BlackMoon Reaper (17 page)

could find. His talons gripped the limb.

He knew that smell all too well and it sent a shudder of revulsion and terror down

his spine.

“Damn it to the Abyss, Kiel!”
he hissed, his avian eyes searching the clearing for

anything that moved.
“Damn it!”

He saw a man he supposed had to be the hell hound walking beside one of the

buildings. He zeroed his gaze onto the area around his fellow Reaper. He cursed

vehemently, greatly disturbed by what was causing the sheer terror that was invading

his system at that moment. He took a deep breath and flew to another branch lower

down, once more searching the ground and environs. Another breath, another branch

and the Reaper became aware of his presence. The tall man glanced up and frowned.

“Cree?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cautious, Cynyr launched from the branch and sailed across the clearing, landing

on the roof support of the building directly over the hell hound’s head.

“We’re alone,” the man told him. “Except for Brell in the captain’s shack.” He

glanced that way. “Brell? Show yourself. Cree is here.”

Another man came out of the shack and cradled in his arm was a laser rifle. Cynyr

made a hissing sound. He had reason to hate laser rifles for he had met his death at the

business end of one.

“What’s your problem, Reaper?” the man beneath him demanded.

Cree swept his keen gaze over the ground again then pushed away from the

building, shifting into human form as his feet touched the rocky terrain.

“Don’t you fucking smell that?” he asked, amber eyes blazing.

“Hell yes we smell it,” the man in front of him snapped, “but there isn’t much we

can do about it!”

“Don’t you fucking know what it is?” Cynyr yelled, aware the other man was

walking toward them, the laser rifle pointed at the ground.

“No, we
fucking
don’t know what it is,” came the answer. “What the fuck is it?”

“Ghoret!” Cynyr bellowed. “It’s ghoret stink!”

The man walking toward them came up short and Cynyr saw his head whipping

from side to side, watched him spin around to pin the ground with intense scrutiny.

The laser rifle came up in a flash.

Ordinarily seeing a grown man grab a handful of cable and pull himself up a wall

would have been comical, but Cynyr wasn’t in the mood to laugh when the man beside

him did just that.

“Ghoret? Where?”

“In there!” Cynyr said, pointing to the mine entrance.

“Phelan is in there,” the man said, eyes widening.

“I fucking figured as much!” Cynyr snarled. His hand was on the handle of his laser

whip, fingering the dragon hand.

The other man came loping over to them. “What do we need to do?” he asked,

wobbling as he came to a standstill.

“We need to fry them to a crisp!” Cynyr said then yelled Lord Naois’ name at the

top of his lungs.

“No need to shout. The drone is on its way!”
came the immediate response.

“I’ve never encountered a ghoret,” the hell hound said.

“Me neither,” the other man stated. “Is it as lethal as they say?”

“To mortals, aye. To Reapers, it’s hell on earth. Was that smell around when Phelan

went down into the mine?” Cynyr demanded. “Kiel must have stirred up a nest.”

“I’m going in with you,” Fontabeau said, unaware his voice had broken on the

words.

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BlackMoon Reaper

“All right,” Cynyr said, slapping Fontabeau on the back for encouragement since he

had been told of the man’s fear. “Let’s go get that damned Phe. If he’s been bitten and

those bites are as bad as the ones that laid me low, he’s going to need a revenant queen

to replace the one that will no doubt be either dead or dying by now.”

Fontabeau flinched. “He can have mine!”

“Lord Naois…” Cynyr began.

“We’re sending Lords Arawn and Eanan,”
the Shadowlord told him.
“It will take awhile

for them to reach you but they are on their way. Do the best you can.”

Cynyr turned to the Ridge Lord. “Brell, go into the cabin and seal off every possible

entry into it except the door, but have something handy to seal that when you see us

bringing him out. Take some boards and shutter the window where nothing can get

through the glass and into the room. Understood?”

“Aye,” Brell agreed.

