BlackMoon Reaper (2 page)

need to keep track of one another, stay in touch mentally, and this Transitioning out of

cycle is a pain in the ass.”

“So, there are two potential tribulations facing us,” Iden said. He doubled his right

fist then held up his thumb. “Cybots in sleeper cells awaiting activation at the Ceannus’

command and,” he held up his index finger, “some kind of demon lurking off the coast

who might slither onto land at any given moment to wreck havoc with our people.”

“That about covers it,” Phelan said, “unless there’s something else hiding out there

we’ve yet to discover. Hell, there could be more
balgairs
or ghorets slithering about for

all we know.”

“Ghorets? Fucking shut your mouth! Don’t even think such a thing, Kiel!” Iden

said, and shuddered.

Iden’s words amused Phelan since it was unusual for the young man to curse, and

to hear him do it tickled Phelan—whose command of vulgar language was legendary

among the Reaper squad.

“Just be careful when you camp tonight,” Phelan told the young Reaper. “Zip your

sleeping bag over your head.”

“Fuck you and the nag you humped in on,” Iden said, and stomped to the porch

door, yanked it open, slamming the portal behind him.

Laughing to himself since he was also legendary for his bizarre sense of humor,

Phelan lowered his legs and stood, took one last look at the falling darkness and went

inside to find his partner perched on a chair arm.

“Poor Belial,” he said as Iden drew on his boots. “Can’t take a joke.”

“Ghorets are nothing to joke about, Kiel,” Iden snarled. “I’m sure Cynyr would

agree.”

“Sorry,” Phelan mumbled, although he was hard-pressed not to laugh again. All

Reapers feared one thing—ghorets—and the bite of one of the vipers would kill a

human outright and make a Reaper wish he were dead.

“Sure you are,” Iden snapped, and rose from the chair. “You’re a wicked bastard,

you know that?”

“Never said otherwise,” Phelan said, and held out his hand.

Iden slapped his palm to Phelan’s wrist as Phelan gripped his. “Be safe, Kiel.
Nár

lagaí Alel do lámh
!” he said, asking that Alel not weaken Phelan’s hand.

8

BlackMoon Reaper

“Yours either.
Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat
,” Phelan answered with the

blessing of “May the Wind be always at your back”. He followed his partner out to the

front porch.

Long after Iden had ridden away, Phelan stood staring out into the darkness with

his hands dug into the pockets of his leather pants. Like Iden, he was antsy, jumpy,

uneasy but unable to understand why. He flexed his shoulders—feeling as though

something were sitting on them, pressing him down—and that was a sensation he

hated above all others.

“You will be taken to
Cur Meeonnor Er
and there your sentence will be carried out at the

setting of the sun. There you will be sealed away, your remains outside the sanctity of the

Ruillick.”

The magistrate had pronounced his death sentence with great glee and with a

brutal smile upon his aged face. Those gathered in the assembly hall had nodded

approvingly. Even Phelan’s parents had agreed with the punishment though neither

ever spoke to him again after his arrest. They had turned their backs on him, shunned

him—as had his brothers and sisters—and then declared him dead to their clan, his

name stricken from the genealogical roles.

“Just ridding the world of the blight,” Phelan said aloud.

It still hurt after all these years. He knew what it was to be an outcast, a pariah. He

was alone except for the men of the Reaper cadre. They were his only friends, his only

companions, and while in moments of utter depression he sought out a human to

satisfy his need to be touched, to be comforted, to be eased, he was always careful not to

form any kind of sexual or emotional attachment to the one who relieved him. Mates

were for the other Reapers and never for him. One visit to willing arms, to an

accommodating mouth and that was all.

“And I have Truian to thank for that,” he said. Never again would he put his faith,

his life into the hands of another. Truian had taught him a very painful lesson and had

walked away without a backward look.

“Declare your accomplice in this vile business and you will be spared the pain,”
his lawyer

had begged him though Phelan knew the man could not have cared any less whether

Phelan suffered or not.
“I will see you are given Maiden’s Briar before they place the first

rock.”

There were times—like that very moment—when Phelan sometimes wished he had

named Truian, but what good would that have done? Truian would have been brought

before the assembly, condemned and hanged for a crime Phelan had instigated. He had

protected the one he loved to the very end though the one he had loved had testified

against him at the trial.

“I saw him with someone but I can not tell you who that person was. They were

naked in the orchard but their backs were to me and I ran, not wanting to witness the

despicable act.”

Truian’s words had sealed Phelan’s fate that afternoon.

9

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

An owl screeched in the woods and Phelan jumped, unnerved by the sound for the

owl was the
Signiat
, the symbol of his clan. Withdrawing his left hand from his pants

pocket, he reached up to rub the dark blue tat of a knotwork owl that had been burned

into his flesh across the left side of his forehead and partway along the temple. The tat

symbolized patience, yet of all the Reapers, that was something Phelan was short on.

His amber eyes narrowed as he thought of Iden’s words—
“I’ll have a few hours of

travel under my belt by the time I’m ready to call it a day”—
and made a snap decision. As

nervous as he was, as on edge, he knew he’d not sleep this night. Sleep was one thing

none of his kind did well, and lying awake thinking of the past was not productive.

He turned and went back into the house and walked through to his bedroom,

pulling his saddlebags and bedroll down from the closet shelf. Half an hour later he

was sitting atop his black mount
Ulchabhán
and on his way to the western borders of

Vircars, riding into the night with all his personal demons trailing behind.

* * * * *

Three days later Phelan dismounted in front of a general store in the town of

Robbinsville, situated in what was called the southern Appalachians. Home to some of

the highest and most remote mountains, the region had breathtaking views of the Great

Smoky Mountains with thousands of acres of wilderness reclaimed by nature after the

Burning War. With waterfalls galore and vast tracks of rolling timberland and blue-

tinged mountains, the area was a stunning reminder of what the first visitors would

have viewed when this vast land had been settled.

