Prime Reaper (12 page)

All the Reapers except Arawn laughed at the remark. Arawn was still uneasy as he settled down on the plush, red velvet seat in the special train’s social car. The rain was beating against the window beside him, obscuring the landscape and as several successive bright flashes of light strobed beyond the glass, he reached up to pull the shade down.

Glyn placed the wicker basket Danielle had given her husband on the floor at Arawn’s feet. “I hope you will share that bounty with us, Ari,” he remarked.

“We’ll see,” Arawn said. He didn’t know why he felt so. The left-handed Reaper kept absently fingering the thumb break strap on the six-shooter strapped to his leg. On his right hip in a silver sheath threaded through his black leather gun belt he carried the dragon-claw handle of his laser whip.

Healer Sorrel slipped on board quietly and greeted the Reapers. He was a small man who sported a thin goatee and thick wire-rimmed spectacles. With a sparse head of hair and a kindly face that made him look much younger than his years, he appeared very shy and seemed to meld into his surroundings as though not wishing to be observed. As soon as he took a seat, he pulled out a thick book and buried his face in it. The Reapers’ gear was being loaded on the baggage car of the ten-car train while their mounts were being led into the cattle car at the rear, in front of the caboose. Including the engine and coal cars, caboose, social car, baggage and cattle cars, there were two sleeper cars, a dining car and the cooking car—in which Ash had his private quarters.

“Lord Arawn, would you like something to drink?” Ash inquired. 63

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Arawn looked up. “A double whiskey would hit the spot,” he replied.

“At nine o’clock in the morning?” Cynyr questioned. He was seated across the car from the Prime Reaper.

Arawn narrowed his eyes. “
An rud nach mbaineann duit ná bain dó
,” he growled. Cynyr held up his hands. “
Ceart go leor
.”

Owen translated for Jaborn. “In essence, our fearless leader just told Cree to mind his own business and Cree said okay.”

“The people of my land do not partake of alcohol or drugs,” Jaborn said. “It is difficult for me to take the tenerse and it shames me that I have become addicted to it.”

“Couldn’t live without it,” Owen said.

“Aye, but I could,” Jaborn said, “but what kind of life would that be?”

“As a wolflike monstrosity uglier than sin?” Owen asked. “Not much of one I’d say.”

“Why would Lord Arawn be drinking this early in the day though?” Jaborn inquired. “Is that normal for him?”

“Not at all,” Owen replied. “Something’s bothering him. See the way he keeps fingering the thumb break on his holster? But if he wants us to know what’s troubling him, he’ll tell us. He tends to be a man who plays his cards close to his vest, if you get my meaning.”

“That is beautiful workmanship on his rig,” Jaborn said, eying the hand-tooled leather and belt. “What is that symbol?”

Owen ignored Phelan and Iden frowning at him for speaking to the Akhkharulian.

“It’s the heron, the symbol of the Gehdrin clan. Each of us has a tat of our clan animal.”

He turned his face so Jaborn could see his. “Mine is a blackbird.”

“What is the meaning of your symbol?”

“The blackbird represents magic, a mage.” He crossed his leg so the ankle rested on the opposite knee. “I am the magician on our team.”

“I too have a tattoo,” Jaborn said, “but I wish to the gods it was not upon my flesh.”

“Why? What is it?” Owen asked.

After a moment of thought, Jaborn unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirtsleeve and pushed it up. Owen recognized the symbol immediately and leaned away from Jaborn.

“I should not have shown you my shame,” Jaborn said, quickly lowering his sleeve.

“All
balgairs
are branded with the sign. We were not given a choice of the symbol but we could choose where we wished it placed.”

“Did you volunteer to become a rogue?” Owen asked, locking eyes with Jaborn.

“No. I was given no choice. My twin enlisted with the Ceannus and when they came for me, I was taken and branded as one of theirs before the Transference.”

“Then the shame belongs to those who did that to you,” Owen stated. 64

Prime Reaper

“It is a vile symbol and one that bothers me greatly,” Jaborn said, looking down at the sleeve now hiding the mark. “I wish now I had not asked for it on my arm for then I wouldn’t have to see it.”

“What symbol is that, Jaborn?” Arawn asked.

The Akhkharulian lowered his head. “A ghoret coiled upon my forearm, Lord Arawn.”

