My Reaper's Daughter (39 page)

spurted and then he stilled with his eyes glazed and his body rigid before his arms gave

out and he collapsed atop her, dragging gasping breaths into his depleted lungs.

She wrapped her arms around him, kept her ankles locked over his bare rump and

held him. His heart was thundering in his chest and she could feel it against her own—

where it should always be.

“I love you with all my heart,” he whispered.

“I know,” she replied with a soft smile, and tears invaded her dark eyes.

“No matter what.”

“No matter what,” she echoed.

He fell into a heavy sleep atop her with his cheek pressed against her breast, his lips

just touching the dusky color of her areola.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

Chapter Eighteen

Surveying the destruction surrounding Her, the Triune Goddess wept bitter tears.

Blood was everywhere and bodies lay facedown. Women and children and old ones

had not been spared the ravaging of Lesh Spiosyn’s troops. Everywhere She looked the

land had been burned to a blackened crisp and the wells salted. The rivers and streams

were befouled with the carcasses of slain animals and had no doubt been strewn with

poison. No building stood. No holy place remained. No living thing existed here.

All was gone.

All was death.

Pushing to Her feet beside the body of a young priestess for whom She had cared

deeply, Morrigunia raised Her beautiful face to the heavens and cursed Her enemy—

one of many for a certainty but the most powerful She had fought to date.

“I will defeat you, Yn Drogh Spyrryd!” She shouted to the heaving gray skies that

bubbled and swirled above Her. “You are no match for my Reapers.”

A cackle of maniacal laughter shrieked from the firmament but She knew the source

of that hideous sound came from far away. The evil She had come to stop, to fight, had

fled this land of beauty and plenty where man had lived in peace and prosperity for

tens of thousands of years.

That evil had come here to Cochiaull and had leveled every village and town, every

hut and manor house alike. It had left nothing standing. It had brought its vile demon

troopers—the
Flaiee
—here to ravish and rape and slaughter. Under the command of the

infamous General Lesh Spiosyn, the
Flaiee
had shed enough blood, taken enough

innocent lives to fulfill the
Fadeyrys
, the Prophecy…

“Amid the days of
Jerrey Souree
innocent blood will flow,

In the Land of the Chosen where life will be no more;

Sacrificed flesh will be offered up this fateful day.

Chants spoken in the ancient tongue shall find the ear,

Of the greatest Evil mankind has reason to fear;

And the Path shall be opened to show Him the way.

A warrior tried through no fault of his own shall fall,

His weakness shining like a beacon, his cry a siren’s call;

To lure the
Nikkeson
unleashed from His cell into the fray.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Unto a new world and to new blood shall the demon fly,

And drink His fill while tears gather in every eye;

Where the innocent can not hold His fury at bay.”

The Triune Goddess hung Her head. Because one of Her Reapers had failed, Yn

Drogh Spyrryd’s master evil, the
Nikkeson
, was loose from the frigid depths of Its

lightless megaversial prison.

There was no doubt in Her mind to where the demon had flown.

She raised Her head and turned Her green eyes toward Terra.

It would slip undetected through the Net as a single—almost infinitesimal—drop of

rain falling from the heavens. From there It would descend into a body of water

somewhere in the vastness where humankind did not swell and there it would take on

Its malevolent form.

* * * * *

Yves St. Germaine—known to those who feared him as Papa Croisement—had

failed and he knew all too well what the demon would do to him for that failure. As he

sat before the divining bowl where he had watched the dead attacking the white

lawman, he stared into the now-still waters and realized where he had made his fatal

mistake.

“Not a single white man but two,” he muttered, understanding now that the second

Reaper was not a man of color as he had surmised but a dark-skinned warrior from the

hated white race.

That was where he had gone wrong and he knew he would pay dearly for the

mistake.

But St. Germaine was not a stupid man. As he had watched his controlled dead fall

to the ground in flames and ash, he began to realize there was a greater god than Kalfu,

the loa to whom he had chanted and whom he had brought forth from the Abyss.

Though Kalfu was a master of charms and sorceries of the blackest of magic, the

controller of the goings and comings of evil spirits, the Lord of the Crossroads, it

appeared as though He was not as powerful as the One the Reapers had brought from

the rainy skies. Kalfu’s magic had been easily set aside, defeated by this unknown god

or goddess, this unnamed spirit of the heavens.

Knowing that did not make St. Germaine feel any better. Already he could feel the

darkness gathering around him and knew Kalfu was on His way to enact the

punishment He would mete out for His servant’s weakness.

Long before—when Yves St. Germaine had been a young man—he had been

initiated into the secret society of the bokor. He had risen swiftly in the ranks because

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My Reaper’s Daughter

he had no fear, no hesitation to destroy or kill, did not falter when given an assignment,

was loyal and trustworthy and kept secrets. He had worked his magic and when Kalfu

had shown Himself on a moon-bright night, had eagerly given his flesh and blood to

the loa in exchange for even greater powers in the dark arts. He had believed in Kalfu’s

primary mission on Terra.

“Together we will rid this land of the blight of the Reapers and their impotent

goddess!” Kalfu had stated. “Together we will turn their strengths to weaknesses then

suck the life from their worthless bodies! When the Reapers are no more, our race will

rise up and prevail!”

It had seemed a good plan, St. Germaine reasoned, but he had soon found the

magic he wielded upon Lord Phelan Kiel was not strong enough to bring the white man

to his knees. Befuddle him, aye. Cut him off from the source of his command. Perhaps

even distract him, but it could not foil Kiel for long and had not destroyed him as Kalfu

had predicted.

