Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (13 page)

“I could eat my weight in lace bread with baked ham and fresh sliced tomatoes hot from the garden and

corn dodgers swimming in turnip green liquor, all of it washed down by sweet tea and—”

“Enough!” he begged her, the mind thoughts making him queasy. He wrapped his hands around her

wrists and pulled her arms down, holding her hands together between them. “You’d be as big as a barn if

you ate like that.”

“There’d be more of me to love,” she said, grinning at him.

Cynyr sighed. It wasn’t just her beautiful face and shapely body he loved. It was her irreverent treatment

of him and the total lack of fear lurking in her pretty eyes. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Perhaps that first early evening when you dispatched my attacker, but by the time I

tracked you to your camp, all I wanted was your food. I could smell it a mile away.”

“So it’s my ability to provide your belly with grub that has earned me your love, eh, wench?” he teased.

“That,” she said, tugging one hand free to run it down the front of his britches, “and this.” She caressed

him through the leather.

Cynyr felt himself harden to steel beneath her touch, but he knew he couldn’t allow something to begin

he didn’t have time to finish. He stepped back from her, putting himself out of her reach. “Behave,” he

said.

A pout on her pretty lips, Aingeal started to protest but she began sneezing again, so he swept her up in

his arms and took her back to the bed.

“You stay put, woman,” he said, laying her down and tugging the covers over her.

“Come back to bed with me then,” she said.

He was tempted—by the gods he was tempted—but he stamped down the urge and sat besides her,

reaching out to lay his palm against her cheek. “I want you to listen to me, Aingeal,” he said in his

mesmerizing voice. “I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”

She became lost in his amber gaze. Little pinpoints of scarlet flames were dancing behind the golden

stare and she could not look away. He was speaking to her in a low voice she barely heard, but every

word he spoke wound through her brain and planted itself there. His hand was warm against her cheek,

soothing her flesh, stroking her as he spoke so that everything he said to her became a part of her.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Cynyr was reluctant to leave her. Despite having provided for her protection and safety, he did not want

to be apart from her for even an hour, much less the span of a couple of days.

Gently, he claimed her mouth, tasting her, flicking his tongue across her teeth then he stood, gazing down

at her with a hunger that would have frightened the bravest man.

“Do not leave this room until I return, Aingeal,” he commanded.

She nodded, unable to break eye contact with him. Unconsciously she put out her tongue and licked her

upper lip, unmindful of the surge of lust that shot through her lover’s intense stare.

“The gods help me,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. He knew if he didn’t get out of that room

right then, he was going to pounce on her and take her.

With one last longing look, he resolutely turned his back and fled the room, his heart growing lonelier

with every step he took.

* * * * *

Balgairsthey were called in the Gaelach tongue. Rogues they’d been labeled by the High Council. Most

had made their way to Terra before the Burning War, hiding in out-of-the-way places in the barren plains

and in the higher elevations of the mountains, venturing forth to murder and ravage their way through

humankind. The majority of them had come from either the Cairghrian or Diamhair galaxies, brought by

the shadowy network that answered only to Raphian Himself. Sent to destroy the inhabitants of Terra,

neither the rogues nor their masters had counted upon the arrival of Reapers.

The Ceannus—the immoral network of scientists who had brought the rogues to Terran

shores—withdrew quickly when the first Reaper arrived. Leaving behind instructions on how the rogues

could duplicate themselves, increase their numbers in order to overrun the human populace, the Ceannus

fled back to their home world, fearful of being caught in the dragnet being cast out to capture the rogues.

The Ceannus feared the High Council, for on that invincible commission of men were three

Shadowlords—powerful psychics from far beyond the Terran galaxy—capable of searching out and

finding even the most well-hidden rogue hiding on Terra.

Just as the Ceannus had brought rogues to Terra, Morrigunia brought forth Reapers to track them down

and remove them from Her adopted world. Creating for the Shadowlords a High Council from which to

fairly govern, She meant to secure a peaceful, safe place for the long-suffering people of Terra. The

Shadowlords were Her lawgivers, Her judges, Her jury. The Reapers were Her executioners.

