Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (17 page)

when I see him up yonder,” she said, pointing to the heavens.

“I bet he can’t wait,” Cynyr mumbled. He wiped his mouth on the napkin beside his plate and stood up.

“Goes in your lap, by the by,” Moira complained.

“What?” he asked.

“The goldarn napkin, boy!” she snapped. “Now, get the heck outta my kitchen and let me get back to

work.” She shooed him with her crippled hands.

“I’m going!” he said, but stopped, turned around and surprised the both of them by pecking her on the

cheek. They stared at one another—shock on their faces—then each turned and went about their

business.

Aingeal was still sleeping when the Reaper came back to their room. She looked so peaceful he hated to

wake her so looked around the room for his gun belt and boots, and upon spying them, put them on,

took up his hat and quietly left.

He poked his head in the kitchen. “She’s still sleeping.”

Moira waved at him. “I’ll see to her, lad. Do what ye have to, but make sure you’re back for dinner or

you’ll get nothing but cold grits.”

Cynyr grinned and headed for the door. Annie was coming down the stairs and she stopped like a deer

in lantern light and stared at him. He cast her a stern look.

“Clean the kitchen up for Moira,” he ordered. “Don’t pay any attention to her complaining.
You
do it.

You understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Annie said, her face as pale as freshly drawn milk.

Snapping his hat into place, the Reaper left Moira McDermott’s comfortable little house, his heart lighter

than it had ever been.

“We’ll be riding out later today,” Cynyr told Mick Brady two days later. The two men were walking

together across the main street.

“She’s feeling up to it?” Mick asked, and thought he heard the Reaper growl but when he glanced at

him, Cynyr just nodded.

“Seems the wench likes it here.”

They had reached the boardwalk in front of the hotel. “Glad to hear it. You coming back?”

Cynyr looked out over the town. Not once since he’d gone to the barbershop to speak to Brady had a

single soul stepped out of his way. They’d simply passed by, tipped their hat—or in the case of a few

ladies he’d come into contact with who hadn’t fainted at the sight of him—nodded their heads politely.

No one had gone running inside, shutting and locking doors, window shades drawn down as he ventured

by. No animals had snarled or barked at him. No children had run screaming to their mamas.

“You know you’re welcome here,” Mick said. When Cynyr looked at him, he smiled. “The both of

you.”

The Reaper shoved his hands into the pockets of his black denim jeans. “It would seem so,” he said.

“Well, anything we can do to help move you in to Haines City, we’ll be right proud to do.” He put out

his hand.

Cynyr had never shaken a man’s hand in his life. The only times he’d ever felt a man’s hands on him had

been in the administering of pain. He wasn’t sure he wanted to grasp the barber’s hand, but reluctantly he

pulled his hand from his jeans and gripped Brady’s, feeling slightly uneasy by the contact.

“You be careful and hurry on back to us,” Brady said as he let go of Cynyr’s hand. He slapped the

Reaper’s shoulder in parting, smiled and continued on down the sidewalk toward the café.

“Brady?” Cynyr called out. When the barber turned, he asked him why they had so readily accepted

him.

“That’s simple,” Mick said. “That first night you came to town, right after the tornado, you asked if there

was anything you could do. That was a neighborly thing to offer. Don’t know any other Reaper who

would have done that. And you made sure Guthrie didn’t gouge us. That was another plus by your

name.” His eyes turned misty. “But the topper was when you trusted us to protect your lady. That said a

lot about you right there.”

Long after he and Aingeal had been on the trail to WyndRiver in the Calizonia territory, Cynyr pondered

on Brady’s answer. Was that all it took for a Reaper to be accepted by the Terrans? An offer of help?

Showing them trust? Befriending them?

“You’re awful quiet,” Aingeal observed. “A copper for your thoughts.”

“I’m thinking they’re worth more than that, wench,” he said. “A helluva sight more.”

“Come see us when you finish this last task.”

