Reaper's Vow (22 page)

“We came about through aberration. Man interfering with the way things should be. To them we're monsters, things that shouldn't exist but do. And if we don't become what they need us to become, if we don't police ourselves, they will take over the job.”

“From Europe?”

Blade nodded. “Yeah. They have the numbers and the determination to wipe us out. And they would. They'd hunt us to the very last one to remove the contamination to the blood.”

“Contamination? Makes us sound like a breakout of small pox.”

“To them we are.”

“Uppity bastards,” Isaiah growled, blowing out a stream of smoke that disintegrated on the breeze as soon as it appeared.

Would the Reapers be extinguished before they even got started? Cole thought of Gaelen. And Dirk. Of the men he'd practiced with. Each and every one a warrior. “They'd better come packing.”

The glance Blade gave him was pitying. “Make no mistake, they will. You think Jones is a badass? They've got thousands of years of being badass behind them. And best I can tell, they live two to three hundred years. That's a lot of experience to come up against.”

Isaiah sat for a minute, absorbing the information. He took one, two, three puffs on his cigarette. “Two to three hundred years would be a nice spell in which to get to know Addy. Can we expect to live that long?”

Blade looked at him. “Don't know. No one's ever taken Reaper blood to create Reapers until the asses that made us.”

Isaiah swore. “And they didn't even have the grace to do it clean. They just tortured and punished us until we couldn't see past the pain to fight.”

Blade nodded. “And then they started feeding us that drug.”

Drug?” Cole asked. They were drugged?

Isaiah looked off into the horizon, his energy seething. “Once they'd made us their weapons, they needed a way to keep us compliant so we'd take out the targets they wanted.”

“So they got us addicted to ‘the cure.'”

Blade snorted. “Some cure.”

Cole had seen men addicted to opium do without. It wasn't a pretty sight. “That bad?”

Isaiah grunted. “Worse.”

“How'd you get free?”

Blade blew a smoke ring. He watched it float, expand, and as it dissipated said quietly, “The thing about weapons is, no matter how well you think you've perfected them, there's always a chance they'll misfire.”

Isaiah nodded and flicked an ash off the stub of his cigarette. “In case you can't figure it out, Blade misfired first. Then he arranged it so the rest of us could, too.”

Blade smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. “One by one. Piece by piece their empire came down.”

“And at the end?” Cole asked, knowing the men, knowing the answer.

It was Isaiah who answered. “None of them were alive to complain. The Reapers made their initial laws that still control us, one of them being not to consort with humans, and disappeared into the wilderness.”

“You banished yourselves?”

“As broken as we were, it seemed a good idea at the time.”

It wasn't a good idea now. Reapers were human at their core. Humans needed other humans. Isaiah was right. Those laws needed to be changed.

“Takes a fucked-up mind to do something like that,” Cole murmured, beginning to comprehend the enormity of what had been done to Jones and the others. To see past what they were to the lives from which they'd come. Shit. “Makes for a fucked-up life, too.”

Isaiah shrugged and drew on his smoke. “I don't think my life was worth much before they got hold of me.”

“None of ours were,” Blade interrupted. “That's why they chose us. Made it easy to break us since we didn't have anything to hold on to.”

“Easy?” Isaiah asked. “Is that how you remember it?”

“After the torture, I don't remember shit.”

Cole tried to imagine that. Not remembering his brothers, his parents, his ranch, his life. Everything that made him . . . him. He couldn't. He realized he was still holding the unlit match and cigarette. He put both in his pocket. He'd sucked in enough smoke and ash.

“So?” Isaiah asked. “When you say we have to clean up our clan—because I'm assuming our pack is going to be our clan—does that mean we have to form our own societies? Do we set them up by werewolf rules? Do we do all that just to keep the European werewolves happy?”

“No,” Cole cut in, understanding what Isaiah didn't want to. “We do all that to keep Reapers alive, no matter what the werewolves decide.”

Blade nodded. “I'm thinking it will come to war.”

“Does anyone else know this?” Isaiah asked.

Blade shook his head. “Until there is a central government among Reapers rather than a loose collection of half-baked laws, all telling people would do is spook them.”

“At least we have the pack council and the high council.”

“Except the high council is the one that made the laws that designed to keep you all separate. We need to come together.”

“Damn.” Even Cole could see that wasn't likely to happen. Not if the ones who created the original laws were attached to them.

Blade nodded and leaned back against a tree. “Those are my thoughts.”

There were still some things Cole didn't understand. “I have a couple questions.”

“Shoot,” Isaiah said, flicking the ash off his smoke.

“Who exactly made you Reaper?”

