WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (19 page)

“I told you, didn’t I?” Clint Ford hissed. “Didn’t I tell you they was slithering up out of them graves?”

“Folks aren’t going to want their loved ones dug up and burned,” the constable said.

“They won’t have to be,” Owen said.

The constable held up his hands. “I don’t want to know how and I don’t want to be there when it’s done.”

“If you’ll take me out to the cemetery, we can get this done before sundown,” Owen said. “You won’t need to see any of it.”

Chewing on his lower lip for a moment the constable nodded his silent agreement. “I’ll get my nag,” he said.

“I thought she was at home canning apples,” Bart teased.

“Cute,” the constable grunted.

“You two stay here and get us a room for the night,” Owen said. He knew they’d need a place to rest after expending all the energy they would need to track the Drochtáirs that night.

Untying his horse, Owen walked along with the constable as that man headed for the livery stable. They spoke of the weather, the town, the people—everything but what had been happening in and around New Junction. As they walked, people dipped their head in greeting to the Reaper but did not speak to him.

“Won’t speak unless you speak first,” the constable told him when Owen commented about it. “We hold you men in high regard up here.”

Owen glanced at him. “Why is that?”

“We know you’re the first line of defense against things what aren’t human,” the man replied. “We’ve had a rogue or two come through here but luckily they didn’t stay. It’s good to know you’re down here taking care of that situation.”

Owen wondered what the constable would say if he knew about the Ceannus and the plague of ghorets—those deadly venomous vipers whose bite had no antidote for human beings—that the aliens had set loose on Terra.

“They don’t think much of us in New Towne,” Owen remarked.

“You run afoul of one of their idiotic laws?” Constable Ford asked.

“I took one of their women for my own,” Owen said, and when the constable turned a wide-eyed look to him, he shrugged. “And I legally married her.”

“Holy fucking shit,” the constable breathed. “You don’t say?” His forehead wrinkled. “And she’s all right? They didn’t do nothing to her?”

Owen stopped walking, putting a hand out to stop the constable too. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you know, Lord Owen, Communalist women don’t ever leave the Colonies,” Constable Ford said, searching the Reaper’s eyes. “Leastwise not unless they were given charbaa veih’n agglish and thrown out and I’ve only known one who survived that.”

“My lady is safe in Saint Marie,” Owen said. “They lashed her before I knew what they’d done but if they touch her again, I’ll burn their settlement down around their ears with them in it.”

A worried look passed over Constable Ford’s lean face. “They just lashed her? Nothing else?”

“I didn’t give them time to do anything else,” Owen said.

“Lord Owen…” the constable began, but Owen cut him off.

“We need to get a sample of the grave soil.” He didn’t want to start worrying any more about Rachel than he already was. He had to believe she was safe in Saint Marie. To do otherwise would have him galloping back across the border.

“Aye, milord,” the constable said, looking away from the hard look on the Reaper’s face.

They didn’t have far to ride but the air was turning colder still. Constable Ford remarked that with the warm November days suddenly becoming frigid overnight was what caused people to catch the sniffles.

Owen smiled grimly. It had been a long time since he’d had such a mundane thing as the sniffles. Reaper didn’t get sick for their revenant worms, their parasites, kept them in good health, eradicating any germ that might cause them trouble. Sometimes he actually missed the frailties that made others human.

New Junction’s cemetery still had a few granite slabs left from before the Burning War. Some were aged with lichen but many were glossy marble, well cared for by the townspeople. It was larger than Owen expected with orderly rows of white crosses but the sight of the graves where no grass refused to grow and where the soil held a strange greenish tint drew his eye.

“Can’t get grass or flowers to grow on those graves,” Constable Ford said. “No matter how hard we try.”

“It’s the infection,” Owen said. “Once the dead are cleansed, I imagine the grass will grow over the mounds.”

They stopped before the closest barren mound and Owen dismounted, pulled out his handkerchief, and bent over to scoop up a handful of the bare dirt. He wrinkled his nose for the soil had a strange, tart smell that didn’t set well on his stomach. Just holding the dirt inside the protection of the cloth gave him an odd, unsettled feeling. Tying the material as best he could, he hated sticking it back in his pocket. He went back to his horse.

“I’ll meet you back in town, Constable,” Owen said. “I need to get this where the Shadowlords can retrieve it.”

Constable Ford glanced around as though he expected one of the infamous trio to appear out of nowhere. “Ah, aye. I’ll meet you there,” he said, and couldn’t seem to leave fast enough.

Owen snorted with amusement. He urged his horse past the cemetery and into a valley beyond where he felt there would be privacy for the drone to pick up the soil. Spying a good-sized boulder, he walked Céierseach over to it and leaned down to drop the handkerchief he still held in his gloved hand.

“Lord Kheelan?” he sent.

“We see you. Head back to town.”

The Shadowlord’s snotty tone was starting to irritate Owen but there was nothing he could say that would help. The only thing he could do was present himself before the High Council and submit to the punishment they had planned for him once all this was done. He knew since Morrigunia Herself had put Rachel in his path, the Shadowlords would not attempt to take her from him but he would be required to pay a very stiff price to keep her.

As he rode back toward town, he realized he would do whatever it took to keep Rachel with him. The Triune Goddess’ words, “What is gained without effort is lost without thought—but what is gained through difficulty is kept with care”, suddenly had meaning for him.

“Keep her safe for me,” he sent to the goddess, and was a bit unnerved when She did not respond as She normally would have. He tried again. “Mo Regina?” Yet still She did not answer.

By the time he stabled Céierseach and made his way to the hotel, he was starting to get very concerned for his lady.