The voice came at him in Lord Kheelan’s uncompromising manner. Of the three Shadowlords of the

High Council, Kheelan was the strictest. Lords Dunham and Naois were not nearly as rigid.

“I am due a rest,”he silently complained.

“You can rest when your job is done,”Lord Kheelan snapped.

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Cynyr said under his breath.

“Who?” Aingeal asked.

Cynyr shook his head. He had no desire to go to the northlands where the High Council had built their

fortress. He hated the mountains and the Citadel was high up the steepest kind of climb, bordered to the

south by the fierce North Sea. It would take him several weeks to make the trek there and several weeks

to return to Haines City. And that was if the HC didn’t have another assignment for him.

“Bring the woman with you.”

Those five words sent a shiver of apprehension down the Reaper’s spine. His parasite even lurched at

the command. He put a hand to his kidney where the beastess had turned, pain briefly registering on his

face.

“Did you take your tenerse this morning?” Aingeal inquired.

“That was the last of it,” he said. “I need more.”

“Can you get it from a healer?” she asked.

“It will be waiting in WyndRiver for you.”

Cynyr breathed a sigh of relief. He had to have the drug every day of his life or Transition would occur

out of sequence. As it was, he was only a few days from that cycle and hoped he could take out his

target before it happened. He would have to find a place to sequester himself away from Aingeal, for he

did not want her to see him change into the animal he was.

“The High Council provides the drug,” he answered her. “They make it at the Citadel.”

“I’ve heard that is a magnificent place. Have you ever been there?” she asked, and then rolled her eyes.

“Well, of course you have! What a stupid question.”

He ground his teeth. “We’ll be going there when I take care of our business in WyndRiver.”

“Really?” she asked, her face beaming with excitement. “All the way to Boreas?”

“Aye,” he said, somewhat mollified at her enthusiasm. As much as he hated the fortress and the things

that went on there, he could content himself in knowing Aingeal would enjoy the trip.

She looked over at him, tugging a bit too hard on her mount’s reins so that the mare nickered in protest.

“Will I see other Reapers there?”

“Why would you want to?” he asked, his voice rife with annoyance. “Isn’t one of us enough for you,

wench?”

“I’ve seen a few rogues but you’re the only Reaper I’ve ever seen.” She grinned at him. “I’d like to

know if they’re all as handsome as you.”

“Not even close,” he snorted.

“Is minic a bhris béal duine a shorn.”

Lord Kheelan’s Rysalian accent garbled the ancient Gaelach saying and Cynyr had to repeat the words

in his own mind before he could understand them— “Many a time a man’s mouth broke his nose.”

The warning made Cynyr smile. It had been many a year since he’d had a run-in with a fellow Reaper.

The competition would do him good. He wondered if there would be others of his kind at the Citadel but

didn’t want to give Lord Kheelan the satisfaction of asking.

It was an hour or so after sunset by the time Cynyr found a suitable site for them to camp for the night.

There was a stream nearby, but he refused to allow Aingeal off by herself. For some reason he felt

uneasy but, though he sent out mental probes of the area, he could find no reason for his nervousness.

WyndRiver was less than a day’s ride ahead of them and he was anxious to find Jaborn’s last fledgling

and rid the world of the rogue.

Moira had provided them with some of her tasty biscuits and Aingeal was relieved to find the doughy

treats were nearly as fresh as the morning they’d come out of the oven. She had also given them some

bacon that was very tasty. The beans were from a can but they tasted pretty good after a long day on the

trail. Coffee was bubbling away over the roaring fire.

Cynyr was stretched out on the ground on his side, his arm resting on his raised knee, watching his lady

as she stirred the beans in the pot. The light cast from the fire lit her face in such a way she looked like an

angel. Her hair glowed softly around her face. The sweet swell of her bosom beneath the white cotton

shirt beckoned his hands to stroke her. She was, to him, the most beautiful woman in the world and his

heart swelled with pride in knowing she was his.

“You’re thinking evil thoughts again,” she said, not looking up at him.

“Is it evil to want to make love to my woman?” he countered.