Blade answered. “During the war a group of opportunists, businessmen as they liked to call themselves, occasionally needed leverage in certain situations. They created us to be assassins and to provide them with that leverage.”

“Where did they find you?”

“The streets, pretty much.”

“They stripped away who we were and put in place what they wanted,” Isaiah tacked on. “They liked the Reaper madness the process created. It gave them something to build on.”

Isaiah said that with the dispassion of someone talking of a stranger. Hell, maybe it felt like that to him. Cole hoped so. Everyone had memories they didn't want to live with. Reapers apparently had more than most.

“And they used those assassins to what end?”

“For whatever they needed,” Isaiah filled in. “If they needed a businessperson removed so they could buy what they wanted, they sent a Reaper. If they needed to change the course of politics in whatever direction they desired, we did it. We were point-and-shoot weapons with teeth and claws. We worked quietly. We worked quickly. We worked efficiently.”

“We hunted,” Blade growled.

The way the European werewolves would hunt Reapers, Cole realized.

“They controlled us with the cure,” Isaiah added with the same dispassion as before. “Built our dependence on it and then made it the reward.”

Rage whipped around Cole. Isaiah's. Blade's. Pushing at him like a spring storm. Wild and violent.

“We were animals,” Blade snarled.

“But you're not now,” Cole pointed out, breathing slowly to control his reaction to the emotional maelstrom catching him up. “Push came to shove, and you found your way out.”

Isaiah looked up. His eyes glittered. His smile took on a feral edge. “Even the most beaten dog will turn on its master.”

For the first time Cole felt the full power of the man that was Addy's husband. It was . . . impressive.

And Addy's protector.

The thought slipped into his mind with the smoothness of speech. He looked at Blade. Blade stared back. Cole acknowledged the truth with a nod. And protector. There was something to be said for having someone like Jones sitting watch over Addy. The woman did have a penchant for trouble. Another thought hit him.

“Can the werewolves in Europe have children?”

“Not frequently,” Blade answered, “but they do, and the children are cherished.”

“So women here, if they can have children, would they be valued in Europe?”

“I don't know. Bloodline matters a hell of a lot in clan hierarchy over there.”

Isaiah grunted. “Cliquish bunch, aren't they?”

“Very.”

Isaiah straightened and put out his smoke against the tree. “Then we need to become cliquish, too.”

“Very,” Blade agreed.

Isaiah looked over. “How long do we have?”

“Not as long as you'd think. Part of the deal of my being released to return to the U.S. was I was supposed to spy on your progress here and then report back.”

“When?” Cole asked.

Blade didn't look concerned. “About six months ago.”

“You didn't make it.” Isaiah didn't make it a question.

“No.”

Isaiah simply asked, “Why?”

“Because I didn't think it mattered what I had to report. My impression before I left was that the decision had already been made. It was just a matter of gathering the forces. Any information I supplied would have been used for enhancing an attack.”

The hair rose on the back of Cole's neck. Werewolf genocide. And Addy and Miranda were caught in the middle. “So they sent you back here to lull us into a false sense of security?”

“Apparently.”

Isaiah straightened, looking off into the woods as if he could see beyond. “And you're sure they're coming?”

Blade nodded. “I'd bet the farm on it.”

“And they're not going to be happy?”

“Nope.”

Settling his brown Stetson on his head, Isaiah grunted, “Then this fighting we're doing among ourselves has got to stop. Or else we need to disappear.”

Cole agreed. “If we separated out, blended into society, they'd have a damn hard time finding us all.”

Blade looked at him. “True, but that would only delay things. They would hunt us relentlessly, track us down, and kill every man, woman, and child until there wasn't a shimmer of Reaper energy out there.”

Isaiah swore, “Fuck that. We'll fight.”

Cole agreed. “If I'm going down, I'm going down fighting, not cowering in the corner like a beaten dog.”

Blade shook his head. “Bad analogy.”

“Bad choices.”

Cole turned to Isaiah. “What's the first thing we've got to do?”

“Get you married.”

It wasn't a question.

“And then?”

“I haven't a clue.”

14

Cole arrived back at Miranda's little house as dark was falling. It was of ramshackle construction that no amount of whitewash could improve. It still only sported one narrow window. It wasn't as nice as the lowest shack on the Circle C. Yet walking up to the door, he felt the same as he did when he rode up to his ranch. It felt like coming home.

Keeping his energy banked, Cole looked in through the window at the reason. Miranda and Wendy. They were sitting at the table. Wendy was making marks on the wooden surface with chalk. Miranda was teaching Wendy her letters, he realized. In the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the disaster yet to come, Miranda had found a moment of normalcy. He wanted to keep that for her.

