear men’s voices lifted in alarm and dug his moccasin-clad heels into the steed’s ribs. Racing away, he glimpsed flares of light coming from the west so he took the southern trail, away from Haines City and toward the Exasla Territory. With one hand firmly on Aingeal’s back, he bent forward low to increase the speed of his horse and vanished in the darkness.

***** Mick Brady and Brett Samuels were on their knees beside Bevyn, assessing the damage. The Reaper was pouring blood from a gut wound and desperately trying to hold his intestines inside his body. “Where is Aingeal?” Bevyn asked, gasping as the pain rocketed through his belly. “Did he get her?” “Who?” Brady asked, although every man there knew who the Reaper meant. “Find her,” Bevyn said, then his head fell to one side as the pain got the better of him. “Let’s get him inside,” Healer Tim Murphy said as he came bustling up. “Can’t do nothing out here!” Samuels scrambled to his feet and sprinted to the back door of Moira’s house. He nearly collided with the old woman who was hurrying through the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on out there, lad?” Moira demanded. “Is Aingeal upstairs, Miss Moira?” Samuels asked. Moira’s face turned pale. “I don’t know.” She yelled for Aingeal and when there was no answer, she took Samuel’s arm and propelled him toward the stairs. “Find her, lad!” “Best get that table cleared,” Samuels ordered as he took the stairs two at a time. “They’re bringing in Bevyn. He’s been stabbed.” Without hesitation, Moira hobbled to the table and swept her arm across the surface to send salt and pepper shakers, hot sauce and ketchup bottles crashing to the floor. She shouted for her daughter-in-law. “Get your ass down here, ye lazy gal!” Overhead, Moira could hear the thump of boot heels stomping across the floor and Samuels calling for Aingeal. Having heard Cynyr leave earlier in the evening, she had not heard him return. She knew he was out somewhere searching for the threat to their

37

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

town. She closed her eyes and staggered, knowing in her heart the Reaper’s woman was not upstairs. “We let ye down, son,” Moira whispered. The back door crashed open as a trio of men came bustling into the kitchen. Mick Brady and Verlin Walker were carrying Bevyn between them, the healer following close on their heels. “Who did that to him?” Moira asked as she saw the black blood dripping from the Reaper. “Damned Jakotai,” Walker snarled as he and Brady laid Bevyn down on the table. In the doorway, several men were milling with weapons clutched tightly in their fists. Moira shooed them out, ordering them to stand watch in case trouble was headed their way. Samuels came thundering down the stairs, his eyes wide, face drained of color. “Aingeal ain’t up there,” he reported. “He took her,” Brady stated. “The brave took her.” “Cynyr is going to shit a brick,” Walker said to no one in particular. He shuddered. “Where is he anyways?” Healer Murphy asked as he tore open Bevyn’s silk shirt to get to the wound. “Wasn’t upstairs,” Samuels said. “He went out a while ago,” Moira told them. “This one is going to need Sustenance,” Healer Murphy said. “The wound is already closing itself up but he’s damned well bled out here.” “Got some in the ice chest that fancy fellow brought from the train,” Moira said, and pointed to an oak box sitting in a corner of the kitchen. “Maybe won’t be enough though.” Samuels hurried over to the chest, opened it and took out two bottles of red liquid. He uncorked the first one and handed it to Brady. Bevyn’s eyes fluttered open as the smell from the bottle wafted under his nose. He was pale but didn’t appear to be in too much pain as he tried to sit up, but the men wouldn’t allow it, putting their hands on his shoulders to push him gently back down. “Hold on there,” Healer Murphy ordered. “We’re getting you what you need.” He lifted Bevyn’s head as Brady placed the mouth of the bottle against the Reaper’s lips. No one could watch the blood being consumed. The men and Moira looked everywhere but at the young man swilling down the Sustenance. None of them paid any attention to Annie as she appeared in the doorway, gagging at the sight. “Damned useless female,” Moira said, not deigning to look toward her hated daughter-in-law. Samuels handed the second bottle to Brady who gave it to Bevyn as soon as the first was emptied.

38

Reaper’s Revenge

“We’ve got to go after her,” the Reaper insisted. “Ye ain’t in any condition to go gallivanting about the countryside, lad,” Moira said. “Cree can’t do it,” Bevyn said, shoving aside the restraining hands that were trying to keep him down. He swung his legs off the table and pushed himself up with a tight grimace on his handsome face. “He and Arawn are in a fire fight.” “I’ll go with you,” Brady said. “Me too,” Samuels agreed. Bevyn shook his head. “I’ll make better time if I fly.” Every eye there blinked. No one had the nerve to ask what the Reaper meant as he slid down off the table. “Gather everyone up and go to the church. It’s the biggest place in town that’s on one level,” Bevyn ordered. “Lock yourself in and unless Cree, Gehdrin or yours truly show up, don’t open those doors to anyone.” He gave Brady a hard look. “And that means nobody, Mick. You shoot whoever dares to break down that door and we’ll ask questions later.” Brady nodded. He motioned Samuels and Walker ahead of him as they hurried from the house. Bevyn went to the icebox, bent down and took out two more bottles of Sustenance. Uncapping the first bottle, he tilted it up and swigged down the crimson liquid. “Should I get together some Sustenance, Lord Bevyn?” Healer Murphy asked, his face showing his queasiness at what the Reaper was doing. Bevyn was shrugging out of his torn shirt, wincing as his parasite continued healing the wound that had nearly drained him of blood. “That would be good,” he said then drank the other bottle of Sustenance. “Get on over to the church, Miss Moira,” Bevyn said. He glanced at Annie. “You take good care of her or you’ll answer to me.” Annie bobbed her head and came forward to take Moira’s arm. “Get ye hooks off’n me, gal, I can walk on my own!” Moira snarled, shaking off Annie’s assistance. “Why Jamie thought he needed ye is beyond my ken!” “He loved me,” Annie mumbled. “Like I loved him.” Moira sniffed. “Ain’t no accounting for tastes, now, is there?” “No more’n you can choose your own mother, I reckon,” Annie shot back. Moira stopped and craned her crippled back so she could look up at her daughterin-law. She narrowed her eyes. “Ye developing a backbone all of a sudden, gal?” she demanded. Annie’s jaw tightened. “Reckon it’s time I did, yes, ma’am,” she said, and without giving her mother-in-law another look, walked on out of the kitchen ahead of her, though she did hold the back door open for Moira.

39

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Well, hot damn,” Moira said, guffawing. She waved the girl on down the steps. “Get on with ye, then!” Healer Murphy shook his head at the two women. He’d been listening to them arguing for going on twenty years and that night was the first time he’d ever heard Annie talk back to the old shrew. Bevyn followed the two women from the kitchen, careful to step gently off the back steps. His belly was still sore and he felt weaker than he should have. He turned as Healer Murphy closed the kitchen door behind his departure. “Send someone up to mine and Arawn’s rooms,” he ordered the healer. “Fetch both boxes of tenerse. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it.” “All right,” the healer agreed. “Anything else you think we’ll need?” “Bedding and whatever provisions the town folk might need. Food and water for a few days in case there’s a siege. Wouldn’t think there would be, but it’s best to be on the safe side.” “Will do.” The healer started to turn away then stopped. He locked eyes with Bevyn. “You really gonna fly, lad?” The Reaper grinned. “Aye, I am.” Healer Murphy’s eyes widened as Bevyn began transforming. Feathers began forming over the young man’s body then he sprang up from the ground, changing in midair to a large eagle with a six feet wingspan that caught the night air as he sailed through the sky. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” the healer said. He followed the progress of the eagle as it flew around in a circle for a moment then began winging toward the south.

40

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter Five They were the most lethal creatures to be found throughout the megaverse. Deadly. Silent. Feared. A pit viper so poisonous its name was spoken in hushed whispers on every planet where it drew breath. Three feet long with a broad, triangular head with vertical pupils, narrow body striped molten silver and green, horn-like scales above their eyes, one bite from the twoinch sharp, tubular fangs of a ghoret will kill a humanoid within two ticks of a clock’s sweep hand. Destroying the nervous system, heating the blood to boiling and pulverizing the victim’s internal organs, the fluorescent blue venom had no antidote. No creature—save one—could survive the viper’s hit. Swarming over and around one another with a sidewinding movement, the vipers hissed at the Reapers and struck out at them, barely missing their targets as Cynyr and Arawn leapt away, cracking their laser whips toward the waving heads of the vipers. When the vipers slithered they produced loud rasping noises as they wound their coils against one another with heavily keeled scales and produced a musky, meaty smell that was overpowering. “By the gods, how many are there of these demons?” Arawn shouted. He had already burned the heads off five of the vipers but more were tumbling toward him. Cynyr had slain four as quickly as his whip could strike but he was standing amid the teeming hoard, backing away from the exposed fangs thrusting toward him. “How the hell did they get to Terra?” Arawn asked, realizing how stupid his question the moment it escaped his clenched teeth. Ghorets did not exist on Terra. Only the Ceannus could have brought them there. Busy trying to keep out of the striking zone of the vipers, Cynyr didn’t bother to answer either of Arawn’s questions. Although it had been said the venom from the ghoret would not necessarily kill a Reaper, it was rumored to be so painful the victim would wish he could die. Cynyr didn’t think getting bit by a ghoret was something he’d care to have on his list of accomplishments in life. Arawn realized they were in deep trouble for the vipers were boiling over one another to reach them. So far they had managed to slay a few of the malodorous mass but neither of them were quick enough with the whip to kill every viper slithering his way. He had only one choice and took it, shouting for Bevyn to join them. Hearing the Prime Reaper yelling in a mind-link for Bevyn didn’t help Cynyr’s confidence in overcoming the formidable odds aligned against them. He’d slain three more vipers but one had shimmied close enough to the Reaper to strike, sinking its fangs into Cynyr’s calf. He stumbled but kept his jaws firmly locked so as not to alert Arawn to his predicament as burning pain spiraled up his leg. 41

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Bevyn! We need you!” Arawn shouted again in his mind. Five miles to the south, Bevyn heard the voice of his leader and let out a piercing shriek of protest. He had the Jakotai in sight, was overtaking him. If he broke off now, they might not reach Aingeal before the brave harmed her. “Bevyn! Help us!” Torn between rescuing a fellow Reaper’s woman and a Prime Reaper’s undeniable command, Bevyn shrieked again but banked his wings and swung around in a wide arc, flapping the six feet wingspan rapidly as he raced back toward Arawn. Another viper snagged a single fang in Cynyr’s left wrist, injecting its fiery payload. Agony spread quickly up the Reaper’s arm and into his shoulder. He was rapidly losing his strength. His head swam unmercifully and there was a strong, metallic taste in his mouth. He was shivering badly as a third viper struck his ankle, sharp fangs burying themselves through his boot. He could not stop the grunt of pain. Arawn took out another two vipers before he realized Cynyr had been hit. His eyes widened as he risked a quick glance at the man beside him and saw shimmering blue venom oozing down Cree’s pant legs and his left hand. He cursed and snapped his laser whip toward another viper prepared to strike at Cynyr’s unprotected back. Even before he winged his way over the spot where he knew his fellow Reapers were fighting, Bevyn could smell the horrid stench permeating the air. He could make out the flares of the laser whips but it was the bright, glimmering pale blue glow running upon the sand that turned his blood cold. He knew only one thing that could cause such a sickening sight. Increasing his speed, he flew over the fighters and landed ten feet away. Arawn barely noticed Bevyn shifting back into human form. At any other time, seeing Coure appear stark-naked would have amused him, but right then, his only thought was to throw his six-shooter to the best marksman in the Reaper squad and hope Bevyn could take out as many vipers as possible. With one wave of his hand, Bevyn clothed himself, barely thinking of what he was fashioning upon his lanky frame. His hands were up—ready to catch the revolver Arawn was tossing his way. He didn’t waste any time in methodically taking the heads off six of the slithering creatures. “Cynyr!” Arawn shouted. “Throw him your gun!” Confusion was slicing a hot knife through Cynyr’s brain and Arawn’s words made no sense to him—the sound coming from far, far away. He was sweating profusely but so cold his teeth were chattering. He killed one last viper with his whip before he went down to one knee, yelping as a viper flung itself at him and sank its fangs into his side. He dropped his whip and clamped his hand to the agonizing bite under his rib cage. Kneeling on the ground, he stared with terrified eyes at the vipers coming at him. There were three remaining vipers wriggling toward Cynyr, their heads lifting as they prepared to strike the downed Reaper. Arawn took out the one that had bitten Cree in the side but the other two were almost to their target. Racing forward as quickly 42

Reaper’s Revenge

as he could, Bevyn dove for Cynyr’s whip, snatched it up and skidding along the ground on his side and hip, cracked the weapon with an expert overhead pop that snapped the head off the next to the last surviving snake. Cursing a blue streak, Arawn killed the last one, slicing it straight down the middle from horned head to snapping tail. Breathing heavily, Arawn and Bevyn were so pumped with adrenaline, they couldn’t move for a moment. Their hearts were racing black blood that felt as thick as molasses as it pulsed through their veins. Their eyes sweeping back and forth over the ground, they were relieved to see no more moving bodies slithering on the ground. Everywhere they looked, pools of blue fluorescent venom splattered the ground. Off in the distance there came a strange, loud whomping sound that barely registered as the two men finally broke out of their fear-induced inertia and they rushed to Cynyr—Bevyn pushing up from the ground to scramble toward his fallen comrade. “Cree!” Arawn cried out, reaching for Cynyr as the Reaper started to fall. Wrapping his arms around his injured man, the Prime Reaper felt the fiery heat pouring off Cynyr’s trembling body as he pitched forward. Convulsions were already beginning to rock Cynyr. His breathing was raspy, dragging into his lungs with effort. Bevyn helped Arawn lay Cynyr on his back and he forced the Reaper’s jaws open, laying the dragon-claw handle across his tongue to keep him from swallowing it. He was at Cree’s head, bracing it, bent over so he saw the wild stare that turned the amber eyes red as flame. “I know nothing of ghoret bites,” Arawn said, striving to hold Cynyr’s arms down, straddling the Reaper’s legs to keep him from kicking. “Neither do I,” Bevyn replied. The whomping sound was growing louder and the force of the air was pushing against them, the sand swirling up to blow into their eyes. “What the hell’s happening?” Bevyn yelled, his voice barely audible for the sound was directly overhead, beating at him. He couldn’t look up for the blowing sand would blind him. Arawn was squinting against the invasion of the sand. His ears were popping and he was being buffeted with such powerful waves of air, he was having trouble holding onto Cynyr. Risking his eyesight, he let go of one of Cree’s arms and—shielding his face from the swirling wind with his bent arm—looked up into the face of his worst nightmares.

***** Otaktay took the horse deeper into the cavern—leading the animal by its bridle with one hand and lighting the way into the darkness with a burning brand. He had wrapped a torn piece of the woman’s silk wrapper around the mount’s eyes to blind it so it could be led without protest across the narrow bridge of stone that arched over an

43

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

underground lake. Deeper and deeper still into the very belly of the mountain the Jakotai walked the horse. Upon the cave walls, the light from the torch elongated his silhouette and cast strange patterns upon the rocky surface. Aingeal had yet to awaken from the blow the brave had administered to the side of her head. She was draped over the horse’s back, her arms and legs dangling. Even when Otaktay reached his destination, she had yet to awaken. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her off the steed, allowing her to drop heavily to the pebble-strewn ground, uncaring of whether she was hurt by the fall or not. Uncovering the horse’s eyes, the brave patted the stallion’s neck then watched it walk over to the water’s edge and lower its head to drink. Turning his attention back to Aingeal, Otaktay drew in a harsh breath. The white woman he had claimed for his own was lying there like a wanton, her arms and legs splayed upon the ground. The hem of her torn nightgown had been dragged up so her thighs were exposed and the wrapper had parted to reveal the upthrust of her breasts. Unaware he was doing so, the Jakotai licked his lips, wedging the brand between an outcropping. His focus was locked on the shadowy area between Aingeal’s creamy thighs as he worked to start a campfire from a stack of brush and branches some other travelers had left behind when they’d taken refuge in the cave. When the fire was crackling, he reached down to rub at the sudden tightening at his crotch. Without conscious thought, he began moving toward the woman lying so unprotected before his fevered gaze. Coming to stand over her, he went to his knees between her spread legs and reached out to touch the softness of her breast beneath the silken fabric. His cock turned rigid. His breathing increased to a shallow, fast rhythm. His fingers went to his breechclout and he pushed the front panel aside, reached inside the cup of the fabric to tug out his throbbing shaft. Massaging his steely erection with one hand, he pulled up the hem of Aingeal’s gown and fell upon her.

***** Bevyn was being staggered by the force of the wind pushing against him and it was all he could do to hold on to Cynyr’s face. His palms were burning from the extreme heat roiling off the Reaper’s cheeks and the oily substance oozing from the stricken man’s pores. He was aware of Arawn staring up at whatever was hovering over them but he had no desire to view the death carrier that was about to destroy the three of them. Mindless of the pummeling hand that was beating at his chest, Arawn stared up at the awesome apparition that was at that moment settling down behind Bevyn Coure. He did not feel Cynyr’s fist hitting him, could barely breathe, for the sight before him was so terrifying. He believed the three of them were about to die in a flash of white-hot fire or have their flesh pulverized into mush. His mouth open, his eyes huge in his pale face, he could not look away from the sight staring at him.

44

Reaper’s Revenge

Suddenly the fierce wind was laid to rest, the sand settling down around them. Eerie silence descended like a heavy wool blanket—shutting out even the thundering heartbeats of the three Reapers. Risking his immortal soul, Bevyn craned his head around to see what had so frightened Arawn into complete immobility and the sight that greeted him sent a trickle of urine down the young Reaper’s thighs. The creature squatting not five feet away from them was immense. Roughly twenty feet in length with a wingspan that stretched nearly twice that from tip to membranous tip, it was covered in bright copper scales that glistened in the errant beams of the moon. Huge front paws with inch-thick curved talons gripped the sand. Sitting perched upon its massive forepaws and powerful haunches, the beast had a twelve foot long, six inch thick tail covered in curving barbed fins projecting upward with the tail tapering to a caudal process—a flanged boney spade—at the tip. But it was the enormous neck and head of the being that chilled the blood and threatened to loosen the Reapers’ bowels. A long neck rose from the commanding body of the creature. It was arched over the men so the triangular head with its great mandibles, flaring nostrils, glistening muzzle and large scalloped ears was slanted down toward those who were frozen where they knelt. Slit-pupil eyes glared at the Reapers with an eerie phosphorous green glow. A scaly eye ridge protruded over the large orbs and were arching—first one then the other—in a pulsating rhythm. Rising up from the gargantuan head and curving backward toward the body of the beast were two long spiny horns that ended in a needle-sharp point. “Sweet merciful Alel,” Bevyn managed to croak. He felt another trickle of piss stream down his thigh when the beast grinned at him, immense incisors, sharp carnassials and jaggedly pointed canines glistening with strings of saliva within a firered cavern of a mouth. The giant spade-like head turned from side to side as though in query then vanished in a plume of smoke that set the conscious men to coughing, their eyes watering furiously. Fanning away the sulfurous cloud, Arawn and Bevyn could not believe what they next saw. Striding toward them from where the creature’s massive body had perched but a moment before was the most beautiful woman either of them had ever seen. With flowing thick red hair that fell to her ankles, she was completely naked. Her shapely curves, abundant breasts and gleaming triangle of red curls at the juncture of her thighs made both Reapers instantly hard within the confines of their leather britches. They could not take their eyes from her as she came to squat down beside Cynyr’s thrashing body. The sweet scent of lavender flowed from her lush body and when she put a slim hand to both Arawn’s and Bevyn’s chests to push them away from their downed comrade, her touch was electric, shocking both men so that they jumped to their feet as though jerked back by a puppeteer’s strings. “Cynyr,” the gorgeous woman said in a soft voice as she removed the whip handle from between his clenched teeth. “Lie easy. Be still.”

45

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Instantly the convulsing man calmed. Though sweat was pouring from his body and the strange oily substance continued seeping from his face, he went completely motionless, his gasping breath calming. Her slender hands to either side of his face, the woman knelt over him and placed her full lips to the Reaper’s and his wild, flaring eyes closed. His groin thick and throbbing, Arawn could feel himself trembling. There was no mistaking who it was that knelt over Cynyr Cree. Although he had seen her but once in his life—and not in either of the two forms she’d shown this night—he could never have forgotten the mesmerizing black velvet of her voice. “Be at ease, Arawn Gehdrin. I have blocked my presence from the vile Ceannus,” the woman told Arawn. “Will Cree live, mo regina?” Arawn asked, going to one knee before her, giving her the title of queen. The woman turned her verdant green gaze to the Prime Reaper. “He is one of mine, is he not?” she asked. If Bevyn had not known before that moment, he did then. He too went to one knee before the woman, his fist clutched over his heart in salute, his head lowered. As the men knelt before her, the woman slid her arms under Cynyr’s back and under his knees and hefted him easily against her as she stood. As she held him, she whistled softly and the two horses that belonged to Cree and Arawn came trotting over. “Bring the beasts back to the town,” she said. “I will see to my Reaper.” “Mo regina, his mate is—” Bevyn began but the sharp green gaze fell upon him. “Cynyr will see to his woman when he is cured of the ghoret poisoning,” she cut him off. “Go back to town and prepare a jail cell for his arrival. Go now.” There was no need for either man to question her order. Both knew it was but a matter of time before the Reaper Transitioned. It would be safer for the people of Haines City if he were locked up. They mounted the beasts and turned them back toward the town as the whomp of giant wings beat at the air above them. Looking up, Arawn and Bevyn saw a sight that would stay with them for as long as they drew breath. The creature flew through the air with Cynyr Cree clutched securely but gently in its huge front paws. “What is that thing she becomes?” Bevyn asked as he drummed his heels into Cree’s horse’s flanks. Arawn could not take his eyes from the beast as it winged its way through the night sky. “A dragon,” he replied. For the first time he heard the mind call of the Shadowlord high lord. “Cynyr is in peril?” Lord Kheelan asked from a thousand or so miles away at the Citadel. “Aye,” Arawn answered as he and Bevyn raced toward town.

46

Reaper’s Revenge

“I woke to the sound of Her voice,” the high lord said, his own voice filled with awe. “She is here?” “She is.” Arawn heard the Shadowlord respectfully calling to the Triune Goddess of Life, Death and War but Morrigunia did not answer. When she did not acknowledge him, Lord Kheelan inquired about what had brought the goddess to Terra, what had happened to one of her own. “Ghorets,” Arawn replied. “Several of them.” There was a shocked intake of breath and then the voices of the other two Shadowlords asking questions of the high lord. “Are they dead?” Lord Kheelan shouted over the din of his fellow Shadowlords’ concern. “Between the three of us, we killed two dozens as best I could count,” Arawn answered. “We cannot be for certain we slew all of them, for we have no idea how many there were to begin with or if the Ceannus brought more with them.” At the mention of the Ceannus, Lord Kheelan cursed brutally. “We have not been able to penetrate their blocking. We must double our efforts in getting to them, destroying the sons of bitches!” “There is no need,” came a hiss so filled with fury it made all who heard it on the mind-link between Reapers and Shadowlords shudder. “I will see to the renegades and their masters for daring to harm one of mine! I came to this world as I did for that very reason.”

47

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Six Aingeal was still unconscious. The blow to her head had been so severe she had a concussion. Lost in the midnight world of oblivion, she had not felt—nor been aware of—the violent assault upon her body. She lay as still as death, her face pale, for she was bleeding from between her legs. The brave was hunkered down beside her, trying to stem the flow with the wrapper he had ripped from her. The silk was saturated, yet the blood continued to run. “Aingeal, awake,” he pleaded with her. “Tell me what to do to stop this!” Though he had little knowledge of women’s bodies save for the pleasures they could give him, he knew enough to understand Aingeal had lost a child he had not known she carried. No doubt the bouncing ride on her belly had brought about the miscarriage. Ordinarily such a thing would have made him gloat with vengeance. Now—although he rejoiced the Reaper’s seed had been dislodged—he feared for Aingeal’s life. At the moment his seed had entered her unresisting body, the Jakotai knew something monumental had occurred. Completely gone was his need to hurt, to humiliate, to debase the woman lying beneath him. His desire to take her life in as painful a way as possible totally vanished to be replaced with an overwhelming compulsion to protect her that shocked him to his foundation. His thrusts became gentler, his hands upon her breasts tender and loving. His lips softly took hers in a kiss that seared his very soul. “I ain’t trying to tell you your business, boy,” Gibbs had said, “but if’n I was you I wouldn’t stick my wick in that woman of yours before you carve her up. Seems to me Jaborn was unbending on that. There’s some reason he warned against it.” Smoothing back the tumbled hair that lay against Aingeal’s still face, Otaktay knew his world had changed drastically. He had not raped his woman—as had been his intention—he had mated with her and in the doing, lost himself completely. Looking down at her, it was not through the eyes of a man bent on revenge but with the eyes of a lover who was beginning to feel alien emotions that both confused and angered him. “Love,” he spat the word out, though his gaze was soft as he looked at Aingeal. Love was a white man’s weakness, he thought as he gathered up the bloody silk and went to wash it out in the underground lake. He hated to leave Aingeal’s side, could not seem to take his eyes from her as he rinsed out the stained garment. His heart ached for her and his body throbbed with a need that was more than physical. Wringing out the silk, he went back to her, kneeling down to gently place the wet material between her legs.

48

Reaper’s Revenge

“Aingeal, awake,” he begged her, his trembling hand touching her cheek. “I cannot lose you, heart of my heart.” His words stunned the brave and he glanced around, embarrassed that he had dared utter such an unmanly thing. Relieved there were no warriors about to have heard his slip, he vowed to be more careful even though he and his woman were alone in the cavern. He self-consciously laughed at himself then sat down—his legs crossed beneath him—and took one of Aingeal’s hands in his. Stroking it gently, he began to chant to her, healing words he remembered from when his brother Kangee lay close to death. “Wake, my beauty,” he whispered to her. “Wake and know my heart is in your keeping for all time.”

***** The loud whump-whump-whump above the church brought each town person to the windows to stare fearfully out into the night. Clouds of dirt were spiraling around the clapboard structure, hiding from view the source of the sound that shook the walls of the building. “What is it?” Sheriff Brewer yelled, his eyes wide as he tried to see around the saloonkeeper John Denning. “What’s causing that noise?” A shrill screech unlike anything the people of Haines City had ever heard trilled out of the darkness and lifted the hair on every arm and nape of every neck of those who heard it. The screech was followed by an equally loud roar that rattled the windows in their frames. People jumped back from the ungodly reverberation of the roar and huddled close together, trembling. Father William O’Malley held up the cross he wore around his neck as a shield as he dropped to his arthritic knees in prayer. The elderly man was shaking, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his florid face pinched with fear. All around him, his parishioners followed suit—placing their trust in a being higher than themselves. The only one left standing was Moira McDermott, for she could not so easily lower her bent frame to the floor. Barred against the entry of those who would threaten the good people of Haines City, the doors to the church suddenly flew open with a swirl of dust rushing in. A ferocious wind shot down the aisle that ran between the two sections of wooden pews to blast against the building’s inhabitants and send them scurrying toward the sanctuary. Moira put up an arm to block the whirling sand lashing against her but she stood her ground. She was too old and too near to greeting her Maker to be concerned about whatever it was that had shattered the church’s doors. Her watering eyes blinking rapidly, she lifted her wrinkled chin and started to berate the unknown interloper when she realized it was a woman standing in the doorway, one of the Reapers in her arms. “Merciful Alel,” Moira muttered, making the Sign of the Slain One. “It’s Cynyr!” 49

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Clothed in a copper gown that swept the floor behind her in a long shimmering train, the woman appeared not in the least labored by the weight of the unconscious man she held. Her long, flowing hair streamed behind her as though a light breeze was blowing it from the direction of the sanctuary. Her vibrant green gaze was locked on Moira. “He’s in need of your help, Moira McDermott,” the woman said with a brogue the old woman had not heard in a many a year. “I am taking him to the jail. Best you come and help me with him if you’re of a mind.” That said, the statuesque woman turned and disappeared into the night, the wind whirling around the train of her elegant gown. “Jail?” Sheriff Brewer repeated. “Did she say jail?” “Who the hell is she?” Healer Murphy demanded, coming to his feet. “Excuse the language, padre.” “Morrigunia,” Moira said in an awed voice. “She is Morrigunia.” “Who?” Verlin Walker asked. “Can’t be,” Father Murphy snapped, shaking his ragged mane of white hair. “There ain’t no such thing as a Morrígú.” “The hell you say, Willie Murphy,” Moira threw at him. “Ye just saw her for yourself!” “Damned strong woman,” the healer said. “Excuse the language but that was one strong woman!” Moira started forward, her bent frame moving as fast as her twisted legs could carry her. She paid little attention to Annie hurrying along beside her, her hands ready to steady the old woman should the need arise. “What do you think ails the boy?” Annie asked. “That boy is older than ye and me put together,” Moira scoffed. “And how the blazes would I know what ails him?” “He looked bad off,” Annie said. Moira’s face was screwed into a myriad plain of wrinkles as she hobbled out of the church and into the blackness of the night. The moon was hidden behind a dark bank of thick clouds and the only light leading her to the jail was the faint glow of the triune goddess’ copper gown as she led the way. As she neared the jail, the interior of the building suddenly blazed with light as though dozens of lanterns fired all at the same time. The door opened of its own accord and Morrigunia walked in with her burden. “Why do you reckon she’s taking him to the jail?” Annie asked. Her voice quivered with right. “Just shut up, Annie!” Moira insisted. “I ain’t got no desire to answer your stupid questions.”

50

Reaper’s Revenge

Behind Moira and her daughter-in-law, the good people of Haines City were following at a safe distance. Not even the sheriff appeared all that anxious to reach his jail. No one said a word as they walked. The street was silent save for the scuff of booted feet upon the dirt. Automatically reaching out to help her mother-in-law up the step onto the boardwalk in front of the jail, Annie could feel the tremor in Moira’s frail body. The old woman was not as brave as she made herself appear. The iron bars of the jail cell door swung open as if operated by unseen hands. Morrigunia carried Cynyr into the cell and bent over to lay him gently upon the woolblanketed cot. Gracefully, she sank to her knees beside him to run her hand over his sweating face. “Do not wake, my Reaper,” the triune goddess ordered. “Let the pain pass through you without you experiencing for the moment.” Moira came to stand in the doorway of the cell. She could see the glistening sweat pouring from Cynyr’s pale face but there were also black specks of Reaper blood oozing from his pores. Pockets of pustules had formed on his neck and hands and burst open now and again to drip a noxious fluid to the blanket. “Bring plenty of soft rags and chips of ice if you have it,” Morrigunia ordered. Annie nodded, unable to speak as she stared into the beautiful face of the goddess. Morrigunia turned her attention to Mick Brady. “Gather four of your sturdiest leather belts, as wide as you can find them. He will need to be tied down when the agony begins.” “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and rushed from the cell. “We will need many buckets of hot water to disinfect the rags,” Morrigunia said, turning her head to stare at Brett Samuels. “And cold water to bathe his flesh.” Samuels bid John Denning and Verlin Walker to help him and the men left. Guthrie hurried after them. “What happened to him?” Moira asked as she came to stand beside the goddess. “Evil of the kind your world has never known,” Morrigunia answered as she began removing Cynyr’s shirt. “Evil he has nearly given his life to keep from you and yours.” She handed the shirt to Moira. Staring at the strange blue holes that had punctured the Reaper’s silk shirt, Moira put a trembling hand to her mouth. “Snakes?” she asked with a shudder. “Vipers so deadly a human cannot survive their hit,” Morrigunia told her. “That is what he and my other Reapers saved you from.” Despite the pain ravaging her body, Moira bent farther over Cynyr and laid her gnarled hand on his brow, snatching it back as his flesh burned her. “Merciful Alel, he is burning up!”