From deep within the swirling heavens, Morrigunia in her incandescent dragon form sailed the skies, circling the drone several times as it maneuvered into place above the boulder upon which laid the graveyard dirt sample. She watched with curious eyes as the drone began to hum then the handkerchief and its contents were plucked from the earth to disappear inside the gray hull of the craft. A few times more She sailed around the flying disc then beat Her copper wings and banked sharply away. As She soared, She kept a dragon eye on the red streaks of fire spitting down from the drone and knew the infected ones were being eliminated in their graves.

Dividing Her mind between keeping watch over the actions of the Shadowlords and attempting to keep Owen Tohre from knowing what was happening only a few miles from where he stood was taxing Her great strength but it had to be done. She was shielding his mind as She had failed to do when he had felt the woman’s punishment earlier that day. Were he to feel Rachel’s pain now, were he to know what was happening to her at that very moment might well cripple his mind and that could not be allowed.

Casting a warm blanket of mental insulation over Owen as he joined his fellow Reapers for an early afternoon meal, Morrigunia bided Her time. Only She knew the outcome of this day’s brutal events and that outcome would bring Owen to Her on his knees.

Sometimes being a goddess was very hard work.

* * * * *

The pain was more than Rachel could bear and as her last scream reverberated through the cold stone room in which she lay, her last thoughts were of the man who had failed to come to her rescue. The man she believed had forsaken her.

“Why, Owen?” she whispered as darkness closed around her. “Why?”

Chapter Eleven

The food wasn’t setting well on Owen’s stomach and as he sat listening to Glyn and Iden swapping insults, he kept glancing across the dining room where the other patrons were sitting quietly, enjoying their meal. Now and again someone would look over at him and smile and he would automatically respond with a tight smile of his own. He was not used to people showing him friendliness.

“Terra to Owen.”

He looked around and frowned at Glyn. “Were you saying something of import or just thinking of ways to annoy me, Kullen?”

Glyn sat back in his chair and contemplated his friend. “What’s with you this afternoon, Tohre?” he challenged. “You look like someone drowned your kitten.”

Considering Owen had a strong love for felines—kittens in particular—that remark didn’t set well with him. “Leave off, will ya? I’m in no mood for your flippancy.”

“Whoa!” Glyn stated with a smirk. “The child has learned a new word.” He arched a dark brow. “Define flippancy, Owen.”

“Define this, Glyn,” Owen snapped, extending his middle finger to his friend. He pushed back his chair and left the table.

“Bad Reaper,” Glyn called out and Iden chuckled. “Bad, bad Reaper.”

A few people in the dining room who had overheard the conversation laughed too and though it should have made Owen angry, it made him smile. As he walked past a little boy who giggled at him, he winked and tousled the child’s hair, surprising himself and his fellow Reapers.

“Did you see that?” Iden asked, wide eyed.

“Indeed I did,” Glyn said. “I think he’s moving past what happened in Calizonia.”

“By Alel, I hope so,” Iden said. “I know Arawn’s been worried about him.”

“We all have,” Glyn agreed.

Standing out on the wooden sidewalk and watching the townsfolk go about their business—nodding back to those who politely acknowledged him—Owen leaned against the overhang support and let the cool wind waft across his face. He could not understand why he was so nervous, so uneasy. His supper was sitting in his gut like a rock.

A flash of red at the end of the street caught his attention and he looked that way, fairly sure it was the drone taking care of the graves in the town’s cemetery. Closing his eyes, he sent a question to the High Lord.

“Thirty-nine,” Lord Kheelan answered. “The last of them are being seen to now.”

“That’s more than I would have thought…”

“Make sure there are no more after tonight.”

The reprimand was short and not-so-sweet, and once again Owen felt the censure aimed his way. Opening his eyes, he let the link between the Shadowlord and him dissolve. Another flash of red lit up the sky and still another then the fireworks stopped.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Owen went back into the hotel. For some reason he was tired and thought a nap would do him good. He asked the desk clerk to tell his men where he’d be then slowly climbed the stairs, his unsettled feeling growing with every step.

Once in the room he would be sharing with Glyn and Iden, he unbuckled his gun belt, tossed his hat onto the desk and sat down on the rollaway bed to take off his boots. Since he had seniority, he got to sleep alone while his teammates would share the bed. Stretching out on his back, he cupped his hands under his head and stared up at the ceiling, trying to fathom what had him so ill at ease. For a long moment he thought about Rachel but reasoned she was safe in Saint Marie under the healer’s care and he was fairly sure the town’s people would look after her for him. After all, she was a Reaper’s wife and it would behoove them to make sure nothing happened to her. Yet still the anxiety persisted.

He fell asleep with that niggling worry prodding at his mind.

* * * * *

Glyn and Iden let him sleep until the sun was well set. When Iden gently shook him, Owen opened his eyes groggily.

“It’s time to reconnoiter,” Iden said.

“All right,” Owen said. He sat up and stretched, yawning hugely. Glyn and Iden had removed their weapons and boots and were taking off their shirts.

“How are we going to do this?” Glyn asked.

“I doubt we have to worry about south of us so I’ll take the north,” Owen said. “You take west and Iden, east. Start with concentric circles, spiraling outward from New Junction inward. If you see something, holler.”

“Makes sense,” Glyn approved.

Within five minutes, Glyn had opened the window and the three of them took to the sky in their avian forms.

* * * * *

The two men moved quietly into the barn and with as much stealth as possible saddled their horses. The men didn’t speak—there was no need. They worked quickly and efficiently, avoiding casting nervous looks at one another as they did. Leading the beasts out into the night, they walked the roan and the bay slowly well away from the nearest buildings then took to their saddles. They had a lot of ground to cover that night and as one kicked his horse toward the west, the other headed east, neither saw the black hawk and the seagull soaring away from one another through the night sky.