Perhaps the magic he had sown had been too widespread. He had, after all, sent it

after all the Reapers and not just the one who patrolled Vircars. He had told the demon

what he suspected and Kalfu had seemed to agree, deciding instead to concentrate the

magic upon the single white man who had garnered the demon’s notice. The white man

who had dared to corrupt one of their own.

“He will rue the day he touched one of our women!” Kalfu had sworn.

It did not hurt that another demon—Raphian—was also after Lord Kullen for some

purpose of His own. Together the combined powers of the two demons had weakened

the Reaper and made him vulnerable to attack.

Yet St. Germaine knew had he not shown himself as a lost little girl crying in the

rain, Kullen might never have taken the bait. The white man had deep feelings for the

child Valda and that could conceivably be used against him.

“Fool!”

The roar of the demon’s voice rushed through St. Germaine’s hut and knocked the

conjurer from his feet. Welts streaked down his prone body and boils formed, broke

open and ran, unearthly pain shooting through every vein and muscle in his body. He

writhed on the floor in agony, moaning.

“Wretched excuse for a magician!”

More pain was heaped upon St. Germaine’s body and the magic-sayer screamed as

the torment rose, eyes bulging from his head.

“Bring the Reaper to me. Now!”

With arms that felt like rubber, St. Germaine pushed his chest from the floor and

crawled on all fours. He was in so much pain he could barely breathe let alone stand,

but he made his way to his altar, pulling himself along like an animal. Spittle slung

from his open mouth as he hissed at the horrible pain that engulfed him. While the boils

broke open and ran—forming new blisters and boils where they landed—the bokor

strove to gain a single clear thought to begin the summons.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Arise and come to me,” the magic-sayer whimpered, dragging himself up to a

kneeling position before the altar. “Come to your master, slave!”

The candles were lit. The oils and salts and herbs and leaves were scattered. The

wax effigy containing the Reaper’s nail clippings and hair that had been stolen from

John Dirk were taken up and a coffin nail driven deep into the figure’s head.

The demon manifested Itself in a corner of the room, Its glowing eyes as piercing as

the fires of hell. Its voice harshly instructed the bokor about what next to do, and with

trembling hands, the servant of evil did as he was instructed, calling forth, summoning

another to aid him in his conjuring.

Six miles away, Glyn Kullen sat bolt upright in bed, his amber eyes wide, his hands

reaching to the brutal pain that lanced through his temples.

“What’s wrong?” Mystery asked as she reached out to touch her lover’s bare back.

“Cover yourself and come to your master!”

Completely beneath the spell of the bokor, Glyn swung his long legs from the

mattress and looked down at his nakedness. In his controlled condition, he was unable

to mentally fashion the clothing he needed and in some numbed part of his brain he

seemed to grasp that knowledge. Instead, he walked stiffly to the closet and jerked open

the door.

“Glyn?” Mystery questioned, sitting up. Her lovely face was creased with unease.

“What are you doing?”

No clothing hung in the empty guest room closet and the Reaper turned away, his

head swiveling slowly from side to side until he saw his saddlebags slung across a chair

back. He moved toward them.

“Glyn, you’re scaring me,” Mystery said, and got out of the bed. She snatched the

coverlet from the bed and wrapped herself in it for her clothing had vanished by her

mate’s power.

He paid no attention to his lady-wife. He did not hear her voice. He opened the

saddlebags and pulled out a pair of black jeans and a badly wrinkled black T-shirt.

“Glyn, answer me.”

Mystery stood at the foot of the bed and watched him stepping into the jeans,

pulling the T-shirt over his head, bending down to retrieve his boots, and still he did

not look at her, made no sound at all as he went about dressing. When he turned

toward her and she saw the glazed, vacant look in his eyes, she knew he was once more

under the bokor’s spell.

And she knew there was nothing she could do to stop him as he made his way from

the room. Dropping the coverlet, she ran to Lord Phelan’s room in search of something

to wear just as the front door slammed shut behind Glyn.

* * * * *

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My Reaper’s Daughter

Having dispensed with all the rotting bodies on the field around Phelan and Kasid

and taking care of any concealed in the forest, the drone continued to hover overhead

even though the Reapers could not see it. The air was still thick and charged with

energy, letting the lawmen know the craft was there.

Phelan put his hand over the savage bite on his left arm, more annoyed that the silk

of his uniform shirt had been torn than from the stinging indentions that were slowly

healing.

“Son of a bitch ruined my fucking shirt,” he complained.

“Then change it,” Kasid suggested. He sheathed the dragon handle of his laser

whip and pulled the cotton batting from his nostrils, his nose crinkling at the strange

smell that permeated the air.

Waving his hand, Phelan clothed himself with a fresh shirt, cursing as the garment

became soaked from the continuing rain. He cursed again and lifted his hand to retrieve

his slicker. The rain gear flew to him from the back of his horse and he shrugged into it,

grimacing at the wet feel of the shirt plastered to his chest and back.

“I am starting to really hate this gods-be-damned rain!” he grumbled as he took the

batting from his nose.

“Shall we go after the bokor or go back to check on Glyn?” Kasid asked. He too was

now dressed in his slicker, for what little good the clothing did.

“Maybe we should go check on Kullen,” Phelan replied. “Make sure he’s healing

okay. Then we’ll go after the magic-sayer.”

“Lord Naois?” Kasid inquired.

“I’m here.”

“Any word from the goddess?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re going to check on Lord Glyn then go after the man responsible for the havoc

here today. Perhaps the drone should stay close by.”

“That had already been decided, Lord Kasid,”
came the reply.

Plodding through the slippery mud, the Reapers mounted up and headed back to

Phelan’s house. Overhead, the sky alternated between brilliant white flashes of stinging

light and the rolling darkness of rain-saturated skies. The wind had picked up and was

now cold and howling like a dying banshee.