51

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“The very blood inside him is boiling,” Morrigunia said. “His organs are being destroyed as his parasite attempts to manufacture a venom of its own to destroy that which is flooding the Reaper’s veins.” Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. “Will he live, mo regina?” “He will,” Morrigunia assured her, “though his pain will be great and he will beg me to let him die.” She swept her green gaze over the crippled old lady and a tiny groan came from the beautiful woman’s mouth. “It will be a long night, grandmother, and it will take all the love you have for this one to help me keep him sane during his ordeal.” “I’ll do what has to be done,” Moira stated. Morrigunia reached out and touched the old woman’s arm. Instantly fingers that had long been curled, straightened. A gnarled hand that had known nothing but pain for many a year relaxed. Getting to her feet, the goddess put her palm on the humped back of Moira McDermott and the ravages of years melted away, easing an old spine into the supple flexibility of a woman forty years its junior. One touch of a gentle finger to aged eyes took away years of blurriness. “Sweet Merciful Alel,” Sheriff Brewer gasped as he saw the miracle happening before his very eyes. Moira stared into the breathtakingly beautiful face of Morrigunia and could not find her voice. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a fish cast to dry land but no words would come forth. “He has great affection for you, Moira McDermott,” Morrigunia said in her thick brogue. “He would have done this himself, given time.” Tears cascaded down Moira’s withered cheeks but her smile was as bright as a summer’s day. “Thank ye, mo regina,” she managed to say. “Thank ye.” Morrigunia hugged the old woman for a moment then released her, turning her attention back to the man who lay so still on the cot. Annie came in with an armful of towels followed by Brett Samuels, Verlin Walker and John Denning who were struggling with buckets of water. Guthrie, the owner of the hotel, brought with them a pan that held a large chunk of ice. Annie’s eyes went wide when she saw Moira standing erect, her once twisted fingers straight. “Give me them towels and stop gawking, gal!” Moira grumbled, taking the towels from her daughter-in-law. “He looks mighty sick,” Samuels said as he sat down his buckets of water. “He is and I can not,” the triune goddess said, motioning the men and Annie out of the cell, “leave him unconscious as he is. He needs to thrash about to work the poison out of his system quicker.” She looked around as Brady came hurrying into the cell. In his hand he carried two four-inch-wide leather belts about three feet in length with heavy brass buckles, each with two prongs. “Martin made these for a strong man what came through with a traveling show a year or so back,” Brady explained. “Never did pay for ’em so I took ’em off his hands.”

52

Reaper’s Revenge

“They will do for his wrists but you will need two strong belts for his ankles too,” Morrigunia told him. Brady looked about him for he wasn’t wearing a belt but Samuels and Denning began stripping off theirs. They handed them to toward Brady. “Come bind him, Michael Brady,” Morrigunia ordered as she gently turned Cynyr over to lie on his stomach. “As tightly as you can to the ends of the cot.” “Yes, ma’am,” Mick agreed, and quickly moved to do her bidding. “How do you know his name?” Father Murphy demanded from beyond the jail cell. His jowls were quivering as he glared at the stately woman. Morrigunia smiled nastily. “Each of you is known to me, Willie Murphy.” She winked. “Even you, you godless excuse for a man.” Father Murphy’s rubbery lips sputtered and he turned away, pushing through those gathered at the door and mumbling under his breath as he stomped away. He shoved both Arawn and Bevyn aside as they started into the jail. “Out of my way, you heathens!” he snarled. “Heathens?” Bevyn asked, staring after the cleric. “I’m not a heathen.” “Get in here, Arawn!” Morrigunia called out. “Your comrade needs you.” She glanced at the sheriff as she began tugging off Cynyr’s boots and socks. “Do you have a pair of scissors?” The sheriff nodded and hurried to his desk. He returned with a dull pair of rusted scissors, standing well away from Morrigunia as he extended them toward her. “I don’t usually bite, Daniel Brewer, but I have been known to make exceptions so it’s good you keep well back from me,” she told the sheriff whose face turned bright red. Morrigunia bent to the task of cutting both legs of Cynyr’s uniform britches from ankle to waist then peeled them from his sweaty body. She ignored Moira’s horrified gasps as the old woman took in the livid red flesh covered with pustules that blotched the Reaper’s legs and lower back. “The pustules will break and where their vile liquid runs, new pustules will form for it is the ghoret’s venom that is coming out of the sores. I need to work quickly to wash away the drainage as quickly as it begins,” the goddess said. “I will help,” Moira told her. “No!” Morrigunia denied, shaking her head. “If you get any of the liquid on you, it could cause serious problems for a woman your age. Just keep the rags coming. I will bathe my Reaper then wring out the rags in the warm water. Stay back so there is no chance the venom will hit you.” Mick had moved to the foot of the cot but hesitated in wrapping the belts around Cynyr’s ankles for pustules were spreading to the soles of his feet. He looked to Morrigunia.

53

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I will do it,” she said, and made quick work of binding the Reaper’s ankles to the cot. “Now leave us, Michael, but stay close in case we need you.” Brady moved out of the cell, leaving the two Reapers, Moira and the goddess inside. “What happened to the lad’s back?” Moira asked quietly, staring at the mass of crisscrossed scar tissue. “He spent time in a quarry when he was a young boy,” Arawn explained. He had been silent as he looked down at the angry red flesh that covered Cynyr’s body. Red streaks were inching up the Reaper’s back, making the thick scars stand out. “Put on leather gloves,” Morrigunia told Arawn and Bevyn as she pulled the cot into the center of the cell. “One of you hold down his wrists and the other his ankles. He will be in agony when I release him from sleep. He’ll be even stronger than usual so put your full weight into holding him down.” She wiped the back of her arm across her forehead. Arawn and Bevyn moved in tandem, shaking their hands to fashion heavy gloves. “How the hell did they do that?” Denning whispered loud enough for everyone to hear but no one could answer how one moment the Reapers’ hands were bare and the next encased in black leather. Going to the head of the cot, Arawn bent down to put his hands on Cynyr’s wrists to hold them down. Bevyn moved to do the same with the unconscious man’s ankles. Looking around, Morrigunia ordered a chair brought in for Moira. When the old lady would have protested, the goddess shook her head. “We are going to be at this for several hours, Moira. He will be brutally ill for at least a week, more likely longer. You sit down and hand me the rags as I need them. When you get tired—and you will—let me know and I’ll have Annie spell you.” Moira’s wrinkled lips pursed but she said nothing to the order. Sitting down in the chair as soon as Brewer brought it in. When the sheriff left, the goddess told him to lock the cell door and for everyone to clear out of the building except for Annie and Brady. When everyone had left and the door to the jail closed, Morrigunia looked at Arawn and Bevyn. “Ready?” she asked. The Reapers nodded without speaking. Taking a deep breath, Morrigunia laid her hand on Cynyr’s damp hair. “Wake, my Reaper. Come back to this world now.” His eyelids snapping open, Cynyr Cree howled in agony. He began jerking violently against the restraints securing his wrists and ankles, gnashing his teeth and hissing as he tried to get up from the cot. He began foaming at the mouth as he bucked like a rabid wolf trying to break free of its trap. Sweat was pouring from his body and his legs and side, his left arm began swelling where the fang marks pierced the flesh. His skin bursting open around the punctures, a glowing blue slime ran down his calves

54

Reaper’s Revenge

to mix with the ooze of his black blood seeping from his pores. The stench of the noxious slime was horrible. Working quickly, Morrigunia wiped away the slime as it appeared. Her face was set and hard as she concentrated. Anger snapped in her vivid green eyes and she was chanting in a language older than time itself as she worked. It was all Arawn and Bevyn could do to keep Cynyr’s limbs pressed to the cot. He was bucking against them with such force, the cot jumped as he arched and twisted. The Reaper’s eyes were wild, glowing a deep scarlet, and black blood beaded his furrowed brow. Long into the night and well past the rising of the sun Cynyr howled in agony, pulled against his bonds, writhed as the ghoret poison attacked his vital organs and began destroying them. His blood was boiling, his flesh so hot it singed the leather gloves his fellow Reapers wore to protect their own skin. Morrigunia sat down on the floor beside him to rest for a moment. She shook her head at Moira’s offer to take over. “One bite would have made him very, very ill,” the goddess said to no one in particular. “But there were four. The amount of the venom in his system is so large, so potent, his flesh has ceased to instantly heal itself. I fear his parasite will not be able to sustain the fight to save his life.” “His parasite might die?” Arawn asked, never having considered the possibility. “It is very likely both it and the entire hive will succumb to the massive amount of poison flooding his body,” Morrigunia replied, her shoulders slumped in weariness. “You can’t let him die, mo regina,” Moira said, her voice shaking. “I won’t,” the goddess said, “but he will need transference in order to live.” “Take one of mine,” both Reapers offered at the same time. Morrigunia lifted her head and looked up at Arawn. “He will need a revenant queen, not just a fledgling. A new nest needs to form quickly to combat the poison. The queen must be a strong, ancient one. Are you willing to give up yours in order to save him?” Arawn didn’t hesitate. “Aye, mo regina. Do what you need to.” Morrigunia smiled gently. “It is a very painful procedure, Arawn Gehdrin. The removal of a queen from a Reaper has only been done once before. It is not something I do lightly.” “Do what you need to,” Arawn repeated. “As Prime Reaper, it is my right to provide for my men.” “We are with you,” came the combined voices of the Shadowlords from far, far away. “Lend your strength to him, Kheelan Ben-Alkazar,” Morrigunia joined the high lord on his mind-link with Arawn. “Mine as well as Lords Dunham and Naois,” the Shadowlord agreed. “His brothers are winging their way to you at this very moment.” 55

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“When the transference is complete, I will leave you to care for him,” the goddess said. “I have business with the renegade Ceannus.” “I am sending the other Reapers to aid you, mo regina,” Lord Kheelan protested. “I beg you wait until they—” “I have no need of your help, Ben-Alkazar,” Morrigunia stated. “Even now the evil ones are planning an attack against this settlement. I will not allow my humans to be placed in danger!” “Mo regina—” Lord Kheelan began but the goddess waved her hand and his voice was stilled. “Michael Brady?” Morrigunia called out. “Unlock the cell door. Bevyn, you will need to take Arawn into the other cell and harvest the queen from him.” Bevyn swallowed loudly. “Me?” he whispered. “Arawn, give me your blade,” the goddess said and thanked the Reaper when he handed it to her. Mick Brady hurried forward and unlocked the cell, pulling the door open wide. He was pale, for he remembered well what had transpired when Cynyr had been stabbed in the back. The expression on his face said he wasn’t looking forward to reliving that nightmarish sight. “Arawn, come here,” Morrigunia ordered, and when the Reaper approached her, she held out her hand for him to help her up from the floor. When she was on her feet, she put her palms on his cheeks and stared into his eyes for a long moment then released him. Arawn turned as though in a trance and walked out of the cell, entering the one beside it and stretching out on his belly, tugging his black silk shirt from his britches as he lay down. “You mesmerized him,” Moira said, watching what was happening in the adjoining cell. “He was brave enough to offer his queen for another,” Morrigunia said. “I would see that he suffer as little as possible in the transfer.” “He’ll be all right, won’t he?” the old woman asked. Morrigunia nodded. “His hive will be intact. Another alpha revenant will take over in the missing queen’s stead and begin to grow in power and strength to control the nestlings. Arawn will be just fine. Bevyn? Pay close attention to what I do and follow suit when I have removed the queen. Feel around inside Arawn’s wound until you find her. You will know her by the sting she will give you.” “How bad a sting?” Bevyn wanted to know. “Bad enough,” was the reply. Bevyn’s hand was trembling as he drew his own knife. He was watching Morrigunia who was bending over Cynyr, making a long cut from just beneath the Reaper’s rib cage to his hipbone. 56

Reaper’s Revenge

“Empty a bucket, Moira, and bring it here,” Morrigunia instructed. When the old woman did as she was asked, the goddess thrust her hand deep into Cynyr’s back. Her knees threatening to buckle beneath her, Moira clamped her jaw tightly closed and forced herself to watch what the goddess was doing. Cynyr was shrieking in agony, his body jerking against the restraints holding his wrists and ankles. One of Morrigunia’s hands was pressed firmly on his back, seemingly holding him down with little effort as her other hand twisted inside the black, bloody wound. The first time the goddess removed her hand from Cynyr’s back and drew out a clump of what looked to be slugs and dropped them into Moira’s bucket, the old woman thought she would barf. “Swallow it down, Moira,” Morrigunia said without looking at the old lady. Moira did as she was told and when the second clump of unmoving forms were thrown into the bucket, she had to hold her breath for the odor was horrific. “Only two more fledglings,” Morrigunia commented, and dropped the dead nestlings into the bucket. “Now, the queen.” His attention on the goddess, Bevyn’s breathing was ragged. He’d seen fledglings but never a queen. He had never wanted to. When Morrigunia drew the nearly dead revenant from Cynyr’s body, he stared at the hellion with wide eyes. The wet, sucking sound it made as it was pulled free made him gag and turn away, feeling the hot bile rising up his throat. Arawn also was watching what the goddess was doing but what he was seeing had no effect on him, for Morrigunia had placed him deeply beneath her calming spell. Completely detached, he took in the eel-like abomination with its green flesh covered in hard scales. About a foot in length—the tip of its tail forked and covered with sharp spines—the queen’s elliptical red eyes were turning cloudy as death rapidly approached. Its maw of a mouth in the triangular plains of its warty head was open, revealing rows of sharp glistening fangs as it gasped for breath. A forked tongue lay at the corner of its maw and dripped a slimy white fluid that—when it dribbled on the wool blanket covering the cot upon which Cynyr lay—ate through the material and plopped on the floor, sizzling. “By all that is holy,” Moira said as Morrigunia dropped the dying creature into the bucket she held. The old woman stared down at the feebly moving thing until it lay still. “I need that queen, Bevyn Coure!” Morrigunia snapped. Arawn did not move as his back was cut open and his fellow Reaper’s shaking hand drove down into his back. His eyes barely flickered when Bevyn cried out—the queen sending a burning shock up his arm when he gripped her spiny body—and jerked the thing out of him. “Poor baby,” Moira whispered. “He won’t feel the pain when I release him,” Morrigunia told Moira.

57

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

With the thrashing revenant clasped in his hand, his forearm and shoulder throbbing with pain, Bevyn passed the wriggling hellion through the bars between the two cells, relieved when Morrigunia took it out of his hand. He slumped against the bars, sweat glistening on his ashen face. “Be still!” the goddess hissed at the whipping creature, and it became immobile in her tight grasp. Moira looked up from the ebon-stained mass of revenants lying in the bottom of the bucket and drew in a harsh breath as Morrigunia dropped a live version of the hideous queen onto Cynyr’s back. Before the old woman could blink her horrified eyes, the thing dove down through the wound on the Reaper’s back and disappeared, bunching up under his skin. The flesh along the small of his back rose up as the creature coiled and uncoiled around his spinal column. Everyone in the jail—including Morrigunia— jumped when Cynyr Cree let out a piercing scream of agony that reverberated off the stone walls. “It has attached itself to his kidney,” the goddess said with a breath of obvious relief. “It has accepted its new host and will begin to repair the damage to Cynyr’s organs and nervous system.” Cynyr was whimpering, his fingers plucking at the leather restraints holding his wrists. Tears were streaming down his eyes but he laid still save for the constant movement of his fingers. “Sleep now, Reaper,” Morrigunia said, placing her hand on her patient’s cheek. “Sleep and let the parasite heal you.” Closing his eyes, Cynyr fell into a deep slumber and the goddess asked Brady to bring a blanket to cover his nakedness. Tiredly, she left Cree’s cell and went into Arawn’s, bidding that Reaper to wake. Bevyn remained slumped against the bars. He could not look up at Morrigunia as she came to stand in front of him. “You have questions, young one?” she asked. “I am worried about Cree’s lady,” he said. “She is not being hurt.” Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to hers. “Will she not have felt Cree’s agony? She has one of his fledglings.” Morrigunia shook her head. “The moment his queen and fledglings ceased life, hers would have been cut off from Cree. There are no more of that breed left save what it hosted within Aingeal’s body.” “It is a rogue who has her, mo regina,” Bevyn said. “I know this,” the goddess replied. “The rogue vowed to kill her. He—” “He has inadvertently hurt her, but he will never again.” Bevyn winced at the terrible news. “The baby?” 58

Reaper’s Revenge

Morrigunia shook her head. “The babe is no more, but there will be future sons of her union with Cynyr Cree. You have no need to worry on that account.” “Arawn and I need to go after her,” Bevyn persisted. “We—” “It is for Cynyr to right the wrong done to his mate,” Morrigunia cut him off. “The revenge is to be his and it will be a brutal revenge, Bevyn Coure.” Bevyn looked over at Cynyr. “But you said he will be ill for a week or more. We can’t leave Aingeal in Otaktay’s hands.” “Have no fear for Cynyr’s mate. The red man will care for her in the same way Cree would or you would care for your Lea. Leave the vengeance in the hands of the man who will execute it with a savagery you could never imagine.”

59

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Seven Aingeal awoke to cool water dribbling gently onto her parched lips. Her head ached horribly and her body itched as though a million ants were crawling upon it. She moved her face, feeling the water trickling over her chin and onto her throat. “Can you sit up?” he asked gently, further surprised at the softness of his tone. Aingeal tried to nod but the pain in her head splintered into a hundred fiery shards that nearly pitched her back into unconsciousness. She gagged, whimpering as she was gently propped up so she was half reclining against a warm, solid body. “I am here, my love,” Otaktay whispered to her. “I will care for you.” She recognized the voice of the man and although she could recall her own name, his escaped her. She clung to him, wrapping her hands around his muscled forearm as he held her. She knew she belonged to him, but beyond that, much of her mind was blank. Her whereabouts were a mystery. She saw gray stone walls with strange columns spearing down from overhead. The sound of water came to her but she had no idea what place this could be. “Where am I?” she whispered, her throat raw, her mouth filled with a coppery taste. “In the Cave of the Winds,” Otaktay replied. “It is safe for us here.” She looked up into black eyes that were gazing down at her with gentleness. The skin of the man holding her was much darker than her own. His long black hair was parted in the middle and woven into two thick braids that hung over his bare chest. “I hurt,” she said. Otaktay had not learned that much about being a rogue from Silus Gibbs but he knew enough to delve into his woman’s thoughts. He was surprised she had no memories to search and that her mind was filled with shadows and confusion. Guiltily he knew the blow he had administered to her head had caused the situation, for one of his cousins had suffered just such a condition when he’d hit his head in a fall. “Do you know who I am?” he asked her. “No,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. Realizing the gods had given him a reprieve with this woman, Otaktay lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “You are,” he said, his chin raised, “my wife and I am your husband, Otaktay.” Her pretty gray eyes narrowed with confusion. “Have I been sick?” The brave drew in a breath then exhaled slowly. “You lost our child,” he said, pressing her hand to his heart. “Our baby.”

60

Reaper’s Revenge

Aingeal moaned and squeezed her eyes shut. A part of her felt the loss of her child so keenly it made her entire body ache. She began to cry, her body racked with sobs. The Jakotai brought his woman to his chest and held her as she cried. How often— he thought to himself—had he heard her cry and ignored her? How many times had he slapped her? Beaten her? Handed her over to the greedy hands of his friends? Shame rocketed through the brave and his heart ached for the injustices he had heaped upon this woman in the past. No wonder his father had all but disowned him. “We will go home,” he told her, clumsily stroking her hair, the silky strands catching on his calloused palm. “I will take you home to my People. There will be other sons. This I swear to you, Aingeal.” She clung to him in her misery, though she felt as though she barely knew him. She was afraid of him yet he was comforting her, shushing her tears and gently rubbing her back to calm her. “We will go home,” he said again. “When I know the Reaper has stopped searching for us.” “The Reaper?” she questioned, the name sending a spasm of fresh pain through her heart. “I gutted the man who stole you from me, but I did not kill him,” Otaktay said, thinking it had been Cynyr Cree whose belly he had ripped open with his knife. Aingeal shivered. “Someone took me from you?” “He stole you and raped you,” Otaktay replied, believing what he was saying. “He raped you many times, my beloved, but never again will he lay hands to you! This I swear!” “He caused my baby’s death?” she asked in a low voice. “He did,” Otaktay lied. Though she had no idea what manner of man a Reaper was and though her husband said the Reaper was the reason she’d lost her child, Aingeal could not find it in her heart to either hate or fear the man. The word Reaper soothed her while at the same time causing unbearable sadness in her soul. Had she fallen in love with the man who had abducted her? Forced himself upon her time and time again? Had he stolen her because he loved her? Had he taken her—not with anger or in lust—but because he cared for her? Was that why she did not fear the one called Reaper? “What is his name?” she asked her husband. “Cree,” Otaktay said, spitting the word out as though it were a curse. “Cynyr Cree.” The name meant nothing to her but the sound of it deepened the sense of loss swirling in her heart. She clung to that name, buried it deeply within her very soul. No face came as she whispered the name silently to herself but it made her heart sing in a way that confused her even more.

61

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“The ones called the Ceannus will rid the land of the Reapers,” her husband was saying, his words tight. “We will wait until they have sent their rogues to the white camp and slain those who would oppose the Gray Gods. Then we can return to our home and live in peace.” Why the word rogue sent a shaft of alarm through her Aingeal did not know. At the mention of the white camp, she had a fleeting image of an old woman—stooped with a thick hump upon her upper back, of a smiling red-haired man with laughing green eyes, of a thin woman who did nothing but complain. “Rest now,” Otaktay said. “I will go hunting when the sun sets and we will have bellies full of fresh meat.” Aingeal slipped her hand from her husband’s and touched the silk of the garment she wore. She lifted her head and looked down, puzzled by the torn and dirty nightgown. “I will provide you with something clean to wear, beloved,” Otaktay said. “I will bring something back after I hunt.” Frowning, Aingeal settled back in her husband’s arms, but her mind was swarming with questions to which she could find no answers. Impressions came to her— undulating out of the strange darkness that had infiltrated her mind. She caught a glimpse of amber eyes, dark brown hair tied back with a leather thong, a knowing grin that made her blood sing with hunger. She followed a wolf running across the prairie, his powerful haunches rippling with muscles, his silky fur rippling in the wind. As she stared at the carved walls of the cave, she thought she heard a soft voice calling to her, bidding her come. Heat infused her body along with an organ-deep ache that told her someone, somewhere, was in terrible pain and reaching out to her for her help. “Rest,” Otaktay said. He tried slipping into his woman’s thoughts once more but all he found was a wretched heat and throbbing pain that made him hastily withdraw. He tightened his grip around Aingeal. “Forgive me, beloved.” Pulled back from whatever memories were trying to surface, Aingeal looked up at him. “For what?” Otaktay stared into her eyes and felt like crying—something he had not done since he was but a boy of three winters. “For not caring for you as was my duty,” he replied. “Never again will such be so.” Aingeal found she had no feelings at all for the man holding her. She felt dirty in his arms, unsure of him, perhaps a bit afraid. She wished he would take his hands from her, remove his body from so close to her own. Something shifted along Aingeal’s back and she drew in a breath, wondering at the slight pain that seemed to gnaw at her vitals. Her back itched as she felt a churning sensation deep within her. Otaktay felt the movement against his thigh as he braced his woman against him. He knew that movement well, for he felt it every day. Sliding his hand down Aingeal’s

62

Reaper’s Revenge

back, he pressed at a spot over her right kidney and when her flesh bunched up at the touch, he snatched his hand away. “No!” he shouted, and scrambled quickly to his feet. Aingeal was so weak she collapsed without the support of her husband’s arms and lay there looking up at him. His eyes were wide, his mouth open as he stared down at her. His fists were clenched at his side, the knuckles white. “No,” Otaktay said, shaking his head in denial. “It cannot be!” Once more something moved under her skin and Aingeal grunted for a dull pain was clamping down on her insides. She reached beneath her to rub at the pain and felt her flesh shift under her questing fingers. “What is inside me?” she asked, her face pale. “What is it?” “He gave you one of his parasites,” the brave accused, backing away from Aingeal. “He gave you a parasite!” She watched her husband turn away from her and stride hurriedly toward the rear of the cave. For the first time she noticed the horse lying beside what appeared to be a large underground lake. It got to its feet at a piercing whistle from the brave. Otaktay snatched up a bridle and quickly slipped it over the steed’s head. “Where are you going?” she asked, trying to sit up. Otaktay began leading the horse past where Aingeal lay. She could see fury clenching his dark face. “I will return,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Don’t leave me here alone,” she pleaded, but her husband was moving farther away from her, disappearing into the blackness of a tunnel off to her right. “Otaktay, don’t leave me alone!” Shutting out the sound of his woman’s voice, all the brave could think of was finding the Reaper and finishing what he had started. He wanted to spill the white man’s guts upon the ground and stomp on them. He wanted to burn every inch of his pale body and revel in the screams that could be torn from the Reaper’s throat. “You desecrated my woman. You soiled her!” Otaktay said as he led his horse out into the bright sun of the early afternoon. “For that you will suffer as no man ever has before you!” The rogue inside the Jakotai roared for vengeance as the brave swung himself up upon the horse’s back and drummed his heels brutally into the animal’s ribs. Bloodlust throbbed through his veins and his hands itched to kill. His eyes gleamed scarlet red and fangs had dropped down through his gums. At that moment he was as close to being a beast without Transitioning as he would ever come.

***** Cynyr was in agony. His blood sizzled in his ears and the tearing, gnawing misery biting into his back was almost more than he could stand. He felt as weak as a kitten yet

63

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

he pulled feebly on his restraints, striving to break free and curl up. He thought if he could but curl up the agony would lessen. “Untie him and turn him to his back,” Morrigunia said wearily. She was sitting on the floor of the cell with her back to the iron bars. Moira was sleeping on the cot in the next cell, Annie nodding in a chair beside the old lady. Brady was stretched out on the floor in front of the sheriff’s desk and the two other Reapers roused themselves to do as the goddess ordered. Arawn and Bevyn had awakened earlier and gone out to find Sustenance and inject themselves with their daily dosage of tenerse. The two men looked none the worse for wear after sleeping on the hard floor. Brady sat up and rubbed his eyes, groaning as he did. “You need me, ma’am?” he asked. Morrigunia shook her head and watched her Reapers see to Cynyr. “I believe his flesh is cooler,” Bevyn observed as he untied Cynyr’s wrists. “The queen is forcing the ghoret venom from his system, dissolving it with her own anti-venom,” Morrigunia explained. “By now, she will have laid a new nest.” Unbuckling the heavy leather belts around Cree’s ankles, Arawn flinched at the abraded flesh. It was rubbed raw, oozing black droplets upon the blanket. He glanced at Morrigunia. “The parasite has yet to automatically heal his wounds though.” “She will,” the goddess said tiredly. Groaning as he was gently turned to his back, Cynyr drew his legs up and curled his upper body into a fetal position. He shivered in his nakedness and Arawn laid a blanket over his lower body. “Do you think he’s even aware of us?” Bevyn asked the Prime Reaper. Arawn shook his head. “I don’t think anything but the pain is registering with him.” It had been many hours since Cynyr had been repeatedly bitten by the deadly ghoret vipers. He had lain for much of that time on his belly—moaning loudly, begging in his native tongue to be allowed to die, pleading with those around him to kill him. “I hope to the gods I never run up against another ghoret,” Bevyn muttered. “The Ceannus will pay dearly for having brought those vile things to this world,” Morrigunia swore. She ran a hand through her long red hair. “I have been sitting here listening to the Gray Ones plotting. They are furious no ghoret escaped you to take the lives of humans in the settlement, and they know Cree lies ill, unable to join you in battle. The Ceannus are almost ready to send their rogues to this town.” “The other Reapers should arrive today,” Arawn told her. “They’ll be needed,” Bevyn commented.

64

Reaper’s Revenge

“Lord Kheelan is sending our men utilizing a new technology that will hide their presence from the Ceannus,” Arawn repeated what the high lord of the Shadowlords had said to him earlier that morning in a mind-meld. “Aye, well, that technology of his may or may not work,” Morrigunia scoffed. “To be sure, I added my own stealth covering to make sure my Reapers are not detected. If Acklard knew they were coming, he would have attacked long before now, and I am not sure the two of you could have stood up to eleven balgairs itching to take your heads.” Arawn shifted uncomfortably. “There’s no question the six of us can destroy eleven rogues, mo regina,” he said.” “I told that self-important bastard I would handle the Ceannus and their minions by myself and I will. There was no need for him to send the other four Reapers but I will be glad to see them.” “Have you seen any of them since you brought us here?” Arawn inquired. He had not seen the goddess for over a hundred years and he knew neither Cynyr nor Bevyn had been visited by her except for an occasional mind whisper. “No,” she said, getting gracefully to her feet. She shook out the ankle-length copper gown. “It will be a reunion of sorts for us.” “Aingeal!” The pitiful cry turned eyes to Cynyr. His eyes were open but he was staring sightlessly at something only he could see. “Do you think she can hear him?” Bevyn questioned. “The connection between them was severed when his queen and fledglings succumbed to the ghoret venom,” Morrigunia replied. “At most, she would have received impressions of Cree but nothing more.” She bent over the Reaper and laid her palm on his forehead to soothe his fevered flesh. “Once they are together again, he will need to take her blood to reconnect their mind-melds.” “He will be able to track her, though,” Arawn said. “Aye, he will,” Morrigunia agreed, “for he has taken her blood in the past.” “I wish you’d let us go after her for him,” Bevyn said. He felt guilty, for it had been up to him to keep Cree’s woman safe while Cynyr and Arawn were gone. “When he has regained his strength, it will be up to Cynyr to go after his woman, young one,” Morrigunia said, her eyes fierce as she cast the Reaper a warning look. “Do not bring the subject up again.” Bevyn ducked his head beneath the stony glower. Like the rest of his kind, he feared the triune goddess. He knew he owed his life to her and she could snatch that life away at a whim if she chose. Though he was blessed with an unnaturally long life, Morrigunia was immortal, completely indestructible, totally immune from any and all threats—including the gods and goddesses with whom she resided in the Afterlife.

65

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Sleep, Reaper,” Morrigunia said, running her slender fingers down Cynyr’s sunken cheeks. “Sleep and when next you awaken, hopefully you will be yourself.” Cree closed his eyes instantly and his body relaxed. “He has many more days of pain and weakness before he is healed of the viper venom,” Morrigunia said. “It will be a bad time for him for he will not be strong enough to go after his woman.” “We’ll have our hands full keeping him down,” Arawn acknowledged. From the distance the trill of a train’s whistle sounded. It woke Moira who sat up so quickly she made herself dizzy and had to reach out to steady herself. Annie was on her feet, hurrying to the old woman’s side, asking if she needed anything. “Stop babbling, gal,” Moira mumbled as she pushed away Annie’s hands. “I can get up myself. I ain’t crippled no more.” Annie’s shoulders slumped and she turned away only to have her mother-in-law stand up and put a once gnarled hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. She turned with shocked eyes to stare at Moira. “Thank ye for the offer, though,” Moira said gruffly. Shyly Annie smiled, for it was the first time her mother-in-law had ever been polite to her. “Should I go fix us all some breakfast, missus?” she asked. “I could eat a horse with the hair still on him!” Moira chuckled. “Might even scoop up a spoonful or two of them grits of Aingeal’s.” Bevyn grinned. “I could go for scrambled eggs and grits,” he agreed. Arawn winced. “No, thank you, but a cup of strong coffee wouldn’t be turned down.” “I could eat a stack of buckwheat cakes if you’re of a mind to make ’em, Annie,” Mick said, giving the woman a smile. “Nobody makes ’em like you.” “I’d be happy to beat up a batch for you, Micky,” Annie told him. Moira’s left eyebrow crooked up and she exchanged a look with the goddess. “Let me help you fire up the stove, then,” Brady offered. Arawn and Bevyn were grinning as the two townspeople left. There was obviously something brewing between the barber and Moira’s daughter-in-law. “Well now, ain’t that a kick in the arse?” Moira queried. “They say there’s someone for everyone,” Arawn said. Morrigunia looked at the Prime Reaper and smiled. “Aye, Gehdrin. That is so,” she said. Arawn felt a shiver go down his spine as the face of Danielle Brewer flitted across his mind’s eye. He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the pretty girl’s features but they would not go away. With a stricken look, he turned his eyes to the goddess, only to find her staring at him with what he recognized was a smirk. “No,” he said, shaking his head again. “I don’t need a woman.”

66

Reaper’s Revenge

Morrigunia cocked one shoulder but made no comment to his statement. “Absolutely not,” he stated. “And especially not that forward female.” Bevyn bit his lip and turned away from the mutinous look on his leader’s face. As far as he was concerned, Arawn didn’t stand a chance and his fate was obviously already sealed. “Is minic a rinne bromach gioblach capall cumasach,” Morrigunia said in a soft voice. “No,” was all Arawn would say. He stormed out of the jail mumbling the translation of the Gaelach words to himself with rancor—an awkward colt often becomes a beautiful horse. Morrigunia laughed. “He protests too much, don’t you think, Moira McDermott?” “Entirely so,” Moira agreed. Checking on Cynyr as he lay lost in slumber, Morrigunia motioned for Moira and Bevyn to follow her. The rumble of the train was getting closer and as soon as the Reapers had disembarked, the people of Haines City more than well protected, the goddess had business to attend to in the mountains. Arawn’s face was set as he met the other Reapers as they stepped down from the train. He impatiently motioned Kullen over and when Glyn was in front of him, grabbed a handful of Kullen’s shirt and shook him. “I’ll say this once and don’t ever make me have to say it again,” Arawn growled. “The people of Haines City are under our protection. They are not here to wipe your ass for you or for you to take advantage of. Is that clear?” Kullen bobbed his head, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “What did…?” he began only to have the Prime Reaper drag him up closer until they were nearly nose to nose. “You will show these people nothing but respect for they have shown us friendship and despite your behavior in the past, they are more than willing to forgive your transgressions,” Arawn said, and swung his head around to pierce each newly arrived Reaper with a fierce glare. “That goes for all of you.” The Reapers nodded in unison, obviously unsure of what they’d done to make their leader so angry. Glyn Kullen’s mouth had dropped open. “What did I…?” “You will follow my orders or I’ll put your ass down!” Arawn bellowed. “What part of that are you having trouble understanding, Kullen?” Kullen swallowed. “Nothing, milord,” he said then his eyes widened as the Prime Reaper growled low in his throat. “I mean I understand perfectly, milord,” he said. Shoving Kullen away, Arawn stomped off, murmuring under his breath. Passing a hand over his suddenly sweaty face, Kullen looked around. “What the hell did I do?” He scanned the townsfolk who were standing around watching him. “All I did was step off the train!”