The clerk behind the counter looked up as the bell tinkled over the door then did a

double-take as he realized his customer was one of the infamous Reapers. For just a

moment the man’s face blanched of color then he snapped into action, coming around

the corner, bowing to Phelan.

“Lord Phelan, what a surprise!” the man said.

“All is well with you, Gerard?” Phelan asked.

“Aye, milord,” the storekeeper acknowledged. “I am well indeed.”

“And your family?”

“My daughter Sarah is newly married and my son’s wife gave us our first

grandchild just last March.” The man lowered his head. “Alel has blessed us.”

“So it would seem,” Phelan agreed. “Congratulations on your daughter’s marriage

and the birth of your grandchild.” He looked about him. “Business seems to be thriving

as well.”

“It is!” Gerard replied. “I am truly blessed.” He lifted the apron he wore and

cleaned his hands—a nervous habit Phelan remembered the man possessed. “What

may I get for you, milord?”

“It depends. Anything I need to see to while I’m here?”

10

BlackMoon Reaper

Color spread over Gerard’s face. “Well, there is a mite of trouble up to Haxton

Cove,” he said. “I don’t know that it would be worth your time riding up there

though.”

Phelan leaned a hip against the counter. “What kind of trouble are we talking

about?”

The storekeeper’s blush deepened. “Ah, whores, milord. A whole pisspot full of

’em, if you’ll pardon my language.”

Phelan’s brows drew together. “Why would there be a brothel way up there?”

“Because they’ve reopened the mines, milord,” Gerard replied. “Came across a big

vein of rubies and sapphires up that way at a place they’ve taken to calling Gemrow.

The miners need to blow off a bit of steam now and then and that’s where Miss Lucy’s

girls come in.” He lowered his voice. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“I get the drift, aye,” Phelan said with a twitch of his lips.

“Anyways, Miss Lucy named her place The Ruby Load and brought in about

twelve right pretty gals who know their profession. She has a man who sees to the

security of the bawds and a gang of ruffians who keep the miners in line. They say her

bar is the best this side of the Big Muddy and the food ain’t half bad. She’s got roulette

wheels, cards, the usual gambling enterprises. Prices for rooms—which include the girls

of course—are steep but nothing exorbitant, I guess. It’s like the old saying—nothing

the economy won’t bear.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Phelan asked. “If she isn’t price-gouging her customers

and gives quality service, why should I go up there? Whore-running isn’t illegal.”

“It’s the man she hired to oversee her gambling den,” the storekeeper answered.

“They say he’s a cheater and he’s killed a couple of men who’ve called him on it.” He

lowered his voice even more. “They say Miss Lucy is scared to death of him and is

afraid to send him on his way. Rumor has it he might even be a rogue, milord.”

Phelan’s interest perked at that bit of information. If there was a renegade Reaper—

more accurately called a
balgair
—who had managed to evade the net Phelan and his

squad had thrown to collect them, the bastard needed to be neutralized.

“Haxton Cove, eh?” Phelan questioned.

“Aye, milord. Just follow the Tail of the Dragon. When you come to the Strattan,

take the trail right on up to the Cove. You can’t miss it.”

“Much obliged,” Phelan said. “I guess I’ll be needing a few things before I trek up

there.”

“Just name it, milord,” the storekeeper said, finally beginning to relax around the

deadly lawman.

Phelan’s eyes drifted hungrily to the large jars of candy on the counter. “How ’bout

a pound of lemon drops to begin with?”

“Still got that sweet tooth I see,” Gerard quipped with a smile.

11

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The Reaper cocked a black-clad shoulder. It was a harmless vice his kind shared,

and care had to be used when indulging the craving for sweets since sugar did strange

things to the Reaper libido.

Seductive things that sometimes were best left alone.

Still feeling on edge after leaving the general store a little while later, Phelan paused

on the sidewalk with the paper bag of candy in hand. He leaned against the porch

support and watched the townspeople walking past. The men tipped their hats to him,

the ladies bobbed their heads and the children stared openly at him until their mothers

leaned down to chastise them for their rudeness. He nodded his own greetings to those

who acknowledged him and studied those who were pretending they didn’t see him or

were too afraid to look his way. One man in particular caught his attention and he

stared hard at the tall, dark-haired stranger with the double cross-draw rig slung low

on his hips.

The cowboy was leaning against the saloon wall with one leg crooked, the sole of

his boot flat against the wall. His arms were crossed and his hat tipped low over his

forehead—shielding his face—but Phelan could feel the man’s eyes locked on him.

Tossing two lemon drops into his mouth, he folded the top of the bag down, went

over to his horse and stuffed the candy into his saddlebag. The storekeeper was

readying his provisions for him so he had half an hour or so to kill before heading out.

The enigma of the stranger across the dusty street intrigued Phelan and he started

toward the man, stopping as a buckboard rolled in front of him. When the buckboard

rattled past, Phelan scowled.

The stranger was no longer in sight nor did the Reaper see him walking along the

boardwalk. The batwing doors to the saloon were still but that seemed the only logical

place the man could have disappeared to so quickly. Settling his hat more comfortably

on his head, Phelan made a beeline for the watering hole, his spurs jangling on the

hard-packed street.

Pushing open the doors, Phelan let his eyesight adjust to the low light in the saloon.

Though it was high noon and the day was sunny and warm, the interior of the building

was cool but stank of smoke, tobacco juice and other even less savory smells Phelan

tried to block out. He entered the saloon, swept the room with a practiced glance both

ways but did not spy the stranger. Walking up to the bar, he gave the barkeep a single