At the mention of the dreaded pit viper than had nearly claimed his life, Cynyr got up from his seat and walked over to Jaborn. “Let me see,” he ordered.

“Lord Cynyr, I—”

“Let me see!” Cynyr insisted.

Jaborn did as he was told and when the silver and green tattoo was revealed on the Akhkharulian’s arm, Cynyr hissed as though he were a serpent as well.

“By the gods but I would carve that shit from my arm!” he snarled.

“I tried,” Jaborn said, “but my hellion healed the wound and the tattoo appeared upon the skin once more.”

“I’d keep trying until the filth was gone!”

“Trying won’t make it so. That’s the way of the Queen,” Arawn said. “Whatever scars you had before you became a Reaper, you still have, Cynyr. That is why they tattooed him before he became a
balgair
.”

“That is an evil thing!” Cynyr said, staring down at the triangular head of the viper.

“I agree, milord,” Jaborn said, and once more pushed his sleeve down to hide the symbol.

Cynyr took his seat again. “Aingeal wants a tat, but thank Alel it wouldn’t take on her.”

“A tat of what?” Owen asked.

“A damned swan,” Cynyr said in a mincing voice.

“Swans are beautiful creatures, Cyn,” Arawn said. “They symbolize faithfulness, innocence, grace and sincerity. All those things describe your lady.”

Cynyr shot him an annoyed look. “And if your lady were to be tattooed, what glorious emblem would you give her?”

Arawn tilted his head back against the high seat. “Not that I would ever allow her to mark herself in that way but hypothetically, I would think a butterfly. It is the symbol of being carefree and my lady is that if nothing else.”

“Lea got a tat,” Iden said. “Bevyn just about shit a brick when he saw it.”

Owen’s eyebrows shot up. “He didn’t tell me that.”

Iden chuckled. “Most likely he was too pissed to do so. Only reason I know of it is they were arguing so loudly as they took the stairs to his apartments I heard every word they shouted at one another.”

“What is the tat of?” Phelan asked.

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“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll never forget Bevyn’s bellow when he stopped her on the stairs to get a look at it. She must have taken her boot off to show him,” Iden said. “He yelled, ‘A deer? You put a fucking prancing deer on your fucking ankle, wench?’”

The men laughed. Those who knew Bevyn well could hear him yelling.

“Is deer a bad symbol in the Wind Force?” Jaborn asked.

“No, just the opposite. Deer represent gentleness, love and kindness and that describes Lea perfectly,” Owen said. “Why would Bev be pissed about such a positive symbol?”

“It isn’t the symbol or its meaning, but the marring of his lady’s flesh that set him off,” Cynyr said.

“But it is her flesh, is it not?” Jaborn asked. “Does she not have the right to do with it as she wishes?”

“No,” Arawn and Cynyr said in unison.

Ash came from the kitchen car with a tray of orange juice for Iden and Owen and the double shot of whiskey for Arawn. He served them their beverages then left. The train whistle blew and the car jerked as the iron wheels began to turn. Between the chugging of the engine, the squeak of the wheels and the pounding rain drumming on the car’s roof, Arawn managed to drown out the low voices of his companions. He had no idea why he felt the urge to blister his tongue with the whiskey or why he thought doing so might help the prickly feeling rubbing against his nerves. But after the first sip of the heady brew, he took off his hat and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“What’s in the basket, Ari?” Cynyr asked.

Arawn glanced down at the wicker container. “I’ve no idea.”

“He’s going to be a greedy gut and not share whatever it is with us,” Owen complained.

“You’re full of it, Tohre,” Arawn said, and set his whiskey on the table beside his seat. He bent over and retrieved the basket. Opening it, he pushed aside a towel to locate what was concealed beneath. When he saw what was in there, he started laughing so hard tears came into his amber eyes and he had to nudge them away with his crooked knuckle.

“What did Danielle give you to cause that reaction?” Cynyr queried. Arawn slipped his hand inside the basket and lifted up a cake covered with bright orange-zest frosting.

“Can I have a slice?” Owen asked.

A deadly gleam entered Arawn’s eye. “Not if you were starving to death, Reaper, and ‘twas the only food available.” He placed the cake back into the basket with care.

“But if anyone else wants a piece, feel free to come and get it.”

