Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (18 page)

“How big?”

“Full grown,” Cynyr said as he gently laid his lady down.

The healer examined the wound. “She didn’t hear his warning?”

“There was no warning,” Cynyr snapped. “If there had been, I would have heard it.”

“I don’t like her color and her pulse is much too fast,” he commented as he cleaned the wound.

“I tried to draw out as much venom as I could.”

The healer’s wife crept into the room, keeping her distance from the Reaper. She handed her husband

fresh bandages but would not come close to the table. Cynyr didn’t even glance at her, although her fear

was bombarding his senses.

Aingeal started wheezing loudly. Her eyes flew open and she began clawing at her throat. Her face was

covered with sweat, her lips swelling.

“She can’t breathe!” Cynyr yelled, and pushed the healer aside.

“What the hell do you think
you
can do?” the healer shouted at him, shoving him away. “Doris, give me a

scalpel!”

Staring wide-eyed as the healer put the blade to his lady’s throat, Cynyr wanted to grab Aingeal and

run, not let him cut her, although he knew the man was trying to help. The sight of her blood as the healer

made the incision made the Reaper reach out for the nearest steadying object. His knees felt weak as he

watched the man put a breathing tube down her throat. But the treatment was doing no good. Aingeal

was turning blue, struggling to breathe.

“Kurt, her heartbeat is very erratic. I think she’s dying,” the healer’s wife told him. Her hand was on the

inside of Aingeal’s elbow.

“No!” Cynyr shouted. “No, hell, she isn’t!”

The healer laid his fingers on Aingeal’s throat just below her ear. He felt no pulse. The young woman

had stopped moving, as well, ceased trying to drag air into her depleted lungs. He turned his head to the

Reaper.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“No,” Cynyr said, shaking his head. He was having trouble breathing himself, dragging air in large gulps

into his chest. “No, I won’t let this happen.”

The healer and his wife exchanged a look and knew what was about to take place. Neither wanted to

be a part of it. The woman was the first to flee the room, her face as pale as parchment.

“Take the scalpel,” Cynyr said, turning his back to the healer. “Make an incision over my right kidney.

Open the wound and—”

“I won’t do that,” the healer said, backing away. “I’ve seen a man turned and I will not be a party to

such evil.” He threw the scalpel down and ran.

Cynyr didn’t hesitate for he knew the longer Aingeal lay at death’s door, the more damage was being

done to her body. He stooped down, picked up the scalpel and put the blade over his kidney. Gritting his

teeth, he made an incision then using his other hand reached behind him to feel inside the wound.

The pain was almost more than he could bear and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. It was all

he could do to thrust his fingers into the cut, grimacing in agony as he did.

There was movement inside the wound and something sliced at his fingers, drawing blood. The barbed

spines on the fledglings pricked his flesh but he managed to get his fingers around one and pull it from his

body. Almost instantly he could feel the incision closing up on his back, the queen parasite healing his

injured body, protecting Her young.

He placed the revenant worm nestling on the table beside Aingeal. It lay there writhing, whipping back

and forth, mindless with pain of its own as he flipped his lady over. The scalpel still clutched tightly in his

right hand, he slit open her blouse and with one quick motion incised an opening in her back large enough

for the nestling to wriggle through. Hating the feel of the evil thing, he picked it up and placed it over

Aingeal’s wound. He barely had time to take a breath before the nestling dove down into the incision and

disappeared. Very slowly, the incision began to heal before his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the parasite. The fledgling would do its job and his lady would come back

to him.

Knowing what he had done, shame eating at him like a rampaging shark, he lifted Aingeal in his arms and

knelt down on the floor with her. His embrace was locked tightly around her—waiting for her to come

gasping back to life. Tears were streaming down his face as he rocked her. One hand was smoothing her

hair back from her damp face, her head hanging over his arm. He was crooning to her in the old

language, his words barely audible.

“
A ghrá mo chroí
,” he called her.
“Mo shearc.”

Doris Benson stood in the doorway, listening to words she had not heard since her childhood when her

grandparents had spoken so lovingly to one another. “My heart’s beloved, my love,” she translated.

“Come back to me, Aingeal,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me, my heart.”

Aingeal’s body was still warm. She was so still, so fragile in his arms he was dying inside waiting for her

to take her first breath as one of his kind.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged. His hand was trembling as he gently touched her face. “Please, don’t

leave me.”

Despite her utter fear of the man sitting on the floor, the healer’s wife crept back into her husband’s

operatory. She could not believe she was seeing this fearsome warrior, this lethal killing machine holding

a woman so tenderly, tears falling as though he was a normal man. She’d seen Reapers back home in the

east but never one up close as she saw this one. She could not help but wonder if his brethren had

feelings such as he was exhibiting, or was this man an aberration among Reaper kind.

There was a rogue in WyndRiver named Silus Gibbs and he was a vicious, brutal fiend who preyed on

the innocent. Across the breadth of Calizonia, his kills now numbered in the hundreds and the town

leaders had written the High Council, begging for help. Help had at last arrived in the form of the man

sitting on the floor. He was WyndRiver’s last line of defense against the evil of Silus Gibbs.

“Don’t come any closer,” Doris heard the Reaper say, and when he raised his eyes to her, she was

shocked at the grief and misery on his handsome face. “She will Transition as soon as she wakes. You

don’t want to be here for that.”

He didn’t look a day over thirty-five, she thought, but she doubted he was anywhere near that young.

His face was unlined except for the sun crinkles around his strange amber eyes and he reminded her so

much of her youngest son Noah. His resemblance to her child gave Doris courage.

“What can I do to help?” she asked, surprising herself at the offer.

“Leave and lock the door behind you,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”

Her heart went out to him. It was obvious the girl in his arms was gone. There was no movement of her

chest and the blue intensity upon her lips had deepened.