67

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Sheriff Brewer strolled over. “Welcome back to our fair city, Lord Kullen,” he said, putting out a hand. “I’m the law around here. Remember me?” Taking the sheriff’s hand, Kullen winced, memory shooting through him like a ricocheting bullet. “Was I that bad when I came through here before?” “You were a bit uppity,” someone in the crowd said. “Was riding your high-horse if memory serves,” another commented. “Treated us like we wuz your servants,” still another put in. “I suggest you don’t do that again,” Iden mumbled as he stepped forward to shake the sheriff’s hand and introduce himself. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” Kullen said. He made it a point to meet the eye of every townsman gathered. “If I insulted you, I ask your forgiveness. I don’t recall much of anything other than going after the rogue. I am sorry if…” “I reckon we’ll be letting bygones be bygones,” the sheriff said. “Come and let’s get you men settled.”

68

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter Eight Kasid Jaborn listened carefully to High Lord Lexis Acklard of the Ceannus as the tall, spindly being instructed Jaborn and the other ten balgairs on what they were to do when they invaded the settlement of Haines City. “No man, woman or child is to remain alive,” Acklard stated. “There are three Reapers left but only two are capable of causing you concern. The one called Cree was stricken many times by the ghoret and will be of no use to them.” “I sense something disturbing moving toward the settlement,” one of the Ceannus observed. He was standing with his large black eyes focused on the plains below. “I am most unsettled by what I feel.” Acklard waved a dismissive hand. “You are feeling the hatred of the Reapers, Isuan. I feel it as well, but it is no import.” Lord Isuan was not so sure. He glided to the edge of the cliff and stared down, using the heat-seeking abilities of his insect-like eyes to scan the valley and prairie beyond. He concentrated, squeezing the wrinkled flesh over his black eyes tightly shut. Listening, cocking his large head to one side in attentiveness, he could not hear anything that substantiated his feelings of uneasiness, yet those feelings persisted, a niggling doubt that continued to plague him. “Perhaps that is what you are sensing, Isuan,” Lord Yborl, the third member of the Ceannus, suggested. The Ceannus and balgairs watched the Jakotai as he came riding into view, his horse laboring as it climbed the serpentine trail leading up to the mountain encampment. Even from a distance, the rogues and their masters could feel the fury lashing at the red man. His face was streaked with vermillion paint, his lips drawn back from snarling teeth. “I should incinerate him where he sits,” Acklard hissed, “for having left us.” He raised his stick-thin arm and sighted down the pale gray flesh for a moment—tracking the brave’s progress—before lowering it and turning away with disdain. “He is not worth the effort it would take to wipe the world of his blight.” Otaktay pushed the horse to its limits as he gained the plateau upon which the strange air ship sat perched like a squashed frog. He paid no attention to the rogues who were glaring at him as he jumped down from the beast and walked purposefully over to Lord Acklard. Stopping before the Ceannus leader, the Jakotai doubled his fist, struck his chest then shot his arm out in a parody of a salute. “I wish the honor of taking the life of the one called Cree,” Otaktay said.

69

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Acklard’s lipless mouth pursed. “Why should I grant you such a boon, savage?” he demanded. “You ran away, striking out on your own. It was not yet time to make our presence known to the Terrans.” Otaktay raised his chin and gave the Ceannus leader his most brutal glower. “I gutted the Reaper but—” “You gutted a Reaper,” Acklard cut him off. “It was not Cree. Cree was locked in battle with the ghorets. One can only hope he will succumb to the poison injected into him.” Shock shifted over the red man’s face. His black eyebrows clashed together over the hawklike prominence of his nose. “I do not understand. There was another Reaper?” “There are two more Reapers,” Acklard snapped. “Why do you think my cabinet and I brought more balgairs to this backward world?” He snapped his fingers at Jaborn, ordering him to come forward. Kasid Jaborn had been chosen by Lord Acklard to lead the rogues and he stepped forward, angry at the red man for having left but not pleased that he had returned, either. To Jaborn’s way of thinking, Otaktay was a loose cannon and barely controllable—if at all. “Aye, Your Grace,” Jaborn said, lowering his head to the high lord. “This fool wishes to take Cynyr Cree’s life. What say you?” Acklard asked. Jaborn shook his head. “Cree is mine,” he stated. “No other will kill him.” Otaktay’s eyes flared. “He sullied my woman!” he shouted. “He turned her!” Acklard’s large black eyes blinked once then a sickening green glow seemed to emanate from the ebon depths. “He transferred a parasite to a female?” “It is my right to punish Cree for what he did to my mate!” Isuan and Yborl began chattering to one another, their strange voices like those of an angry swarm of bees. “You mated with the white woman?” Jaborn demanded. “With Cree’s woman?” “She is mine!” Otaktay bellowed at the top of his lungs. “She was mine long before the Reaper forced himself upon her!” Acklard snaked out his thin arms and grabbed the Jakotai around the neck, lifting the brawny red man from the ground until they were nose to nose. “You mated with the woman?” he queried, the skin of his gray face mottled with black stains of anger. “You mated with her since becoming a balgair?” Otaktay was choking. The fierce grip around his neck had closed off his windpipe and he was struggling to break free, his legs kicking, his fingers plucking at the delicate wrists of the seven feet giant holding him in an attempt to pull the Ceannus’ hands from his throat. “You mated with her?” Acklard screamed, his voice shrill.

70

Reaper’s Revenge

“Yes,” Otaktay managed to say only a moment before he was thrown across the clearing. He landed painfully against a rock and lay there gasping, desperately dragging ragged breaths into his depleted lungs. “He must be put down,” Isuan said and Yborl agreed. “Afterwards,” Acklard insisted. “When all three Reapers are no more, I will personally see to the savage.” “What of the woman?” Yborl asked. “We cannot leave her.” “We will find her,” Acklard said. “And we will remove the parasite and its fledglings from her body. We will leave no Reaper’s whore alive to cause problems for those who are coming after us.” From the top of the mountain, Morrigunia sat perched on her haunches, her membranous wings tucked around her body. The giant triangular spade of her head was twisted to one side as she listened to the Ceannus high lord. Delving quickly into his mind—hiding her entrance as casually as she would flick a flea from her paw—she saw hundreds of ships lined up within a gigantic space station, the docking harnesses prepared to drop away as the ships took to the heavens and headed for the portal between this galaxy and the next. Probing deeper, she ventured into the bellies of the ships and saw rogue after rogue, beaker after beaker filled with revenant worms, awaiting their trip to Terra. It would be an infestation the likes of which Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls, had yet to undertake. “No,” Morrigunia growled deep in her reptilian throat. “It will not happen.” Her slit-pupils gleaming a menacing red spark, she rose up until her sharp talons were digging into the crust of the mountain’s crag, her powerful back legs tensing in preparation for springing. Her long tail twitched once, twice, and then thumped upon the stones with such force the entire mountain shook. Acklard looked up at the thunderous noise. A landslide began tumbling down the mountain but it was the creature who soared from the highest peak that caught the Ceannus high lord’s eye and he shrieked.

***** Aingeal found she was weaker than she thought as she stumbled from the cave. In her hand, she carried a burning brand that had lighted her way from the place where Otaktay had left her. It had taken her what seemed like hours to follow the trail of pebbles someone had dropped at intervals against the craggy walls of the cave. When she had started out—praying the pebbles led to the outside world—she had been careful to search the rocky floor of the cavern for scuff marks. As bright light had speared into the darkness ahead of her and a fresh wave of air hit her, she knew the cave entrance was in reach. Now she looked out across the barren desert and whimpered. Nothing but mile upon mile of inhospitable sand stretched out before her. Here and there a twisted cactus

71

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

lifted its spiny arms up to the heavens, but there was nothing else to break the brutal desolateness that awaited her. The heat was nearly unbearable with no hint of water in sight. All she had on was a tattered silk gown and a pair of slippers that would be useless across such desolate terrain. There would be no protection from the merciless sun beating down upon the wavering sand or from deadly reptiles that might lay in wait. Feeling helpless, hoping against hope the brand would not go out in her hand and pitch her into unremitting darkness, Aingeal returned to the underground lake deep in the Cave of the Winds, her feet dragging across the natural bridge over the still waters. She fed the campfire another small piece of cottonwood and stared at the smoke lazily drifting toward a hole high above her—a natural flue that sucked the thick smoke upward. Idly she wondered if anyone would notice the smoke escaping from the mountain and come to investigate. Sighing deeply, for she was very tired from her trek to the cave entrance, she stretched out on the scratchy blanket that smelled of mildew and dry-rot and turned on her side, her knees drawn up. Otaktay would return. She refused to believe otherwise. She was his wife and he obviously had feelings for her, although when she searched her heart, it held nothing but fear and distrust of the red man. She felt soiled when he held her—almost as though he had abused her in some secret, alien way that had left an impression upon her soul. Lying there staring up at the rippled ceiling of stone above her, she wondered who the man was Otaktay hated so strongly. Had this man actually raped her? Been the reason she had lost her child? Images flitted through her mind of being held tenderly, stroked lovingly, cradled in strong arms that kept the world at bay. Her fingers had memories of silken hair—not greased by animal fat nor smelling of that strong odor—but smooth and clean. Amber eyes gazed back at her from far away when she closed her lids. Her hand went to her belly where once a child had been growing. Grief welled up inside her and threatened to choke off her breath. Had it been a girl? No, her mind denied. It would never be a girl. It would always be a boy. A boy like its stalwart father. What name had she picked for her child? she wondered as she continued to stroke her flat belly. The memory came speeding out of nowhere to hit her full force. “Ranger,” he said. “Briton?” she countered. “Too stuffy.” “Ranger,” she said, trying out the word. “Just doesn’t do it for me.” “Aincyn,” he said. “And the next son will be Briton,” she told him. “When do I get to use Ranger then?” he asked “After our seventeenth child. We’re going to found a dynasty of handsome Cree boys.”

72

Reaper’s Revenge

Aingeal sat up, the whispered memory of that conversation strong in her mind. “It was his child,” she said, her eyes wide. “It was Cree’s son I carried, not Otaktay’s!” Why had the red man lied to her? She asked herself. If he were truly her husband, why had she been with Cree? Why did she not feel threatened by the vague thought of the man Otaktay had referred to as a Reaper? There was impenetrable darkness in her mind—a swirling, bubbling cloud that kept memory and history from being snared. As hard as she tried, she could not dredge up her past except in flashes of dark brown hair and amber eyes, a smiling mouth that made her insides ache, a sensual voice that brought tightness to her heart. Trying to reach out and pluck old memories from her mind made her head hurt and brought queasiness to her stomach. It was too hard and she lay back down, feeling the weakness once more that made her want to close her eyes and sleep. The fire crackled, a log collapsed in upon itself to send showers of glittering sparks up toward the distant hole in the ceiling. She followed the progress of a glowing ember until it was lost among the darker spears of rocks above her. Had he really raped her or had she given herself willingly to him? She wondered. Surely such gentle eyes that gazed out at her from the blackness in her mind could not belong to a man who needed to force himself upon any woman, nor did the sultry voice that whispered through her chaotic brain hint of such vileness. Yet she had no doubt Otaktay was capable of that to which he had accused Cree. She had seen rage in his black gaze and his words had been filled with unrestrained fury. Putting a hand to her throbbing head, Aingeal closed her eyes and tried to remember, to look back in time, but the harder she tried, the darker the clouds grew in her mind. At last she gave up and allowed sleep to slip gently over her, locking her in comforting arms.

***** Pandemonium reigned in the mountain camp as the Ceannus scampered toward their craft. Blood sprayed through the air alongside body parts as the gigantic beast dove in for its attack, gripping rogues with brutal talons and tearing them apart in midair, shrieking horrifically as it rent and destroyed everything within sight. The mechanical cybots scurried about, running into things, until the beast dove down to pick them up then smash them to the rocks below. Otaktay hid behind a rock outcropping and stared in horror at the savagery swirling about him. The creature hovering above him was something so beyond his ability to understand he could do nothing else save squat where he was and tremble. He spied Jaborn running down the mountain road and after one last look at the beast swooping down to pluck the remaining rogues from the ground, followed suit, keeping low to the ground and hopefully out of sight of the flying fiend. Halfway down the mountain an explosion rocketed through the air and knocked the brave from his feet, slamming him into a boulder so hard he felt something give in 73

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

his shoulder. Scrambling up, he cast terrified eyes to the gigantic plume of smoke billowing from the craft where the Ceannus had fled in their useless attempt to escape. The stench of disintegrating metal was horrible but the stench of burning flesh of the Gray Ones made the Jakotai gag. It was an odor unlike anything he’d ever encountered and it washed over him in waves of putrescence. Kasid Jaborn looked back to see the red man staggering after him, a hand clamped to his opposite arm as he moved. Beyond them—at the mountain camp—a few feeble shrieks were drowned out by a tremendous roar of fury as the creature devoured in a burst of fire what was left of the balgairs. “What is that beast?” Otaktay asked, his eyes wild as he came to hide beside Jaborn. “A dragon,” Jaborn replied, never taking his eyes off the beast as it soared over the camp in a lazy circle—as though searching for survivors—then winged its way toward the town of Haines City, releasing a peal of sound that shook the ground beneath his feet. “Did the Reapers call that demon?” Otaktay questioned. His face was pinched with pain as he braced his arm against his side. “If they did, they are more powerful than the Ceannus led us to believe,” Jaborn replied. The creature was no longer in sight—having made its gliding descent to the settlement. He looked at the red man. “Your shoulder is dislocated?” Otaktay could not move his arm and the pain was spreading to his fingers. “I do not know your meaning.” Jaborn stood up from his crouched position. “I can pull it back into place.” The Jakotai studied the man whose skin was as dark as his own and nodded. It took but a moment to take care of the brave’s injury and Jaborn marveled that Otaktay made no sound as his dislocated shoulder was repaired. Though there was a sheen of sweat on the Jakotai’s upper lip, he never even blinked when the shoulder went back into its socket. “If the Reapers are that powerful, how will we win against them?” Otaktay asked as he flexed his throbbing arm. “There are three of them,” Jaborn said, “and two of us. If Cree is ill and unable to fight us, that narrows the odds a bit, but we will need to attack two to their one, separating the other Reapers so we can take them out.” “I care nothing for the other Reapers,” Otaktay said. “I care only that I take the life of the man who dishonored my woman.” “I have pledged to take Cree’s life,” Jaborn said. “He killed my brother.” Otaktay lifted his chin. “The killing of a brother is more important than a woman’s honor, I will grant you that. You may have the kill but I wish to make the white man suffer for what he did to my mate.”

74

Reaper’s Revenge

Jaborn suspected Cree had mated with the woman as well, and if that were the case, she would be precious to him. He would be sworn to protect her. “Where is she?” he asked the brave. “I have her hidden in the Cave of the Winds,” Otaktay replied. “It is to the south of us in the mountain range that separates this territory from Exasla.” “Then let us join her,” Jaborn said. “It will take the two of us to defeat the Reaper even if he is ill.” “You believe him that powerful?” Otaktay demanded. “I know him to be that powerful, and if he can command a dragon, he can send that demon after us.” “What of the other two Reapers? Should we not kill them? Will they not join forces with Cree?” “They believe the threat to Terra has been laid to rest with the killing of the Ceannus and the balgairs,” Jaborn said. “They will return to the Citadel when Cree is well again. We will need to bide our time. He will come after the woman and when he does, we will slay him.” “And I will keep my woman!” Otaktay said. Jaborn smiled but his eyes were as hard as flint. “Aye, you may keep your woman.” He turned away, hiding his inner thoughts from the red man. The woman had been implanted with a parasite and had to be killed—as did Otaktay after he outlived his usefulness to Jaborn.

75

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Nine The pain was almost more than he could bear. It was eating him alive, his insides burning like molten lava flowing through his veins and organs. Writhing upon the cot—his wrists and ankles once more lashed to the metal frame—he twisted and convulsed until he was so weak he could barely move beneath the lightweight blanket covering his fevered flesh. The intensity of the movement of the new queen bunching up under his skin—coiling and uncoiling as it produced an antidote for the ghoret poison—was so fierce, Cynyr screamed with the agony. It had been nine days since the multiple bites of the ghorets. Morrigunia had wakened her Reaper in small increments to feed him Sustenance but then sent him back into a restless slumber so his body would heal. She, alone, had bathed him for she would allow no one else to wipe away the poison oozing from his body for fear of making the other Reapers sick or killing the helpful townspeople. It was taking longer than she expected and she had yet to bring him fully to consciousness in order to speak with him. His wild, glazed eyes, sunken cheeks and paleness were enough to convince the triune goddess his mind could not embrace the agony lashing against it. She feared he would sink into irrevocable madness should he be brought to full consciousness too soon. Moira’s once twisted fingers were moving with alacrity as she sat in the rocking chair Annie had asked Arawn to bring to the jail. The old woman was knitting a black wool sweater for Cynyr, for the first snow had arrived during the night to cover the peaks of the mountains where dark gray smoke still spiraled up from the ship Morrigunia had destroyed. Casting a row of stitches or two, Moira looked toward her charge as he moved restlessly in his painful sleep. She stopped as she heard him moaning Aingeal’s name and tears filled her eyes. “He fears for her,” Bevyn said. He was stretched out on the cot in the cell next to Cynyr’s. Lying on his side, his head propped in his hand, he’d been watching Moira’s nimble fingers with fascination. “I hope his lady is all right,” Moira said quietly. “Morrigunia would know if she weren’t,” Arawn said. He was sitting behind Sheriff Brewer’s desk, ladling beef stew into his mouth and savoring the hearty fare. Moira glanced at the Prime Reaper and a secretive smile pulled at her lips. Little by little, Arawn was being worn down by the sheriff’s pretty little daughter Danielle. Yesterday it was a jug of lemonade and a platter of crisply fried apple pies that had been brought to tempt Arawn Gehdrin. The day before it had been roast chicken with dressing that had caused a thawing in the Reaper’s cold eyes. The old woman

76

Reaper’s Revenge

wondered what culinary delights the next day would bring to win the heart of the stubborn Arawn. Bevyn turned his head and sniffed the air. Once more, Cynyr had soiled himself, bloody black urine and gastrointestinal fluids seeping out to spread upon the sheet beneath his nude body. Sighing, he sat up and swung his legs off the cot. “You need help?” Owen Tohre, one of the four Reapers who had come to Haines City, asked Bevyn. “Aye,” Bevyn agreed. “Now that he’s not oozing venom, I think we can bathe him. He’s due for a bath.” “I’ll get the water,” Glyn Kullen, another of the Reapers, offered, and left the jail. Arawn wiped his mouth and pushed his chair back. “I’ll help you, Kullen.” Lending their support from the across the room, the two remaining Reapers— Phelan Keil and Iden Belial—looked up from their card game, but upon seeing their help wasn’t needed, continued to good-naturedly rib one another over the luck of their draws. Tohre walked into Cynyr’s cell and gently laid the blanket aside. He winced when he saw the enflamed flesh streaking down the Reaper’s legs. “I hope to Alel you wiped out all the ghorets,” he said. “Morrigunia believes we did,” Bevyn replied. Moira looked away from Cynyr’s nakedness and focused entirely on her knitting. “The lad will need more Sustenance after his bath,” she commented to no one in particular. “We’ll take care of that,” Phelan told her. “It would be best if he could take directly from us,” Iden suggested. “Do you think we could bring him up enough to do that?” “We can’t, but Morrigunia can,” Bevyn put in. “Does anyone know where she is?” “Haven’t seen her this morning,” Moira answered. “Thought maybe she went looking for Aingeal.” “My guess is she already knows where Aingeal is,” Bevyn stated. Glyn and Arawn returned with hot water from the saloon next door. John Denning, the saloonkeeper, kept a large pot simmering most of the day for the Reapers’ use. Carefully washing the fluids from Cynyr’s pain-racked body, Bevyn waded up the soiled sheets and handed them to Glyn to take to Su Hun, the washerwoman who worked at the Guthrie House. Between them, Bevyn and Arawn eased a fresh sheet under Cynyr and pulled up another lightweight blanket to cover his nakedness. “His eyes are open,” Arawn observed. Cynyr was staring unseeingly up at the water-stained ceiling. He was sweating profusely so the Prime Reaper wrung out a cloth in a bucket of cool water and wiped his fellow Reaper’s face.

77

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Aingeal,” Cynyr managed to say. “You need to feed,” Arawn said gently. Phelan skirted the cot and began rolling up the sleeve of his black shirt. “I offer my Sustenance to you,” he said and placed his bare wrist to Cynyr’s lips. Too weak to lift his head, it took all of Cynyr’s strength to sink his incisors into Kiel’s wrist when Arawn slid his hand under Cree’s neck and braced his head up. His eyes strove to track Iden Belial as that Reaper moved into place beside Arawn and pushed up his own shirtsleeve. Moira glanced around as Morrigunia came into the jail. The goddess moved with such grace it was a delight to watch her walk. Her beauty lit the room as though a dozen candles had been put to the flame. “Lad’s awake,” Moira reported. Morrigunia nodded. “I woke him.” “He’s asking for his lady,” Moira whispered. “It will be a while before he can take care of that situation,” the goddess replied. Gently, Phelan removed his wrist from Cynyr’s lips and Iden moved into place, offering his own blood. “Arawn, Bevyn, Glyn,” Morrigunia said. “Give him yours as well. Phelan, go fetch Owen from the stable and tell him we have need of his blood.” Cynyr’s gaze was clearing, his eyes losing the opaqueness of confusion to focus on the men standing around his cot. When Arawn removed his hand from beneath Cree’s neck, Cynyr was able to hold his head up so he could sink his teeth into Arawn’s wrist and when he did, the paleness began to leave his drawn face. Phelan Kiel returned with Owen Tohre who was unbuttoning his sleeve and rolling it up. “I have spoken with the Shadowlords,” Morrigunia told those gathered. “They have scanned the mountain and found nothing left of the Ceannus, the cybots or the remaining rogues.” Arawn looked up as he eased his wrist from Cynyr’s mouth. “Remaining rogues?” he questioned. “They were all there, weren’t they?” “Except for those we already knew about who are hiding in Exasla Territory?” Bevyn asked as Cynyr sank his fangs into Coure’s wrist. Cynyr was not only focusing on those around him but was obviously taking in the conversation. He was listening and his gaze homed in on the goddess, waiting for her to answer. “Two rogues managed to escape my retribution,” Morrigunia said, her eyes locked with Cynyr’s. “One is the brother of a man Cree vanquished back in the summertime.” At Cynyr’s frown, she told him the rogue’s name. “Khnum Jaborn. His brother is called Kasid.” “Who is the other?” Arawn asked.

78

Reaper’s Revenge

“The Jakotai,” Morrigunia answered. Cynyr slowly closed his eyes for a moment. Every man there knew the Reaper had hoped that would be the goddess’ answer. “He has your lady,” Morrigunia said softly, “but she is safe. I have checked on her.” Glyn had replaced Bevyn and it was his flesh Cynyr sank his fangs into so savagely the Reaper yelped. He looked up to the ceiling, his lips pressed tightly together as Cree drank angrily, his amber gaze glittering with red flames. “Don’t take your rage out on Kullen, Cynyr,” Morrigunia commanded. “And do not hurt Tohre when it is his turn to feed you.” Shame drifted across Cynyr’s face and he looked up at Kullen. His fellow Reaper shrugged, understanding, and he smiled when Cree’s tongue laved Gynn’s wrist in an attempt to soothe it. “I think I’ll just cut my own wrist and dribble it into his mouth,” Owen joked. He shook a finger at Cree before offering his arm. “Be gentle with me, Cree. It’s my first time.” The room was silent as Cynyr fed from Tohre’s wrist. Everyone could see the strength flowing back into Cree. His cheeks were no longer so sunken and there was a rosy hue to his cheekbones. He was not sweating as badly and his hands were no longer clenching and unclenching. He was lying much calmer, much more in control and Morrigunia ordered his restraints removed. Licking a drop of Tohre’s blood from his lower lip, Cynyr sighed. He laid his head down and closed his eyes, aware of the men moving out of his cell. He knew without being told whose blood would next be offered and when he felt her hand on his cheek, he opened his eyes to look up at her. “Has he hurt her?” he asked, and winced at the weakness in his voice. Morrigunia smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “She lost the child, Reaper,” she told him. Sorrow shot through Cree’s amber eyes then a dark crimson flare of fury replaced it. His lips peeled back from his teeth—the incisors lengthening to needle-sharp points—and he hissed like a cornered viper. “It was the ride that unseated the babe from her womb,” Morrigunia said. “Not the red man. He hit her when he took her and her memories are scattered but she is slowly regaining knowledge of who you are. Though he tries to tell her you are the enemy, she knows better. He has not hurt her since that night.” Rage settled on Cree’s countenance and his hands dug into the blanket, crumpling it in fists whose knuckles had bled of color. He was staring up at the goddess, the knowledge in his direct gaze telling her he knew there was worse news to come. “He mated with her.” It was the first time any of the other Reapers had heard the hideous news though Bevyn had suspected as much, having kept his suspicions to himself. The men flinched,

79

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

their attention going immediately to Cree who was lying so still—not even breathing— he appeared dead. Bevyn hung his head, thinking of his own mate Lea. “He raped her,” Cree said in a voice as cold as the tomb. “He raped my wife.” “He believes she is his wife, Cree,” Morrigunia told him. “He will guard her with his life. You have no reason to fear he will harm her.” “He will lay with her again,” Cree said through clenched teeth. Morrigunia shook her head. “No, that will not happen. I have seen to that.” “How?” The one word was bitten out as though it were a bitter taste in Cree’s mouth. “I have made it impossible for his staff to harden,” she said with a small, dangerous smile. “Never again will he take another woman.” “Especially not when I carve that malignant flesh from his carcass,” Cynyr swore. “Right now you are not strong enough to carve your way through hot butter,” Morrigunia reminded him. “It will be a week, perhaps two, before you are well enough to go after Jaborn and the savage.” “And we’ll go with you when you do,” Arawn stated. Cree turned a furious glower to Bevyn. “Why did you not go after my woman, Coure? Why did you allow the Jakotai to take her?” “I would not allow him or Arawn to go,” Morrigunia said. When Cynyr turned his hot eyes to her, she lifted her head. “But if you do not want the opportunity to avenge your mate—” “I will do it!” Cree snarled, and threw the cover from his legs. He tried to sit up, but his head swam unmercifully and nausea came galloping up his throat. “You won’t be doing anything for a while yet,” Morrigunia told him. “Do not make it necessary for me to have you shackled again.” Moira had stopped her knitting and was watching the tableau playing itself out in the jail cell. Despite every promise she’d made to herself, she could not stop from staring at the beautiful male body lying naked upon the white sheet. Though there were still angry red streaks crisscrossing the flesh on his legs and a dark purple bruise covered much of his left side, he was something to behold lying there. “Stop ogling him, Moira,” Morrigunia whispered in the old lady’s mind. “He would not like it.” Moira ducked her head and began knitting as though her very life depended upon it. Her aged face was bright red, her wrinkled lips pursed tightly together as she set her chair to rocking quickly. Breathing raggedly, Cynyr swept a hand down his nude body and a black cotton shirt and pair of black denims covered him. His bare feet were very pale against the darkness of the leather pants but at least there was color in his face, neck and arms now.

80

Reaper’s Revenge

“Do you want my blood or not, Reaper?” Morrigunia asked, drawing the angry man’s gaze to her. Intensity narrowed Cynyr’s eyes to thin slits. His nostrils flared. A muscle in his lean jaw bunched. He was glaring up at the goddess with such force the room’s temperature began to lower. She offered him her wrist. Moira stopped rocking when she heard the low growl that emanated from the Reaper’s throat. Her fingers stilled on the knitting. Her old eyes grew wide as Cree slowly reached for the goddess’s arm and brought it to his mouth. “Be careful what you do, my Reaper,” Morrigunia warned him. With his eyes locked on hers, Cree pierced her flesh as gently as he could, grinding his teeth into her arm to lock it in place. He drew heavily upon her flesh, swallowing almost sensually as he stared into her lovely face. Her blood was rich, tasting of some rare spice he could not name, very potent as it flowed down his throat. Erotic images were floating past his mind’s eye—sheathing him in tight, hot dampness, rhythmically squeezing, oozing around him. There was a subliminal memory washing over his subconscious, a wavering pattern that ebbed and flowed as he drank her heady Sustenance. Around him, the jail cell turned dark as pitch and the others simply vanished until there was only him and Morrigunia left—connected, linked, coupled together. “Remember, my Reaper?” she whispered, and her seductive voice seemed to be coming from far, far away. The scent of gardenia filled the darkness around him and he was floating upon an ebon cloud, drifting, suspended in midair. He imagined his body gliding through space, turning, revolving slowly, sensually until he was facedown, watching swirls of sparkling copper lights flitting past below him. “Remember,” she said, her voice nothing more than a breath of sound weaving its way through his ear, into his blood stream, sliding potently into his heart and taking root. He saw branches of her words spreading through his body—claiming every artery, every vein, every organ, the smallest part of his sinew and muscle—and taking hold. The coppery branches snaked through him, slithered, taking over until he was completely saturated, impregnated with the goddess’ essence. “Remember.” Slowly the darkness brightened until he was lying in a field of fleecy gray clouds with silver rain falling gently around him. His hair was wet, drops of rainwater clinging to his lashes and brows, easing softly down his cheeks, slipping into his mouth to appease the terrible dryness that seemed to be racking his body. He was naked, the rain peppering him with soothing warmth and trickling down his chest, between his legs, under the small of his back. His arms and legs were spread wide apart as he lay upon the downy billow of cloud, staring up at the silvery water spiraling down upon his face and body. He was 81

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

completely relaxed—a willing sacrificial victim awaiting whatever fate the goddess held in store for him. Unable to move and not wishing to, he simply waited. She came to him on a shimmering burst of coppery light that shifted, wavered, surged through the gray expanse of the heavens. Brighter than the sun, more mysterious than the moon, she floated toward him, her naked flesh bejeweled in silvery rain, her wild red hair undulating like a live thing reaching out for him. Her smile was so tempting, her white teeth sparkling as her ruby-red lips parted and her sensuous tongue flicked out to lave the full, upper Cupid’s bow of her mouth. With graceful arms outstretched, she glided toward him, the bright red patch of curls at her thighs radiant with dewy drops of rainwater. Hovering above him, her lush breasts beckoned as they pointed toward his hairy chest. The deep coral of her nipples was inviting—a feast for a starving man to feed upon. Beauty was hers and it was such beauty it hurt him to look upon her glorious face. Dark emerald green eyes bore into his very soul, the long auburn lashes sweeping down gently to hide those sumptuous orbs, and when they lifted, revealed a hot hunger that drove straight to his manhood. Every inch of his flesh itched to touch hers. His palms were filled with sweat mixing with the rain. His blood boiled. His heart thundered. He could hear himself panting, his breath ragged and excited. His cock ached with a fullness that brought it to rigid attention—a throbbing blade that needed to be sheathed within pulsing heat. The stunning being above him drifted lower until she was but a molecule away from touching his fevered body. Though no shackles bound him to the vapors upon which he lay spread-eagled, he writhed, thrusting his hips upward to touch the magnificent patch of cinnabar curls nestled at the juncture of her shapely, milky thighs. His hands opened and closed in spasms of need for want of touching her, palming the sweet globes that were but a breath away. He dug his heels into the cloud, pushing his hips toward her but could not touch her. She was positioned above him—within impaling distance—but out of his reach. He moaned. He whimpered. Tears filled his amber eyes. Frustration passed over his handsome face and he began to plead, to beg, to beseech her to take pity upon him and sate the growing passion that had turned his staff as unbending as stone. Her long red tresses floated down toward him until the curling ends touched his chest, dragging over him like fingers that teased his flesh and seemed to slither through his chest hair, braiding itself to latch him to her. Where it touched his skin, he tingled and spirals of heat wove through his loins. The sensation was so intense, so vibrant, it bordered on pain. As one long strand crawled its way along the tiger line of his belly hair and split apart to send tentacles weaving through his pubic hair, he groaned, arching his hips to feel the touch of that strand upon his cock. He did not have long to wait. The cinnamon-colored strand wrapped slowly, seductively around and around his straining member, growing tighter and tighter as it bound him. Another strand spread

82

Reaper’s Revenge

down his sacs. The strand curling around his cock finally reached the head and split apart. One portion flicked across his slit, drove down a tiny ways into the core of his shaft and tickled him while the other nibbled at his sensitive head until he was nearly convulsing with pleasure. Still another errant finger of hair eased down between his legs and probed gently at the pucker of his ass—bidding entry and promising a dark delight that could only be imagined. “Please!” he begged. He felt wriggling tension sliding insidiously up his anus and he trembled, his entire body shivering. It seemed to grow inside him, spreading his anal canal until he was filled with a hot, slick probe that impaled him. “I want your seed, Reaper,” he heard her say. “I need your get.” A portion of his consciousness knew what he was doing was wrong but it felt right. It felt good. It promised unequaled delight. It whispered of forbidden things that filled the body with soul-stirring passion. “Take me, mo regina,” he pleaded with her. “All of you? All that is yours?” The question drove a terrible fear straight to his soul but he ignored the warnings in his head. He ignored the moans that came to him from a thousand manly throats, the pleas that begged him to deny her what she sought. All that mattered to him was the fulfillment her rich voice offered. “Take whatever you want that is mine,” he answered recklessly. He saw the sly smile that stretched her supple mouth and terror stabbed at his heart. He trembled at the gleam in her verdant eyes and a trickle of urine seeped from his rigid cock. Shudders rippled down his spine and pebbles of fear broke upon his flesh yet he was as unable to stop what he knew was coming than he could pull free of her siren’s call. “You belong to me, Reaper,” she said. “And I will take what you freely offer.” Her body slid over his and his shaft unerringly thrust into her warm, wet channel. He felt her hands upon his paps, her fingers twisting brutally as she rode his cock, drawing it deeper into her tight sheath. The weight, the fullness of that which impaled his anal opening grew larger still until it pressed against the walls of his lower body and began to rotate back and forth, twisting inside him and bringing a measure of such carnal intensity as it slowly moved in and out of him, he could barely stand it. Her cunt was milking him as the entity inside him began to increase its speed. It felt as though her vagina were suckling him—tiny tongues laving the head of his cock and probing down inside it with wisps of heat. A firm, moist mouth slanted across his and a wet, hot tongue pressed between his teeth. He could feel that wicked muscle moving down his throat, flicking across his uvula and slipping down his esophagus. Tendrils of her hair eased up his nostrils. It was all he could do to draw breath around the obstruction, yet so intense was the lust riding him—so strong—he could not object…only endure. 83

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

His wrists and ankles felt chained to the cloud. His legs—pulled so wide apart it was almost uncomfortable—flexed and pulled against his phantom restraints. Her fingers were in his ears and his eyes went wide as he felt them spiraling through the canals and into his brain. He was impaled completely by her body. Every orifice was taken. One thick lock of her hair was curled around his belly to squeeze him so tightly he could no longer move. It seemed as though every ringlet of her hair had wrapped itself around him to hold him prisoner. The burning began in the very core of his cock and then spread upward into his belly. It was not painful, but so intense, so powerful, it blocked out every other sensation racking his captive body. Flickers of lust wafted through him and settled in that burgeoning, stretching probe that was spinning crazily in his rectum. She rode him hard—slamming her lower body against his with such force she grunted with the effort. Rising until their flesh was barely a layer of flesh apart, she would drop upon him again and thrust him deeper into her tight, constricting channel. The friction as she moved was a delight such as none other than a Reaper had ever felt and it was a wicked enchantment that could burst a heart in the heat of such fierce passion. It claimed. It captured. It enslaved. It took him in ways that left him feeling degraded and humiliated, yet filled with such pleasure it brought tears to his helpless eyes. Her teeth clamped into his lower lip, drawing black blood and she suckled him as the white-hot spasm of release came escalating up from the very depths of his well of manly juices and poured into her crucible of pulsing liquid that enveloped him in such overpowering warmth, he tore his lip from her grip and screamed with the violent release. His cum shot hot and thick and creamy into her waiting receptacle and as the last wigglet of sperm exploded into her, she clamped down upon that life-giving fluid and captured it deep inside her, imprisoning it within her womb where it would grow and bring forth the purest of Reaper kind.

