BlackMoon Reaper (3 page)

nod.

“Did a man just come in here?” he asked.

The barkeep was polishing a glass. “No, milord. Ain’t been no one in for nigh on

two hours.”

“You seen a tall man with a brown hat with star conchos, dark blue shirt, fancy

double rig worn low?”

The bartender squinted. “Aye, milord. That sounds like a fellow named

Fontabeau,” he replied. “Didn’t get no first name. Hails from over Exasla way.”

“What’s his story?”

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BlackMoon Reaper

A shrug lifted the barkeep’s shoulder. “Don’t know much about him ’cept he’s been

here going on a day or two. Keeps to himself when he comes in. Has a few whiskeys,

plays a hand now and then. He’s got a room at the Delaware House.”

“I went by Constable Redfield’s office but it’s locked. You know where he might

be?”

“Today’s Wednesday and every Wednesday he leaves Dexter, his oldest boy, in

charge, and the constable goes fishing up near the dam. Dex was most likely checking

on his new bride. He married Gerry Granger’s girl Sarah.” He winked. “Can’t keep

away from her, I guess.”

“They got a house in town?”

“Down at the end of the street. The one with the red flowerboxes.”

Phelan tipped his hat to the barkeep and sauntered out. He was sure the constable

would have questioned any newcomer to town, and if there was anything the Reaper

needed to know about Fontabeau, perhaps the newly married deputy could tell him.

Keeping an eye out for the mysterious stranger as he made his way to the end of the

street, Phelan had the unwavering notion he was being watched and though he wasn’t

a betting man, he would have laid money it was the stranger’s eyes tracking his every

move.

The young man who came to the door was barefoot, breathing hard, face flushed,

hair tousled, shirt and belt undone, and as soon as he saw who his visitor was, nearly

fainted as he stumbled back into the parlor with his hands out.

“Sweet Merciful Alel!” he shouted. “A Reaper!”

“A what?” a feminine voice inquired.

Phelan took the door left open in the young man’s wake as an invitation to enter

and did so, removing his hat as soon as he saw the young female standing to one side

belting a silk wrapper around a very curvaceous body.

“Deputy Redfield?” Phelan inquired with an arch of a thick dark brow.

“Aye, milord!” the young man yelled, snapping to attention and saluting.

“At ease, son,” Phelan said, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. He swept his

gaze to the young woman. “My apologies for intruding, milady, but I have official

business with your husband. Would you please excuse us?”

Sarah Granger Redfield managed to bob her head in acknowledgement of the

Reaper’s request then turned and fled back into their bedroom.

The boy—surely no older than nineteen or twenty—was trembling and Phelan

decided to wade right in rather than prolong the lad’s fright.

“The newcomer named Fontabeau. What do you know of him?”

Dexter Redfield swallowed hard, still standing at attention. “He’s from Exasla

Territory, Lord Phelan,” he said. “Here with the mining company.”

“Hired gun?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Security for Mr. Desdon Brell, the mine owner, milord. Mr. Brell will be in town

another day on business with the bank then they’ll be going back up to Haxton Cove,”

the lad reported.

“You had any trouble with Fontabeau?”

The young man shook his head. “No, milord. Stays to himself.”

“So I’ve been told,” Phelan mumbled. He rocked his hat on his head. “Relay again

my regrets for the interruption to your lady-wife, Deputy.”

“Aye, milord!” Dexter snapped, saluting again.

“I won’t be in town long,” he felt the need to say. “I’ll be going up to Haxton Cove

should I be needed.”

“Aye, milord!” the young man said, and relief flooded his worried gaze.

Phelan sighed as he exited the young man’s parlor. Sometimes his status as a

Reaper made him feel again the shunning he had experienced on his homeworld. There

were times it cut him to the quick and today was one of those.

Heading back to the general store, he once again felt eyes on him and looked across

the street and up this time to the windows above the entrance to the Delaware House.

Standing framed in the window with the curtain pulled to one side was Fontabeau, the

lower part of his face hidden in shadow.