The Exasla Territory was in the very heart of Terra’s southern desert. It was a scorching place where

scorpions scuttled across the burning sand and vipers slithered. The towns in the territory were few and

far between, most nothing more than a few abandoned buildings with sagebrush rolling down the middle

of the street—ghost towns that had not seen human inhabitants for many a year. Wind howled fiercely

down the sandstone canyons where buzzards perched on twisted branches and coyotes skulked in

search of a meal. Waterholes—speckled with the bleached bones of man and beast—had long since

dried up. Miles upon miles of undulating heat rose up from the floor of the desert, making it a very

inhospitable place.

Cynyr was fiercely hot, his shirt plastered to his chest. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt swollen, his

throat parched. The heat wafted over him in wave after wave, bearing down on his head and shoulders

like a fiery weight. His mount was sluggish for he too was thirsty and feeling the brunt of the desert clime.

The rogue he was after was called Khnum Jaborn and he had been brought to Terra from Akhkharu in

the Diamhair Galaxy. To date, he had killed over a hundred humans and turned fifteen more into

creatures like himself. Caspar Hul had been one of them. Of the fifteen the High Council had discovered,

only one besides Jaborn still drew breath. Cynyr had taken out the other fourteen with the death of Hul

and knew the fifteenth was in WyndRiver Pass. That was providing Jaborn had not transferred more

parasites since the last time Cynyr had been given instructions by the HC.

“He has not.”The three words came softly at him from far away.

Cynyr took off his hat and armed the sweat from his brow. Salt was stinging his eyes and he was getting

one of the vicious headaches Reapers had been cursed with. It throbbed over his right eye with a

vengeance.

“You took a woman to wife without asking.”The statement was said in a matter-of-fact tone with no

censure evident.

“I took what I wanted,” the Reaper said aloud. He was not about to ask forgiveness. His horse

sidestepped beneath him.

“Be careful, Cree.”It was a warning—clear and simple—but again there was no accusation in the timber

of the Shadowlord’s voice.

“I want to know where her first husband is,” Cynyr demanded.

There was a long moment of silence then,
“You don’t need to know.”

He could feel the HC moving out of his mind and cursed. He was determined to visit Aingeal’s husband

and wipe the man off the face of the earth for having sold Aingeal to the accursed Jakotai. If it was the

last thing he did, he would make the man pay for all the suffering Aingeal had endured at Otaktay’s

hands.

At the thought of the Jakotai brave, Cynyr’s fangs exploded in his mouth and his eyes turned scarlet red.

Knowing it wasn’t quite time for him to Transition, he rationalized his fury had brought out the violent

exhibition. It took a measure of self-control for him to retract the fangs and clear the crimson rage from

his vision.

Slamming his hat back on his head, tugging it down to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, the

Reaper nudged his mount with a gentle kick of his heels. Listlessly, Storm picked up his hooves and

continued on, his head down as though the burdens of the equine world pressed upon his withers.

* * * * *

Aingeal was so hot she was delirious. Her head whipped back and forth on the pillow. She did not feel

the cool cloth Moira McDermott applied to her forehead. The young woman was lost in a world of

steaming heat and parching thirst.

“Better dribble a bit of water down her gullet, Annie,” Moira told her daughter-in-law. She stepped

aside so Annie could move to the bed.

Gently putting a hand behind Aingeal’s neck, Annie McDermott lifted Aingeal’s head and let a slow

trickle of cool water fall into her patient’s mouth. “By the gods but she’s fair to burning up, missus.”

“She’ll be right as rain by the time her man comes back,” Moira prophesied.

“If’n she ain’t, he’ll run this town red with blood, he will!” Annie said with a shudder.

“He’s a fair lad,” Moira said with a purse of her wrinkled lips. “I’ve got faith in him.”

Annie shook her head as she poured a bit more water down Aingeal’s throat.

“How’s she doing?” Mick Brady asked when he poked his head in.