***** Cynyr woke with a vicious headache that made it impossible to open his eyes to the bright glare of the morning sun coming in through the jail’s front windows. There was a strange taste in his mouth and his limbs felt heavy, incapable of moving. He felt like a tick—full to bursting, barely capable of lifting a hand to the brutal pain in his head. “I have your tenerse,” a voice said, and it seemed to the Reaper as though it were clanging like the clapper within a giant bell. Sliding his hands carefully over his ears to protect them from the mighty rush of breath that was flowing in and out of the speaker’s mouth, he felt gentle hands pushing his elbow aside to turn his head to one side. “Relax, Cree,” the voice commanded. “You are as tense as barbed wire.” 84

Reaper’s Revenge

Agony drove straight through Cynyr’s brain with each softly spoken word. The sound of his own head being turned against the pillow beneath his cheek was so loud it rubbed his nerves raw and made the pain even more excruciatingly hard to tolerate. But none of that pain was as savage as the burning invasion that plunged into his neck muscle and spread like wildfire through his veins. He could not stop the moan that escaped his lips. “I know,” the voice whispered. Gentle hands touched his head, his shoulder and braced him as the torture crept through his bloodstream to turn his veins to molten lava. His entire body shuddered from the torment and tears sprang to his eyes, squeezing out from beneath tightly closed lids. As the liquid flames stretched from his neck to his groin and to his curled toes, he whimpered, crying out as the pain increased to such monstrous levels it threatened his sanity. “How much was in that injection?” the voice asked, and it was a sharp, accusing biting out of words that were an accusation unto themselves. “Enough to finish off the poisons in his system,” another voice answered. “Do not dare question me again, Reaper!” There was a scuffling sound that told Cynyr one body was pushed away as another took its place. Cool, soft hands took hold of his wrists and brought his hands from his ears. A cooing sound—soothing and as tender as a newborn shoot of grass—slid through his mind to calm him, lull him, ease the ungodly pain. A fragrant palm was laid alongside his cheek and he nuzzled his face into that sweet plane. “Lie easy, my Reaper,” this kind voice commanded. “Be still and be at peace.” It was hard to resist the authority in that voice. His muscles instantly relaxed. His heart smoothed out its jerky rhythm. His blood ceased flowing so hotly and rapidly through his veins. The pain flowed away like mist from the seashore and left him feeling tranquil and composed, in charge of his own body once again. Sound no longer seemed so invasive. His breath came easily and did not drag like fingernails over sandpaper in his ears. Though his limbs were useless—unable to move—he felt a peacefulness he had not experienced in days. He lay there with his eyes closed, enjoying the soothing, cool fingers that stroked his forehead and cheek. “He will sleep for a while, and when he awakens, he will need more Sustenance. Each of you must provide it,” that perfect voice said. “My work here is done but should he need me, I will return.” There were no answering words from the harsher voice Cynyr had heard upon first awakening. He had the impression that the owner of that voice was angry, barely holding in check raging words that should never be released.

85

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Within five, perhaps six days, he will be able to stand. Another day after and he will be able to walk. By the end of the week, he will be ready to begin training for what lies ahead.” “He’ll want to be up and about long before that!” “Do not let him, Gehdrin, but even if he should try, he will find himself far too weak to go up against the rogues. He will know himself incapable of doing what must be done. Remind him he must be at full strength before he goes up against Jaborn and the savage.” “Bevyn and I could go after—” “You will stay out of this!” The words were spoken with such a stern reprimand Cynyr winced, though those words had not been thrown at him. “It is his duty to perform, not yours!” There was a flare of bright, bright light and the room suddenly seemed to be sucked clean of its atmosphere. A dull roaring sound enveloped the space to make the ears pop and ache. “Bitch.” The word was a curse that came from the very soul of the one who spoke it. Forcing his eyes open, Cynyr looked up to see Arawn Gehdrin staring across the room but there was nothing there as far as Cree could tell. He knew it had been Morrigunia who had been speaking to the Prime Reaper and that she had fled back to whatever realm it was from whence she had come. Arawn sighed harshly then shifted his gaze to Cynyr, blinking when he noticed Cree looking at him. “Are you aware, Reaper?” Arawn asked. “As I can be,” Cynyr replied, and was surprised at how weak and raspy his voice sounded. Plowing a hand through his thick black hair, Arawn pulled up a chair, spun it around, straddled it and sat down, his arms crossed over the chair’s back. “How do you feel?” “As though I’ve been pickled in acid,” Cynyr answered. “My insides hurt.” “Do you remember what happened to you?” “Ghorets.” It was all the explanation needed. Arawn nodded. “You’ve been deathly sick for over a week. She says you’ll be too ill to be out of bed for at least another few days.” “Sounds about right,” Cynyr agreed. He felt as weak as a kitten but not even equipped with the sharp claws that little animal possessed. “How close to Transition are you?” Cynyr couldn’t remember. He felt it was weeks away—perhaps as much as a month—but he wasn’t sure. It could be closer or farther away. His thought patterns seemed dulled and he was incapable of holding any one particular image in his mind for any length of time.

86

Reaper’s Revenge

“I would imagine the punishment at the Citadel has thrown your cycle off anyway,” Arawn commented, referring to the month of enforced denial of both Sustenance and tenerse the High Council had ordered as punishment for Cree Transferring one of his parasites to his mate. “Aye,” was all Cree could reply. He felt so drained, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, but there was a look on the Prime Reaper’s face that set off alarm bells in Cynyr’s brain. “What troubles you, Arawn?” Arawn braced his chin on his crossed arms and locked eyes with his subordinate. “How much of what happened after you took Reaper blood do you remember, Cree?” Cynyr’s forehead crinkled as he tried to grasp the image of taking Sustenance from his fellow Reapers but it kept slipping away, folding in upon itself. He shook his head and wished he hadn’t, for the headache from hell was still pounding over his right eye. “Do you remember taking blood from the goddess?” Amber eyes widened in shock. “Did I?” Arawn nodded slowly. “That you did, brother.” Pain undulated through Cynyr’s temples for a moment and the room spun crazily. His heartbeat increased so rapidly he had to suck in a quick breath, gripping the sheet beneath him for fear he’d tumble from the bed. When he could get his stampeding heart under control, he felt nausea hovering in his chest and swallowed convulsively to keep it down. “I don’t believe she thought about the connection between us, you and I,” Arawn said quietly. “I don’t think it ever crossed her mind.” “Connection?” Cynyr repeated, striving to bring his hand up to rub at the debilitating pain ripping at his skull. “The copious amount of venom from the ghorets did you a lot of damage, Cree,” Arawn told him. “It was too much, too potent for your parasite to handle. It killed your queen and wiped out the entire nest of fledglings.” Cynyr’s lips parted in disbelief. “My parasite is dead?” he questioned. “No wonder I can’t control this hellish pain.” “That’s what’s left of the venom still plaguing you I imagine. Your parasite had to be removed, the nest as well, but another was transferred to you. It will get a handle on the pain and stop it.” There was a gnawing, tearing discomfort that suddenly manifested itself in Cynyr’s back—just over his right kidney—and he sucked in a breath. It felt to him as though the new queen were introducing herself to him. He locked eyes with Arawn. “One of yours?” he asked. “You were dying,” Arawn said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You needed more than a nestling to save you. You needed the power of a full-grown queen.” “I have your queen?” Cynyr whispered.

87

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Arawn shrugged. “As Prime Reaper, mine was the most potent, my nest older than any of the others. It didn’t take a new alpha revenant worm long to take control of the nest and assert herself. I was back to full strength within a few days.” “You have my thanks, Arawn,” Cynyr said, wishing he had the strength to offer his hand to his leader. “We will always be connected now,” Arawn reminded him. “It was a connection Morrigunia overlooked.” Cynyr studied the Prime Reaper’s face and could see deeply troubled lines crinkling beside Gehdrin’s steady eyes. “Just spit it out,” he asked. “I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me.” Gehdrin lifted his chin from his arms and drew in a deep breath, seemingly fortifying himself for what he needed to say. He uncrossed his arms and gripped the sides of the chair almost as though he needed to anchor himself to something then he began. “We were all there—Bevyn, Phelan, Iden, Owen, Glyn, myself. We had given you our blood at Morrigunia’s command and then she stepped up to you and offered her own wrist. There wasn’t a man there who didn’t feel his balls drawing up inside him when she did that, but not a one of us let it show. I had a talk with each of them after it was all over and none of the others saw or heard what I did. None of them experienced what I felt and that puzzled me at first until I realized it was the connection, the sharing of the parasite that made it possible for me to have been a witness to what happened to you when you took the goddess’ blood.” Cynyr listened as Arawn described in detail the carnal scene that unfolded before him while the rest of the room went dark as pitch, while everyone else—the Reapers as well as the old lady—simply faded into nothingness, and time ceased to move. When he was finished, Cree lay there with a stricken look upon his handsome face, the vein in the hollow of his throat pulsing rapidly. “Think back, Cree, “Arawn said, “to the day you died. To the day when she made you one of us.” “That’s so long ago—” “She took you from the place you died and carried you into the heavens,” Arawn interrupted. “She did that with each of us. We remember that. We remember the agony of the revenant entering out bodies, but none of us remember her feeding us her blood.” “I don’t think she did.” “No, but she had to have done so,” Arawn stated. “When you transferred one of your nestlings to Aingeal, did you not share your blood with her?” “Aye, but—” “Morrigunia fed each of us, Cree. She had to have done that. It is part of the ritual, either before the parasite is given or soon after. It bonds the giver and recipient together.”

88

Reaper’s Revenge

“That’s true, Arawn, but what you are describing couldn’t have happened. You are forgetting—a Reaper can mate only once.” “You weren’t mating with her, Cree, and it didn’t happen yesterday. What I witnessed was a scene from long ago, something the queen was remembering as she absorbed Morrigunia’s blood. It happened when the goddess made us! She took our sperm. She took our sons!” Horror flitted across Cynyr’s tired face and he struggled to sit up although far too weak to accomplish the task. He slumped on the cot, his eyes bearing the same revulsion Arawn’s did. “But why? For what purpose, Arawn?” he asked. “Only she knows,” the Prime Reaper replied. “Somewhere, we have children by that demoness.”

89

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Ten Jaborn could not look away from the woman. She was sitting by herself near the bubbling waters of the underground pool, staring into the steaming vapors that skipped across the still surface. “She is a beauty, is she not?” Otaktay inquired as he sharpened the blade of his lance. “She is a Reaper,” Jaborn replied. His thoughts were not on the loveliness of the woman’s face—although he had to admit she possessed that in abundance—but in the fact she was not that unlike himself. She had needed Sustenance and begrudgingly he had allowed the savage to take a cup of his to feed her. She also needed tenerse but he would not share his supply with her. He had watched as the red man handed her a flask that contained his and the Jakotai’s combined blood, and for some reason had been deeply disturbed. “I am not sure that was wise,” he had complained to Otaktay. “She had to be fed,” the brave had insisted. Jaborn kept staring at her. If she did not get tenerse soon, she could Transition just as he had on the way to the cave. His race had little respect for women in general but a woman who wielded the power of a Reaper unnerved Jaborn and he was wary of her. He did not want to be near her when she went into Transition. Otaktay lowered his voice. “She does not remember that she is such,” he informed his fellow rogue. “She believes Cree raped her and was responsible for the loss of her child.” Jaborn narrowed his eyes. “She has no love for the Reaper, then?” The Jakotai puffed out his chest. “She only has love for me, her husband.” “I thought she had joined with Cree,” Jaborn said, his forehead creased. “Hush!” the brave warned. “Do not speak so loudly. I do not wish her to hear!” Aingeal gave no sign that she had heard the men’s words but she had taken in everything they had said since Otaktay had led the stranger into the cave with them several days earlier. Though her profile was to the men, she was careful to keep any emotion from showing on her face and to remain relaxed, though her heart was pounding so furiously she was amazed the men did not hear. “She belongs to me,” Otaktay was saying. “This she believes and this is the way it will be.” “Why does she not remember Cree?” the one called Jaborn asked.

90

Reaper’s Revenge

From the corner of her eye, Aingeal saw the red man shrug carelessly. “I hit her alongside her head and she has lost her memory.” “All women need to be beaten regularly,” Jaborn pronounced. “It keeps them in line.” “This is so,” Otaktay agreed, though he glanced at Aingeal to make sure she had not heard the remark. Anger boiled in Aingeal’s veins. While it was true there were bits and pieces of her memory still hiding behind shifting darkness in her mind, some things had surfaced clearly enough for her to know that Otaktay was not her husband, but her enemy. Since he admitted to striking her, he was not the loving, caring man he pretended to be when Jaborn was out of hearing. She already knew the babe she lost had been the Reaper’s and not the brave’s. She suspected Otaktay had caused the miscarriage that had left her womb feeling barren and her heart aching. “How will you explain to her what is happening when she Transitions?” Jaborn was asking. “I do not know but I believe that is a long way off. Perhaps we will have slain the Reaper by then.” Then I will slay you. Aingeal jumped, realizing she had heard the thought in Jaborn’s mind. She stared at him and saw the way he intended to take Otaktay’s life. She swung her gaze to the Jakotai and found she could intercept his thoughts as well. Otaktay was thinking of peeling the flesh from the Reaper’s body and she shivered. Stunned to realize she could hear the men’s thoughts, she sat there pondering it for quite some time—looking for the good things and bad things about her newfound ability. At last she decided the good outweighed the bad and it was a very useful thing she could do, for it was possible to stop bad things from happening before they did. Clenching her teeth together so tightly she was getting a headache, Aingeal was digging her nails into her palms. There was no way she would allow the men to harm the one called Cree. If her suspicions were correct, he was her true mate and it had been Otaktay who had stolen her from her rightful home. Why, she had no idea and didn’t care to know. That she was his captive was evident in the way he kept watch over her and though he had provided a long skirt and blouse for her to wear—stolen he had told her from a white man’s clothesline—he had taken her thin slippers and burned them in the campfire. Barefoot, she would not get far in the broiling desert sun of the day or the freezing cold of its evenings. Tearing his stare from the woman, Jaborn got up to stretch. He was unaccustomed to being underground and it rattled his nerves. The cave walls tended to close in around him and he made many trips to the cave entrance to assure himself he was not buried alive under tons of rock and sand. Without a word, he began the trip again, his hands thrust into the pockets of his britches. “He is a very nervous man,” Otaktay said, turning to direct his words to Aingeal. 91

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Aingeal pretended to rouse herself and looked around at the man who claimed to be her husband. “What did you say, beloved?” she asked, forcing herself to gaze at the brave with gentle eyes. “I was not listening.” Otaktay held his hand out to her. “Come, sit with me. I grow lonely without you.” Knowing it would best to keep up the pretense of being a loving wife, Aingeal got up obediently and went to squat down beside the red man. She willed herself not to flinch when he put a hand to her hair and stroked her gently. “When I have avenged you,” Otaktay said, “we will return to my People. I am sure my father will be pleased.” Delving lightly into the brave’s mind, Aingeal pilfered the name Akecheta from Otaktay’s memory and knew this must be the man’s father, a great chief of his tribe, a man to be respected and feared. Something moved along Aingeal’s back beneath the skin. Closing her eyes as Otaktay continued to smooth her hair, Aingeal moved into herself and sought out the creature. If she could hear Otaktay’s thoughts, surely she could communicate with the creature inside her. Her eyes flew open when she felt the great sorrow that came from the entity within her. “What is it, beloved?” Otaktay asked. Becoming accustomed to hiding her inner feelings from the brave, Aingeal nuzzled her face into his palm. “I am hungry, nothing more.” “Then I will feed you,” Otaktay said, and brought his wrist to his mouth and tore at the flesh. He pressed it to Aingeal’s mouth. As loath as she was to take the proffered Sustenance, Aingeal realized she needed it. If she were to aid the Reaper in his fight with Otaktay and Jaborn, she would need to be at full strength. The brave’s blood tasted bitter and had a sting to it, but it seemed to feed the ache in her belly and calm the grief of the creature. When she was finished, she wiped her lips upon the sleeve of her cotton blouse. “When we return to our People,” Otaktay said, “I will provide for you a soft dress of the finest leather. A dress deserving of your beauty.” Otaktay got to his feet and reached a hand down to her. “Come,” he said. “There is something I must show you.” Aingeal hated to touch him but she slipped her hand in his, striving hard not to let the revulsion show on her face. Taking along a fiery brand, he led her deeper into the cave, around several sharp bends, until they came to what appeared to be a dead end. Otaktay let go of her hand, wedged the brand in a crack in the stone then put his hands upon a large boulder, pushing upon it until it began to roll. “What is this place?” Aingeal asked, not liking the feeling of the air coming from behind a hole revealed by the moving of the boulder. “It is a hiding place for when the time comes,” he replied. 92

Reaper’s Revenge

The boulder now stood to one side of a natural arch in the cave wall. Otaktay took up the brand and thrust it into the archway, lighting up a small area roughly six feet by eight feet in area. High above the room was a single small slit—not big enough for a child to slip through but enough to provide air for the space. “When the time comes,” Otaktay said, “you will come here. I will keep you safe.” Aingeal knew there was no way in hell she’d voluntarily enter the room. She could read Otaktay’s mind and knew his intention was to lock her in the space, rolling the heavy boulder into place to keep her in. Whatever his reason, she would not comply, though she gave him no indication of her rebellious thoughts. “Let us go back now,” Otaktay stated, and took her hand to lead her back to their camp by the underground pool. Once more at the camp, he urged her to sit down beside him. Aingeal did not like looking at the Jakotai although she knew most women would consider him exceedingly handsome. She, however, did not. His black eyes were cold and held a brutality in them that made her uneasy. To her, his lips were hard and too quick to lift in a sneer. A voice that might cajole an innocent girl merely grated on Aingeal’s nerves. There was nothing about the brave she found enticing and everything about him rubbed her the wrong way. “What ails you, beast?” Aingeal silently asked the creature now moving restlessly inside her. “You accepted me, warrioress,” the parasite whispered, “and I have protected you. You must protect me now. I fear my dam is lost for I cannot speak with Her.” “Your dam?” “The queen from whom I sprang. I fear She is dead.” Aingeal heard Otaktay grunt. She did not think he could tune in to the mental conversation between her and the creature but she didn’t want to take the chance he could. “The queen belongs to the Reaper Cree?” she questioned. There was a moment of complete stillness then the creature twisted painfully beneath Aingeal’s skin—as though punishing her for the question. It was all Aingeal could do not to show how much the slithering hurt her. “He belongs to Her!” the creature hissed then was silent for a long time. When next it spoke, its voice was sad, laden with sorrow. “If he lives, he now has another queen and belongs to Her.” “If he lives?” Aingeal mentally gasped. “I do not sense him though I have tried,” the creature wailed. “My dam is lost to me!” Aingeal understood that at one time it had to have been possible for the creatures to speak to one another. Perhaps she could speak to Cree as well. She tried—calling his name in a soft tone—but Otaktay seemed to intercept her sending out for he moved so

93

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

quickly she had no chance to get away, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up to him, his face hard as flint, his eyes shooting fiery sparks of fury at her. “Do not attempt to contact that foul one, woman!” he warned her. “He will come when he has recovered from the viper wounds.” “Ghoret!” came the shocked hiss through Aingeal’s mind. “My dam is dead!” Obviously furious that Aingeal had tried to reach the Reaper, Otaktay shoved her to the ground and threw her skirt up, fumbling with his breechclout as he clenched his teeth, growling with his rage. Aingeal lay very still, knowing he would surely hurt her if she fought him. There was peacefulness in her mind that told her she had nothing to worry about, that the man striving to pull his cock free would be unable to breech her. All she need do is lie perfectly still so he would not use his fists upon her when he realized he would be unable to use his cock. Yanking upon his staff, Otaktay could not put steel into his weapon. No matter how hard he rubbed, twisted, shook and squeezed his manhood, it would not harden. It remained flaccid—a wilted stem devoid even of a dewdrop upon its head. “Why do I not stiffen?” Otaktay shouted, and tried even harder to make his staff become rigid. Aingeal hid the smile that hovered behind her lips. She lay there staring up at the brave—seemingly completely at his mercy. A mean little imp in her head whispered to her to suggest she offer to help the brave but she tamped down the request, having no wish to touch the man’s greasy flesh. “Why do I not stiffen?” The words were spoken in a whine and accompanied by a whimper as Otaktay shot to his feet and walked away a few paces, jerking upon his limp flesh until he groaned with frustration and ran out of the cave, stuffing himself back into the confines of his breechclout. “He will never hurt us again,” the creature inside Aingeal assured her. Once more, Aingeal tried to contact the Reaper and this time there was a faint voice that answered but something told her it was not Cree. “Who are you?” she asked. “Be at ease, Lady,” the voice said. “He will come for you when he is well.” “Who are you?” she repeated. “Kheelan,” was the reply, but no matter how hard she strove to make contact with the voice again, the speaker would not answer. Sitting beside the steaming pool with her knees drawn up into the circle of her arms, Aingeal tried to picture the Reaper in her mind. His amber eyes and dark hair was all that came to her, though she knew in her soul that he was as handsome a man as any who walked the earth. How she knew this, she could not guess but she thought perhaps it was the creature’s influence.

94

Reaper’s Revenge

There was no despair in Aingeal. She felt relaxed, at ease, and held within her a strong conviction that the Reaper would win in his battle between Otaktay and Jaborn. He would rescue her and they would return to whatever place they had been before Otaktay had snatched her away. “Hurry, Cree,” she whispered. “I am waiting.”

***** Jaborn glanced around as Otaktay came striding angrily from the cave. The red man’s face was pinched and full of rage. “You had words with your woman?” the Akhkharulian asked. “I cannot take her!” Otaktay complained before he thought then waved aside the statement as though it were of no consequence. “Your dagger does not sharpen?” Jaborn inquired, but when the brave shot him an enraged look, he shrugged. “Such has happened to us all.” “It has never happened to me!” Otaktay fumed, and began pacing in front of the cave’s entrance. “Acklard warned us not to take a female to mate,” Jaborn said. “Once we do, we are locked to that woman for all time. We will put her interest before our own.” “That will not happen to me!” Otaktay said, jabbing a thumb into his chest. “I rule her!” Jaborn suspected the brave knew very little about what it meant to be a balgair. Having no interest in instructing the savage, he continued whittling the stick of wood in his hands. “She belongs to me!” the red man insisted. “I own her!” “Best you save your strength for our coming battle with the Reaper,” Jaborn advised. “I have often heard it said the fury in a man’s unfulfilled cock adds might to his blade.” “I too have heard this,” Otaktay lied, unaware he was rubbing his flaccid member as he spoke. “Go beat the woman,” Jaborn suggested. “Take out your anger upon her and let it smolder again for when we come up against our enemy.” Otaktay’s eyes shifted away from the other man. “I will take your advice,” he said, and headed back through the cave. “Like hell you will,” Jaborn muttered. He had observed the flinch that had accompanied the savage’s inability to maintain eye contact. There would be no way the red man could lay a hurtful hand to his mate. He might want to, but the female parasite within him would not allow it—taking care of Her own as Acklard once had sneered. Thankful he had no female to hold him back, the Akhkharulian dug his blade into the wood and concentrated on sharpening the stave he fashioned.

95

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Stomping back through the tunnel to the underground pool, Otaktay’s anger dissolved with each step he took. He looked forward to seeing Aingeal’s lovely face. Beat her? Never, he thought, shaking his head. Allow harm to come to her? Not if it took his last breath to see that did not happen. She was wading in the calm water, the hem of her skirt tucked up between her legs and stuffed into the overly big leather belt that nearly circled her slim waist twice. The white blouse she wore was too large for her and it was soiled—the best clothing Otaktay could find at a moment’s notice, swiping the garments from a farmer’s clothesline. “They say Reapers cannot cross running water,” Otaktay said, nervous that she was standing in the pool. Aingeal shrugged. “This is not running water and I am not a Reaper.” It was on the tip of Otaktay’s tongue to correct her statement but he let it slide, coming to the edge of the pool and holding out a hand to her. “Come to me, beloved. I am uneasy with you in the water.” She looked up from the concentric circles undulating out from her bare legs. “Can’t you swim?” she asked. “I am a strong swimmer!” Otaktay boasted. “So am I,” she said, and stopped moving in the water. She locked eyes with him. “Why don’t you join me, then?” Fear shifted across the brave’s face and he took a step back, his parasite shifting uncomfortably beneath his skin at such a suggestion. He shook his head. “I do not wish to do so,” he answered, lowering his hand. Aingeal did not miss the fear as it moved over Otaktay’s tight features. She nodded imperceptibly—making note of the weakness. “When will we leave this place, beloved?” she asked, hating the use of the endearment. “I grow weary of the low light and the closing in of the walls. I need space.” “That is the beastess in you speaking,” Otaktay said, and winced at his own words. He should not have said such a thing to her. Tilting her head to one side, Aingeal studied the man who claimed to be her husband. “You believe I have an animal within me?” “Do not we all?” Otaktay countered with a smile that tugged anxiously at his lips. Aingeal sighed. “I suppose that is true. Sometimes I feel there is something wild hiding inside me, striving to break free.” She lifted her arms toward the cave’s ceiling. “I want to run as fast as I can across the grass, jump over rocks, climb trees.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I want to fly through the heavens and count the stars.” Otaktay was shaken by her words. He feared she was close to Transition and that was something he was not prepared for as yet. He wasn’t sure he could control her and he worried that with the changing, she might regain her memory.

96

Reaper’s Revenge

Easily reading the red man’s unprotected thoughts, Aingeal watched him as he paced at the water’s edge. She had a vague notion of what it meant to Transition but she found she did not fear it. Truth be told, she looked forward to the coming event, for she suspected it was something she had enjoyed in the past. She knew herself to be like Cynyr Cree—a being far more powerful than what Otaktay and Jaborn were—and she was sure everything would come back to her when her beastly nature returned. “Come out of the water, Aingeal,” Otaktay ordered. Pursing her lips at the command, Aingeal nevertheless did as the Jakotai bid. She waded through the cool waters and took a seat on a rock, drawing her knees up into the circumference of her arms. “What troubles you, Otaktay?” she asked. The brave came to hunker down beside her. Reaching out a hand, he stroked her hair. “I have much love for you, little one,” he said. “I fear the Reaper will take you from me.” Steeling herself to lay her cheek in the red man’s palm, Aingeal gazed at him with eyes she forced to softness. “I will be with the one who truly holds my heart,” she said, and golden eyes drifted across her mind’s eye. “It is he who has my allegiance and he who will win the day.” Smiling at his woman, Otaktay believed she was referring to him. He eased the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip. “I will fight to the death to have you at my side, Aingeal,” he swore. “I know you will,” Aingeal agreed.

97

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Eleven Cynyr was weak as he leaned against Owen Tohre. His fellow Reaper had an arm around Cynyr’s waist, taking much of Cree’s weight against him as they moved from the cell to the jail’s front door. “It has been storming all night,” Owen commented. Unlike the other six Reapers, he hated lightning and thunder. It set his teeth on edge and he was uncomfortable until the last rumble sounded far off in the distance. “Heaven’s tears,” Moira observed as she sat knitting away. “Clears the earth of pollution they say.” Feeling as though his legs were made of rubber, Cynyr reached out for the doorknob, wanting, aching, to feel the wash of cool air and rain washing over him. “Let me have him, Owen,” Iden Belial said, knowing how Owen felt about bad weather. He moved under Tohre’s arm and took Cynyr’s weight. Breathing a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to face the onslaught of the storm, Owen moved back into the room, putting distance between him and the door Cynyr was opening. “How was it ye died, Owen?” Moira asked casually, glancing up at the handsome young man. Owen ducked his head. “I was struck by lightning during the Battle of Omagh,” he said quietly. Moira nodded. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it, lad?” the old woman asked in a gentle voice. “Aye,” he said. “That it does, milady.” Cynyr stood to the side as he opened the door. He was leaning against Iden but as soon as the fresh air and smell of rain touched him, he felt a bit stronger. He was grateful for Iden’s help as the Reaper wedged his burden sideways through the door and helped Cree out onto the porch. “Myself,” Iden said, “I love storms.” “As do I,” Cynyr said, “but my lady doesn’t.” Iden grinned. “Well, now I know her weakness, eh?” he chuckled. “That and sweet pickles,” Cynyr replied. Walking slowly out to the edge of the porch so he could feel the kiss of the mist upon his upturned face, Cynyr closed his eyes and breathed in the moistness, the clean, fresh scent of the rain as it fell, the rather cloying scent of it as it struck the mud. He listened to the patter of the raindrops hitting the sidewalk, plinking into the ruts along

98

Reaper’s Revenge

the main street, striking against the tin roof overhead and roiling down the drain spout to flow into the barrel at the end of the building. He could imagine it falling into the fast-moving Misery River, swelling the muddy red shores. “I love the rain,” Cynyr said, glorying in the feel of the wetness on his cheeks. “Me too. I miss being able to swim,” Iden said with a sigh. Cynyr opened his eyes. “Have you tried of late, Belial?” he asked. “You know I haven’t,” Iden said with a grunt. “Reapers can’t—” “Cross running water,” Cynyr said, “yet Silus Gibbs did and survived.” “Aye, well, that was Gibbs and most likely him surviving it a fluke.” “I’m not so sure,” Cynyr said. He flinched as his parasite twisted viciously beneath his skin. “I believe your hellion is,” Iden gently rebuked. “If you had a choice of drowning or having my whip take your head, which would you choose?” Cynyr asked. He was striving to ignore the pain over his right kidney. Iden reached up to grip the roof support, curling his fingers over the beam. “That’s a decision I hope never to have to make, Reaper,” he replied. “I’d have jumped,” Cynyr stated. “It was death either way but I’m no different than Gibbs was. I’d take the easier of the two ends in the hope I might actually survive the plunge into the water. Wouldn’t be a chance of that if my head got lopped off.” “Put that way, I might have, as well,” Iden agreed. “I don’t believe he thought he’d survive and I can damned well imagine his vicious glee when he did.” “Just because Gibbs lived through it, doesn’t mean any of the rest of us would,” Iden reminded him. Cynyr turned his attention to his fellow Reaper. “Are you saying a balgair is made of sterner stuff than us?” Beliar stiffened. “Hell no, I’m not saying that!” “Then I think we owe it to ourselves to see if we can survive a trip over running water.” Despite the agony gnawing its way through his body, Cynyr held himself as rigid as his wobbly legs would allow. He stared across the rain-pocked street, watching the silvery strands spearing the ground, and tried to ignore the pain. “If we can cross running water and survive, wouldn’t that make our parasites even stronger?” he managed to ask. “Stronger than that of a rogue?” Almost immediately the tearing misery in his back subsided. He could almost see the triangular head cocking to one side in query, the forked tongue stilled as the demoness absorbed his thoughts. “Who was it that said we couldn’t cross running water?” Owen called out to them from inside the jail. “Does anyone know?”