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Prime Reaper

* * * * *

Danielle was barely strong enough to lift her head as Aingeal placed the cup of Sustenance to her lips. She ached in places she rarely felt but the horrendous pain she had lived with for months was gone from her side. She felt hollow inside. Although she had said nothing of what she had experienced—neither blaming nor acknowledging to those around her that she knew what they’d done—the telltale misery in her gaze said more than mere words could have.

“Your first time is always the hardest, Danni,” Aingeal said gently. Meekly swallowing the salty liquid that by rights should have made her gag, Danielle remained silent. It was her husband’s blood she drank—frozen blood kept on hand by the High Council for him when he was in residence. It was the only Sustenance Danni would accept. When the Sustenance was consumed, Aingeal slipped her hand from beneath Danni’s head and stepped back. “Can I get you anything?” she asked. Without a word, Danielle turned over, her back to Aingeal. Her hands were pressed together under her cheek, her knees drawn up into a fetal position as she stared listlessly at the wall beside the bed.

“If you need to blame someone for this, don’t blame Arawn,” Aingeal said. “He doesn’t know what happened here and he had no part in the decision. The decision was Lord Kheelan’s and Lord Kheelan’s alone.”

A single crystal tear eased slowly down Danielle’s pale cheek but still she said nothing.

Aingeal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She wasn’t accustomed to people ignoring her and now neither Danni nor Lea were speaking to her. “All right,” she said.

“I’ll leave you alone but if you need me, will you have someone come get me?”

There was no answer, no acknowledgment of the request.

Leaving the room, Aingeal was surprised to find the High Lord waiting by the door. He looked drawn and haggard and guilty. “I doubt she wants to see you,”

Aingeal said.

“I’m sure she doesn’t, but I want to—”

“Put your wants aside, Lord Kheelan, and think of someone other than yourself for a change,” Aingeal snapped at him. “The entire world does not revolve around you nor does that world give a damn about what you want!” That said, she turned and stormed off.

He watched her until she turned the corner then hung his head. The feelings he had for her were way out of line. Thoughts of her should not consume him, yet they did. Day and night she haunted him, and with every insult she flung at his head—deserved or not—a part of him withered away. He had never known such unrelenting melancholy in his life and saw no way to rid himself of it. He wanted what he knew he could never have and that was a bitter pill to swallow. Though he had tried to force her from his mind, from his heart, he realized she was firmly entrenched and no amount of 67

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

reasoning or rationalizing could make it otherwise. It was a burden he had finally learned to accept.

Feelings aside, he knew where his duty lay and knocked softly on Danielle’s door before opening it and going inside.

It had been four days since Danielle Gehdrin had gone from human to Reaper. Her Transition had not been an easy one and she had fought it every step of the way. Her howls had been pitiful to hear and as she thrashed in the containment cell—scratched deep grooves into the walls—those who kept vigil outside felt keenly the burden of what was happening, knowing the woman had not wanted it. Kheelan Ben-Alkazar had no doubt at all that had he been in the cell with her, she would have torn him limb from limb and devoured his still breathing body. The only good thing about the episode was that it hadn’t lasted as long as normal.

“I hate you,” she said, her first words since that fateful day when the Transference had been made.

“I know you do,” the High Lord said. He was standing at the foot of her bed. “If it would make you feel better to attack me, I will not fight you.”

She turned over so she could see him. “Have you told my husband what you did to me?”

Lord Kheelan shook his head. “No, but I plan to contact Cynyr later this evening. They reached Lewisville this morning and are getting ready to ride down to the Diabolusian border.” He wrapped his fingers around the brass rail at the foot of her bed. “I thought it best to have Cynyr break the news to him.”

“Coward,” she labeled him, and turned back over.

“You women have such wonderfully high opinions of me, don’t you?” Lord Kheelan grumbled. When she didn’t reply, he shook his head. “Don’t blame Arawn for this. He—”

“I know who to blame,” she told him. “Now get the hell out of my room before I sink my fangs into your worthless jugular and drain you dry.”

That she could make such a statement gave him reason to hope she was becoming adjusted to her new way of life. After all, anger was better than apathy. He tried to slip into her mind to make sure she was all right but the barrier was like a solid granite wall he could not scale. There were no openings, no seams or cracks, and it was buried so deep, there was no way to get under it, so wide there was no getting around it. Her mindshield was firmly in place and would remain so to whomever she wished to keep out of her thoughts. He doubted even the woman with whom she shared a parasitic connection could breach Danielle’s mind.