Shades of the Wind (19 page)

breathing one last time to make sure he was completely under the spell of the powder

then got up and left, locking the portal securely behind her.

“Not even you have the power to escape a locked room, my beloved,” she said as

she took the stairs to the lower floor.

Going out to the kitchen, she found Holly preparing breakfast for the master, his

lady and their guest the tribunalist. The cook gave her a disdainful glance then ignored

the housekeeper.

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Nyria slipped her hand into the left pocket of her dress and sidled over to the

counter where Holly was kneading dough for biscuits.

Holly ignored the black woman, not even bothering to look around at her when

Nyria moved in behind her. When the needle was driven deep into the side of her neck,

Holly cried out, reaching up to touch her punctured flesh. She collapsed like a child’s

broken doll and was dead before she hit the floor.

Nyria put the toe of her boot to the cook’s shoulder and nudged her but Holly was

staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide, a thin stream of drool dripping down her chin.

Squatting down to pluck the needle from her enemy’s neck, Nyria spat in the older

woman’s face then stood up. She put the needle back into her pocket and fished her

hand into her right pocket for the death sentence that awaited Jacob. As her fingers

closed around the needle that would send the butler to the Netherworld, the

housekeeper smiled hatefully.

The workers were returning for a new day as Nyria went in search of Jacob. She

met them at the door and told them they would not be needed. “The master has taken a

bride and does not wish to be disturbed,” she told the women of the plantation. “Go

back to your huts. I will call you when he wishes for you to return.”

Mumbling to themselves, the women and the older children they had brought with

them turned around and left. One or two cast Nyria a wary look but said nothing to her.

Jacob met his death as he bent over to retrieve a paper that had fallen from Khenty’s

desk. He made no sound at all as the needle was jammed into the nape of his neck. He

lay facedown on the floor, the paper still clutched in his hand.

Silus Hawkins—Holly’s husband—lay dead in the cellar. He had met his end

bending over the crate Nyria had come down to the cellar to have him move.

Easing the door to the bedchamber in which the tribunalist slept open, she made

quick work of that one then quietly closed the door behind her deathwielding.

There was only one other person Nyria needed to get rid of and she knew he would

still be abed, having done the work of three men during the night past. With one more

loaded needle in her pocket, the black woman headed for the coachytes’ room.

When Hasani lay dead in his bed, Nyria headed back to Kate’s chamber. “Now

there is just the two of us,” she said aloud.

“What of McGregor?”
a sly voice whispered in the housekeeper’s mind.

Nyria stopped, her face crinkling into lines of concern. The lawgiver came often to

Anubeion.

“He’ll not come today,” Nyria said.

“Can you be certain?”
the insidious voice asked.

The black woman stood on the stairs for a moment then turned around and walked

quickly to the door. Going out into the courtyard, she looked around for any plantation

men who might be working. Seeing no one, she hurried to the stables and after

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searching every stall finally found a young boy who looked up at her with fright as she

grabbed his arm.

“The master wishes Lord McGregor to know he is not to be disturbed for the

remainder of the week. He and his new bride wish to have time alone.” Her grip on the

boy’s arm tightened. “Go to the lawgiver and tell him what the master has said.” She

shook the boy. “Do you understand?”

“Aye, mistress!” the boy replied, and stumbled when the housekeeper released him.

He scurried out of the stall and was on his way before Nyria started back to the

mansion.

“One night,” she said as she took the stairs. “All I want is one final night with him.”

She touched her pocket where one last packet of the powder was nestled. In that packet

was a far more potent concoction—a killing blend—and there was enough for her and

Khenty.

* * * * *

Khenty’s eyelids fluttered open and the bright afternoon sunlight felt like shards of

glass pressing against his eyes. He was so nauseous he could not lift his head from the

floor for the room was spinning around him in fractal colors like a kaleidoscope. His

head throbbed miserably, increasing the nausea. His lungs ached with every intake of

air he took. His throat was burning, his eyes itching. The dusty smell of the carpet

under his cheek was overpowering and he was finding it very difficult to breathe.

“Catherine?” he called out, wincing at the sound of his own voice. It echoed

through his head like the thump of a kettledrum.

Striving weakly to push himself up, he gagged as bile rushed up his throat so lay

still, unwilling to move another muscle. He hurt so badly, felt so drained, all he could

do was lie there. Once more he called for his wife and when there was no answer,

memory shot through him like a poisoned arrow.

“Catherine!” he grunted, and tried once to get up but had no control of his limbs.

His arms were like lead weights he could not lift and his legs had no feeling at all in

them. His world skittered violently off to one side and the floor felt as though it were

tilting beneath him. The nausea washed over him like a heavy blanket and he gagged

again, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth, struggling not to release the bitter

vetch that threatened to erupt.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock and forced his eyes open. He

saw the hem of a woman’s dress, scuffed black boots and knew it was Nyria. At that

moment he hated her as he never had another living being and the taste of his fury was

far more bitter than the bile edging up his gullet. “Where is my lady?” he managed to

ask around tight jaws.

“She has gone over to the Other Side,” Nyria said.

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At first those words gouged into Khenty’s heart like a dull, rusted blade until a

small voice cautioned in the back of his aching brain that the black woman was lying.

“Fear not, my son. Your lady is well and in good hands,”
the voice whispered to him.

“Look only to yourself for now.”

“Bahru also is dead,” she informed him.