99

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Morrigunia,” Glyn Kullen replied from his place on the bunk where Arawn had lain to donate his revenant queen to Cynyr. He pushed himself up on one elbow. “She called it a gay.” “No, lad. Not a gay. A Geas,” Moira corrected. “Such things are known in my homeland.” Iden looked around. “What is it?” “It’s a magical obligation cast on a body, lad. A Geas can be a curse or a prohibition or a ban of one kind or another. The Geas is fitting to each person. What bans one might not ban another.” Cynyr and Iden exchanged glances. “Why would Morrigunia have cast such a curse?” Cynyr asked. Moira laid her knitting down upon her lap and thought about his question for a moment, staring into space as she did. “Well,” she said. “One thing comes readily to mind if the Geas was cast to keep a Reaper from crossing running water.” She cocked a shoulder. “T’was meant to keep him in one spot, I’m reckoning. A prisoner, if ye will.” As weak as he was, Cynyr felt like doing a jig. It had to have come from just such a situation. At one time there had to have been a Reaper the goddess meant to keep from running away from her. The ban had simply come down from Reaper to Reaper and wasn’t necessarily as prohibitive as it appeared. “If this Gibbs could survive a dive into running water, it might simply mean he didn’t have that particular Geas placed upon him,” Moira reminded them. “Or it could mean that Morrigunia cast it upon her first Reaper but didn’t think to do so for the rest of us.” “There’s only one way to find out,” Glyn Kullen said, swinging his legs off the cot. “I was a champion swimmer in Donetal. If I can make it across the Misery River, any of us can.” “That’s a mighty wide river, lad,” Moira said with a chuckle. “Would take quite a man to do what ye intend.” From where they stood on the jail’s porch, Cynyr and Iden watched Glyn walking toward them. He didn’t appear to be feeling any ill effects from his parasite and when he reached them, Iden asked if his hellion was stirring. Kullen stopped, put a hand to his back. “No,” he said, his eyes wide. “I feel no pain at all.” “I’m too weak to go with you, Kullen, but Iden and Owen need to—” “Not me,” Owen replied, shaking his head. It was still thundering and the lightning was stitching down from the firmaments too often for his comfort. “Take Phelan or Bevyn with you. They’re over at the Guthrie House.” “I’ll send Arawn over to watch over you too,” Iden said as he started to lead Cynyr back inside.

100

Reaper’s Revenge

“No, just leave me here,” Cynyr said. “Get me over to that chair and I’ll be fine ‘til you get back.” Glyn fetched the rocker Moira sometimes used when she sat out on the porch and scooted it beneath Cynyr. “What difference will it make if we can cross running water is what I want to know,” Owen said. From the look on his face, he was annoyed that Iden thought they needed Arawn to help him watch Cynyr. “We need every strength we can get,” Glyn told him. “If the rogues can do something we can’t or are too afraid to try, that makes them stronger than us.” “And don’t think for a moment those two remaining rogues won’t use what Gibbs did to their advantage,” Iden put in. “You don’t have to worry about the brave and Jaborn,” Cynyr said as he eased himself down into the rocker, gripping the arms as though his life depended upon his ability to keep himself still. “I’ll take them out as soon as I’m able.” “They are yours, Reaper,” Iden agreed.

***** Arawn looked up as Glyn Kullen came into the Guthrie House in a rush, swiping rain from his excited face. “What’s wrong?” Arawn asked, snatching up his napkin and wiping his mouth, standing in the process. “We need you to go watch over Cree while Iden, Bevyn and I take a little trip to the river,” Glyn said. Bevyn laid aside his fork. “What the hell are we going to the river for in this rain?” “Just come on, Coure,” Glyn snapped. “For once don’t stop to question. Just do!” He plucked at Bevyn’s shoulder. “Hurry it up, will ya?” Arawn searched Kullen’s face for a hint at what was going on, and when he gleaned the knowledge of what the Reaper planned, he took a step back. “You can’t do that!” he said. “I can try,” Glyn said. Bevyn too had delved into Kullen’s mind and what he saw there made his face turn white, but he stood up so quickly his chair crashed over. “We’ll have to tie a damned long rope around you just in case you start to sink,” he said, caught up in the spirit of what was happening. “You are as crazy as a loon,” Arawn said, but he could see the usefulness of what might be accomplished. He didn’t try to dissuade his Reapers, only cautioned them to take every safety measure they could to ensure Kullen lived through the experiment. “If a rogue can do it, I can do it,” Glyn said, and turned on his heel, heading for the livery stable and his horse.

101

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

***** “Do you think the lad will be all right?” Moira asked Cynyr as she came to stand behind him, laying her once arthritic hands on his shoulders. Cynyr reached up to cover the aged hands with his own. “Aye, milady. I believe he will. They’ll tie him off so if he goes under, they’ll be able to pull him out.” “Once swam the entire width of Donegal Bay when I was a chit,” Moira admitted. “Loved the feel of the saltwater, I did.” “I bet you were something when you were a girl, Moira McDermott,” Cynyr said. Moira’s eyes blazed as a spear of lightning struck to the west of them, its fiery branches lighting the dull gray sky. “I could have given Aingeal a run for her money with ye, lad,” she told him. She gently massaged his shoulders. “Don’t you sit too long out here, now.” She patted him and went back inside to try to unruffle Owen’s feathers, for he was sitting on the edge of the sheriff’s desk with a pout the size of the Exasla Territory on his handsome face. Cynyr watched his fellow Reapers running through the rain toward the stable. He caught sight of Arawn standing in the doorway of the Guthrie House, putting on his hat before venturing out into the deluge. They exchanged a nod, and as thunder rolled overhead, the Prime Reaper came running across the street, his boots squelching through the mud and water. “Damned asinine day for experimenting, don’t you think, Cree?” Arawn asked as he stomped up on the porch. “Your men were getting antsy, Gehdrin,” was the chastisement from far, far away. “We are very curious to see if this works.” “Did you hear Kheelan?” Arawn snapped. “Aye,” Cynyr replied. It was hard not to hear the high lord of the Shadowlords when he used what Cynyr thought of as his master’s voice. He might be fifteen hundred miles or more away, but Lord Kheelan had no problem making his voice heard. “How are you feeling?” Arawn asked. Cynyr had come to accept the closeness he felt toward Arawn. They had the same colony of nestlings in their bodies. The revenant queen now inside Cynyr’s body had once ruled Arawn’s. The two men had developed a bond that could never be broken. “I’m not as feeble as I was yesterday but I’m starting to lose steam,” Cynyr admitted. “Rest is the only thing that is going to get you on your feet the quickest,” Arawn reminded him. “I heard you and Bevyn took out the remaining rogues left in the Oklaka Territory yesternoon,” Cynyr remarked. “Did you have any problems?” “None,” Arawn replied. “That leaves just the two who are your responsibility.”

102

Reaper’s Revenge

“Nag, nag, nag,” Cynyr quipped. He put a frail hand up to his forehead, angered at the trembling he could neither hide nor stop. “You almost died, Cree,” Arawn said, looking away from the tremor to watch the rain. “A lesser man might have.” “He has my woman,” Cynyr said. “There wasn’t any way in hell I was going to let him win.” “You know Raphian and the Ceannus aren’t going to give up just because Morrigunia took out this latest bunch of demons,” Arawn said. “The next time around how ‘bout letting one of the other of us play hero and look good in the eyes of the Shadowlords?” “You’ll get your turn, Gehdrin,” Lord Kheelan assured him. “Danielle came by to help Annie bathe me last evening,” Cynyr said in a conversational tone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arawn stiffen and turn a hard glare toward him. Arawn stared at the man sitting in the rocker. “Shouldn’t you be bathing yourself, Cree?” he asked. “I’d think that would help strengthen you.” Cynyr shrugged. “Why bother when I can get a pretty woman to do it for me?” he prodded. He could see the Prime Reaper’s hands clenching into fists at his sides and almost laughed. Instead, he glanced up at Arawn with a perfectly innocent look on his face. “You don’t begrudge a man a little fun with a comely lass now, do you?” The Prime Reaper’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “What the hell do you mean by fun, Cree?” he demanded. Moira came shuffling out on the porch and poked Arawn in the ribs with the blunt end of one of her knitting needles. “Stop acting like ye ain’t got a jealous bone in your body, Arawn Gehdrin!” she chastised him. “Ye know ye’ve set your cap for that Brewster gal. Everybody else knows it!” “What did you and Danielle do?” Arawn snarled as though he hadn’t heard the old lady’s words. “I just lay there,” Cynyr answered. “It was what she did with those soft, gentle, little warm hands of hers that—” Arawn’s fist went back before he thought and he would have plowed that fist down into Cynyr’s laughing face had not Moira latched onto his arm as though she were about to swing upon it. The surprising strength in the old lady’s hands took Arawn off guard and he stared down at her with his mouth ajar. “Ye love that gal whether ye be man enough to admit it or not, Arawn. We all see it so stop your foolishness and help Cynyr to bed. He needs to get in outta this rain!” “I won’t have him talking about my woman like—” Arawn realized what he was yelling and cut himself off, his handsome face turning bright red as he took in the humor puckering the faces of his Reaper and the old lady. He clamped his lips shut,

103

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

narrowed his eyes even more—if that were possible—and glared at them, a muscle working in his lean jaw. “Gotcha,” Moira said, poking him again with her knitting needle. “Bring the lad on inside now a’fore he catches his death of cold.” “A’fore I kill him,” Arawn hissed, and swooped down to pluck Cynyr from the chair as though lifting a child. He carried his burden into the jail, slamming the Reaper’s shoulder none too gently against the doorjamb as he passed. “Damn, Gehdrin, that hurt!” Cynyr complained, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ll break both your hands if you so much as put one finger on Danielle Brewster,” Arawn spat. Moira was chuckling to herself, nudging Owen with a bony elbow until she had the fourth highest-ranking Reaper laughing along with her. “She doesn’t even know I’m in the room,” Cynyr said as Arawn tossed him upon his cot. He bounced, wincing as his aching muscles made complaint about the rough treatment. “I’m not ready to take that little hoyden on yet,” Arawn admitted. “So I don’t want any of you encouraging her!” “As if she needed encouragement,” Moira said with a snort. “Follows me around like a little lost puppy,” Arawn complained. “Batting those cow eyes at me. Mincing around, touching me like I’m a…I’m a…” He threw his hands up in the air. “I’m a…” He couldn’t think of the word he wanted to use and let out a foul curse in Rysalian that had Owen and Cynyr blushing. “She certainly can’t be enamored of your gentle nature and polite manners,” Moira accused him. “Most likely she touches ye ‘cause she thinks ye be tetched and she’s of a mind to try to comfort ye.” Arawn’s eyes bulged. “Tetched?” he repeated, his voice higher pitched than normal. “She thinks he’s a retard,” Owen agreed with the old lady. Cynyr lay on his cot with his head turned to one side, watching the fury rising in the Prime Reaper’s face. Unaccustomed to being teased, Arawn looked as though he could pull out Owen Tohre’s guts and drain Moira McDermott dry. He was standing in the middle of Cynyr’s cell with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his face crimson red, his cheeks puffed out as though he were about to explode, fairly quivering with anger, and when the objects of his ire dared to laugh out loud, Cynyr thought Gehdrin would physically attack. He half pushed himself up on the cot should it be necessary to intervene, but when Arawn slammed his hands into his own hair and pulled, squeezing his eyes shut as though in mortal pain, he knew his leader had given in to the jokes at his expense. “She won’t leave me the hell alone,” Arawn whimpered, banging his head lightly on the cell bars.

104

Reaper’s Revenge

Moira sobered long enough to ask him if he wanted her to. “No,” Arawn admitted. “No, I really don’t.” “Then deal with her, lad,” Moira told him. The storm had passed over and all that was left was a gentle rain that was being pushed to the east by a much cooler wind. It was highly likely sleet—even snow— would follow on the heels of the storm. “Let’s let Cyn take a snooze, lads,” Moira said. “Owen, blow the candle out and let’s ye and me head on over for some grub.” She cast Arawn a look from head to toe. “Ye don’t look hungry but if’n ye ask nicely, I might be persuaded to send ye back a slice of plum pudding.” Arawn sighed. He’d gained at least fifteen pounds since he’d been in Haines City and his was the least of the Reaper weight gain—excluding Cynyr who had lost weight during his illness. “Just a small slice, please,” he asked, never one to turn down anything the old lady cooked. “Humph,” Moira commented, rolling her eyes. “Ain’t no such thing in your vocabulary, lad.” Owen opened the door then stepped back, quickly removing his hat as Danielle Brewster came in, shaking her closed umbrella before standing it up against the outside of the jail. Arawn groaned, his gaze automatically going to Cynyr who was grinning broadly. “Good day, Milady Danielle,” Owen said, his hat pressed against his chest. Danielle batted her eyes at the handsome Reaper. “Good day to you, Owen. Are you leaving?” “He’s coming with me,” Moira answered. “Growing boys need feeding as I’m sure you know, Danni.” Danielle had yet to even look at Arawn. She was smiling at Owen, her lush red lips parted to reveal very white teeth. She put a hand on Owen’s arm. “I’ve got an orange cake in the oven right now, Owen. Why don’t you stop by later and I’ll cut you a piece?” She ran her hand up and down his forearm. Owen cast Arawn a quick look, saw the fury building on the Prime Reaper’s face and ducked his head. “I don’t know, milady. I—” “Orange juice in the batter and boiled orange zest icing that runs down the sides,” Danielle said. “My orange cake took first place three years in a row at the county fair.” Moira’s lips were twitching for she expected to see steam come out of Arawn Gehdrin’s ears at any moment. His hot glare was latched on Danielle’s hand where she was gently rubbing Owen’s arm. “Danni knows her cakes,” the old lady said. Danielle turned her head, sweeping her eyes over Arawn and looked to Cynyr. “Would you like me to bring you over a piece, Cyn?” she inquired. Cynyr could only nod. He was watching Arawn’s hands opening and closing as he stood there as rigid as a piece of steel. 105

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Swinging her head back toward Owen, Danielle patted his arm one final time. “Then I’ll send you back a piece by Owen,” she said then bent over to retrieve her umbrella. “What about me?” Arawn demanded, walking out of the jail cell. Danielle didn’t look around. She didn’t answer. She stepped out on the porch, opened her umbrella and stepped out into the light rain, her skirt lifted clear of the mud puddles. Arawn marched to the door. “What about me, Danni?” he yelled after her, and when he received no answer, he spun around and locked his raging glower on Owen. “You go to her house and I’ll pull your innards up through your throat, Tohre. Do you understand me?” Owen’s face was a blank canvas as he agreed he would not venture to the lovely lady’s home. Moira snorted—a very unladylike sound—and Arawn whipped around to pierce her with his steely stare. She smiled sweetly and said, “Nuair atá an cat amuigh bíonn na luch ag damhsa.” While the cat’s away, the mice will play. “Aye,” Arawn answered, his eyes narrowing at Owen. “Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde.” Beware the anger of a patient man. Moira grinned at him. “Don’t seem to me you’re that patient a man, Arawn Gehdrin,” she replied. “But I can sure see the anger in ye.” She took hold of Owen’s arm and led him out the door. “Interfering old biddy,” Arawn called after her. “Nár lagaí Alel do lámh!,” Moira shouted back, but thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out most of her words. “What did she say?” Arawn fumed. “May Alel not weaken your hand,” Cynyr told him. Arawn slammed his palm against the doorjamb. “Interfering old biddy!” he yelled again, and hit the doorjamb again when Moira waved a hand in his direction. Cynyr was tired and his body full of aches and pains that plagued him. He turned over on the cot and closed his eyes, smiling as he listened to the Prime Reaper stomping about the jail office—kicking a chair out of his path, plopping down in Moira’s rocker, mumbling to himself. The rain had returned in full force and was battering at the tin roof overhead, lulling him. Arawn had left the door open and a cool breeze wafted over Cynyr, bringing with it the scent of ozone that he found soothing. The dream came almost as soon as the Reaper sank down into the arms of the god of sleep… Iron wheels clacking against the long stretch of rail made the train car rock gently to and fro. The clean cotton sheets held the crisp scent of starch and ozone and were as soft as silk beneath his naked body. He lay stretched out on his back, his hands beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. His legs were parted and Aingeal was kneeling between them, her soft hair dragging over

106

Reaper’s Revenge

his thighs as she gently and expertly used her lips to soothe his throbbing cock. Her lips were like warm velvet as they slid from his head to the root along his fevered flesh, engulfing his rigid member in the satin of her mouth. She had forbidden him to touch her and it was all he could do to lie calmly beneath her ministrations, for his blood was roaring through his veins, his heart pounding furiously, his body quivering at her slightest touch. Slowly she slid her mouth down the length of him until his swollen head was being laved by her wicked tongue. He drew in a breath as that sly muscle flicked into the slit of his cock to taste him, swirling around the top of him as though he were a stick of peppermint. Licking him gently, she used the broad surface of her tongue to lap at his essence. He heard her hum her approval and his entire body clenched with need. “You are torturing me, my love,” he whispered, fearing his voice would break so strained was his throat with passion. She looked up at him, her gray eyes devouring him. “That was my intent, mo shearc,” she replied. Once more she lowered her head and drew him deep into her mouth. Cynyr was lost in the sweetness of her art. She laved. She lapped. She suckled; all the while her soft hand cupped his sacs and massaged them gently, her thumb sweeping tenderly over the top of their wrinkled surface. She pulled upon him with a fiery need of her own that made his heart swell with pride at how much she loved him. Her free hand slid under him, between the cleft in his ass. He stiffened as her middle finger touched the puckered rim of his anus. Slowly circling that small perimeter, she dipped the tip of her finger into him and laughed when his hips jerked upward. She nipped the head of his cock with her teeth until he lay still once more, this time with his hands wrapped around the metal headboard of the bed upon which they lay, hanging on for dear life. The train whistle blew—a long, lonely sound. There would be no stopping for a while yet so the clank-clank-clank of the iron wheels turning over the track continued, slowing only a little as the train passed whatever had warranted the warning. Aingeal sat up to run her palms over her lover’s thighs. She gently scraped her nails from groin to knee, her eyes locked with Cynyr’s. There was a flame of passionate lust leaping in her pretty gray depths but the fire was yet building, not fully engaged as it would eventually become. “You are an uncommonly handsome man, Cynyr Cree,” she said in a throaty voice. He smiled, unused to such compliments, though she often handed them out to him. He was glad she found him attractive, worthy of her substantial beauty and not for the first time did he wonder why her first husband had traded her for a brace of horses. “Because he did not see the value within me,” she said, easily reading his mind. She bent forward to drag her tongue from the crisp curls at the juncture of his thighs to his bellybutton, swirling the tip into the deep concavity until he was squirming. His cock was pressed upward, sliding along her chest wall until it was imprisoned between them. Anchoring his hips with her hands, she trailed little kisses up his belly and onto his chest before closing her lips around one of his paps and drawing it deep into her mouth. Sensation rippled down Cynyr’s sides and into his legs. He ached to grab hold of her hair and position her over his straining manhood. He was throbbing so hard, the heat so high in his 107

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

cock, he was panting. Her teeth were clenched around his nipple—worrying it—and he was trembling. His grip on the metal headboard had turned his knuckles white. Switching to his other nipple, Aingeal tormented that swollen nubbin until she felt the tremors increasing in her partner’s body. It was then she slowly lifted her legs to position herself over his rigid cock, seating herself upon it, sliding his stiffness into her, impaling herself upon it. “Aingeal,” he said on a long, whispered breath. The pounding in his ears had become so fierce it blocked out all other sound. Very slowly she began to rotate upon his shaft—circling upon him, rising up and lowering herself down over his heated length. Her movements were tantalizing, unhurried, almost leisurely, and precisely timed so that his every breath coincided with the up-and-down movement of her hot, slick channel. Her cunt was wet, giving off the unmistakable scent of passion that filled his nostrils and drove straight to his lustful need. He could feel her heat enveloping him ever higher with each delicate rotation of her shapely hips, the silken grip of her vaginal muscles undulating slowly around him until he could stand no more. His hands came down from the headboard and slid around her waist, his body rearing up to tumble her to one side until he had her pinned beneath him, his cock rigid as steel within her satiny depths. “My turn to ride,” he growled, and thrust into her with a sure, steady stroke that made her eyes flare. Her legs came up to lock around his hips, her heel pressed wickedly against the crack of his ass. Her arms were around his neck, pulling his head down to hers until his lips claimed hers, tongue thrusting deep to duel with her own. It was a fiery clash of need that welded their bodies together. He was pumping into her with furious desire—she was absorbing him with total abandon. Her nails raked down his straining back where taut muscles gathered and released as he drove into her. Her legs were tight around his body, her heel drumming against him to goad him on. His hands were beneath her buttocks, molding her to him. Their bodies were slick with sweat as they strained against one another. His lips were skinned back from his clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed tightly closed in concentration. Her lips were parted, her tongue curled over her upper lip, her eyelids lowered to half-mast over her fevered gaze. Their breaths pushed harshly from labored lungs. Blood heated. Bodily fluids oozed. Muscles began a dance for two as passion built higher and higher. Climax was but a clench away. Cynyr could feel the rhythmic compression of her vaginal walls gripping him—a clasp and release then a flutter of quick, strong, tightening as wetness spread over his pistoning cock. He heard his lady’s gasp, her trill of release. He felt her inner muscles milking him, begging for his own discharge. The itching was building in his balls, spreading through his cock. The heat was tormenting him until he threw his head back, his throat arched as though in sacrifice to the dark goddess of lust, and he spurted hot and heavy into his lady’s quivering channel. His roar of relief was loud in the train car but the sound of it was drowned out by the blare of the whistle so that no ear other than his and his lady’s heard the triumphant blast of his possession.

108

Reaper’s Revenge

Arawn was sitting in the old woman’s rocker, his right leg crossed at the ankle over his left knee, his right foot pulsing up and down with agitation. He was angrier than he could ever remember being in his life and the little moans of pleasure coming from his dreaming fellow Reaper only added to Arawn’s irritation. His hands were locked on the arms of the rocker as though he needed the anchor to keep him from rampaging. He felt more dangerous than he’d ever known himself to be and his rage was centered on Owen Tohre and the sweet smile Danielle had bestowed upon the Reaper. What, he wondered, his mind a seething nest of vipers, had gone on while he and Bevyn had been in the Oklaka Territory ridding the world of rogues for the last two days? Had Owen been flirting with Danielle, encouraging her? Had the young Reaper dared to usurp territory the Prime himself had staked out? Growling like a caged weretiger, Arawn put his leg down and slowly levered himself from the chair. His eyes were hot with rage, narrowed, a muscle working in his cheek. With silent ease he made his way to the door and out onto the porch. The rain was cascading in steady silver needles, stitching pockets of mud into the empty street. With no thought in his seething mind other than the claiming of what he thought of as rightfully his, the Prime Reaper ventured out into the street, mindless of the rain pouring down upon him, plastering his black hair to his head. He barely noticed the sting of the water hitting his eyes and clinging to his long lashes. He put a hand up to swipe at the rain washing over his face but nothing slowed him down as he walked toward the white clapboard house at the far end of town where the sheriff, his wife and daughter resided. Mick Brady was standing at the window of his barbershop—about to turn away— when he saw the Reaper making his way down the middle of the street. Curious, he stayed where he was, taking in the purposeful stride and rigidly held shoulders of Arawn Gehdrin. “It’s about damned time,” the barber said, realizing where Arawn was headed. Leaning a hip against the windowsill, he crossed his arms and watched. Mud squelched at Arawn’s boots but he paid no heed to the slight suction that threatened to steal his boots. His hands hung loosely at his sides but now and again his fingers flexed, itching to curl into fists. He was drenched through but as unaware of it as he was the steely look in his eye, the mulish set of his mouth and the hard clench of his jaw. Sheriff Dan Brewster felt the need to check on the weather outside and eased the lace curtain his wife had sewn for their parlor window aside with the back of his hand. When he saw the Reaper making his way determinedly down the street, he knew a moment of blind panic as well as relief. “Mary Lynne,” he called out to his wife who was sitting beside the fire, mending the seat of her husband’s union suit. “Let’s you and me go upstairs a while.” Mary Lynne looked up. “Whatever for, Dan?” she inquired.

109

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Danielle is about to have some important company.” Danielle was sitting on the other side of her mother, book in hand. She didn’t look up, but a small, secretive smile curled her lush mouth. Mary Lynne looked at her daughter and understanding hit. She laid aside her mending and joined her husband at the stairs as the scrape of booted feet sounded on their front porch. She barely flinched when the deliberate knock pounded at the door. The sheriff ushered his wife hastily up the stairs with a hand pressed tightly to her back. When the second series of knocks—louder this time—pelted their door, he urged Mary Lynne to quicken her pace. “I know you’re in there, Danielle!” Arawn yelled, knocking once more upon the door with enough force to rattle the glass in the two sidelights to either side of the portal. Marking her place in the book, Danielle laid the book aside, stood up, smoothed down the skirt of her gabardine dress and walked sedately to the door, checking her appearance in the mirror beside the coat closet. “Damn it, Danielle! Open the door or I will kick it—” Arawn got no further for the door opened to reveal the object of his obsession. His fist was clenched, poised to knock one last time before he utilized his booted foot to gain entrance. Upon seeing Danielle’s politely inquiring face, watching her calmly clutch her hands at her waist, he saw red. “How may I help you, Lord Arawn?” Danielle inquired sweetly. The Prime Reaper had the urge to grab her, toss her over his shoulder and make off into the late afternoon gloom with her. It didn’t matter to him that he was standing there sopping wet, his hair glued to his head, water running across his face, his boots caked with clinging mud. He couldn’t seem to find his voice and when she cocked one inquisitive, perfectly shaped brow at him in question, all he could think of was… “Cake,” he bit out. Danielle blinked. “I beg your pardon.” Arawn nodded emphatically. “Cake,” he repeated. “I want cake.” For a moment, the invisible little imp that often sat upon Danielle’s shoulder did an angry little jig, kicking at the side of Danni’s face with a pointed toe boot. Anger rose up in Danielle’s breast until she realized the Prime Reaper was looking at her with hot eyes that demanded—not orange cake—but another delicacy best served hot and moist from an oven entirely unlike the one in her mother’s kitchen. “You want my…cake,” Danielle said, her words breathless as she fluttered a hand at her throat. “Aye,” Arawn managed to agree. One moment they were staring at one another with greedy eyes devouring and the next, Arawn had snaked out an arm and yanked her to him, pressing their bodies so tightly together not even a raindrop could squeeze between them. 110

Reaper’s Revenge

His tongue slid between her lips as he drank deeply from her honey mouth. One hand was pressed to the middle of her back, the other threaded itself through the neat bun that sprang free of its pins to cascade down over her shoulders. He was straining against her—completely aware of the rock-hard erection that stabbed at her belly— allowing her to feel the need that was consuming him. “Joining,” Danielle said, dragging her lips free of his as he slid kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “Aye,” he replied, his hand roaming over her back and down her cushioned buttocks. “Before we do anything,” she stated firmly. Arawn groaned but he was in no condition to bargain with her. He wanted her all to himself with no other man in the running. “Joining,” he echoed. “Tonight.” “Tonight,” she agreed. “I’ll fetch Father O’Malley,” Sheriff Brewster called down from upstairs and the sound of his boot heels thundering down the stairs were in cadence with his wife urging him to hurry before things got out of hand. Arawn heard the front door open and close but he paid no heed to it. He was feverishly trailing kisses down his woman’s swanlike neck and glorying in the feel of her hands on his arms and around his waist. “You haven’t asked yet,” Danielle reminded him. The Prime Reaper pulled back and looked down at her. “You want the words, wench?” Danielle nodded. Arawn took a deep breath. He opened his mouth but his lady broke free of his hold and looked down at the floor. He whimpered but obediently went to one knee before her, unmindful of her mother watching from the landing. “An bpósfaidh tú mé?” Danielle’s smile turned his heart to mush. “Aye,” she answered. “It will be my pleasure.” Bowing his head, Arawn thanked the gods who had sent Danielle to him then added a slight rebuke for not warning him such was in store for him. Mentally, he sent a message to the High Council, expecting to be reprimanded for not asking their permission first. “We’ve other things more important to consider than your taking a mate, Gehdrin,” Lord Kheelan chastised him. Then wished him good luck. “Fortan leat.” Arawn had forgotten about the trip Bevyn, Phelan, Glyn and Iden were making to the Misery River. He lightly touched Phelan’s mind and found the Reaper standing on the river’s shores, a rope clutched in his hand. “Where’ve you gone, Arawn?” Danielle asked, bringing Arawn back to her.

111

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He shook his head and stood. “Nowhere, wench,” he said, and pulled her into his arms once more. There would be time to check in with his Reapers. For now, he had a woman to claim.

***** Phelan felt Arawn’s quick probe then the even quicker withdrawal. He pushed the intrusion aside for he was watching Glyn Kullen getting ready to jump off the bank into the raging water of the fast-moving river. Chewing on his lower lip, Phelan could see the fear in Kullen’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Iden shouted above the roar of the water. All four of them were soaking wet, their hats jammed down over their heads but affording little protection from the pummeling rain. Bevyn—as second-in-command of the Reaper unit—stood by, his arms crossed over his chest. Glyn had decided three lead ropes were too much weight wet so Bevyn’s lay unused on the wet ground. Glyn nodded once then drew in a deep breath. Before he could give himself another reason not to do what he had set himself to do, he flexed his knees and jumped, arching out over the water like the expert swimmer he had once been. The dual lines in Phelan and Iden’s hands went taut as Kullen disappeared beneath the frothing waves of the Misery. The Reapers automatically gave him more rope, playing out the heavy-duty hemp as they felt the tugging. “There he is!” Phelan shouted. Glyn’s head had bobbed up near the center of the river. He turned, gave them a thumbs-up and with sure, strong strokes made for the farther shore. “I’ll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian warthog,” Bevyn said, stunned as their fellow Reaper negotiated the strong current. He unfolded his arms, his mouth sagging open. “He’s doing it,” Iden said. “He’s actually doing it!” He was as surprised as Phelan and sat down on the muddy bank and just stared. Neither Phelan nor Iden felt the tearing pain that usually accompanied their close proximity to running water. Their parasites were still, no doubt as curious about the outcome of the experiment as the Shadowlords whose mind-meld was sitting like a specter in the thoughts of all three Reapers. “Well done,” they heard Lord Kheelan Ben-Alkazar complimented Kullen. “This is truly a monumental day.” “A glorious day,” Lord Naois Belvoir joined in. “Remarkable achievement, Kullen. Good on you!” Lord Dunham Tarnes agreed. The ropes in Phelan and Iden’s hands played out but Glyn had not reached the opposite shore. They were loath to let go for fear the hemp would become entangled in river debris but when the ropes went slack, Iden jumped to his feet. 112

Reaper’s Revenge

“He cast off the rope!” Phelan yelled. Glyn was on his back, his brawny arms churning the water as he looked back at them. There was a wide grin on his face and they heard him whoop as he arched forward, disappearing beneath the waves for a moment before they saw him striking out for their side of the river, his arms pistoning in a flurry of movement as he streaked toward them. “Damn he’s good,” Iden said with a whistle. “Said he was a champion swimmer,” Phelan reminded him. He stepped closer to the bank and held his hand down, ready to grasp Kullen’s as the Reaper came to shore. Glyn stopped, treading water about ten feet out. “Come on in!” he said. “I can’t swim,” Bevyn denied. He looked to Phelan and Iden. The men exchanged a look then took a running leap off the bank, landing a few feet from Glyn. Side by side, they took off toward the opposite shore with strong strokes— racing against one another, whooping like boys. Bevyn drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. He’d always wanted to learn to swim and when he’d been turned, that dream had died a quick death. Now, it seemed it might be possible.

