Reaper's Revenge (9 page)

“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.”

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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.

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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!”

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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.”

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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!”

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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.