He could not have cared less about the taricheutes and if the bastard was indeed

dead, that was all to the better.

“We do not need them,” Nyria said as she went to remove the bottom sheet from

the bed. “Things will return to normal now they are gone.”

Although he could not lift up to view what the black woman was doing, he could

hear her movements behind him and when she threw the sheet and coverlet to the floor,

the air fanned around him, bringing to him the mixed scents of spent passion and the

gardenia perfume Catherine wore.

“What did you use to knock me out?” he asked, wincing as the words reverberated

through his pounding head. He scratched at the floor with his fingers, unable even to

lift his arm.

“Can you not get up?” she countered with a giggle.

“You know I can’t.”

He heard her grunt then watched her walk over to the door and throw the soiled

bedding out into the hall. She was humming as she locked the door then turned back to

the armoire to retrieve fresh sheets.

“We are all alone now,” she said as she began making his bed.

“Where is Jacob?” he asked.

“He too has gone on to what reward may await him,” she said cheerfully. “He took

the tribunalist, Holly, Silus and Hasani with him when he left.”

Khenty closed his eyes for he heard the truth in her words. “You should not have

done that,” he said.

“You have always belonged to me,” she said, coming to stand over him. “We have

no need for others.”

With an ease that surprised him, she squatted down, flipped him to his back, ran

her arms under his neck and knees and lifted him as though he were a mere child. He

was astounded at her strength as she carried him to the bed.

Nyria laid him on the clean bed then stood there with her hands on her hips,

looking down at him with her head cocked to one side. “You look overly warm,” she

said then bent over to pull his pants from his immobile legs.

“Don’t,” he protested, but she paid him no heed.

As he watched her, Nyria began unbuttoning her gown, slipping out of it with a sly

grin on her dark face. As many times as he had seen her naked, had lain with her, taken

her flesh to his, he knew her body intimately, but this time the sight of it revolted him.

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“You should not have lain with that pale bitch,” Nyria said as she crawled onto the

bed with him. “You need no other body save mine.”

Unable to move, he lay there as she ran her hands over him and the only

consolation he had was that he could barely feel her touching him. For that, he was

grateful. Inwardly he was cringing as the fingers of her right hand wrapped around

him, the palm of the left hand hefted his sac. In tandem, her hands stroked, tugged,

squeezed, massaged and kneaded until he knew he was hard and erect though

thankfully he could not feel the hardness of his shaft.

Staring up at the ceiling as she worked him, his jaw was tight, his teeth grinding.

He knew there was nothing he could say, could order or threaten or curse that would

get her hands off him. He would not give in to the satisfaction of cursing her for such

would be useless. He had glimpsed madness in her eyes and knew she had become

unhinged. Reasoning with her would do no good. He only hoped the use of his limbs

and mental abilities would return to him before she decided to take his life as she had

taken the others.

When she took him into her mouth, he grimaced and closed his eyes. It would only

be a matter of time before his body betrayed him and gave her what she was craving.

He had never known another woman who enjoyed sucking cock as much as Nyria. Not

that he had ever minded, but this time it was different. He felt unclean, used, and his

rage was building at an astonishing rate. He could feel the blood pounding in his

temples and it was no longer due to the drug she had forced upon him. He was

experiencing a fury that turned his eyes to molten gold.

Nyria ran the tip of her tongue into the slit of his shaft, spreading it apart as far as it

would go as she probed inside. She was gently rolling his balls, allowing her fingernails

to graze the sensitive underside of the sac with each flex of her hand. She licked at his

engorged head, flicked her tongue up and down his length, drew him deep into her

mouth and drew hard on his flesh until he came.

Khenty squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, hating his body at that moment for the

treasonous vehicle it had become. He tried to blot out the black woman’s slurping as

she cleaned every drop of cum from his shriveling flesh. His fingers were digging into

the sheets although he still could not bring his arms up—something he devoutly wished

he could do for he longed to wrap his fingers around her thieving throat.

“There is such sweet power in your sword, beloved,” she said as she straddled his

body and sat back, her naked rump wedged between his legs as she pushed his limbs

farther apart. Her hands were still on his shaft, caressing him.

He opened his eyes and locked his steely glower on her face.

“Oh what a murderous look you are giving me!” Nyria said with a laugh. “It is a

wonder I do not burst into flames.”

The room was no longer as bright as it had been when he woke so he knew the sun

was setting. He’d been far too long under the devastating effects of whatever potion

she’d given him and he worried that he might never regain mobility. Real fear of being

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paralyzed for the remainder of his life flitted like a half-dead moth against the flame of

his soul. Whatever she had given him had completely stymied his mental powers and

he could not even reach out to her to wipe the sneer from her gloating face. He tried

flexing his toes but felt no movement at all, likewise when he tried to turn his head. He

was trapped as though encased in amber with only his fingers able to arch and claw

against the sheets.

“My lady?”
he asked silently, reaching out to the voice that had reassured him

earlier. He was worried sick about Catherine, terrified of what Nyria and Bahru might

have done to her.

“She is safe. I will aid you when the time is right, my son,”
the voice said softly.
“Fear

not.”

Nyria was crouched above him, her heat poised above his member. He watched her

slide down his length though he could not feel her wetness, her sheath as it enveloped

him. The room grew darker and that concerned him even more than the woman sliding

up and down upon him. Staring at her bouncing breasts, he realized the light was

slowly fading and he worried that his sight was failing.