113

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Twelve At first glance the gathering at the church was a solemn affair. Standing at the altar awaiting the arrival of his soon-to-be bride, Lord Arawn Gehdrin was ill at ease in a freshly created dress uniform of black silk shirt, black leather tie, belt and uniform breeches. Beside him as best man, Lord Cynyr Cree stood dressed in an identical uniform. Other than the collar insignia of Prime Reaper and Arawn’s dark blue tribal tattoo of a heron, Cynyr’s of a raven, the two men were like matching bookends. In the first pew on the south side of the church, the remaining five Reapers sat side by side, also dressed in the formal black uniforms. The first pew on the north side had been reserved for the father and mother of the bride. Interspersed on both sides were the townspeople of Haines City—Moira McDermott, Matt Schumann and his wife Delores, Brett Samuels, Verlin Walker, John Denning, Healer Tim Murphy, Max Guthrie and many others. Father William O’Malley stood directly in front of the altar, a sour look on his face. This was the second Reaper Joining he had performed and looked none the least happy about it. His florid face was red with anger, a white line around his thin lips. Rebecca Walker, Verlin’s wife, sat at the piano awaiting the escorting of the bride’s mother to her pew. Becca was playing a soft, old-fashioned tune and when Mick Brady began walking Mary Lynne Brewster down the aisle, she played a more appropriate one. Having seated Mary Lynne, Mick took his place in the pew behind the Brewsters, slipping in beside Moira. Annie McDermott came down the aisle next as Danielle’s matron of honor. The widowed woman looked happy although tears shimmered in her eyes. At a terse nod from the priest, Becca began the ritual Joining march and everyone rose as Sheriff Dan Brewster escorted his daughter down the aisle. Brewster looked ready to burst and turned his head to smile at his neighbors in the manner of every politician ever elected to office. On his arm, his daughter was radiant with eyes only for the tall man in black who awaited her at the end of her walk. Arawn swallowed hard, for the lovely woman coming toward him made his body clench and thicken. It was all he could do to keep his wayward staff from springing to attention, straining to get a look at the soft female body that would hold it enthrall for a lifetime to come. As Danielle passed Bevyn Coure, who sat on the aisle seat beside his fellow Reapers, she whispered, “Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna.” Behind him, Brett Samuels leaned forward, tapped Bevyn on the shoulder and asked him for the translation of the Gaelach words. Bevyn smiled. “However long the day, the evening will come,” he replied. 114

Reaper’s Revenge

Brett straightened up, confusion on his beefy face. He shrugged, supposing it was a Reaper thing. Brewster handed his daughter into the care of her husband-to-be, pride lighting the sheriff’s face. “May all your troubles be little ones, Arawn,” he said then joined his wife in their pew. Arawn swallowed again. This time it was from nervousness he would not have thought himself capable of feeling. As he took Danielle’s hand in his and the moment their fingers touched, he felt love drive straight through to his soul. So calm did he feel, so right, he wondered what it was he had fought for so long where this beautiful, sensual woman was concerned. “Let us pray,” Father O’Malley said in a bored voice, stretching his right hand over the couple’s heads. “Have you said the formal words with Lea?” Phelan leaned over to ask Bevyn. “No, but I’m thinking I should,” Bevyn replied of his mate. “Do you think Arawn will turn his lady?” Phelan inquired. “Not without our permission he won’t!” came the stern voice from far away. All seven Reapers heard the words as clearly as though High Lord Kheelan stood in the little church. Not a one of them did not remember the hellish torment Cynyr had gone through for his lack of asking and none wanted to witness a repeat of that agonizing torture. As the ceremony commenced, Moira kept her eye on Cynyr. The lad—though he was older than her by more years than she cared to know—was weak. He was fighting that weakness valiantly and she was worried about him. But it was the grief in his eyes that concerned her more than the frailty of his body. She knew he was remembering the night he had Joined with Aingeal at the Guthrie House, the night the tornado had roared past Haines City and the Reaper had first made their acquaintance. Looking down at the narrow band of white flesh where once her Claddagh wedding band had spanned her finger, she thought again of the gesture and of the happiness her thoughtfulness had given Aingeal on her Joining night. As she watched Arawn slipping a ring on Danielle’s finger, she couldn’t help but wonder where the Reaper had acquired a ring until she looked closely at Annie’s left hand and saw her wedding band was gone. Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, for it had been Moira’s long-dead son Jamie who had supplied the ring for his and Annie’s Joining. Annie turned to meet her mother-in-law’s eyes and smiled sadly. The intricate Celtic band had never left her finger since her beloved Jamie had slipped it on. She treasured the ring, but had offered it to Arawn out of respect and admiration for the man he was and the devotion he bore Danielle. Moira nodded, approving what she knew her daughter-in-law had done. For the first time since she’d met Annie, the old woman felt real pride in the bride her son had chosen.

115

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Man and wife,” Father O’Malley called out with a curt tone. “You can kiss her if you’re of a mind to.” Arawn’s hands trembled as he cupped Danielle’s face between his strong palms and placed a soft, reverent kiss upon her smiling lips, his gaze fused with hers. Cynyr’s heart ached for his own mate as he joined in the applause that greeted the newly Joined couple. He watched Arawn and his lady walking back down the aisle—no longer two hearts, but one—and felt the terrible loneliness that dwelled within him without Aingeal. It would a few days more before he was at full strength and able to go after his woman, he thought as he held his arm out for Annie to take as he led her behind Arawn and Danielle. “Alel help the one what caused that look on your face, Lord Cynyr,” Annie whispered to him, patting his rigid arm. “He’ll need more help than a god can give him,” Cynyr said in a low voice.

***** Aingeal lay awake listening to the raucous snores of the two rogues. The noise was enough to wake the dead. Even the horses were uneasy from the gods-awful racket. The thought of trying to lead one of the mounts out of the cave passed lightly over Aingeal’s mind but she doubted she could do so without discovery. She hated biding her time until the Reaper came for her—and she knew in her soul he would—but she reasoned it was best to keep up the appearance of being loyal to Otaktay. She turned her head and stared at the handsome Jakotai brave. There was evil lurking in the man. She could feel it, could almost smell it in the air around him. His eyes looked warmly upon her, but those eyes were cold, devoid of care for anything or anyone other than her. The looks he gave her made her flesh crawl and brought an unsettling ache to her back that concerned her. For several hours she had been feeling strange. She was overly warm, sweating and had thrown aside the buffalo hide the brave had spread over her as cold seeped through the cave. Her mouth was dry, her back ached and she was thirsty for additional Sustenance. She could feel her heart rate increasing along with her breathing. Her body felt strange, unearthly, and she feared she was coming down with some illness that might endanger her life. Restlessly, she turned to her side but that position did not seem to help so she turned to her stomach. That position did not help either, so she flipped over to her back, running her wet palms down her skirt. She felt irritable, anxious and increasingly aggressive. “Do you know what Transition is, wench?” Jaborn asked. Aingeal sat up, anger flashing in her gray eyes. “What are you talking about, pog?” she insulted him. Kasid Jaborn hated the insulting, pejorative expression and had not heard it in a very long time. It had certainly not been used in his hearing since he had been turned.

116

Reaper’s Revenge

He wondered where the female had picked up such a derogatory term. So offended was he by her use of the word he was tempted not to answer her. He doubted the savage had explained to the woman what Transitioning meant and he was of a mind to let her experience the phenomena without benefit of explanation. Aingeal got to her feet, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She was agitated, her body’s energy racing at a high level that shocked her. Her skin felt as though it were moving upon her bones and she was beginning to feel suspicious, mistrustful of the man looking back at her. “What’s happening to me?” she demanded, shuddering. “You are about to change,” Jaborn replied. He barely glanced at Otaktay as the brave got to his feet. “You need Sustenance,” Otaktay said. Putting his wrist to his mouth, he tore a gash in his flesh then pressed the wound to Aingeal’s lips. She drank greedily—the thick warmth as it flowed down her throat taking off the edge of the itching that plagued her. When she grew too tired to draw upon the sweet nectar feeding her, she closed her lips, lifting a leaden hand to rub at her forehead. “I will give you the tenerse. It will ease your pain.” The words were coming at her from a distance and made no sense to Aingeal. Her head hurt so badly she could barely draw a breath without a spearing agony stabbing at her over her right eye. She made hardly a sound as the Jakotai injected the potent drug into her neck. Otaktay replaced the vial and syringe into the leather medicine pouch he wore around his neck on a leather thong. He had already fed well—having gone outside to capture a few wild animals so he could feed his mate. As much as he hated giving himself the pain of the tenerse, that he had done as well so he could look after his woman. It still seemed strange to him that he should care so deeply for her but he could not stop from doing so. Jaborn shook his head. “That won’t stop the Transition. I doubt it will even slow it down.” Aingeal tried to stand and couldn’t. She went to the ground on all fours, swinging her head at the pain lancing through her. “Aingeal,” Otaktay said, realizing what was about to happen. “Let us go to the place I pointed out to you.” Aingeal shook her head. “No,” she stated. Her flesh was itching and she was sweating so profusely she could feel the moisture dripping down between her breasts. Her face felt as though she had thrust it into a blazing oven. “Do as I say, woman,” Otaktay growled, and took a step toward her. Jaborn gasped and barely had time to scramble away from the powerful snapping jaws that came straight at him. He’d never seen a rogue shift as quickly as the woman did. He was stunned that she could do so in mid-leap, shedding torn clothing as she

117

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

changed. One moment she was human, the next she was a sleek white wolf springing into the air with a fierce growl. Crashing to the ground, he sat there staring after the female as she ran from the cave. “Come back now!” the Jakotai bellowed, and took out after the she-wolf. A laugh rumbled from Jaborn’s chest. He waded through the slimy muck of the savage’s brain searching for knowledge but found none concerning what rogues could and could not do in regard to Transitioning. He seriously doubted Gibbs had explained anything to the man he’d so carelessly turned. It was obvious to him Otaktay had no notion at all that he could change himself at will. The brave had no notion that with four legs much more powerful than the she-wolf’s, he could catch up to her quickly and bring her down. “Far be it for me to inform you, savage,” Jaborn chuckled. He was still chuckling when Otaktay came limping back, his face as hard as stone. “She is running free,” the brave complained. “She’ll be back,” Jaborn said, though he doubted that was true. “She does not remember what she is. She will be afraid,” Otaktay said. “A hunter could find her, shoot her.” Jaborn shrugged. “We each risk that, but just about nothing save the taking of her head will kill her so rest easy. She’ll return when she returns.” Otaktay slumped to the ground, rubbing his ankle for he had twisted it in his mad dash to catch Aingeal. “She could be burned.” “Such is not likely,” Jaborn told him. He watched the savage massaging his ankle and wondered if Otaktay knew the parasite would heal the sprain in a moment or two unless it was annoyed with its host. When the brave continued to rub his throbbing ankle, the Akhkharulian had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud. Apparently the savage’s revenant worm was punishing him. “She is my woman,” Otaktay mumbled. “The Reaper believes she belongs to him,” Jaborn reminded the red man. “She is mine!” Otaktay thundered, his eyes gleaming crimson fire. “Not until Cynyr Cree has given up his life,” Jaborn disagreed. The brave’s jaw tightened. “That is but a matter of time.”

***** The wind rushing through her fur drove Aingeal faster as she loped over the cool sand of the desert. Her speed thrilled her but the sheer ability to do what she was doing spurred her on until her stride barely touched the ground. Freedom beckoned and the moon sailing along above her called to the beast within her breast, making her feel more alive than she had been in nearly two weeks.

118

Reaper’s Revenge

Behind her was the mountain cave from which she had fled. Ahead of her were more mountains to the north, flatlands in front of her, stretching as far as the eye, beckoning, whispering to her in a soft, soothing voice locked away in what was left of her human brain. Night creatures scurried out of her path but they held no allure for Aingeal. A part of her had homed in on a scent, a sound, far to the east of where she ran and it was toward that beacon she moved. Somewhere in the distance she heard a coyote howling to its mate and her insides clenched with need. Her blood was racing, her heart pumping, enjoying the exercise that pushed it to its limits. As she began to pant from the exertion, she slowed her pace—her tongue lolling to one side—her tail like a flag flying in her wake. He was there, her senses told her. Her mate was beyond the dry riverbed over which she leapt. He was beyond the rolling sagebrush and twisted cottonwoods. She picked up speed as she raced up a sand dune, growling deep in her throat in satisfaction as she scampered down the other side, skidding on her shapely rump until she regained the steadiness of her powerful legs. Digging her paws into the cool sand, her muscles flexed and stretched, flexed and stretched, rippling beneath her silky coat. Flecks of foam escaped her grinning jaws yet she kept up her grueling race toward home. Home, she thought, slowing down as she neared a bubbling stream nestled within a stand of cottonwoods. Her sides heaved as she padded to the edge and lowered her head, lapping at the cool mountain water that wound down from the higher elevations. She drank until she could drink no more then stretched out for a moment’s respite, craning her head to look back behind her, searching for anyone, anything that might be following. She sniffed the air and found nothing to alarm her. She rested for only a little while then got to her feet, shook her body from head to tail, studied the flow of the running water for a moment, felt no fear then stepped through it, the fur beneath her belly dragging in the coolness, lowering her body temperature a bit. She resumed her all-out run—darting aside strangely twisted cactus, a surprised sidewinder who lashed out but missed as she passed. Up the dunes she streaked. Down the dunes she skidded, laughter bubbling in her lupine brain. It was the lights of a farmhouse that drew her eye as she climbed one of the dunes and she slowed down, stopped. She sniffed the air. Humans. One male, three females, two much younger than the third. A dog. Two cats. Chickens, pigs, a lone cow, a team of sturdy plow horses, another older mount. Aingeal sat down for a moment, her tail sweeping behind her, fanning the sand. A farmhouse meant clothing and something to protect her feet from the sand come morning. She had no idea how long her change would last but a naked woman running across the desert was bound to draw unwanted eyes. Though she was incapable of human speech, her thought patterns were dual—one set lupine, the other human. She could reason in both worlds and decided it would be to her advantage to head for the

119

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

farmhouse, perhaps hide in a barn if there was one until she could steal something to wear, take one of the horses. Getting up, she shook herself again—liking the way it felt—and loped slowly toward the farm. The scent of wood smoke wafted in the air along with the ripe stink of animal manure. The dog began to bark and Aingeal knew even though she was downwind of him, he had somehow picked up her scent. She stopped a hundred yards away for she heard a door creak open. “Hush up, Blue!” a male shouted. “What is it, Liam?” a female voice asked from inside the sod house. “Don’t know. Old Blue thinks he smells a varmint, I reckon.” “Be careful.” “Goldarn it, Blue! I said shut up!” the male yelled as the dog continued to bark. A strong scent of urine filled the night air and the she-wolf grinned. With her acute hearing, she could hear the patter of the stream hitting the ground and knew the farmer was relieving himself. How she knew she could communicate with the dog Aingeal didn’t know, but a strong urge to do so filled her head and she sent a soothing wave of peace to the canine. “I mean neither you nor your master or mistress any harm,” she whispered into the dog’s mind. “I am in need, brother.” The dog ceased barking but growled low in its throat. She could picture it standing there—ears back, tail down, teeth exposed. “I am in need,” Aingeal repeated. “Where the hell you going, Blue?” the man called out. “Get your scrawny ass back here!” Aingeal held perfectly still. The dog was running toward her and, even from a distance, she could see its hackles raised. Even though she knew the beast had gained her female scent, it was primed to protect its owners and was rushing toward her, more than willing to gauge her intent. Stretching out on the ground, Aingeal waited until the male dog was twenty feet away then turned to her back, her belly exposed in the ancient posture of surrender. She doubted the beast would attack her since she was female, but she was prepared to give him a nasty bite if he tended to be the misogynist sort. Old Blue came to a halt at the she-wolf’s side. Her wild, gamey smell irritated him, frightened him, yet she was on her back, her paws in the air, whimpering softly. He strutted around her, sniffing her fur, growling a warning deep in his throat. He nipped at her, feigned an attack, jumped back. She whimpered again. He moved in once more to sniff between her back legs, nosed her, backed off, came back to sniff again. The shewolf’s paw flexed until it touched the dog’s haunches and he let it stay there. “I’m in need, brother,” she whispered in his mind once more. 120

Reaper’s Revenge

The dog backed off, circled her again then sat down to stare at her. He ignored the call of his master, the piercing loud whistle. “Don’t worry your human,” she warned the dog. “He’ll come looking and he might hurt me.” Old Blue glanced back toward the farmhouse, got to his feet and, after giving her a long look, began to trot back to his owner. He stopped, looked at her again and when she rolled over to her feet and stood, he continued on, expecting her to follow him at a safe distance. “Didn’t find no varmint, huh, Blue?” the man asked, chuckling. “Just another false alarm.” Aingeal stopped, watching the man bend down to ruffle the dog’s ears. She waited until the male was back in the farmhouse, the door closed, before she trotted to the dog’s side. She nuzzled him, her head bumping into his shoulder. In the rickety corral, the horses neighed, catching her lupine scent, but she spoke to them quietly in their minds, assuring them she meant no harm. The cow mooed once then became still. The cats were nowhere in sight, no doubt thinking hiding the better part of valor. Old Blue led her to the barn and to the nest of soft rags that was his bed. Like a gentleman, he allowed her to lie down first then stretched out beside her. “Thank you, brother,” she said, and hoped the dog had no amorous desires in mind. As she lay there in the darkness—her eyes adjusting to the low light—she saw a pair of bib overalls thrown over a horse stall but even from a distance she could smell the ripe odor of unwashed male body and her nostrils quivered in distaste. Come morning, she had to find a way to take her human shape and pilfer a set of clothing and one of the horses, but right then, she closed her eyes and fell asleep, Old Blue’s body curled protectively around hers.

121

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Thirteen “What in the blue blazes is this?” Aingeal opened her eyes to see a tall, red-haired man staring wide-eyed at her. His mouth was ajar and his face nearly as red as his flaming hair. She sat up, covering her naked breasts with her arms, her thigh drawn up to hide her nest of curls from the man’s shocked sight. “Jakotai,” she whispered. “Sweet, merciful Alel!” the man said, and spun around, crashing back through the barn, yelling for his wife. It took only a moment or two for the farmer and his wife to return—she with a blanket clutched in her hand, he with his rifle at the ready. Between the wife’s low murmurs of support and her work-worn hands gently helping Aingeal to stand and the farmer’s narrowed gaze as he stood guard, Aingeal knew she was among friends. “You poor thing,” the wife said, shaking her head as she led Aingeal to their house. “Don’t you worry about nothing. Liam and I will see to you.” “I have to get to my man,” Aingeal said, her voice quivering. The farmer stood at the door, his rifle across his chest, his narrowed gaze searching the land for strangers as his wife settled Aingeal down in a chair and told her they’d get a bath drawn for her. “Please don’t put yourselves out,” Aingeal asked. “I—” “No trouble at all,” the woman, whose name turned out to be Peg O’Rourke, insisted. “I’ll find you something to wear. Liam, fetch me some water to heat up!” The two little girls were peeking down from the loft overhead, their eyes wide and curious. They stayed where they were through the filling of the tin tub, Aingeal dressing and their mother preparing breakfast for them all. Sitting beside the fireplace, Aingeal was in agony. She needed the tenerse that kept the parasite lulled and at bay. She was shivering uncontrollably, the withdrawal from the powerful drug driving like steel spikes into her body. Her mouth was dry and she was desperate for Sustenance, but there was no way she could take it from these kind people. She thought of the dog and realized that would be the easiest way for her to feed. The smell of the food Peg was placing on the table sickened her and it was all she could do not to gag. “Where are you from, lass?” Liam asked. He stood at the window, looking out as he hastily ate his plate of bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. “I can’t remember,” Aingeal admitted, putting a hand to her head and rubbing. “The Jakotai hit me in the head. My memories are scattered.” “Do you remember anything at all?” the woman asked. 122

Reaper’s Revenge

“My man’s name is Cynyr Cree,” Aingeal said. Liam’s head swiveled around as though jerked about by a rope. “The bounty hunter?” he asked, his voice abnormally high. Aingeal nodded, but she was immediately leery for the farmer and his wife exchanged a look between them. Quickly, she delved into their minds and was relieved to find no hatred of Cree. “You know of him?” she asked. “Aye, lass,” Liam said. “The whole territory knows of him. Peg’s family lives in Dyersville. We was visiting them when Lord Cree took out Caspar Hull.” “Hull killed my nephew Conor,” Peg said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ll bless Lord Cree ‘til the day I die for ridding the world of that monster.” Aingeal relaxed as much as the pain would allow. She clenched her jaw to keep her lips from trembling. “Are you like him?” Peg asked in a low voice, her eyes flicking to her two young children who were coming down the ladder to sit at the table. “I am,” Aingeal replied, and lightly searched the O’Rourke’s minds for loathing. What she found was sympathy. “You need what the Reapers need to calm that shaking, don’t you, lass?” Liam asked. He was rolling up his shirtsleeve as he spoke. Aingeal’s heart did a funny little flip for she realized the man meant to offer his blood to her. She shook her head. “I can get what I need from Blue. He—” “Won’t hear of it!” Peg said. She too was rolling up the sleeve of her blouse. “Let’s the three of us go out to the barn and take care of what’s needed.” “Whatcha doing, Ma?” the older of the two little girls asked. “What’s the lady need?” “You never mind, missy!” Liam chastised his daughter. “Get your fanny to the table and I don’t want to come back and find a single piece of spud on your plate!” Helping Aingeal to her feet, Peg escorted her to the door Liam already had open. “Thank you,” Aingeal said. “I don’t know how to repay you.” “Ain’t asking for payment,” Liam declared. “It’s an honor to help out.” Blue stood in the yard, wagging his tail. He followed them into the barn and sat down, watching the curious things the humans were doing. “If’n I remember right,” Peg said, “Reapers need something that helps the pain. Do you reckon I have it, lass?” Aingeal shook her head. “It’s called tenerse and I wouldn’t think so, Peg,” she said, her teeth chattering. She licked her lips as the woman offered her arm in a matter-of-fact way. “Reckon I could find it in town?” Liam asked. “Over to Haines City?”

123

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The name of the town sent a shudder of recognition through Aingeal and she paused with Peg’s arm almost to her mouth. “That’s where he is!” she said. “I know that’s where he is!” “Haines City is about an hour’s ride east of here,” Peg said. “Looks like they may be getting rain over that way again.” “Aye, and us without a drop in months,” Liam complained. “I need to get to Haines City,” Aingeal said. “Well, we’ll hitch up the buckboard and take a little trip over there,” Liam declared. “Just as soon as we’re finished here.” “You can’t leave your family here,” Aingeal protested. “The man after me would harm them.” “Don’t think on that right now,” Liam said. “You just do what you gotta do, lass.” Peg barely flinched when Aingeal’s fangs descended. She groaned only a little as those sharp fangs sank into her wrist but her free hand was being clutched tightly in her husband’s. After Liam had offered his own arm, Aingeal wasn’t in as much pain. “One of the heathens stole you from Lord Cree,” Liam stated. “Is that what happened?” “His name is Otaktay and he’s a rogue,” Aingeal replied. “Alel, help us!” Peg said, making the sign of the Slain One. “If those savages are turning rogue, we’re in for it now!” “He’s the only one I know of,” Aingeal said, “but there could be more. I don’t believe there are though.” “I’ll get the buckboard ready, Peg. You get the lasses ready to go,” Liam told his wife as he rolled his sleeve down again. Aingeal had been careful not to take much Sustenance from either of the O’Rourkes. She needed more and her eyes slid to Blue. The dog wagged his tail and seemed to nod as though he knew what was needed. He turned and trotted out of the barn. “I need to relieve myself, Peg,” Aingeal said. “Outhouse is behind the house,” Peg told her. Blue was waiting for her as Aingeal opened the door to the outhouse. The dog followed her in and jumped up on the wooden two-seater board. “Thank you, brother,” Aingeal sent to him, and bent over to push his thick fur aside. She buried her fangs into the dog’s neck, patting him gently as she fed. She took as much Sustenance as she knew the dog could afford to give but it did nothing to assuage the burning pain in her body. Only the tenerse could remedy that.

***** Otaktay had ignored Jaborn’s suggestion to wait for the woman to come back. He feared she’d been hurt and had ridden out looking for her at first light, easily tracking 124

Reaper’s Revenge

the wolf prints that led ever eastward. He was only a few miles from the spot Aingeal had stopped to drink water when the O’Rourkes and Aingeal—Blue trotting alongside the buckboard—set out for Haines City. By noontime, he was staring at the farmhouse, sensing its emptiness of humans. He saw the wagon wheel tracks leading toward the town from which he’d take Aingeal and let out a war cry that shattered the stillness of the day and sent birds fluttering from the branches of a nearby scrub oak. His eyes filled with rage, he spun his mount around and started back for the cave, knowing he’d need Jaborn’s help to reclaim the woman.

***** Cynyr was dreaming of his lady again. He writhed on the cot, his body aching for hers, her name on his lips. His strength was returning but he had a nagging headache that finally pushed him from sleep. His eyes snapped open, sweat running down his face, and he reached up to wipe away the salty moisture. “Must have been one helluva dream.” Cynyr turned to see Mick Brady standing outside the cell, his arms dangling through the bars. “Where is everyone?” he asked, sitting up and swinging his legs carefully from the cot. “Well, as you hear, it’s raining again and the Misery is threatening to overflow its banks. Everyone ‘cept me is down at the edge of town doing some mighty fierce sandbagging.” He lifted his palms for Cynyr to see the blisters he’d obtained earlier. “Somebody had to watch over you.” Hanging his head, Cynyr wished the brutal headache would leave. He’d had it for two solid weeks and it didn’t seem inclined to settle down. It had taken all his selfcontrol not to let the agony show when he stood up for Arawn at the Joining. “Bevyn filled your syringe up for me. Want me to give it to you?” Mick asked, withdrawing his arms from the bars. “It might help,” Cynyr admitted. “Still got that headache, huh?” The barber asked as he came into the cell with the syringe. “I’ve had headaches ever since my turning, but this one is getting to me,” he answered, flinching as Brady injected the stinging drug into the Reaper’s neck. “From the look on your face I don’t imagine that tenerse stuff is a piece of cake either.” “Hurts like hell,” Cynyr told him. He pushed himself up, wavering only a little then stepped over to the chamber pot to relieve himself. “I’ve got your Sustenance too,” Brady said. The Reapers had taken turns supplying their blood for Cynyr, for Reaper blood was a much more powerful form of Sustenance than human or animal. It was Reaper blood that was pushing the last of the toxins from Cree’s body. Taking the jug of the precious 125

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

fluid from Brady, Cynyr drank deeply, inwardly smiling at Brady’s look of disgust as he turned and walked away. “Your lady is on her way back to you.” Lord Kheelan’s voice eased through Cynyr’s mind like a hot knife through butter and the Reaper reached out to grab hold of the cell’s iron bars. “What’s the matter?” Brady asked, seeing the surprise settling on the Reaper’s face. “Aingeal is on her way here,” he said. He took a few steps forward but his head swam unmercifully and if Brady hadn’t moved like greased lightning, Cynyr would have crashed face first to the floor. As it was, the jug fell out of his hands to shatter on the wood planking. “Easy does it, partner!” Brady said, helping Cynyr back to the cot and easing him down. “You aren’t in any condition to go looking for her yet.” He eyed the broken jug, but there wasn’t even a drop of what had been inside the stoneware container staining the floor. “She’s out there, Mick,” Cynyr said. His eyes were full of pleading as his head pounded savagely, the room tilting to one side around him. “Lay down. Conserve your strength,” Lord Kheelan sent to him. “Let the man seek her. Tell him to be quick about it.” “Is she in danger?” Cynyr asked. “She needs tenerse,” was the answer. Cynyr knew all too well the agony the lack of tenerse could cause. The memory of the punishment he had suffered at Lord Kheelan’s hands was all too fresh. “You have to find her for me,” Cynyr told Brady. “Just tell me where and I’m outta here,” Brady assured him. “East of town,” Lord Kheelan stated. “She is with a family bringing her back to you.” “East,” Cynyr said. “She’s with some other people.” “I’m on it.” “Wait!” Cynyr shouted. “She needs tenerse. She—” “There’s some in the desk,” Brady interrupted, and yanked open a drawer and withdrew a vial. “I don’t know how to fill the syringe.” Cynyr motioned for him to bring the instruments to him and quickly loaded the same syringe that had been used on him. He handed both the vial and the syringe to Brady. “Hurry, Mick.” Brady put the syringe in his vest pocket along with the vial then rushed out of the cell, grabbing his hat from the hook by the door as he pulled the portal open. “I’ll let someone know you’re here alone,” Brady said, and with that, he was gone. The excruciating pain driving through his temples, pooling at the base of his skull, brought the bile rushing to Cynyr’s throat and he barely had time to lean over the cot and puke into the chamber pot. The smell of his puke mixed with the cooling urine

126

Reaper’s Revenge

made his stomach roil even harder. The blood was rushing through his ears, sounding like a low drumbeat, and the room was beginning to shift again. His eyes ached as though they were about to explode so he closed them carefully. His nose felt clogged, making it nearly impossible to breathe through it. Cold sweat had popped out on his forehead and upper body. “Gods-be-damned ghorets,” he mumbled as he lay back on the cot, clutching the sides to keep from spinning off into space. Vaguely he heard the jail door open and close, footsteps then a cool hand caressed his brow. “Are ye sick again, lad?” He forced one eye open—a lance of pain going through his brain—and managed to smile at the old lady. “If I was a drinking man, Moira, I’d think I was coming off one helluva binge.” “Been there,” Moira told him. “Ain’t something I’ll ever do again in this lifetime.” She moved out of line of sight. Cynyr flinched when she laid a cool rag on his brow and his teeth began to chatter. “How much longer is this shit gonna last?” he asked. “Until it’s out of your system,” Moira stated. “Can’t be much longer now and watch that smart mouth of yours.” She gently pulled one of his hands from the death grip on the side of the cot and patted it. “I heard tell Mick went after the lass.” “Aye,” Cynyr whispered. To his ears the one word sounded as though he’d bellowed it. Sensing her patient was not in condition or of a mind to talk, Moira patted his hand again and put it back on the edge of the cot. She left his cell and took up residence once more in her beloved rocking chair, carefully lowering herself so she made as little noise as possible. Refraining from rocking, she took up her knitting and quietly worked the needles. Though the coolness of the rag made him shiver, it felt good on his pounding temples. He did his best to relax but the pain kept him in its fierce grip, refusing to let up. Striving to keep his mind off the discomfort, he tried to reach out to Aingeal but was unable to make contact. That worried him, increasing the pain even more in his head. “She is making do, Cree,” Lord Kheelan said in a voice as quiet as a low wind. “Once you take blood from her, the connection between you will return. Try to sleep.” Somewhat reassured, Cynyr willed himself to sleep, but sleep was not something Reapers did easily or for very long at a time. “Sleep, my Reaper.” Cynyr’s eyes flew open. It was Morrigunia’s voice that crooned to him. Before he could ask about Aingeal, he found himself drifting under heavy clouds of fleecy dark cotton, his pain subsiding.

127

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

***** “Take ‘em!” Liam O’Rourke snarled as he handed the reins of the buckboard over to Peg. In the blink of an eye he had plucked up his rifle, cocked it and had it at eyelevel as a rider came streaking toward them. “Stop the wagon, Peg.” Aingeal was lying in the back of the buckboard on a thick blanket of quilts Peg had been kind enough to spread for her. She was shivering uncontrollably from her withdrawal from tenerse and crying softly, careful not to allow the moans that pushed at her throat from escaping for the two young girls sitting beside her looked frightened enough as it was. The rider galloping toward the O’Rourkes pulled back on his horse, bringing the animal to a skidding stop then stood up in the stirrups, waving his hat. “I’m looking for Aingeal Cree!” he shouted. “Her husband sent me!” Aingeal heard Mick’s voice and tried to get up but she was in such agony she couldn’t find the strength. “Tell your pa he’s a friend,” she croaked. Lilly O’Rourke reached up to tug at her father’s coattail. “She says she knows him, Da,” the little girl said. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em and come on a bit closer!” Liam instructed. Struggling to get up, Aingeal was glad for the assistance of the two little girls. Grunting like old women, they managed to hold Aingeal to a sitting position. “He’s Mick Brady, the town barber,” Aingeal said, her teeth clicking together on the words. Liam lowered the rifle a tad. “Ain’t never had no use for a barber,” he said, squinting as the man came closer, “but I think I recognize him.” Mick kept his hands away from his body. He’d seen the family several times in Haines City but couldn’t recall their name. “I’ve brought her medicine,” Mick called out. That more than anything settled the issue in Liam’s mind and he lowered the rifle. “Come on, then. She’s in bad shape.” Aingeal lay back down, her body pricking with pins and needles that set her to shuddering violently. Her hands twisted in the quilt beneath her. When she felt the buckboard bed sag, she looked up to see Mick—his dear face as white as parchment—as he bent over her. “It’ll be all right, sweetie,” Mick said, his unspoken love for her shining in his moist eyes. He eased her head to one side and reached in his coat for the syringe. “What’s that?” Lilly asked, moving where she could see the strange thing the man was putting to Aingeal’s neck. “It’s something she needs to make her feel better,” Mick said, and plunged the needle into Aingeal’s neck. “Da, he’s hurting her!” Lilly shouted, and began pounding her little fists on Mick’s arm.