Their eyes met and Phelan felt something shift within him. It was a feeling not

unlike a twisting, slithering serpent undulating through his gut. The hairs stood up on

his arms, bringing him to a complete stop on the sidewalk.

Then Fontabeau smiled.

It was a savage, knowing grin, a nasty smirk that lasted only a flicker of a moment

then vanished, the curtain closing to shut out the image of the gunman.

Phelan stared up at the window—knowing full well he was being watched from

behind the lacy pattern of fabric. Being watched irritated the Reaper. His hands

clenched into fists, his eyes narrowed and a muscle jumped in his tattooed cheek.

“Fuck it,” he snarled, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, his heavy

footfalls taking him straight to the entrance of the boarding house. Those he passed

stepped promptly aside for the look on the Reaper’s face bode ill for whomever had

caused it.

The desk clerk smiled nervously when he opened the door and strode in.

“Fontabeau,” was all he said.

“Room nine,” the desk clerk whispered, the pen trembling in her hand. She

watched the Reaper take the stairs to the upper rooms two at a time.

He had his fist up, preparing to knock—no, to pound—upon the door when it

suddenly opened.

Standing framed in the doorway was his target. Black hair, amber eyes, features

looking as though they had been sculpted by the hands of the gods, broad shoulders,

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BlackMoon Reaper

slender waist, he was of the same height and muscular build as Phelan but looked a

year or so older. There was no doubt whatsoever in Phelan’s mind the man was a

balgair
. He had sensed it and now that confirmation had been made the moment he

caught a whiff of Fontabeau.

“It’s not what you think,” Fontabeau said. “I’m not a rogue.”

Phelan’s hand went to the laser whip at his waist. “The hell you’re not. I know what

a blooded Reaper smells like.”

“Come in and shut the door, Kiel. No one else needs to hear this,” Fontabeau

insisted, moving back, keeping his hands away from his hips though his gun belt was

looped over the footboard of the bed.

Phelan kicked the door shut. “You’re not a gods-be-damned Reaper so you have to

be a fucking
balgair
! You have no clan tat!”

“Aye, but I do.” Fontabeau tore open his shirt and there on his left pectoral was a

dark blue tattoo, but Phelan only glanced at it. “
Mo Regina
made me, Kiel, just as She

made you,” Fontabeau said.

“Who the hell are you?” Phelan bellowed.

“They call me Fontabeau,” he replied. “The clan name is Sorn. Unless you have

forgotten Reaper history, my clan is one of the
Dháréag
, the Twelve Clans.”

Phelan stared at the man. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

The gunman blinked. “You don’t?”

“Didn’t I just say I didn’t?” Phelan shouted.

Fontabeau put his hands up. “All right, just calm down. I would have thought

She’d have told you.” He lowered his hands. “You’ve never heard the term before?”

“No!”

“Shit,” Fontabeau said on a long breath. “It makes no sense She wouldn’t have told

you but here it is. The first Reaper male was Cainer Cree. The Crees are the Founding

Clan, the
Bun-Ayraghyn
. The goddess did not make him but She was responsible for

those who followed. After the Crees—and in order of the Transferring—came the

Gehdrin, Coure, Kullen, Belial, Kiel, Tohre, Ben-Alkazar, Belvoir, Tarnes, Jaborn and

then the Sorn clans.”

“Wait a fucking minute!” Phelan grated. “Ben-Alkazar, Belvoir, Tarnes? They are

our Shadowlords, not Reapers!”

“They are part of the
Dháréag,
and if you look, you’ll find they have the tats to

prove it. Shadowlords are members of the clan who have not undergone Transference,

who were not marked for the honor.”

Phelan thought back to the only time he’d ever seen a member of the High Council

without his robe. It had been a fleeting glimpse of Lord Tarnes as that man came from

the steam chamber as Phelan was entering. On the Shadowlord’s left pectoral had been

a dark blue knotwork fish.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“The salmon, signifying knowledge,” Fontabeau said, plucking the memory from

Phelan’s mind. “The
Signiat
of the Belvoir clan is the bull, meaning strength, and the

men of the Ben-Alkazar clan bear the symbol of the lion, signifying nobility. They are

the ruling members of the Shadowlords.”