Miranda looked up. He knew she couldn't see him. The light from inside would block his image, but she stared as if he were as clear as day. Damn. He felt the touch of her energy as a light caress against his senses. His cock stirred. He was probably going to have to get used to being with a woman from whom he couldn't hide. He pushed his hat back and smiled. There were worse things.

Miranda looked back down, gave Wendy some instruction, and then rose. He met her at the door. Light from inside spilled out along with the aroma of supper. So did Miranda's uncertainty. She stood there, hand on the doorknob, looking at him as if she didn't know whether to fight or run. He sighed and pushed his hat back farther.

“No need to worry. I'm over my mad.”

Her smile was shaky. “Good.”

Despite her words, the tension in her shoulders didn't ease. A wisp of hair fluttered around her cheek, an irresistible lure. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear. When she flinched, he slid his fingers around the back of her head, resting his palm against her cheek, cradling her head in his hand.

“I'm not a violent man, Miranda.”

She looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head. He couldn't blame her; about all she'd ever seen from him was violence.

“And especially not toward my wife.”

“We're not married.”

“After tonight we're going to be.”

She blinked.

“Blade explained it to me. You've proclaimed me your mate. I gave my life for your child. Once we come together, it's a done deal. Even the council can't tear us apart.”

She made a noise. It might have been a sigh or a curse. He couldn't tell and didn't care.

“You were hoping to get out of it?”

She shook her head, smoothed her skirt, sighed again, and this time gave him the truth.

“I was hoping you weren't aware of the law.”

“Why?”

She shrugged and glanced back at Wendy. “If down the road I wanted to claim we weren't married, you could just walk away.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned against the jamb. “But until then you're just planning on using me?”

For the first time that night her gaze skirted his. And she didn't answer. He took advantage of her distraction, pulling her a little closer, stroking his thumb down her cheek. The stroke provoked an answer.

“Yes.”

“I can't fault you for that.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “You're not mad?”

He shook his head. “No, it's good to know my partner has got a level head on her shoulders. There'll be times, probably, when you're going to need it.”

She didn't flinch or pretend to misunderstand. He liked that.

“You have a lot of enemies?”

“I've ticked off a person or two.”

“A few Reapers also.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She stood there, neither leaning in nor moving away. Just accepting his touch. Waiting, he realized, for him to take the lead.

“Are you going to invite me in for supper?”

She blinked. Her energy flickered with uncertainty. “It's your home now, too. You don't need an invite.”

That was generous, but he didn't want her feeling completely out of control. Yet. “I'd prefer it.”

She stepped back. His fingers glided against her smooth skin as she retreated. On the next step he dropped his hand to his side, but he didn't let go of that satiny sensation. He memorized it, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips, imprinting it on his memory. She'd probably be that silky smooth all over.

She waved him in. “Supper's ready if you're hungry.”

He was hungry for a hell of a lot of things, but the way she was nervously rubbing her hands on her skirt, she probably wouldn't appreciate hearing about any of them right now.

“Good, I'm starving.”

She nodded.

Wendy looked up just then and motioned eagerly for him to come over.

“Look, Cole! Look what I can make.”

He didn't have any choice but to go. As he turned his attention to Wendy, her energy struck him, stronger even than Miranda's, but all little girl and innocent. He looked down at her bent head and the soft shine of her neatly braided hair. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. They were going to want her for sure. His hands clenched to fists. Feeling Miranda's gaze, he forced them to relax and admired the chalk drawing on the wooden table.

“Now, that's a right nice letter
A
.”

Wendy grinned up at him, revealing her missing tooth and fairy-child charm.

“Mommy says I'm very smart.”

He ruffled her hair. He'd never let them near her. “Your mom has the right of it.”

“I'm going to learn the letter
B
tomorrow.”

“You are?”

She nodded. “
B
is for bumblebee, you know.”

He couldn't remember when he'd ever had such innocence. “It is, is it? What's
A
for?”

“Apple.” She drew a circle and added a leaf. “I like apples.” Not glancing up from her drawing, she added, “An apple took my tooth, you know.”

“Stole it dead out of your mouth?” He put his hand on his gun. “Am I going to have to have a talk with this apple?”

Her eyes grew wide. She looked at the gun, then she looked at him. Her gaze fell to the corner of his mouth where he could feel a smile tugging, and she giggled.

“No.”

“Sure? Because I'd be willing.”

She shook her head, setting her pigtails to bouncing as she colored in the last section of the apple. “No need.”

“Why not?”

She set her chalk down with a satisfied plop. “Because I ate it.”

“I guess that would settle things.”