128

Reaper’s Revenge

“No!” her mother disagreed and reaching over the seat to snatch her daughter out of Mick’s way. The drug hurt Aingeal for the first time and she cried out, her body stiffening as the fire spread in her blood. Realizing the strength had no doubt been made for her husband, she jerked at the quilt, the agonizing trail of the tenerse crawling through her veins far worse than the withdrawal symptoms had been. She couldn’t stop the whimpers from coming and groaned as Mick reached for her and lifted her up, engulfing her in his strong arms, holding her against him as the fiery path of the drug began to ease. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Aingeal,” Mick said, tears flooding his eyes. Peg and Liam exchanged a look, Peg’s left eyebrow crooked. “Cynyr?” Aingeal whispered, her face buried against Mick’s buckskin coat. “He’s still sick but he’ll get a whole sight better soon as he sees you,” Mick said, easing his tight hold on her. The strength of the tenerse spread through Aingeal and she slumped against Mick, knocked out from the drug’s potency. “She’s got a Jakotai after her,” Liam said. “We need to get on to town with her.” Mick nodded and laid her down. He made sure she was breathing easily before he swung off the side of the buckboard and climbed up on his horse. “Cyn will take care of that heathen savage,” Brady stated. “Wouldn’t want to be in that brave’s moccasins,” Liam agreed. He took the reins from his wife and slapped them lightly. “Geddup!” Mick rode beside the buckboard, casting a nervous eye behind them in case the Jakotai was following.

129

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Fourteen Harold Warrington eased the door open and stuck his head inside the jail office. “Is he awake?” he whispered. Moira didn’t care for the prissy little man and when she saw he was carrying a wicker basket covered with a red-and-white-checked towel, thunderclouds began brewing in the old woman’s eyes. She laid her knitting down in her lap. “What ye got there, Harry?” she demanded. The man the Shadowlords had provided for Cynyr and Aingeal as a servant winced, hating the nickname everyone in town had bestowed upon him as soon as they found out it annoyed him. He disliked having to live in the backward town, loathed the room he’d been given at the Guthrie House, and wished he could return to the Citadel and never see another western town as long as he lived. If he’d had his druthers, he would stay on the side-railed train car where he had a bedroom but no one would fill the water tanks or empty the privy or provide him with firewood for the stoves so he was forced to stay in the hotel he considered one step above a ghetto residence. “Please, do not call me that,” Harold asked, knowing full well it would do no good. He came on into the jail. “I made him some vegetable and beef barley soup.” Moira cast a look toward the cot and knew her charge was sleeping soundly so she got up and walked over to the desk where Warrington had set down the fancy wicker basket. She raked her eyes over the little man, feeling the same as the rest of the townsfolk who disliked him, considering him a fussy, prissy little man who looked down his nose at them. He had alienated everyone in town with his attitude. “And what else?” she inquired. Gritting his teeth, Harold replied the basket also contained freshly baked bread and a jug of apple juice. “Surprises the hell outta me that old Guthrie gives ye the run of his kitchen, all things considered,” Moira stated, lifting the cloth to inspect Harold’s offering. Harold stiffened, his five feet tall frame nearly quivering with outrage. “I will have you know I am a certified blue ribbon chef, madam!” he hissed. “I have trained in the finest culinary—” “Smells all right to me. Guess it won’t kill him,” Moira pronounced, and went back to her rocker, dismissing the man. His pencil-thin mustache trembling, Harold spun on his heel and marched to the door, the ever-persistent wheezing noises coming through his nose making him sound like a dying steam engine. He closed the door carefully behind him. “Mincing little fop,” Moira mumbled.

130

Reaper’s Revenge

“He’s a damned good cook, Moira,” Cynyr said. Moira looked over at him. “If’n ye say so.” Groggy from sleep but with less pain in his head, Cynyr asked Moira for water. It was all he could do to push himself up when she brought him a glass. He drank greedily, his mouth and throat dry. “Ye smell a bit ripe, lad,” Moira informed him, wrinkling her nose. “I need a bath,” the Reaper agreed for he could smell his own odor. “Rain seems to have stopped for the time being. I’ll go fetch Annie and we’ll see to ye.” Cynyr eased his legs from the cot and attempted to stand up but though he knew he possessed the strength to do so, his head swam unmercifully so he lowered it, closing his eyes to the wildly spinning room circling around him. He was still sitting like that when Brett Samuels and Verlin Walker came in with two buckets of hot water each to fill the small copper tub that had been brought to Cynyr’s cell. “How’s the levy holding?” the Reaper asked. “All right for now,” Samuels reported. “Most we’re likely to get is a quagmire running through the street.” “Last time we had flooding we got a tad more’n that but nothin’ to write home about,” Walker agreed. “Seems a big waste of time to me to be shoring up but whatta I know?” Annie and Moira came in with the items needed for Cynyr’s bath. They waited until the water had been poured and the men shooed out before helping the Reaper to the tub. Having long since accustomed himself to the women seeing him naked, he allowed them to undress him, although he could have waved a hand to rid himself of his clothing if he’d had the energy to do so. Slipping into the hot water, he sighed deeply and leaned his head against the tall back of the tub. “You know your friends spent a goodly portion of their time the other day swimming in the river despite it being on the rise,” Annie told Cynyr. “Well, all except the newlywed, Owen and Bevyn.” “Bevyn can’t swim,” Moira said as she poured water on Cynyr’s head and began lathering his hair. “Arawn had other things on his mind other than a dip in the river.” “That was sweet of you to give Danielle your ring,” Cynyr said, and met Annie’s eye. “It’ll be treasured.” “Figured as much,” Annie said, ducking her head. She cleared her throat as though wanting to change the subject. “Reckon one of the men will teach Bev how to swim?” “Might be harder than normal,” Cynyr said as he lifted a hand to swipe at the suds flowing down his cheek. “He’ll have the natural inclination of a Reaper not to want to go near the water.”

131

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Seems to me they figured out there weren’t no danger to that creepy-crawly in you so the lad won’t be too a’feared,” Moira commented. “He seemed downright despondent he couldn’t join in the playing.” “Not unlike a man to want what the others have or can do,” Annie put in. Cynyr smiled for Annie was vigorously lathering soap up and down his arms and across his chest, seemingly unaware of his nakedness. When she told him to lift his leg, he did so obediently. “Jamie was like that,” Moira stated. “Always after me to get him a pony like Matt Schumann had or pestering me for a pair of boots like Johnny Denning’s granddaddy sewed for him.” “Men ain’t nothing but tall little boys,” Annie said with a giggle, and she motioned Cynyr to put up his other leg. “That’s the truth if you’ve ever spoke it,” Moira agreed. “What does that make you women?” Cynyr asked. “Long-suffering saints who have to put up with your nonsense,” Moira replied. The jail door opened and the sheriff sauntered in, wiping the rain from his florid face. “Started back to pouring again,” he announced. “Saw a wagon and rider over near the rise.” “That’s Aingeal,” Cynyr said, his voice filled with excitement. He took the rag out of Annie’s hand. “I’ll see to the rest of me.” Annie and Moira chuckled at the blaze of color that accompanied the Reaper’s words and left him to finish his bath. “Best stay with him while he dresses himself, Dan. He ain’t none too steady on his feet yet,” Moira suggested as she waved Annie ahead of her to the door. Lightning cracked overhead and rain slammed down hard on the tin roof. “Don’t look like you’re going nowheres, Miss Moira,” the sheriff warned. “Think ye may be right,” Moira granted, staring at the rain slashing across the muddy street. “Aingeal is going to get drenched,” the Reaper said, and no one could mistake the worry in his voice. He was leaning against the sheriff as he pulled himself out of the tub. Though Annie wasn’t facing Cynyr, she could see him from the corner of her eye as the sheriff helped him dry himself. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “He’s all man,” Moira said quietly. Annie nodded, acutely embarrassed her mother-in-law was aware she’d been surreptitiously ogling the Reaper. She turned her head away so she wouldn’t be tempted to keep on staring at the broad, hairy chest and the sensual triangle at the junction of Cynyr’s thighs.

132

Reaper’s Revenge

The sheriff shook his head as he watched the Reaper fan a hand down his body and clothing magically appeared. He knew he’d never get used to the miraculous things the bounty hunters could do. “Do I look all right?” Cynyr asked, running a hand through his damp curls. “Good enough to eat,” Moira said with a laugh. “Reckon Lady Aingeal won’t care how you look,” the sheriff said, “if’n she’s a drowned rat herself.” Once more the door opened and Bevyn and Phelan hurried in, their clothing soaked from the downpour. “It’s coming down like dogs and cats out there,” Phelan announced, shaking the water from the brim of his black hat. “I think your lady’s here,” Bevyn said. He took off his hat and ran the back of his arm over his wet face. “I saw a buckboard pulling into the stable.” Cynyr ran a trembling hand down his black leather breeches. He was unsteady on his feet, standing close to the bunk should he need to sit down quickly. His head was hurting still, but not nearly as badly as it had been. “I sure don’t fancy getting wet out there,” Moira said, “but we got a ton of chores to do.” “Yes, we do,” Annie allowed. “I’ll see you ladies to home,” the sheriff offered. “Much obliged, Dan,” Moira said. “You’re going to get soaked,” Cynyr told her. “A little rain never hurt nobody,” Moira said, and pushed Annie ahead of her out the door, followed closely by the sheriff. “No one wants to be here when you and your lady see one another, I reckon,” Phelan laughed. He jammed his hat back on his head. “You go on. I’ll wait until she’s here,” Bevyn said. He went over to the windows and began pulling down the shades. “What are you doing?” Cynyr asked. “He’s dense, ain’t he?” Phelan asked, shaking his head. He left, running across the street toward the Guthrie House. “I’ll lock the door behind me and warn people to refrain from coming to check on you,” Bevyn said as he leaned up against the desk. Cynyr’s face flamed. “You really think I’m capable of doing what you people think I’ll be doing?” “You’re alive, aren’t you?” Bevyn inquired. “Aye, but I feel like shit still and Aingeal had to have tenerse and—” “And, and, and,” Bevyn interrupted. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down and stop raking your hand through your hair and messing it up even more?” 133

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cynyr lowered his hand, about to plow it through his hair still again. He sat down on the cot, threaded his fingers together and pressed his hands between his thighs. He stared at his bare feet, wondering why he hadn’t thought to put on his boots when he’d fashioned his uniform. He started to then lost interest when Bevyn spoke. “When the river goes down a mite, Glyn’s going to teach me how to swim,” Bevyn said, trying to take his fellow Reaper’s mind off the impending reunion. “Yeah?” Cynyr said, looking up. The subject held vague interest for him. “Always wanted to learn,” Bevyn added. The sound of running feet coming up the sidewalk planks brought Cynyr’s head up and his eyes straight to the door. He held his breath as a shadow passed across the drawn shades and the door opened. Mick Brady came in, his hair plastered to his head. He was smiling. “She says she’ll be here as soon as she puts on some dry clothes,” the barber proclaimed. He swiped the rain from his face with a spread hand. “Reckon I’ll go get dry too.” “She’s okay?” Bevyn asked for Cynyr. “Doing real good. Slept a long time after I gave her the tenerse.” Mick frowned. “Must have hurt her something fierce, though.” Bevyn looked at Cynyr. “Was it your tenerse he gave her?” Cynyr flinched and groaned. “By the gods, it was!” “No harm done, I guess,” Mick said. “She feels just fine now.” He nodded to the men then turned to go. Cynyr was shaking his head. “I didn’t stop to think,” he admitted. Once more the door opened and Aingeal was standing there. Her dress was wet around the hem, her braided hair wet, but she was the most beautiful thing Cynyr had ever seen. His knees felt weak and he was unable to stand, looking at her with such hunger it nearly growled. “Milady,” Bevyn said, tipping his hat to her. She was looking at him, a frown on her face. “You’re not my man,” she said. “No, I’m surely not,” Bevyn agreed, and nudged his chin toward the jail cell where Cynyr was seated, looking as though he’d been poleaxed. Aingeal turned her head and when she saw the handsome man sitting on the cot, her insides did a funny little flip. It was his eyes she recognized and everything else in the room simply faded away. “I’ll leave you two alone,” Bevyn said, and slipped out the door, making good on his promise to lock it behind him. Aingeal could feel her legs shaking beneath the skirt of the borrowed dress someone had sent to her at the stable. Her heart was thundering in her chest and she was breathing strangely—almost as though she’d been running.

134

Reaper’s Revenge

Cynyr swallowed. “Will you come to me, mo shearc?” he asked in a strained voice. “He hit me in the head,” she explained, taking a step forward. “I don’t remember much.” Fury shifted across Cynyr’s face. “You will be the last woman he’ll ever hit,” he swore. He tried to push himself up but the pain in his head nearly made him pass out. Seeing her mate was having problems standing, Aingeal hurried to him, kneeling down in front of him and reaching for his hands. “You have been ill,” she said. “This much I know.” He threaded his fingers through hers. His gaze was moving over her face, looking for signs of hurt. He brought her hands to his lips and pressed her knuckles to his mouth. Aingeal looked into a face that was the handsomest she’d ever seen. His amber eyes were glowing, moist from unshed tears she could see hovering just beneath the surface. His lips pressing against her hands sent a wave of warmth pooling low in her belly. “I’m better now,” he told her. “Much better now you’re home.” She slipped one hand from his grasp and laid her palm against his cheek. “This feels right,” she said. “My soul knows yours.” “You are my wife,” he told her. “We were legally Joined before witnesses. You are my heart, my soul, the very essence of my being.” She watched a single silver tear slide down his cheek and she pressed between his legs, slipping her other hand from his to put her arms around his waist and lay her cheek against his broad chest. She felt his manhood leap against her and smiled. “This feels right,” she said again. “You feel right. I am totally at ease with you, Reaper.” His arms were around her, holding her tightly to him, vowing never again to allow her out of his sight. He had nearly lost her, had put her in danger, had not taken the care of her he had pledged on the night they were Joined. Never again would he let anything come between them. “I lost our child,” she said, holding her breath for his reply. “I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “It wasn’t your fault.” Aingeal heard the grief in his voice and felt her heart melting. There were many things she needed to relearn, but already the great affection she had for the man holding her was coming to the surface, pushing aside everything that had happened while they had been apart. Instinctively she knew he would be patient with her, gentle, allowing her the time she would need to reacquaint herself with their life together. Already she had met people she knew she had known before, though their names escaped her. Bits and pieces of her life in Haines City had come back as she hurried from the stable to the jail. She just needed time to fit the pieces together.

135

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He was trembling and she pushed away from him to look up into his face. She could see the strain, the pain and the strong desire to make her homecoming as easy as possible. She got to her feet and pressed him to the side, bidding him to lie down. “You look so uncomfortable, mo tiarna,” she said, and she saw his eyes flare at her use of the word. Cynyr did as she asked but his eyes were narrowed with hurt. He knew she had lost a great deal of her memory for he had slipped deftly into her mind to find jagged pieces of recollections flitting about, striving to come together. The last thing he wanted was for her to be uneasy in his presence, to call him her lord instead of her love. “I Transitioned,” she told him, sitting down beside him on the bunk. “I truly enjoyed that.” His smile was quick in coming. “You enjoyed it the first time you did it,” he told her. She tilted her head to one side. “Have we Transitioned together?” “Not yet,” he acknowledged. “But I was there when you shape-shifted for the first time.” “I have the prettiest tail,” she said, her eyes crinkling with laughter. “And are very proud of it,” he agreed. The cot wasn’t really big enough to accommodate both their bodies but she lowered herself beside him and he scooted over as far as he could go without falling off. She put her head on his pillow and looked at him. “I knew he wasn’t my mate though he told me he was,” she said. She lifted her hand to his face and caressed him. “I kept seeing your eyes.” Sorrow drove straight through Cynyr’s heart. “He raped you,” he said. “I will never forgive myself for letting that happen. I—” She put her fingers over his lips. “How could you have stopped it?” she asked. “You were ill.” He kissed the pads of her fingers and reached up to drag her hand to his chest. “I should have taken better care of you, mo shearc.” “You were doing your duty,” she reminded him. He couldn’t answer that for his throat clogged with tears. His Aingeal was a forgiving soul. He knew that about her. “We’ll not discuss my time away from you ever again,” she stated. “I will avenge you,” he swore. “Aye,” she said on a long sigh. “I know you will.” She lowered her hand to his groin. “I want to erase all trace of him from me.” She locked her gaze with his. “Will you do that for me?” Cynyr’s head was pounding viciously but he could no more deny her than stop breathing. “If that is what you wish,” he answered.

136

Reaper’s Revenge

She caressed him through the leather. “Are you up to it?” His cock stirred beneath her hand. “What do you think?” he asked. She sat up and eased from the cot. Sensing his weakness, slipping gently into his mind only to find he was blocking her attempt to read him, she knelt there on the floor, her face puckered with concern. “If you are in pain…” “The pain is in my heart,” he said. “If you have need of me, milady, I am here to provide.” “No,” she whispered. “I need to provide for you.” She unbuttoned the cuffs then the front of his silk shirt and laid it aside, running her hands over the wiry thatch of dark hair on his chest. She sighed with pleasure as her palms slid over the crisp curls. “This, I remember,” she said as she helped him to sit up so she could remove the shirt, pushing it sensually over his shoulders. Cynyr was trembling as she splayed her hand in the center of his chest and bade him to lie back down. She worked the buttons of his fly, tugging at the waistband until he lifted his hips, allowing her to slide the breeches down his taut thighs. It would have been easier simply to wish away the garment but he did not want to waste the strength he had. He lay there until she worked the breeches from his legs and laid them aside. “You have uncommonly handsome feet for a man,” she said, caressing his bare toes. Her words drove a spear of lust through his loins and he ached to reach down and grab her, bring her up until her body was pressed tightly to his. The memory of her suckling his toes on the train ride there made his mouth water. “Do you,” he asked, hearing his blood pounding through his ears, “remember the train ride here?” She flexed his foot, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Have I ever been on a train?” “Twice,” he answered. “With me.” “I don’t remember it,” she said. “You will.” She smiled and stood up, coming to stretch out beside him once more. “You’re being unfair, wench,” he said. “I’m in my birthday suit and you’re completely dressed.” “And at my mercy,” she said with a giggle. He locked eyes with her. “You like that, huh?” “I feel very powerful,” she admitted, running her hand over his chest. She seemed not to be able to get enough of the feel of his chest hair. His hand unsteady, he lifted it and placed it gently on her breast. He smiled when she sucked in her breath. “You like that?”

137

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I believe I do,” she said, covering his hand with hers and pressing it harder against her. The hellion in her back shifted but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. “I think Caraid does too.” “Caraid?” he questioned. “My parasite,” she informed him. He blinked. “You named it?” “Just now,” she replied smugly. “I can’t keep calling her beast. It means friend in Gaelach.” He blinked again. “I know that. How do you know that?” “You told me, silly,” she said. “Once when we were talking about Moira, you said—” She stopped, her eyes going wide. “Moira!” “Aye,” he said, drawing the word out, watching her face as clouds of memory swept over it. “What of her?” “She’s our friend. You were going to cure her of her arthritis!” she answered, her hand tightening around his. “I remember her, Reaper! Things are coming back to me!” “Don’t rush them,” he advised. “Let them come as they will. You can—” She didn’t give him a chance to finish for she leaned over him and latched her mouth to his, drawing on his lips as though she were starving. He could feel the point of her breast hardening beneath his palm through the material of her dress and realized she had nothing on beneath that dress. “Not even a stupid camisole,” she said as she drew back. “I know how you hate camisoles.” “And gowns that don’t give me enough contact with your sweet body,” he said gruffly, and waved his hand over her, ridding her of the offending garment. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” she said, and rolled over on top of him, settling her lower body between his legs. “I like providing your clothes for you, wench,” he said. “Aye, well, having that ability would have been real good when Liam O’Rourke found me naked as a jaybird in his barn this morn.” Thunderclouds gathered on the Reaper’s face. “Liam who?” he growled. “The farmer who brought me here,” she said, giving him a kiss on his chin, his cheek, the tip of his nose. “He and his wife Peg and their two daughters.” “He saw you naked?” Amber eyes were molten with anger. “As a jaybird,” she repeated, grinning. “I’ll teach you how to fashion clothes, wench,” he stated. “Just as soon as I can stand up without wanting to pitch over.” She laid her head on his chest, spiking her fingers through the crisp hair there. “I’m remembering all kinds of things, mo shearc,” she said. She lifted her head. “How’s Harold?” 138

Reaper’s Revenge

Cynyr groaned. “Why’d you bring him up?” “Has he been taking care of you since you’ve been sick?” “He came once,” Cynyr said. “Today. He left soup.” Her eyes lit up. “What kind of soup?” “I don’t know. Vegetable, I think.” “Did you eat all of it?” “I haven’t had any of it,” he said, having a hard time following her whiplash thoughts. “Why?” “I’m starving,” she announced, and started to wriggle off him. “Where is it?” “Too fucking bad,” he said, his arms locking around her like steel bands. “I’m starving too, but it isn’t for Harry’s soup.” “Harold,” she corrected. She stared down into his eyes and saw the hunger building there. “I gotta feed you first, eh?” “Aye, wench,” he said in a gruff voice. “That you do.” She could feel the prod of his rod riding along the crease of her rump and wiggled her bottom against it. “You do seem to have a problem with that thing of yours.” “A problem you started,” he reminded her. “As I recall, we did a lot of problem solving on the way to and from the Citadel,” she said, and grinned at his look of surprise. “On the train.” “You remember riding on the train, do you?” he asked softly. “I remember you riding me on the train,” she said with a giggle. “Brazen hussy,” he pronounced, but he could sense memories flashing through her mind, fitting together the jagged pieces that were rapidly falling into place. “I may regret you getting your memory back.” “’Twas your toes that started it,” she said, using her own to duel with his. “Uncommonly handsome toes, I believe you labeled them,” he said. She lifted her butt, shifted her legs so that they were outside his thighs then settled down upon his cock, letting his rigid member slid along her hot, wet folds until he was settled within her creamy channel. “You take my breath away, Aingeal,” her husband whispered. She ground against him, her eyes mischievous as she swooped down to claim his mouth once more, her tongue darting inside to brand him. Beneath them, the cot made a popping noise, groaning against their combined weights. “Perhaps we should wait until we’re in our room at Moira’s,” Cynyr suggested, pulling his mouth free. Aingeal deliberately clenched her vaginal muscles around his thick cock, drawing him even deeper inside her. “You think so?”

139

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Lust rippled instantly through the Reaper’s loins. “Hell no. Just ignore what I said, wench.” “I usually do, mo shearc,” she agreed. Memories were returning at a fast clip as she undulated upon his hard staff. Faces floated by, smells surfaced, sounds registered. Her heart was bursting with happiness even as a hollow feeling of grief at the loss of their child welled up inside her. She gently tamped that feeling down. His headache was raging and he had to tighten his jaw to keep it at bay, but the joy of having his woman, his mate, merged with him helped to push the agony into a corner of his mind. “You are hurting,” she said, deftly plucking that knowledge from his momentarily unguarded mind. Before he could stop her, she was off him, standing beside the cot, hands on her hips, her eyes filled with tears. “You would have gone on with this when you’re in that much pain?” Cynyr’s rod was a hard, thick, pulsing torment standing straight up in the air, begging for attention. His head might feel as though it were about to explode, but another part of him required immediate care. He opened his mouth to plead with her but didn’t get the chance for she crouched down and took him in her mouth, drawing on his rod as though she were trying to suck it down her throat. Aingeal felt his hands fisting in her hair, her long braid wrapped around his wrist. His hips were pistoning upward, driving against her but she doubted he even knew what he was doing. She could hear his labored breathing and as she suckled him hard, sweeping her tongue over the bulbous head, she felt him stiffen. The groan that escaped him as he came made her sigh with pleasure. She let his hot cum flow down her throat and when the last spasm had claimed him, tongued him dry as he lay there shivering. “By the gods, wench,” he said with a gasp. “You nearly drained me dry.” “No nearly about it, Reaper,” she bragged as she got to her feet. His headache was completely gone and that stunned him as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Had she sucked it out of him when she’d drawn out his essence? He was quivering from head to toe, the intense pleasure she’d given him making his legs tremble. “I’ve got to find me something to wear,” she said. “Why do you need to get dressed?” her lover asked, devouring her with his eyes. “I am not walking to Moira’s in this state, Reaper,” she told him. “And until we’re in our room, you can’t do for me what I just did for you.” Weakly, Cynyr lifted his hand and swept it down Aingeal’s body. Her beloved Reaper uniform settled into place to cover her nakedness and she smiled happily. “That’s more like it!” she said, running her hands up and down her black jeans-clad ass.

140

Reaper’s Revenge

With the last of his waning strength, he dressed himself—remembering his boots this time—and gingerly swung his legs from the cot. Though the headache was gone, he still felt dizzy, the room tending to canter off to one side. “Where’s Arawn?” she asked. “I’ll go get him and—” “He’s on his honeymoon,” Cynyr broke in. “He married Danielle.” “She finally chased him ‘til he caught her, huh?” she giggled. “Something like that,” he agreed. “Is it still raining?” She cocked her head, listening with the acute ability Reapers had to hear even the smallest of sounds. “Doesn’t sound like it is. We should go over to Moira’s.” He watched her unlocking the door and smiled. Her memories were almost all intact. Lightly reading her, he could see the puzzle nearing completion in her mind and that eased him. He sat on the cot, his hands bracing the mattress to either side of him, and hung his head in thankfulness his lady had been returned to him—alive and well. Fury rose up in his throat though as he thought of where she’d been and what had happened to her when she had been out of his care. He knew a white-hot rage that threatened to scald him. The darkness inside him was a blossom of poison that ached to be released. “Otaktay.” He said the name aloud, putting every ounce of venom he had in his gut into the word. Never had he hated anything or anyone as he did the Jakotai. If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d take the bastard apart piece by bloody piece for what he’d done to Aingeal. His eyes went to the laser whip that had sat on the sheriff’s desk for going on three weeks now. It called to him, the dragon handle giving off a slight crimson glow. “Soon, old friend,” the Reaper whispered. “Soon you will the drink his evil blood.”

141

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Fifteen Otaktay and Jaborn rode away from the cave late that afternoon. The Jakotai was painted for war, his face and chest streaked with crimson and black lightning bolts. A single red hawk feather was braided into his thick hair and lay at an angle over his right shoulder. He carried a bow and quiver slung across his back, a tomahawk and knife on either thigh and in his hand was a six feet long war lance, tipped with a finely honed steel head. Kasid Jaborn glanced at the savage and smirked. All the trappings of war the red man carried could not—and would not—be of any help in defeating the Reaper. The implements might slow Cree down but they were like chaff against the wind alongside the deadly laser whip the Reaper could wield so expertly. Only the weapon that lay strapped to the Akhkharulian’s thigh in its leather holster would provide any source of real danger for Cynyr Cree. Jaborn had no confidence in the savage’s ability to survive the coming fight. There was also the matter of disquiet that had come upon Jaborn as soon as they left the cave and headed eastward. There was something causing a shift of unease in the balgair’s gut that had him constantly sweeping the terrain over which they rode. “Do you fear he will attack us?” Otaktay called out, his chin lifted in challenge. The unease riding alongside Jaborn was growing with each mile they traveled. It was more a premonition of disaster that had settled on the warrior’s shoulder than a fear of Cynyr Cree. “Do you not feel the rift in the Veil?” Jaborn countered. “Cree is well protected.” The Jakotai puffed out his chest. “I feel nothing but the blood of my enemy singing to me, calling me to come and set it free.” Dismissing the braggadocio, Jaborn sent a mental probe out to search for the source of the apprehension that troubled him. Nothing came back to him but chaos, a roiling vapor of blackness that seemed to be stretching toward him with eager talons arched. The unease grew and the discomfort between the Akhkharulian’s shoulders increased. “How many Reapers were in the white camp when you took the woman?” Jaborn asked, gnawing on a thumbnail as he tried to make sense of the warnings going off in his head. “Two besides Cree,” Otaktay replied. The number felt larger to Jaborn. He had a sense of many Reapers and he felt as though they were riding into a trap. He pulled up on the reins, calling out for Otaktay to stop. “What concerns you, Jaborn?” Otaktay demanded.

142

Reaper’s Revenge

“It stands to reason the Shadowlords would have sent reinforcements as soon as they learned of the Ceannus’ landing,” he replied. “There are seven Reapers. I believe all of them are in the settlement.” Otaktay stared in the direction of Haines City. “It may be true what you say. The beast may also be lying in wait there.” Jaborn knew the dragon who had attacked the Ceannus had come from another realm and he suspected it was the goddess who had made the Reapers who had destroyed Her enemies, the servants of Raphian. The chances were good the goddess had flown back to Her dominion but She might not have and that was the reason he felt so troubled. There was no way either Otaktay or he could come out alive if all the Reapers were in Haines City and the dragon goddess was still in residence to add Her support. “I believe I will pass on this encounter,” Jaborn said, and tugged on his horse’s reins, turning the beast’s head toward the south. “You are running?” Otaktay sneered. “Call it what you want. I prefer to live to fight another day,” the Akhkharulian said, and kicked his mount into motion. “Coward!” Otaktay insulted Jaborn, yelling after him. “I alone will send Cree to his punishment!” Jaborn laughed to himself. The only one who would be entering a final place of death would be the savage. There was no doubt in Kasid’s mind concerning Otaktay’s fate. Drumming his heels into the horse’s flanks, he wanted to put as much distance between him and the Reaper as was possible. Though honor required the Akhkharulian to avenge his brother Khnum’s death, Jaborn shrugged away the obligation. He had never liked Khnum—had thought him a buffoon. The lone survivor among those balgairs the Ceannus had transported to Terra, he had no intention of calling attention to himself and warranting the wrath of the Reaper. Since he had no hand in what had befallen Cynyr Cree’s mate, he believed himself immune from the vengeance that had been set aside for the Jakotai. All he believed he had to do was disappear into the deep southwest, not use the humans as prey and he would live. He prayed that would be the case for suddenly he had no desire to harm either Cree or the Reaper’s woman. He preferred to back a winning hand and not truck with losers.

***** Bevyn and Phelan watched Cynyr and his lady walking down the street toward Moira’s house. “He’s not all that steady yet, is he?” Phelan asked. “She’ll work the poison out of his system,” Bevyn said.

143

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Phelan frowned as he and Bevyn stood there watching as Aingeal carefully escorted Cree toward the house at the end of the street. “Do you miss your lady?” Phelan inquired. Bevyn sighed. “More and more as the days pass,” he answered. “Arawn says as soon as Cynyr is able to go after the Jakotai, we’ll be allowed to return to the Citadel.” “You don’t think one of us will be ordered to accompany him on the kill?” The second-in-command of the Reaper unit shook his head. “No, although I disagree with that decision.” “So do Owen and I,” Phelan quipped. “As far as we know the red man and Jaborn are the last of the balgairs. They’ll fight viciously to stay alive, especially the Jakotai.” “The high lords believe Cree can handle it. They possess more wisdom than the rest of us. I’ve never known them to be wrong.” “Aye, well there’s always the first time.” “This isn’t that time, Kiel.” The imperious voice flashed through the Reapers’ heads like a bolt of lightning. “I heard that too,” Arawn said as he joined his fellow Reapers. “I’d think you two would know better than to question Lord Kheelan.” Bevyn snorted. “Danielle let you up for air?” he goaded the Prime Reaper. “I left her snoring like a big dog,” Arawn replied. “She snores?” Phelan asked, wincing. “A figure of speech, Kiel,” Arawn murmured. “She was well-sated and—” Bevyn groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Say no more,” Phelan said, holding up a hand. “I don’t need to know!” Arawn’s grin was lecherous and his wagging brows made Phelan’s face infuse with embarrassment. “Will the Jakotai come into town if we’re all here?” Bevyn asked his fellow Reapers. “Aye, for from all I’ve heard of him, he’s crazed,” Arawn answered. “I believe we should stand guard to keep the townsfolk safe. My gut tells me the savage will call Cree out very soon.” “And Cree will go,” Phelan said quietly. “Whether he is healed or not.” “She’ll heal him,” Arawn declared. “She will push the last of the poisons from his body with hers.” “Bevyn said as much,” Phelan observed. “I’m not sure I understand what he meant.” “I wouldn’t have been able to explain it to you had not I mated with Danielle,” Arawn said. “A woman’s love is a healing balm, Phelan, and one I totally recommend.” “A healing balm you didn’t want anything to do with as I recall,” Bevyn reminded the Prime Reaper.