“Jaborn?” Phelan asked, thinking of his fellow Reaper squad member Kasid Jaborn.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right name?”

“Aye, I’m sure. That’s one of the twelve. Why?”

“Because the Jaborn I know was once a
balgair
but is now full-honored Reaper.”

“He has the tat of a snake?”

“No, it’s a ghoret and he hates it.”

“I would too, but the Jaborn clan tat is that of a snake, a cobra in actuality. It

signifies rebirth and is an honored
Signiat
.”

“Try telling that to Kasid,” Phelan mumbled.

“There is a thirteenth
Signiat
—the boar—which signifies ferocity. She is reserving

that one for a clan She has yet to reveal to us. That clan will not be part of the
Dháréag

but rather an extension of it with powers of both Reaper and Shadowlord.”

“That is a frightening thought,” Phelan muttered. He shot Fontabeau a heated look.

“That still doesn’t explain why you have no Reaper smell.”

“She brought me here from my homeworld of
Moddoilid
. I smell different to you

because I am a
mac imshee
.”

“A hell hound!” Phelan snarled, his lips quirking with distaste. His eyes raked over

Fontabeau, leaving no doubt how he felt.

Fontabeau’s chin went up. “Nice to look down your nose at someone for a change

instead of having them look down theirs at you, huh,
daa-chientyssagh
?”

It was the wrong thing to have said, that insult to his sexual duality, and Phelan

drew back a fist and slammed it as hard as he could into Fontabeau’s face.

But the hell hound Reaper didn’t go down. Instead he laughed, and when Phelan

drew his fist back again and shot it forward, Fontabeau caught it and jerked Phelan’s

arm down and behind him, jerking the Reaper hard against his chest.

“You want a piece of me, brother?” Fontabeau whispered. “Then you can have it.”

Before Phelan could react, the chiseled lips of the hell hound came slanting down

over his. A warm, authoritative tongue slipped inside Phelan’s mouth and claimed it

with such precision and sexual intent it took the Reaper’s breath away and he jerked

free of Fontabeau’s hold, staggering back to put distance between them.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Phelan shouted with eyes wide,

running the back of his hand over his lips. He’d never been kissed by a male and found

it unnerving.

“Taking what I wanted,” Fontabeau replied with a careless shrug. He folded his

arms over his chest.

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BlackMoon Reaper

Chest heaving with fury, Phelan’s lips peeled back from fangs he had let erupt. The

snarl that came from deep within his chest would have terrified a human, but it only

seemed to amuse the hell hound Reaper.

“Is that the best you can do, Kiel?” Fontabeau asked, head tilted to the side. “I can

growl better than that on an off-day.”

“Fuck. You,” Phelan said.

“I’ll let you, pretty boy, if you promise I can do you next time.”

Rage shifted over Phelan’s face, his hand went to his whip.

“Be careful what you do, my Reaper. He is one of Mine.”

The soft feminine voice pulsed through Phelan’s head, but for just a moment his

palm hovered over the dragon-head grip of the
Speal
, the fiery whip only his hand

could activate.

“You’d best listen to Her, Kiel,” Fontabeau suggested. “She likes hounds better than

wolves.”

Phelan’s upper lip arched with revulsion then he spun around, strode to the door

and jerked it open. “Stay the hell out of my way, Sorn!” he threw over his shoulder as

he slammed the portal shut behind him.

Skipping down the boarding house stairs as rapidly as he had ascended them,

Phelan stomped out and across the street, shoving the door of the general store open

with a curse.

“Lord Phelan!” the storekeeper said, jumping. The man put a hand to his chest.

“You took ten years off my life.”

“Are the provisions ready?” Phelan growled.

“Aye, milord. I took the liberty of strapping them to your horse. I hope that’s all

right.”

“Aye,” Phelan snapped, and reached into his pocket to pull out two twenty gold

pieces. He slapped them on the counter. “Keep the change.”

Before the storekeeper could reply, the Reaper pivoted on his heel and marched

from the store. Within a matter of seconds he was mounted and urging
Ulchabhán
into a