“The tunnel looks dark. Do you think the lanterns have gone out?” Fontabeau

asked. He was trembling, his lips quivering but there was determination in his eyes.

“I’ll relight them if they have,” Cree said.

Brell put out a hand. “They could be out of oil.”

“Then I’ll create the gods-be-damned oil,” Cree snapped. “I can wield magic when I

need to.”

Brell nodded. “Aye, I know you can.”

“Prepare a place where we can lay Phelan down. Have a sharp knife handy, booze

if you can find it and buckets of water. You’ve got tenerse? Have it handy and we need

thick leather gloves and rags to wash him down.” Cree swept his head around. “Your

mounts need to be secured where the ghorets can’t get to them.”

“I’ll take them into the equipment shed,” Brell said. “It’ll be a tight squeeze but I’ll

get their asses in there.”

“Be sure to seal the door from the outside,” Cree warned then started toward the

mine entrance.

“
Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat
,” Brell said.

“We’ll need more than the Wind at our back but thanks!” Cree mumbled.

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Though Phelan had fought the cybot that picked him up as though he were no more

than a feather, he was no match for the brute strength of the creation. It flung him onto

one of the long metal tables and held him there effortlessly with a splayed hand pressed

painfully to Phelan’s sternum.

“It is futile to fight the
Coadagh
,” one of the Ceannus said. “It is invincible.”

Phelan was beginning to see the truth in that statement. The being towering over

him, staring down as though he were an insect pinned to a collector’s board, was

immense with shoulders that were at least a good three feet wide. Its massive hand was

spread out over the majority of the Reaper’s chest with the digits pressing into Kiel’s

flesh. No amount of force he exerted on the immovable arm either lessened the pressure

or moved it. Using his legs to kick at the thing didn’t so much as budge it. It stood rock

solid at the side of the table with twin slits of ebon cold glaring back at the Reaper.

“I have seen the
Coadagh
tear a grown male human in half with no effort at all,” the

same Ceannus commented.

“And it seemed to take delight in doing so,” the other Ceannus put in. “Although it

is said there was no such emotion as enjoyment programmed into it.”

“Only exacting hatred of all things human and the express will to prevail at all

costs.”

“Actually though, Master Symykin, the Reaper is no longer human.”

The two Ceannus looked at one another.

“True, Master Umbra, but Lord Kiel looks like a human and therefore he is the

enemy of the
Coadagh
who was programmed to detest all things human.”

“Get. This. Thing. Off. Me,” Phelan panted, barely able to breathe for the ’bot was

pressing the air from his tortured lungs.

“In good time, Lord Kiel,” Master Symykin replied. “All in good time, but first we

must see to the interfering of your teammate Lord Cree and the hell hound.”

Phelan blinked. He had no idea Cynyr was there. He couldn’t sense his fellow

Reaper, but with the mention of Cree’s name, the source of the smell that had eluded

him came at Kiel like a runaway locomotive and his eyes widened.

Master Symykin walked to the bank of machines and touched one of them. The

glass covering the surface of the object flared into life, causing Phelan to turn his face

toward what he realized was a viewing window of some sort. He wanted to groan

when he saw Cynyr and Beau creeping through the tunnel. Now and again they

stopped at a lantern, Cynyr waved his hand and it flared to life. Fontabeau looked pale

but resolute as he followed in Cynyr’s wake.

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BlackMoon Reaper

“Such blind loyalty,” Master Symykin said on a long sigh. “You humanoids are so

predictable. They know they are walking toward their worst nightmare, but in order to

save you, they will swallow their fears, tamp it down and come anyway.” The Ceannus

made a tsking sound. “So foolish. So utterly foolish. They’ll never reach you in time and

will pay the ultimate price for trying.”

Phelan’s blood ran cold to think of his friends walking to their doom. Cynyr had

known the bites of several ghorets and had nearly succumbed to them. The

convalescence had been brutal. It was the stink of the poison-saturated sweat rolling off

Cree’s body in a jail cell as he fought for his life that Phelan remembered. The pain

Cynyr had endured had been agonizing.