“Son, you should—”

He felt the first faint tremor shudder through Aingeal’s body. “Go!” he yelled. “Get out of here!”

Doris jumped, her eyes going wide as the girl’s fingers twitched and she jerked in the Reaper’s arms.

The healer’s wife staggered back and slammed the door, shutting out the sight of the young woman

struggling to sit up. She shot the bolt on the door and backed away from the portal, her hand across her

mouth to keep from screaming.

“Is she changing?” her husband asked from behind her and Doris spun around. The look on his wife’s

face answered the healer’s question.

“The gods help her,” the healer said.

Aingeal’s eyes flew open and she screamed, for there was a tearing, burning agony slithering through her

lower back. The pain was unbelievable and she kept screaming, trying desperately to get free of the

powerful arms holding her. She bucked—she twisted. She scratched at the bare arms around her,

gouging flesh, drawing blood. Her lips peeled back from her lips and she hissed. Her heels drummed

against the floor all in an effort to break free.

Cynyr could smell the Transition coming. It was a musky, animal odor that wafted up from her flesh.

Aingeal’s body heat soared as he held on to her, keeping her as still as he could within the tight ring of his

arms. He dared not release her as her clothing began ripping from her body.

“I’m here, wench,” he said. “I’m here.”

The popping, snapping, grinding of her bones, cartilage and sinews as her body began to change was a

sound Cynyr would hear for the rest of his unnatural life. It underscored his guilt at being the cause of the

Transference and brought exacting despair to his soul. This was not something he would have wished on

his worst enemy, and yet, he had brought about the monstrous transformation all too easily. In his need to

keep his lady with him, to never be apart from her, he had sentenced her to the same pervasive evil that

had claimed him almost half a century before. His remorse knew no boundaries.

A soft bushy coat of white fur spread down Aingeal’s body. It was thick and glossy and there was a

slight undercoat of gray. Her muzzle was dainty, delicate-looking and her fangs were not as long or sharp

as his. The whimpering sounds she made as she rolled her eyes and the now feeble jerks of her little

paws broke the Reaper’s heart. She put one leg on his arm and looked up at him with such misery, he

wished he could die.

“I’m sorry, wench,” he said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t lose you.” He buried his face in the ruff at

her neck.

She licked his temple where the dark blue tribal tattoo marked his flesh. Her breath was sweet like a

pup’s, which surprised him.

“I understand.”

Slowly he lifted his head and looked into her gentle eyes. Her word thought had wrapped itself so

tenderly, so lovingly around him his guilt drove deeper.

“No, my love,”she whispered.
“I didn’t want to leave you either. You did what had to be done.”

“Forgive me,” he pleaded. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his hand trembled as he stroked

her sleek face.

“There is nothing to forgive, Reaper,”she said, and he could hear the humor in her words. She dragged

her tongue over his chin then she grinned at him, her canines glistening.

His lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked.

“Gotta pretty good guess,”she said, and shrugged herself out of his arms.

He sat there and watched her trying out her new legs. She shook her mane, her lovely white tail, twisted

her head to see that plume then glanced back at him, one perfect white brow lifting.

“Not a bad rump I got, Reaper,”she teased. She wagged her tail then lowered her muzzle to the floor

and began sniffing.

Amazed at her reaction to what he’d done, Cynyr sat there with his back against the wall, his knees

drawn up, his wrists resting on them and watched as she investigated the operatory. It didn’t surprise him

in the least when she squatted in the corner and made a puddle on the floor.

“Bad she wolf,” he admonished, but she didn’t look at all repentant.

She padded back to him and insinuated her head under his arms, lying down beside him and putting her

head in his lap. She closed her eyes as he stroked her back.

“I’m hungry,”she admitted.

“Aye, and you’ll need to feed,” he replied.

“How long does this last?”

“It varies, wench.” He scratched her behind her ear and nearly burst out laughing when her back leg

drummed against the floor.

“I see things,”she said. Opening her eyes, she lifted her head and looked at him.
“I see things in your

mind. Hurtful things, mo tiarna.”

He nodded. “Then there will be no need for us to discuss them.”

She laid her head back down and sighed. She wagged her tail once then went to sleep.

“Lazy little she wolf,” he said with a snort. “I imagine you will expect me to hunt for you.”

The thought of bringing Sustenance to her wiped the smile from Cynyr’s face. Then there was the matter

of the tenerse. She would need that, as well, to sustain her. Such matters made him ease her head from

his lap and stand up. He had work to do.

Doris and her husband jumped when the knock sounded at the door. They looked at one another.

Would a ravaging animal be so polite? they wondered.

The healer reluctantly went to the door. “Yes?” he asked, and heard the fear in his shaking voice.

“Let me out,” the Reaper said.

Fumbling with the dead bolt, the healer unlocked the door and opened it. He stepped back, the look on

the Reaper’s face forbidding.

“You have a man here named Gibbs,” he stated. “Where can I find him?”

“He has a shack up near the Pass,” the healer said, “but at this time of night, he’s most likely out

raiding.”

“He kills people,” Doris said. “Mutilates them.”

“We haven’t been able to keep a lawman in—”

“I know all that,” Cynyr interrupted the healer. “Just tell me how to get to the Pass.”

“Well, you follow the river and when you hear the roar of the waterfall…”

* * * * *

The moon was riding high by the time Cynyr struck out for WyndRiver Pass. He hadn’t bothered finding

a saddle for Storm but rode the steed bareback. His gun belt was strapped to his waist, the holster tied

to his thigh, and he hadn’t wanted to expend even a modicum of energy on fashioning a shirt for himself.

Concentration and immense strength were needed when facing a rogue. He couldn’t afford to be lacking

in either requirement. The cool night air felt good on his bare chest, for his body temperature was going