BlackMoon Reaper (18 page)

sound that perhaps passed as a chuckle.

“Ah, if only I could,” Master Umbra said, running his cold, reptilian hand down

Phelan’s leg. The spatula-shaped fingers slid up the inside of the Reaper’s thigh and

flexed around his balls, squeezing them.

“Please don’t,” Phelan heard himself say, and was ashamed of his inability to keep

from begging.

“Relax, Reaper,” Master Umbra said as he circled Phelan’s cock with those frigid

digits. “If I were to mount you, I would do great damage to your humanoid body.

Killing you has never been part of our plan, you see.”

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BlackMoon Reaper

“You wanted to know what the BlackMoon is,” Master Symykin said as he walked

over to a cabinet and opened a set of double metal doors. “It is in actuality a

transportation device. It can transport objects from one point in space to another. We

used it to send our newly made ’bots to other places around Terra.”

“Across the oceans to other countries where they will begin to create new ’bots in

anticipation of our arrival,” Master Umbra said. He dug the nail of one digit into the slit

of Phelan’s cock, causing pain. The nail began to grow, traveling down the Reaper’s

urethra, cutting into the spiral groove that lined the channel. The Ceannus twisted the

nail from side to side until he heard Phelan whimper.

“We could send those ’bots back to our homeworld were not the Net so effectively

blocking us from doing so,” Master Symykin said. “As it is, we could send you right

into the midst of the Citadel when we are finished with you, but of course we won’t.”

Phelan was in such agony as the blade of the Ceannus’ fingernail pierced his cock

he could do little more than writhe on the table, digging his own fingernails into his

palms to keep from whining. He wasn’t listening to what the two of them were saying.

“Aren’t you curious to know what it is we are going to do to you, Lord Kiel?”

Master Symykin inquired. He shoved Phelan’s shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”

“Go to hell,” Phelan said, his body quivering beneath the pain spiraling up his cock.

“Pray stop torturing the man, Umbra!” Symykin snapped. “I want his full

attention!”

Master Umbra seemed reluctant to release Phelan but he did. He withdrew his nail,

stepping back, and Phelan screamed in agony.

* * * * *

Cynyr armed the sweat from his brow, thankful he’d thought to leave off in

fashioning a hat when he’d swept his hand over him to create his black uniform. His

breathing was shallow, quick—fear wriggling up and down his spine with every step

he took.

The stench of the ghoret was much stronger inside the mine. Every now and then

he would stop and listen for the secretive rustling sound that would signal the viper’s

whereabouts but he heard nothing. If Phelan was still alive, he was far down in the

mine system—perhaps too far away to be heard. If his fellow Reaper had been taken

down by the ghorets, he might even now be in the arms of the Gatherer.

“Where are You,
Mo Regina
?” Cree whispered. “Why the hell aren’t You here with

Your Reapers?”

“She’s never around when you need her,” Fontabeau whispered back.

The men took another step then heard a piercing scream. Fontabeau’s heavy hand

came down on Cynyr’s shoulder. They both stopped breathing to listen, and when the

scream came again, they took off running toward the sound.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

* * * * *

“Fascinating,” Master Symykin said as he watched Cree and Sorn running like

madmen through the now-dark tunnels. “Humanoids are so predictable.”

Phelan was staring at the viewing window, wishing with all his soul he could warn

his friends.

“Just a few yards more and…”

Phelan saw Cynyr come to a skidding stop—hands out in front of him, whip

clutched in his right fist. There was true terror on the Reaper’s handsome face as he

stared at what was before him. Phelan could see it too, and he closed his eyes, not

wanting to watch his friends’ destruction.

“My, he is not as brave as he thought he was, is he?” Master Umbra asked with a

twitter.

Phelan wedged his eyes open and saw Cynyr tearing back through the tunnels,

running faster than any human ever could, the gunman close on his heels. Behind

them—dropping from the ceiling, slithering down the walls, rolling over and over one

another, wriggling in their wake, striking at their boot heels—were thousands upon

thousands of ghorets.