144

Reaper’s Revenge

“Just goes to show you can teach an old Reaper new tricks,” Arawn returned. “What you are saying is that during the act of sexual intercourse, the woman will absorb the poisons from—” “No, Kiel,” Arawn said with a sigh. “First, it is not the act. When I mated with Danielle, it was love—pure and simple. Making love is not like having a surrogate lick your stick.” Phelan blushed a deep crimson and looked down at his boots. He wasn’t the youngest of the seven Reapers but he was—by far—the most naïve. “Second,” Arawn continued as though he hadn’t noticed Phelan’s acute mortification, “your mate doesn’t absorb the poisons. She simply vanquishes them. Don’t ask me how. I’m not a woman.” “For which I’m sure Danielle is most pleased,” Bevyn joked. There was a long, loud sigh from the Citadel. “She does not vanquish the poisons, Lord Arawn. His body evacuates the last of the poisons through his ejaculation. The natural juices of her body—whether oral or vaginal—mixed with his parasitically enhanced semen destroy what is left of the poison.” “In essence, she vanquishes the poison,” Arawn said smugly. Silence—deep and telling—met the Prime Reaper’s remark then, “We will have a long talk about your attitude adjustment when you return to the High Council, Lord Arawn,” was the steely reprimand. “Best keep your smart mouth shut, Gehdrin,” Bevyn suggested, “else you’ll be up a containment cell without a tenerse paddle.” Arawn snorted. He had heard the slight humor in Lord Kheelan’s voice. “Well, he’s made it into Moira’s house so I guess we can start positioning ourselves on the roofs around the perimeter in anticipation of the red man’s arrival,” Bevyn said. “I’ll take this end of the street.” “I’ll take the south end,” Phelan said. “Before you take up your positions,” Arawn said, “Bevyn, go let Cynyr know the brave is on his way. Phelan, go tell Owen to take the Guthrie House roof, Glyn, the saloon and Iden, the stable. I’ll be on the dry goods store roof.” “I didn’t see Cynyr’s whip on him when he went to Moira’s,” Bevyn said. “I’ll stop by the jail first and fetch it for him.” “Make sure none of you fire on the brave unless it’s absolutely necessary. If you have to wing him, aim for his legs. This is Cree’s kill and he won’t thank you for taking it away from him,” Arawn ordered. “I just hope to Alel he’s well enough to take the bastard out,” Phelan said as he headed off. “So do I,” Arawn said beneath his breath.

145

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

***** Moira waved the young couple away, sending them to their room. The old woman was pleased to know they hadn’t eaten any of Harold’s soup and would be downstairs to have a late supper with her and Annie as soon as Cynyr had taken a nap. “A nap, my hinny,” Moira said to Annie as the Reaper and his lady climbed the stairs. “She’s going to jump his bones.” “Wouldn’t you, if’n you was her?” Annie asked as she put another log on the fire. Moira chuckled and took her seat before the fire, gathering up her knitting as she began to rock. “I’d give the little whippersnapper a run for his money if’n I was thirty years younger. That’s a given, gal.” “How many of them sweaters have you made now, missus?” Annie asked. “Got all but this last one done,” she said. “Seven in all.” Annie laid her head on the back of her rocker, tapping a rhythm on the floor as her feet went from instep to heel and back again. “Seven?” she mused. “Shouldn’t that ought to be eight, missus?” She swiveled her head toward her mother-in-law. “One for Aingeal too, since she’s Reaper?” Moira’s fingers stopped flying and she laid the knitting down in her lap. “Aye, you’re right, gal. There should be.” She resumed knitting, humming as she worked.

***** Cynyr did as his lady bid and sat down on their bed, reaching up to unbutton his shirt. He watched her going from chair to armoire to dresser examining things. He knew she was reacquainting herself with the life she’d shared with him before her abduction and was reconnecting to that life. “I heard a voice in my head,” she said to him as she straightened the toiletries on the dresser. “Most likely it was Lord Kheelan’s,” he told her. She paused with her hand on her brush. “The high lord.” “Aye. When we were at the Citadel the healers took some blood from you, remember?” Aingeal’s eyes narrowed. “It’s hazy but I think I recall that happening.” “It was so the Shadowlords could converse with you if the need ever arose.” “Ah,” she said, nodding. “That explains how I heard his voice.” She looked around. “Get the shirt off, mo shearc. You need to rest.” The Reaper sighed. “That’s all I’ve been doing for weeks,” he complained, but finished unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugged out of it. His lady came and took the garment from him, folding it neatly, and laying it aside. She arched a brow. “Now the britches.”

146

Reaper’s Revenge

“You’re always trying to get me out of my britches,” he said, his lips twitching as he bent down to remove his boots. “Perhaps it’s because I like what’s in them?” she countered, and laughed at the blush that spread quickly over her husband’s face. Cynyr ducked his head and unbuttoned the top button on his black britches. He stood up—wavering a bit, having to clutch the headboard post of the bed for a moment. “Need help shucking them britches, Reaper?” Aingeal asked as she came toward him. “Aye, wench,” he said. His head was back to swimming again. “You got up too quickly,” she chastised him. He stood there as she wriggled his britches down his hips—squatting to pull them all the way off—and jumped when she bent forward and kissed his cock. “You are wicked,” he said. On her knees, Aingeal slid her hands over his hips and pulled him to her, her mouth opening to take him inside. She drew on him, chuckling low in her throat when his shaft grew thick and throbbing beneath her ministrations. Cynyr buried his free hand in her hair. The other still clutched the bedpost. He let his head fall back, his eyes close, as his wife ran her tongue around the tip of him then suckled him as though she were dying of thirst. “Wench,” he warned, feeling himself galloping toward fulfillment. “Get up and get in bed.” Aingeal drew back, looking up at him. As he lowered his head, opened his eyes and their gazes met, she smiled slowly. “Feeling better are you?” “Get on the bed,” he repeated, his tone gruff and husky. He released her hair and held out his hand to help her up. Sliding her hand into his, she got to her feet, but before she could put a hand to her blouse, her clothing was gone, her husband using his waning strength to divest her of what he’d dressed her in earlier. He snaked his arm around her and pulled her to him, their naked bodies meeting with a slap of eager flesh. His mouth swooped down to claim hers—tasting himself on her lips—and he let go of his hold on the bedpost, falling back to lie on the bed, taking her with him. His other arm came around her and the kiss deepened until their tongues were dueling. Aingeal urged him up farther on the bed and slid with him as he brought his foot up to the edge of the mattress and scooted them to the center of the bed, dragging the sheet with them. Her hands were on his rib cage and when he flipped them over so that she was beneath him, she embraced him, locking their bodies together. Her legs came up to imprison his hips and she could feel the stab of his cock straining to find her entrance. She rotated her hips under him, pleading silently for him to take her. Cynyr’s hands were on her rump, pulling her against him so he drew one hand from beneath her to grasp his cock and position it between her legs. Still retaining

147

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

possession of her mouth, he thrust himself deep into his lady’s channel, ramming his hand once more beneath her to lift her for his penetration. Grunting with the sheer pleasure of the feel of her husband buried within her, Aingeal tightened her scissors hold on his hips and arched up to meet his now frenzied thrusts. A slick sheen of sweat glistened on their bodies and their mouths ground against one another. The itch was building deep with his body. Cynyr was lost in the pistoning of his hips. The sound of their bodies meeting spurred him on. His balls were slapping against the sweet curves of her ass and the scent of her juices mingling with his was a heady aphrodisiac that drove him mad with lust. Beneath him, the bedsprings creaked from the power of his thrusts. When the fire in his loins erupted into a surging burst of flame that took hold and kindled and burned bright, his grunt of release was lost in the sweet folds of his mate’s mouth. Aingeal went with him into that land of supreme pleasure. The muscles of her cunt rippled around him—squeezed and released with tiny little tugs—as his cock leapt and pulsed deep with her. Her fingernails were digging into his back, her hips nearly compressing the air from his body so tight was she gripping him. His fingers clutched her shapely rump with such need there would be bruises there for days after. Collapsing atop his lady, Cynyr pulled his mouth free of hers and lay there gasping, dragging harsh breaths into his depleted lungs. He was slick, sticky with sweat and his heart was pounding so furiously, he thought it might well crash through the chest wall. Depleted, he lay with his cheek pressed to his wife’s chest, quivering like a leaf on the breeze. Aingeal too was completely devoid of strength. She gloried in the weight of his muscular body pinning her to the mattress. Slowly, she unhooked her legs from around him and lay splayed, completely sated. Her fingers threaded through his hair to hold his head to her and she smiled when his lips moved against the swell of her breast. Within a few moments, they were both sound asleep.

148

Reaper’s Revenge

Chapter Sixteen Reapers had been trained to do without sleep and as Cynyr’s brothers kept vigil on the rooftops of Haines City, not a one of them felt the need to close his eyes and rest. Their eyes swept the prairie around them in search of the Jakotai. Each of them sensed the brave close by but none could read his thoughts, for they had not shared blood with the rogue. As the Prime Reaper hunkered down on the roof of the dry goods store, he called out to the high lord. “There is actually something you can’t do, Gehdrin?” Lord Kheelan replied to the call. “Funny,” Arawn sent back. “Can you read the savage?” “Unfortunately I cannot.” Arawn laughed. “There is actually something you can’t do?” he countered. “When you bring your lady for us to meet, you and I will have a very long and detailed discussion about this sudden propensity of yours for inappropriate humor,” the high lord stated. Sobering, Arawn stood up to ease the cramping in his legs. “I was hoping you had a way to intercept his thoughts. I’d like to know what the bastard is planning. He seems to just be sitting out there.” “Lady Aingeal can read his thoughts for she has taken his blood. When she awakes, I will seek her help.” “Have you been able to track the other? I assume you can’t read him either, but can you tell where he is?” “He has turned tail and run,” Lord Kheelan replied. “He no longer poses a threat.” Arawn breathed a sigh of relief. He had no doubt they could eliminate the other and one day would, but he wanted to concentrate on one problem at a time, and the savage was the most important part of the equation at the present time. “He isn’t your problem,” Lord Kheelan reminded him. “Just make sure he does not harm Cree’s people.” “Will Cynyr be able to defeat the brave?” Each Reaper standing on the roofs of the town felt the mental shrug that came from the Citadel. They’d been listening in on the conversation—it hadn’t been a private one between their leader and the high lord—and were just as curious to have the answer to Arawn’s question as he was in asking it. “He has drained his strength in the body of his lady but we felt we should allow this,” Lord Kheelan responded. “He is sleeping, regaining that strength, and when he wakes, let us hope he will be up to the task at hand.”

149

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Both Arawn and Bevyn felt uncomfortable knowing the Shadowlords were aware of the times they lay with their mates. The condescending way in which Lord Kheelan said he and his fellow lords had allowed Cynyr to find relief in his wife’s body bothered them even more. Both men stared across the street into one another’s eyes, careful of their individual thoughts but not needing to express them, for each understood the other’s concern. “No, Lord Arawn,” came Lord Dunham’s denial from the Citadel. “We do not spy on what you do in the privacy of your bedchamber. Contrary to what you and Lord Bevyn believe, we are not voyeurs.” “We must—because of the obvious necessity,” Lord Naois joined in, “keep tabs on Lord Cynyr until such time as we believe him to be fully recovered. We do not wish to lose him or any of you.” “We could—if need be—keep Cynyr down a bit longer but I don’t think it is necessary,” Lord Kheelan added. “When he awakes, we believe he will be mended enough to take on the savage.” “If he falters, we will intervene,” Lord Dunham stated. “Intervene in what way?” Arawn asked, but received no answer. Whatever the Shadowlords were capable of doing from so great a distance would be handy to know, and as for keeping Cynyr down? That sent shivers down the Prime Reaper’s spine. Nothing further came from the high lords at the Citadel. The communication was broken, though every Reaper there knew the Shadowlords were aware of everything that was going on.

***** Aingeal woke before her husband. She could feel fury being flung her way and lay there quietly, sending her mind out to fuse with Otaktay’s. It was like stepping into a twisting, seething nest of vipers. Vicious, brutal imaginings were coiling inside the Jakotai’s fevered brain. Anger had gotten the better of him and he was dancing wildly, slashing his forearms with his knife, allowing the blood to flow freely—he was preparing for war. For twenty minutes she lay as still as death, reading the violent thoughts of the brave. She knew what he planned and how he thought to accomplish his goal. When she had learned all she could, she gently nudged her husband. Cynyr grunted as he opened his eyes. It was nearly dawn and he had slept like the dead for more hours than he cared to admit. Turning his head, he realized he was lying across the bed instead of in it in the normal way. He frowned—trying to remember why, and when he did, he grinned. “Mo shearc,” his lady called out quietly to him, and he turned his head the other way to meet her welcoming eyes. “I think you broke my pecker, wench,” he said, reaching down to rub himself.

150

Reaper’s Revenge

“If I did, I’ll fix it later,” she said. “Right now, you need to take my blood.” “They’ll bring us Sustenance, Aingeal,” he said. “You need to take my blood so you will know what I know about Otaktay’s plans,” she insisted. Cynyr’s eyes narrowed. “You can read his thoughts? Why is that?” Aingeal knew she was about to say something that would infuriate her mate but there was no getting around it. “He fed me his blood.” Before Cynyr could erupt into the berserker she saw forming in his hot gaze, she laid a land over his mouth. “I also have the blood of the balgair Kasid Jaborn within me. Such information will be useful, mo shearc.” Unbearable jealousy ripped at the Reaper’s male ego and he sat up, pushing himself up on his elbows, so enraged he could hear his blood pounding through his temples. “Another man gave you his blood?” he demanded. “Would you have had me suffer?” she asked, knowing the question would calm him as much as anything could. “I would have been without aid.” The Reaper thought about that for a moment then unclenched his jaw. “For that I suppose I should be grateful,” he conceded. “Take my blood and let’s be about ridding the world of the savage,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone that was all business. “Let’s?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “You make it sound as though it will be a joint venture, wench.” “It will be once my blood is flowing in your veins,” she said. “You’ll keep your sweet little ass in this town while I am seeing to the red man,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. Aingeal rolled her eyes. “Of course. Think you Arawn and the others would allow it to be any other way?” He thought about that for a moment as well then shrugged. “No, I know not.” He bent over her and flicked his tongue along the side of her neck. Cynyr was reminded that a single drop of blood from each of the Reaper’s had been given to Aingeal while he was deep in his punishment at the Citadel. Had he been there to prevent it, he would have, but it had been the decree of the Shadowlords and he’d had no say in it. “The Reapers will now be able to protect your lady should the need arise,” Lord Naois had told him. “You will need my blood, as well,” Cynyr stressed as his fangs extended, “since mine perished and I have Arawn’s first queen inside me.” Aingeal nodded, shivering delicately at the slight feel of those lethal incisors. “Aye, that I will.”

151

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cynyr sank his fangs gently into her neck and took a small amount of her blood. It was all he would need to find her anywhere she went and more than enough for him to share with her the thoughts of the insane Jakotai. He was stunned at the chaos flitting through the savage’s brain. “It’s a wonder he can put one foot ahead of the other he is so crazed,” the Reaper marveled. “His only thought is to kill you and that we will not allow,” she said, and almost immediately her own fangs descended. She ran her tongue across the sharp points then took the sweet offering of the wrist her husband held out to her. She frowned for the taste of his blood carried with it a stinging bite she realized must be the remains of the ghoret poisoning. “For that alone I have a great need to turn him to pulp,” Cynyr growled. There was a light tap at their door. “Are you awake?” Moira asked quietly. “We’ll be down shortly, milady,” Cynyr answered. “We will need tenerse.” “It’s already prepared for you,” Moira assured him. “Arawn’s already been here this morning.” They heard the old lady shuffling away from the door. “Arawn’s up early,” Aingeal said. “He would be. He knows I’ll meet the red man this day.” Aingeal caught her bottom lip between her teeth—now normal once again. “Are you up to it, mo shearc? Do you feel well enough to battle Otaktay?” “I will defeat him, wench,” he said, getting up from the bed. He looked for his uniform and began dressing. Aingeal knew he was preserving his strength else he would simply have waved his hand to clothe himself. He did not appear to be as weak as he had been the night before and did not stagger or stumble when he walked. She watched him carefully as he retrieved his boots to make sure he wasn’t lightheaded when he straightened up. She could detect no weakness and let out a relieved breath. “I’m hungry,” he stated, shifting his shoulders. She knew his parasite was reminding him that it needed to be fed more than the small amount of blood he’d taken from her earlier. He needed Sustenance and a lot of it. “They’ll have it for me,” Cynyr said absently, plucking her thought from the ether. “They will want to make sure I have a plethora of Reaper blood flowing through my veins.” Aingeal smiled to herself. He invaded her mind so casually, so expertly, she rarely knew he was plundering around in there. “How ‘bout giving me back my clothes, Reaper,” she said. Cynyr sighed, waved his hand and they appeared in a heap on the floor. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Did you glean what Otaktay has planned?” she asked as she slipped her legs into her black britches. 152

Reaper’s Revenge

“I had to weave through all the craziness but, aye, I know what he has in store for me.” He glanced at his lady as she pulled on her shirt. “I just have to remember not to let his words make me as fanatical as he appears to be.” “But you can use his own plan against him,” she advised. “He still considers me his property.” Cynyr grunted, his disdain for what the savage considered apparent. He looked around him, frowning. “Where is my whip?” “I saw it at the jail,” she said. The Reaper was dressed but he felt naked without the dragon-claw-handled weapon. He didn’t bother strapping on his gun belt. There was no need. He didn’t intend on shooting the man who had raped his woman, he was going to take him apart strip by bloody strip. Aingeal intercepted that brutal thought and shivered. She knew her husband was a powerful warrior and would have no pity for his enemy. Glad she would not be there to see the killing take place, she said a quiet prayer for her mate’s soul. “You’d best say one for the Jakotai,” he told her. “It will be his soul being snatched up by the Gatherer this day.” He opened the door for his lady and ushered her from their bedroom with a hand to the small of her back. Outside their room on the little table upon which Moira kept fresh flowers were two containers of Sustenance, one carafe darker in color than the other. There was no need for Aingeal to ask which one went to her husband. She picked up the darker one and handed it to him. Arawn was sitting at the table with Annie, having a second cup of coffee when Cynyr and Aingeal came downstairs. He nodded at Cynyr, rose to hold Aingeal’s chair for her then walked over to the sideboard to fetch two vac-syringes. “Mick took over watch for me so I could prepare the syringes correctly,” the Prime Reaper said. He went first to Cynyr. “I didn’t trust the job to anyone else.” “Where’s your lady?” Cynyr asked. “With her parents where I hope she’ll stay,” Arawn said. The injection into his neck hurt worse than at any other time Cynyr could remember. It stung like a hundred bees were puncturing his veins and he even felt it burning all the way to his heart. “Was there something else mixed in?” he demanded, rubbing at the pain in his neck. “Something the high lords sent via the train,” Arawn replied. “I don’t have a clue what it is or does. Hurts, does it?” “Like a motherfu—” Cynyr blushed, ducking his head to keep from seeing the expression on Annie’s face. Annie exchanged an amused look with Moira who was bringing a bowl of scrambled eggs to the table. She picked up the platter of bacon and held it out to Cynyr. “Bacon, milord?”

153

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Mayhaps I should rinse his mouth out a’fore he eats,” Moira said, her eyes twinkling. “Wait until afterwards, Moira,” Aingeal suggested. “He says he’s hungry.” “He’s in warrior mode,” Arawn said, taking Aingeal’s syringe to her. “You’ll have to overlook his language, ladies. There’s no accounting for what a man will say when the bloodsong is playing to him.” Aingeal barely flinched at her injection. She made one swipe across the puncture with the tips of her fingers then ignored it. Her eyes were on the bowl of grits Annie was offering. “Doesn’t seem to faze her in the least, does it?” Arawn asked. “Doesn’t appear to,” Cynyr agreed. He shook his head. “Doesn’t appear to have any effect on her grit-ladling, either.” He watched in awe as his lady piled her plate high with the creamy white dish. “Made some patty sausage for ye, dearling,” Moira said as she brought a saucer of the meat to Aingeal. “I don’t get any?” Cynyr complained, eying the greasy gray-brown round. “You got bacon,” Aingeal replied. She scooped the sausage patties onto her plate and cut them up, mixing them in with the grits and scrambled eggs into one big mound. “Ugh,” Arawn said. “What a waste of perfectly good sausage.” “You can almost hear the pigs squealing in protest,” Cynyr agreed. Aingeal stuffed a large forkful of the grits-sausage-scrambled-eggs mixture into her mouth and grinned. She sent a silent message to her husband that made him choke on his coffee. The front door opened and the sheriff came in, rapping his knuckles on the inner door out of courtesy before he entered. He swiped off his hat as he came toward the table. “Lord Bevyn sent me to tell you that savage is out there whooping it up at the edge of town all dressed up in war paint and the like.” He twisted his hat around and around by the brim. “Said to tell you he threw down the lance and is just a’sittin’ there on his pony waiting for you, Lord Cyn.” Cynyr was wiping his lips and the front of his shirt where coffee had spewed at his wife’s indecent suggestion. “Tell Bevyn I’ll be along as soon as I finish with breakfast.” Sheriff Brewer nodded. “I’ll do that, milord.” He left with a look of hero worship on his beefy face. “As cool and as calm as a cucumber,” Moira said, her own admiration for Cynyr showing. “Not a single tremor in that hand of his.” “You wouldn’t want it any other way, Moira,” Arawn told her. “You bring my whip?” Cynyr asked as he took the last bite of bacon and toast on his plate. “It’s in the parlor.”

154

Reaper’s Revenge

Aingeal tensed as her husband pushed back his chair. He glanced down at her. “Don’t let any of that greasy globbling go to waste, wench.” Moira’s eyes filled with tears when she saw the Reaper bend over to kiss the top of his wife’s head. That had been the last thing she’d seen her beloved only child do before he’d ridden off to a war from which he’d never returned. She saw Annie look away and knew her daughter-in-law was remembering the same thing. “Moira,” Cynyr said, garnering the old lady’s attention. “I’d like peach pie for supper. Do you think you could arrange that, milady?” Quickly swiping at the moisture that had clouded her vision, Moira nodded once emphatically. “With cream, son?” she asked. “That would hit the spot,” he replied. Before any of them could say another word, the Reaper turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room. For a moment no one said anything—didn’t move— then Arawn stood up as soon as the front door closed behind Cynyr’s departure. “I’d consider it a blessing if you ladies would remain inside until this business is finished,” he said. “We’ll be here,” Annie said for the three of them.

***** Otaktay was finding it hard to control his pony. The beast sensed the fury rampaging through its rider and was sidestepping and rising up in agitation. It also smelled the blood from the self-induced wounds that had caked on the Jakotai’s leggings. The horse’s eyes rolled in its head as it fought the tight rein keeping it from bolting. Letting out another war whoop did nothing to help the brave’s management of his steed. The animal bucked, rearing up to slash its hooves at the air. It came down with a jolt that almost unseated the red man. Swinging his furious gaze along the rooftops of the white settlement, Otaktay sneered. The Reapers had rifles aimed at him, six-guns strapped to their hips, the handles of their legendary whips showing. Six men—less than warriors in his opinion— all lined against him and he was but one man. He had nothing but contempt for the weapons of the white man. Against the lance, the bow and arrow, the war ax, they were puny armaments. Since he had never seen the lethality of the whips, he had only scorn for such things. “Cree!” he shouted for the fifth time as he called out his cowardly enemy. “I have come for my woman, you dog of the skies!” Mick Brady glanced down from his place atop the dry good’s store roof as the Reaper Lord Cynyr Cree strolled off Moira McDermott’s porch. He whistled softly for Cree was dressed immaculately in black silk shirt and black leather pants, the silk and leather shimmering in the early morning sunlight. There was no gun hanging from the

155

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Reaper’s hip. He wore no hat, but in his hand was the infamous dragon-claw handle that made the hair on Mick’s neck stir. As soon as Otaktay saw his enemy walking from the old hag’s house, he lifted his chin. His instinct was to run the son of a whoring jackal down, crushing him beneath the hooves of his pony, but the man was coming unarmed, on foot, and that would have been dishonorable. He knew his woman watched from some window of the house and he wanted to appear a hero in her eyes when he slew the Reaper. Puffing out his chest, he drummed his heels into the pony’s flanks, bent low over its head and raced toward the Reaper, trilling a war cry as he raced forward. The barber held his breath as the red man thundered toward Cynyr. The Reaper had stopped and was standing there with his arms at his side. He did not move as the pony bore down on him and the brave bent forward to touch Cynyr’s shoulder without harming him. The Reaper staggered a bit from the force of the blow but stood strong, not bothering to watch the pony race around him, wheel then thunder past once more. Reining in his beast several yards away, the Jakotai turned his mount and sat tall in the saddle, watching for any sign of fear on his opponent’s face. When he saw none, he snarled with anger. Throwing a leg over his pony’s head, Otaktay slid to the ground and drew his knife from the sheath at his waist. With a mocking twist to his mouth, he started toward his adversary. “I have come for my woman!” called out. “No, you have come for me,” the Reaper said. “She is mine!” Otaktay stated. The Reaper’s smile was as cold as the highest peaks of the mountain in the dead of winter. “Just because you rape a woman doesn’t make her yours,” he countered. Otaktay stopped, the blade of his knife pointed toward the Reaper. “I did not need to rape my woman!” he snarled. “She came to my pallet of her own accord!” “And which time was it that might have happened, Otaktay?” Cynyr asked in a calm, deadly tone. “When her coward of a husband sold her to you or on the night you took her from me?” “She is mine!” the brave repeated, spittle flying from his lips. “Then come and fight me for her, you spineless seed of a diseased whore,” the Reaper told him. The red man’s face infused with color and he jerked his arm upward, the knife glinting in the sunlight as he charged, running full out toward his enemy. Mick Brady watched in awe as Cynyr Cree stepped aside at the very last moment, turning to put out a foot to trip the brave. The Jakotai fell face first into the mud and slid forward, his momentum stopped only by the stab of his knife in the ground. The Reaper had made no move for his own weapon and was just standing there waiting for his opponent to scramble up from the thick, cloying mud.

156

Reaper’s Revenge

Twice more Otaktay charged and twice more he landed in the mud. The brave was covered from forehead to toe with the sticky clay but the Reaper’s uniform was as clean as the moment he had put it on. Arawn, Bevyn and the other Reapers had come down from the rooftops and were now ringed in a semicircle at the end of the street—seemingly to keep the gathering townspeople from harm. Mick saw Brett Samuels and his brother-in-law Vern Walker sitting on the edge of the saloon roof. As he glanced around, he saw no womenfolk among the men grouped behind the Reapers and for that he was glad. This was not something a woman should see. “That’s one helluva brave man,” the sheriff told Arawn. “Cynyr, I mean.” “When’s he going to use his whip?” someone in the crowd asked. “He’ll let the savage draw first blood and then he will attack,” the Prime Reaper said. Otaktay pushed up from the ground and stood glaring at his enemy. He saw his death in the man’s steady golden eyes but it was—as his grandfather had once said—a good day to die. He charged again and was surprised when the Reaper did not move as quickly as before and the blade of Otaktay’s knife slid along the white man’s arm, opening a deep gash. Whooping with elation, Otaktay spun around and thrust the knife out again only to have the blade snatched from his hand by a stinging lash that took half his thumb and index finger with it as it snapped back over the Reaper’s shoulder. Pain shot through the Jakotai’s hand and he looked down at the stumps where once his fingers had crooked. Blood was gushing from his hand and he backed away, holding the injured hand close to his bare chest. “She,” the Reaper said, flicking his wrist outward, “is my woman.” The laser whip shot toward Otaktay and the brave screamed as his left ear fell to the ground at his feet. “She is my wife.” The right ear plopped down beside its mate and the red man staggered back, his eyes wide. “She is my heart.” Mick Brady saw the lightning flare of the laser whip streak toward the savage’s lower body and watched in horror as something fell to the ground between the Jakotai’s legs. “I don’t want to see this,” John Denning, the saloonkeeper, said, and turned away, pushing through the crowd. Every man standing there behind the Reapers that day shuddered at the long, trembling scream of the brave as his body was picked apart by a man who had no compassion, no other thought than vengeance for his lady.

157

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Those who stayed until there was hardly anything left of the Jakotai and the brave had heaved his last gasp would tell the tale in whispers. Not a one of them had any sympathy for the red man. He had gotten what he deserved at the hands of the man he had wronged. And not a one of them would remove the carcass that stayed out on the plains until the last scavenger had picked the bones clean.

158

Reaper’s Revenge

Epilogue Harold bustled around, his lips set in a prim line. He had not signed on to accompany a train car full of Reapers and their women to the Citadel. Having to cook for seven men—eight if he counted himself—and three women was a tedious chore he did not enjoy. The additional sleeping and dining cars that had been sent out were his responsibility and he considered himself overworked. “How’s it hanging, Harry?” Cynyr asked as he came into what Harold considered his domain—the kitchen area of the dining car. “Please, Your Grace,” Harold said on a whining note, “do not call me that.” Cynyr slipped his arm around the fussy little man’s shoulder—ignoring the instant stiffening—and lowered his head to speak in Harold’s ear. “If I didn’t like you, Harry, can you imagine what I might call you?” Harold shrugged away the arm and moved to one side. “I would prefer you not like me, milord.” “I didn’t like the savage,” the Reaper reminded the man the Shadowlords had assigned as his housekeeper. “Did you see what happened to him?” Harold sniffed, not in the least intimidated by the gruff words. “Did you have a reason for coming to annoy me, Your Grace?” he said from between clenched teeth. Cynyr hung his head in exasperation. There was no way to make the man less stodgy. “My lady is not feeling well and she asks if you would brew her a cup of tea.” Instantly Harold went into action, pushing the Reaper aside as he reached for his tin of tealeaves. “Why did you not say so from the start? I will do anything for Her Grace!” “Aye,” Cynyr said with a shrug. “I know you will.” Bevyn and his lady were playing cards in the parlor with Arawn and his wife Danielle. Lea, Bevyn’s mate, had joined them on the ride to the Citadel. She was a lovely woman with a wealth of blonde curls and sparkling gray eyes. The couples looked up as Cynyr came back from the kitchen area. “Did you go annoy Harry again?” Arawn asked, throwing down an ace, much to Danielle’s delight. “Aingeal woke up sick to her stomach this morning,” Cynyr reported. “She wanted some tea.” He frowned when he noticed everyone staring at him. “What?” “Is she expecting?” Danielle asked.

159

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The thought had never occurred to Cynyr and he stood there blinking, his mind skipping to his lady only to find her bending over the chamber pot again. A slow smile began spreading across his face. “Maybe,” he said. “Don’t you think you should ask?” Lea inquired. “I believe I should—” Cynyr started but Harold pushed rudely past him, bustling with teacup rattling on a silver tray. The Reaper stared after the little man. “I really don’t like that prissy twerp.” “He knows you don’t,” Bevyn said with a chuckle. “So stop trying to make friends with him. It ain’t going to happen.” He scooped up the cards his lady discarded. “Your lady needs you, Cree.” The voice from far away was a command every Reaper heard. Cynyr sighed. He had no idea why Lord Kheelan seemed to have such a tender spot in his black heart for Aingeal and it irritated him. He waved a hand at his fellow Reapers and their mates, nodded at the four who were sitting in the rear of the car staring out at the passing scenery and exited the dining car. The blast of the wind hitting his face as he stepped between the dining car and his private car helped to cool him for he found he was sweating, his palms slick by the time he reached the sleeping room door. Harold was bent over, holding Aingeal as she retched. The little man was cooing to her, bracing her head in his palm. It had long been apparent he had gentler feelings for Aingeal than he would ever have for her husband. “Do make yourself useful and fetch a bowl of cool water and a rag,” Harold demanded as he helped Aingeal back to bed. “After all, you are the cause of her suffering.” Cynyr’s heart soared for there could only be one cause he could have instigated. They had been trying to have a child for months, ever since Aingeal had come home to him, and it seemed the gods had finally smiled upon them. Hurrying to do as Harold bid, he came back with a grin a mile wide on his face. “Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face, milord!” Harold ordered as he fluffed the covers around Aingeal. “It is unseemly.” “Harold, he is my husband,” Aingeal said weakly. “Please try to get along with him for my sake, will you?” Harold wheezed as he straightened up and reached over to pull the shades on the windows down a little more. “For you,” he said in a gentle voice, but when he turned around, he gave the Reaper a haughty look that made Cynyr growl. He wedged his body between Cynyr and the door and minced back down the hall. “Well, we’ll gods-be-damned sure not name the bantling Harry!” Cynyr threw after him. “Mo shearc,” Aingeal said, her words drawn out in chastisement.

160

Reaper’s Revenge

“I don’t like that man,” Cynyr said, coming to hunker down beside her and take the hand she held out to him. He brought her fingers to his lips. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are we going to have a baby?” She smiled at him. “I don’t know about you, but I am.” “Seems you fixed my broken pecker, huh?” he teased. “It seems to be working just fine now.” “Give me a day or two and I might break it again, milord,” she countered.

161

About the Author Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 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. Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology Fated Mates anthology Passion’s Mistral WesternWind: WyndRiver Sinner WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche 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

And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com): BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

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