His gaze settled on Fontabeau and he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning.

Watching Beau overcoming his claustrophobia made him so proud of the man, but he

wished with all his heart his friend had stayed put and out of harm’s way.

“Leave them out of this,” Phelan said. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me but

leave them alone.”

Master Symykin turned from the viewing window and glided to the table. He tilted

his bulbous head to one side in contemplation. “You have feelings for these men.”

“I have feelings for all living things,” Phelan answered.

The oversized head tilted the other way. “Yes, but you have deep feelings for those

like yourself.” Phelan could feel the man probing his mind.

Phelan saw no benefit into admitting anything to the alien scientist. He was sure his

own life was forfeit and most likely Cree’s and Beau’s as well. He would not give the

Ceannus the satisfaction of hearing him plead again.

“Very noble of you, Lord Kiel, but—again—the sentiment is misplaced,” Master

Symykin told him. He turned his insect eyes to the ’bot. “Strip him.”

Irrational fear washed over Phelan and he screamed in denial. Memory of what the

female Ceannus had done to Owen Tohre went through him like a hot knife through

butter and he fought like a demon trying to break free of the
Coadagh
’s hold but the ’bot

kept that iron-like hand on Phelan’s chest while it used the other to rip the clothing

from the Reaper’s body, plucking at his boots, his weapons, as though they were lint on

a coat. When he was naked, he quieted, unaware tears had formed in his stricken eyes

as the Ceannus invaded his mind once again.

“He believes we are about to carve his manhood from him!” Master Symykin

observed.

“No, Lord Kiel, no!” Master Umbra said, hurrying forward with a laugh. “We have

no intention of emasculating you! Calm yourself. Such is not our intention.”

“Besides your organ would only regenerate,” Master Symykin stated. “Of what use

would it be for us to pull it from its root?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

A hard shudder went through Phelan at that mental image. He couldn’t lower his

hands over his exposed genitals to cover them for the
Coadagh
’s rigid arm was blocking

the way. Master Umbra seemed to be staring at the organs.

“How would one go about gaining pleasure from placing a tube inside another

tube?” he heard the Ceannus inquire.

“Keep your thoughts on our assignment, Umbra, and not on what you would like

to do to the Reaper,” Master Symykin ordered.

“But I would like to mate with him. He is not unacceptable to me.”

The thought of the Ceannus touching his cock chilled Phelan to his core. “Keep the

hell away from me!” he snarled, fangs showing.

Master Umbra smiled—if the stretching of the thin slit of an opening beneath his

vented nostrils could be considered a smile.

“
Coadagh
, turn him to his belly,” Master Umbra directed the ’bot.

The Ceannus laughed as the ’bot took hold of Phelan and flipped him over like a

flapjack, pinning him to the cold metal table with a giant hand to the small of his back

as Kiel struggled in vain to get loose. He bellowed. He shrieked. He cursed.

“See to his arms,” Master Umbra said. “I will restrain his legs.”

“No!” the wild, insane yelp echoed through the lab, but Phelan might as well have

saved the wear and tear on his vocal cords for the
Coadagh
held his flailing right hand to

the table as Master Symykin locked his left into a thick band that rose up at the left side

of the table. As his right wrist was similarly imprisoned, first his left then right ankle

was secured with bands that restrained him. Lying spread-eagle upon the cold slab of

metal with his cheek pressed against its hardness, Phelan Kiel knew a moment of

complete and utter helplessness.

“They are coming,” Master Symykin said, nodding toward the viewing window.

“Perhaps they will get another hundred yards or so before they meet their fate.”

Phelan was trembling, fearful the Ceannus would climb onto the table and place its

sickening body over his. The mere thought of that warty gray skin covering him,

thrusting into him was enough to make him gag.

“He believes you are going to mate with him, Umbra,” Master Symykin said with a