“Run,” Phelan prayed. “Run like you never have before!”

“Oh they will, Lord Kiel, but to no avail,” Master Umbra told him. “All they are

doing is leading the ghorets to the outside. There is no escape for them or,” he touched

the viewing window and it went dark, “you.”

He didn’t care what they did to him, but the torture of a good friend, a partner and

a man brought to this world to fight evil was a tragedy Phelan could not endure. He

prayed the Reapers would make it through the ordeal, but he could only hope Brell

would survive as well. To know the men would suffer hurt him more than the stinging,

burning pain in his penis where the Ceannus’ nail had raked him raw.

Master Symykin took a rolling cart from behind the double doors and pushed it

over to the table. Upon it was a cloth covering what might be containers of some kind.

Beside the covering was a strange-looking knife—the purpose of which Phelan had no

doubt.

“Yes, we are going to remove your hellion,” the Ceannus said. “As well as all her

fledglings. You knew we would.” He uncovered one of the containers, which proved to

be made of glass, and removed its lid. “We will take the revenants with us in the

BlackMoon to the countries across the great ocean and there we will set about making a

new generation of
balgairs
, beyond the reach of you and your fellow Reapers.”

Rogue Reapers, Phelan thought with dismay. Men with the same powers as him

and his teammates and Beau, but as evil as the night was long. Dedicated to the

eradication of humans and the triumph of Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls. The

rogues had been eliminated from Terra, but now they would be resurrected

elsewhere—another threat to humanity that would need to be eradicated.

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Master Symykin picked up the knife and placed the tip just above Phelan’s right

kidney. “I’m afraid this will hurt, friend Reaper, but that can not be helped.”

Phelan tensed as the blade sliced deep into his body. He knew the cut would be

nothing compared to the pulling out of the revenant queen and her nestlings. One by

one their extraction was a burning, tearing agony as he ground his forehead against the

hardness of the metal table, clenched and unclenched his fists.

“He’s handling this quite well,” Master Umbra said, running his warty hand over

Phelan’s left buttock.

“Do not do what you are contemplating, Umbra,” Mastery Symykin warned. “I will

punish you if you do.” He tugged on a fledgling then dropped it with the others into

the glass container. “Yes, he is a very brave man, our young Reaper.”

There was no doubt in Phelan’s mind what Umbra had been about to do for he had

felt the fingers creeping toward the crease of his ass. He was almost grateful to Symykin

for having stopped the bastard.

“The queen is proving to be very elusive,” Symykin stated as he thrust his whole

hand into Phelan’s back, rummaging around inside for the queen who had coiled up

under the Reaper’s right lung.

Pain ripped through Phelan as the Ceannus took hold of the queen and jerked hard,

bringing her spiny body up through the cut with a harsh snap of his wrist. He managed

to hold on to consciousness by a mere thread. Sweat was running off him in rivulets for

he was determined not to make another sound. His jaw was clenched so tight he felt his

teeth cracking, but he would not open his mouth to vent the cry that threatened to

erupt.

“Such a stalwart man,” Symykin said. “I am very impressed. It is a shame we must

treat you with such brutality then depart.”

“But we will not leave you empty, Lord Kiel,” Master Umbra said as he came to the

table. “We would not be so unkind.”

“No, most certainly not,” Master Symykin stated as he dropped the queen in with

her offspring then put the glass cover in place. “We will trade our catch for your queen

and her nestlings.” With fanfare he swept the covering from the second container.

Phelan sucked in a horrified breath.