Aingeal sighed. The morning before, she’d started her period and they hadn’t been able to indulge in the

things that they had wanted to. A small part of her was disappointed when she’d seen the streak of blood

on the crotch of her britches. Moira and Annie had been able to provide a few pads for her and had even

given her some underwear from the general store to keep the pads in place. She had wanted to have

Cynyr’s daughter or…

“Son,” he said, and when she looked up at him, he shrugged. “It will always be a son, sweeting.”

“Why always a son?” she asked. Not that she really cared what sex the babe was as long as it was

healthy.

“The parasite only allows male chromosomes to survive.” At Aingeal’s perplexed look he threw out his

hand. “Male babies. She only allows male babies to thrive.”

“Jealousy,” Aingeal sniffed. “Pure and simple. It’s a wonder she let you have me.”

“She had no choice in the matter,” he said, and was rewarded by a tearing pain across his back. He

tensed, trying not to show Aingeal he’d been punished for daring to say such a thing, but she’d glimpsed

the discomfort passing over his face and resigned herself to say no more about it.

“Supper’s ready,” she told him. She ladled beans onto a plate and gave him a couple of biscuits and a

handful of bacon. Taking it over to him, she kissed him on top of his head then went back for her own

plate.

He waited until she was sitting beside him before digging in. They ate in silence, listening to coyotes

calling in the distance and the night sounds of insects chattering in the brush.

But Cynyr was still uneasy. He kept an eye on their surroundings, not understanding why he felt so on

edge. As far as he could tell, there were no humans or rogues within probing distance of them, nor were

there wolves or bears lumbering about. The smallest sound set his nerves to jangling.

The viper struck before Cynyr had a chance to push Aingeal out of the way. Its fangs sank deep into her

thigh, delivered its deadly payload then reared back to strike again. Lashing out a hand quicker than that

of any human male, the Reaper grabbed the snake just under its spade-shaped head and snapped the vile

thing off its thrashing body. He tossed the four-foot-long carcass aside, the head into the fire—scrambling

to come to his knees beside his lady.

“Aingeal!” he shouted, gathering her up. He propped her up against his saddle in an effort to keep the

bite below her heart and reached down to rip open the leg of her jeans.

Aingeal was already having trouble breathing, but he rationalized that was more from fear than the toxins

racing through her bloodstream. The venomous snakes that had sprung up after the War were five times

deadlier than their pre-war counterparts, their venom very potent. He had to stop the spread of the

venom if he was going to save Aingeal’s life.

Even through the semi-darkness of the campfire he could see the dark bruise that had formed on

Aingeal’s thigh. The fang marks were livid against the darker discoloration. Without a second thought, he

bent over her, pressed his mouth to the wounds and sucked as hard as he could. He barely noticed the

evil taste of the venom as he drew it into his mouth then spat it out. He was more concerned with

Aingeal’s labored breathing and the strange things she was gasping. None of what she was mumbling

made sense and her wheezing alarmed him. When he could taste no more of the foul protein, he stripped

out of his shirt and tore it for bandages to bind the wound. He tightly tied the bandage, grabbed his gun

belt, slung it over his shoulder, and then scooped Aingeal up in his arms. He ran to his horse and put her

up on Storm’s back. Holding her as steadily as he could, he untied the mount and vaulted up behind her.

With a shout, he kicked the horse into motion, riding hell-bent for WyndRiver.

* * * * *

The healer’s wife staggered back from the half-naked man standing at her door. She recognized the

tattoo on the side of his face immediately and her hand went to her throat, her eyes wide as saucers.

“She’s been bitten,” Cynyr snapped at the woman, shouldering past her with his unconscious burden.

He’d ridden as fast as he could to town, Aingeal muttering gibberish and gasping for breath the entire

way. She’d lapsed into silence as soon as they’d come racing past the city limits.

“What kind of snake?” the healer asked as he came out of his dining room. He pointed to a room off to

one side.

“Mojave,” the Reaper said as he carried Aingeal into the healer’s operatory.