“Get a wet rag and clean off the table, baby,” Miranda interrupted. “We're going to have supper.”

“All right.”

Wendy hopped out of the chair, carefully gathered up the materials, put them back in her little wooden box, and brought it over to her bed, sliding it underneath.

Her bed. Cole looked at the little bed tucked on one wall and the bigger bed tucked on the other, “bigger” being a relative term. No way would that hold them both, which led to another problem. How the hell was he going to consummate his marriage with an all-ears six-year-old a few feet away? Shit.

Miranda followed his gaze. The twitch of her lips surprised him. She ducked her head before he could comment. He strolled the whole four steps it took to get to her side. Her skin drew him like a moth to the flame. He couldn't resist grazing the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She didn't pull away.

“Seems likes we're going to have to make some arrangements for tonight.”

“Oh?”

A tendril of hair draped over his fingers, binding them together. “Unless you want an audience?”

Her eyes grew big and that grin disappeared.

“No.” On a defiant “And neither do you,” she turned back to the fire, blocking him physically and mentally. That he didn't like. Closing his fingers against the urge to grab her arm and turn her back, to make her open to him as she'd promised, he forced himself to walk calmly back to the table.

Miranda stood over the stew pot, bowls in hand, and took a breath as Cole moved away.

I'm not a violent man.

The bowls rattled as her hands shook. He might not be a violent man, but just then something powerful had ahold of him. Something scary and deep. Maybe she should have taken Clark after all. He might be a brute, but he was predictable. With Cole, she could never foresee which way he was going to jump. It bothered her. No, she admitted, as she willed her hands to stop shaking, it scared the living daylights out of her.

She'd wanted a husband she could control, but controlling Cole would be like trying to control the wind rushing down the mountain. He did everything with a sense of purpose, including stepping through her door tonight. She didn't know what had been said or happened during the day, but she knew that up until the moment when he touched her cheek, he'd been debating something, and then when he touched her and the energy had arced between them, he'd made a decision.

“You need help over there?”

She jumped and the bowls rattled again. She hated the betrayal. “No, I've got it.”

She put the bowls down on the little table beside the fire and scooped stew out of the pot.

Behind her she could hear Cole talking to Wendy. There was no impatience in his speech when he conversed with her. No impatience in his manner as he watched Wendy clean the table with a six-year-old's careless attention to detail, scrubbing at one spot, missing the rest. Miranda expected him to take the rag from Wendy or to lecture her, but instead he just chatted about
A
is for apple,
B
is for bee, and then some rambling speculation on what
C
could be for, letting Wendy do her best and just seeming to enjoy her. What was Miranda supposed to do with a man so darn scary and likable?

All too soon the bowls were filled. She carried two over to the table. When she would have headed back for the other, Cole shook his head and held the chair out for her.

“Why don't you have a seat and let me get that for you?”

She blinked.

“You've had a long day,” he added a bit gruffly, as if he wasn't any more used to extending such courtesy than she was to receiving it. It was oddly endearing. She rubbed her hand down her skirt.

“So have you.”

“It's my wedding night.”

It was for all intents and purposes hers, too. The ceremony might not happen until tomorrow, but coming together tonight would make that ceremony superfluous. In the eyes of the council, and in her soul, tonight was the night that mattered.

“All the more reason I should serve you.”

“That the way it is in your culture? Among Reapers?”

She really had no idea. “It's just the way it always is, in any culture.”

“Well, this is our house, and I'm the head of it, and I say I want you to sit down and take a load off and let me get the rest of dinner.”

And that was that, Miranda realized. She did as she was told, smiling at Wendy, who poked her finger in a bowl to test the temperature. Miranda was so nervous; she didn't even bother to correct her daughter.

Wendy leaned forward. “He's a big man, isn't he, Mommy? Almost as big as Uncle Isaiah.”

Cole wasn't that big, but she imagined to a six-year-old he was huge. She nodded. “He is, but he's nice, too.”

“Not like Uncle Clark.”

She hated for her daughter to call that man “uncle.”

“You don't have to call him uncle anymore.”

Wendy looked up at her, sucking in her lip. “Won't he get mad?”

Miranda just shrugged.

“If he gets mad,” Cole said from the fire, “you come tell me about it, and I'll have a talk with him.”

Wendy's eyes got big. Her mouth pursed and then a beatific smile crossed her face.

“Truly?”

Miranda rolled her eyes at Cole. Wendy was a spirited child. “You really shouldn't have told her that.”

Cole came back with the basket of biscuits and the last bowl of stew. “Why not? It's the truth.”

“Because now she'll think you're a weapon she can throw at anyone.”