Coiled inside the container was the deadliest entity in the universe. Two feet from

broad, triangular head to the tip of its glistening tail, the creature’s body was striped

molten silver and green. Hornlike scales jutted out over the elliptical eyes and dual two-

inch-long fangs erupted from a pale green mouth. The tubular fangs could kill a

humanoid within two ticks of a clock’s sweep hand as it destroyed the nervous system,

heated the blood to boiling and pulverized its victim’s internal organs. The fluorescent

blue venom had no antidote. No creature could survive the viper’s bite except for the

Reaper and even then it was an experience to be avoided at all costs. Having seen what

Cyn had gone through when he’d been struck by several of the creatures, Phelan’s heart

ceased to beat and bile shot up his throat. His eyes bulged from his head. He knew what

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

they were going to do to him and he howled, pulling against his bonds. He heard his

wrists and ankles snap yet still he struggled.

“Oh gods, no, don’t!” he yelped.

Master Symykin nodded to the
Coadagh
. The
Coadagh
stepped forward as Symykin

and Umbra stepped back, opened the jar and reached its huge metallic hand inside,

plucking the ghoret from its container. The ’bot held the squirming, hissing viper aloft,

well out of the way of the two scientists.

Using one giant hand to splay open the incision in the Reaper’s back, the ’bot

brought its other hand over the wound to thrust the writhing viper inside.

Phelan screamed like a wounded animal caught in a vicious trap.

“As you know ghorets are ovoviviparous, Lord Kiel,” Master Symykin lectured

over Phelan’s shrieks of denial. “Meaning her young spring from eggs. The one we

transferred to you is quite pregnant, ready to lay her eggs any moment.”

“And she’s going to lay them inside you!” Master Umbra said.

* * * * *

Cynyr and Fontabeau streaked through the tunnel, feeling as though the ghorets

were breathing down their necks. Their shoulders were tight bands of pain that

expected one of the serpents to drop down on them at any second. They could hear the

rustle of their vile bodies tumbling over one another as they slithered after them. The

stench was overpowering—washing over the two Reapers like a sodden cloak.

Once more Cyn tried to call out to the goddess—pleading for Her help—but there

was no answer. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst free of his

rib cage. Sweat and the stink of the ghorets were blinding him as he raced through the

pitch-black darkness with only his Reaper senses to guide him.

When he shot out of the mouth of the tunnel, the nearest ghoret was only three feet

from his boot heel.

“Blast them, Naois! Blast the fuckers!” he yelled.

Fontabeau stumbled—having trouble keeping his feet—as he streaked behind

Cynyr, cursing with every pounding boot fall. From above him came a strange hissing

sound and a blast of heat that knocked him off his feet. It caused him to stumble again

as he headed for the shack, watching the door opening too slowly, too little it seemed to

him in his headlong rush. He didn’t dare look behind him. With the last of his ebbing

strength, he sprinted to the cabin and the door opened just enough for him and Cree to

plow through, slamming after they each hit the far wall with a resounding crash that

propelled Cynyr backward and to his ass where he landed with a loud whump of air

escaping his gasping mouth. The gunman clutched the wall as though he would scale it.

Brell was frantically stuffing a blanket under the bottom of the door, wedging it just

in time for something heavy hit the door as well as the outside walls.

The sickly aroma of burning ghorets filled the air and made the men gag.

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BlackMoon Reaper

“Thousands of them,”
they heard one of the Shadowlords say.
“There are thousands of

them pouring out of the mine!”

“Tell me about it,” Cynyr rasped as he scrambled to his feet. He was bent over

trying to drag breath into his depleted lungs. Sweat ran freely down his taut face.

“Phelan?” Brell asked.

In between gasps, Cynyr told him, “We heard him scream but we couldn’t get to

him.” His face took on a look of mortal shame.

Fontabeau peeled himself off the wall. He shuddered when he spoke. “At l-least we

t-think it was P-Phelan.”

“There are two more Reapers headed our way,” Brell said. “Between you, surely

you can get to Phelan in time.”

“No matter how many hits he took, he won’t die until his hellions do and hopefully

we can get to him before that happens and give him a new queen,” Cynyr said. He ran a