“Gotta sweat the fever outta her,” Moira reported, and shook out another thick quilt over the

semiconscious woman on the bed.

Mick came on into the room. He had a concerned look on his face. “She’s going to be okay, though,

right?”

“Right as rain,” Moira repeated, tucking the quilt around Aingeal. “Won’t allow nothing else.”

“I’ve got men stationed in the hotel,” Mick reported. “Surprised the juniper berries out of me that

Guthrie allowed it.”

“The lad would have seen to Guthrie,” Moira observed.

Mick scratched the top of his head where no hair was growing. “Also got men scattered about town,

watching for that brave. So far, there hasn’t been any sign of him.”

“Nevertheless,” Moira said, “I’d feel better if’n ye was to give me a rifle or two to have handy.”

“Missus, why?” Annie protested. “I don’t like guns.”

“Don’t like ‘em, neither, but a woman needs protection,” Moira stated.

“I’ll get you a repeater, Miss Moira,” Mick said, and couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips as he turned

away. The thought of the little old lady shooting a gun at anyone made him want to laugh.

Moira hadn’t missed Mick’s amusement. She’d caught sight of his face in the mirror over the dresser as

he left. She sniffed. Nobody—not even her sass of a daughter-in-law—need know Moira McDermott

could shoot out a rattler’s eye from fifty paces, failing eyesight be damned!

“Cynyr!” Aingeal called out, thrashing at the covers holding her down. She tried to get up but Moira and

Annie kept her on the bed.

“Easy, child,” Moira said. “Your man’ll be back afore you know it.”

Lost in her sweltering world, Aingeal whimpered. She seemed to know her husband was not close by.

* * * * *

Jaborn glanced up at the door to the whorehouse as it opened. Skittering sand came blowing in from the

hot desert storm whipping up outside, but he didn’t need to see the apparition who stood framed in the

doorway to know death had come calling. Scrambling for his gun belt, pulling out his

six-shooter—fanning the trigger in a blur of motion— the rogue got off five shots before throwing himself

off the settee and to the side, out of range of the Reaper’s whip. A crack of lightning snapped over the

rogue’s head as he rolled away, singeing the curtains on the window and sending them up in a flash of

flame. His bare feet skittering on the oak flooring, the rogue ran from the room, crashing through a

window as a fiery lick kissed his backside.

“Son of a bitch!” Jaborn roared, feeling the pain burning his ass. He tucked his head under and rolled

away from the window, barely finding purchase in the dirt as he shot to his feet and ran. As he ran, he

reloaded his six-shooter even knowing the bullets weren’t enough to take down a Reaper.

Angered at having missed his target, Cynyr stalked the fleeing rogue, keeping the bastard in sight until

Jaborn ducked into an alley. His left arm was at his side, the laser whip’s handle clutched in his fist. A thin

trickle of blood was slowing at his waist where one of the rogue’s bullets had passed through Cynyr’s

torso. He barely felt the pain, for the parasite was quickly healing the wound.

The entrance to the alley was obscured for a moment as a cloud of dust blew across it. Sagebrush was

hitting the Reaper’s legs as he walked and he had to kick some of it away. He felt—rather than heard—a

bullet zing past his head and cursed himself for being careless. A headshot wouldn’t kill him, but it would

sure as hell slow him down enough for the rogue to get away, to go to ground or possibly even do severe

damage to Cynyr.

Slipping to one of the buildings flanking the alley, Cynyr put his back to the wall and risked a quick look.

Another bullet slammed into the wood right beside his cheek—splintering the wood and breaking off a

piece that gouged into the Reaper’s jaw.

“Jaborn!” he yelled, his temper high. “You don’t stand a chance!”

“
Lech le azazel, ya ben Zona,”
Jaborn shouted in Akhkharulian.

“I’ve been to hell, pig. Now it’s your turn,” Cynyr yelled back, using the one word he knew was the

gravest of insults aimed at the rogue.

Rapid gunshots hit the side of the building and the Reaper moved back, shielding his eyes from the flying