Reaper's Revenge (10 page)

“Sweet Merciful Alel,” Sheriff Brewer gasped as he saw the miracle happening before his very eyes.

Moira stared into the breathtakingly beautiful face of Morrigunia and could not find her voice. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a fish cast to dry land but no words would come forth.

“He has great affection for you, Moira McDermott,” Morrigunia said in her thick brogue. “He would have done this himself, given time.”

Tears cascaded down Moira’s withered cheeks but her smile was as bright as a summer’s day. “Thank ye,
mo regina
,” she managed to say. “Thank ye.”

Morrigunia hugged the old woman for a moment then released her, turning her attention back to the man who lay so still on the cot.

Annie came in with an armful of towels followed by Brett Samuels, Verlin Walker and John Denning who were struggling with buckets of water. Guthrie, the owner of the hotel, brought with them a pan that held a large chunk of ice. Annie’s eyes went wide when she saw Moira standing erect, her once twisted fingers straight.

“Give me them towels and stop gawking, gal!” Moira grumbled, taking the towels from her daughter-in-law.

“He looks mighty sick,” Samuels said as he sat down his buckets of water.

“He is and I can not,” the triune goddess said, motioning the men and Annie out of the cell, “leave him unconscious as he is. He needs to thrash about to work the poison out of his system quicker.” She looked around as Brady came hurrying into the cell. In his hand he carried two four-inch-wide leather belts about three feet in length with heavy brass buckles, each with two prongs.

“Martin made these for a strong man what came through with a traveling show a year or so back,” Brady explained. “Never did pay for ’em so I took ’em off his hands.”

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Reaper’s Revenge

“They will do for his wrists but you will need two strong belts for his ankles too,”

Morrigunia told him.

Brady looked about him for he wasn’t wearing a belt but Samuels and Denning began stripping off theirs. They handed them to toward Brady.

“Come bind him, Michael Brady,” Morrigunia ordered as she gently turned Cynyr over to lie on his stomach. “As tightly as you can to the ends of the cot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mick agreed, and quickly moved to do her bidding.

“How do you know his name?” Father Murphy demanded from beyond the jail cell. His jowls were quivering as he glared at the stately woman. Morrigunia smiled nastily. “Each of you is known to me, Willie Murphy.” She winked. “Even you, you godless excuse for a man.”

Father Murphy’s rubbery lips sputtered and he turned away, pushing through those gathered at the door and mumbling under his breath as he stomped away. He shoved both Arawn and Bevyn aside as they started into the jail. “Out of my way, you heathens!” he snarled.

“Heathens?” Bevyn asked, staring after the cleric. “I’m not a heathen.”

“Get in here, Arawn!” Morrigunia called out. “Your comrade needs you.” She glanced at the sheriff as she began tugging off Cynyr’s boots and socks. “Do you have a pair of scissors?”

The sheriff nodded and hurried to his desk. He returned with a dull pair of rusted scissors, standing well away from Morrigunia as he extended them toward her.

“I don’t usually bite, Daniel Brewer, but I have been known to make exceptions so it’s good you keep well back from me,” she told the sheriff whose face turned bright red.

Morrigunia bent to the task of cutting both legs of Cynyr’s uniform britches from ankle to waist then peeled them from his sweaty body. She ignored Moira’s horrified gasps as the old woman took in the livid red flesh covered with pustules that blotched the Reaper’s legs and lower back.

“The pustules will break and where their vile liquid runs, new pustules will form for it is the ghoret’s venom that is coming out of the sores. I need to work quickly to wash away the drainage as quickly as it begins,” the goddess said.

“I will help,” Moira told her.

“No!” Morrigunia denied, shaking her head. “If you get any of the liquid on you, it could cause serious problems for a woman your age. Just keep the rags coming. I will bathe my Reaper then wring out the rags in the warm water. Stay back so there is no chance the venom will hit you.”

Mick had moved to the foot of the cot but hesitated in wrapping the belts around Cynyr’s ankles for pustules were spreading to the soles of his feet. He looked to Morrigunia.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I will do it,” she said, and made quick work of binding the Reaper’s ankles to the cot. “Now leave us, Michael, but stay close in case we need you.”

Brady moved out of the cell, leaving the two Reapers, Moira and the goddess inside.

“What happened to the lad’s back?” Moira asked quietly, staring at the mass of crisscrossed scar tissue.

“He spent time in a quarry when he was a young boy,” Arawn explained. He had been silent as he looked down at the angry red flesh that covered Cynyr’s body. Red streaks were inching up the Reaper’s back, making the thick scars stand out.

“Put on leather gloves,” Morrigunia told Arawn and Bevyn as she pulled the cot into the center of the cell. “One of you hold down his wrists and the other his ankles. He will be in agony when I release him from sleep. He’ll be even stronger than usual so put your full weight into holding him down.” She wiped the back of her arm across her forehead.

Arawn and Bevyn moved in tandem, shaking their hands to fashion heavy gloves.

“How the hell did they do that?” Denning whispered loud enough for everyone to hear but no one could answer how one moment the Reapers’ hands were bare and the next encased in black leather.

Going to the head of the cot, Arawn bent down to put his hands on Cynyr’s wrists to hold them down. Bevyn moved to do the same with the unconscious man’s ankles. Looking around, Morrigunia ordered a chair brought in for Moira. When the old lady would have protested, the goddess shook her head. “We are going to be at this for several hours, Moira. He will be brutally ill for at least a week, more likely longer. You sit down and hand me the rags as I need them. When you get tired—and you will—let me know and I’ll have Annie spell you.”

Moira’s wrinkled lips pursed but she said nothing to the order. Sitting down in the chair as soon as Brewer brought it in. When the sheriff left, the goddess told him to lock the cell door and for everyone to clear out of the building except for Annie and Brady. When everyone had left and the door to the jail closed, Morrigunia looked at Arawn and Bevyn. “Ready?” she asked.

The Reapers nodded without speaking.

Taking a deep breath, Morrigunia laid her hand on Cynyr’s damp hair. “Wake, my Reaper. Come back to this world now.”

His eyelids snapping open, Cynyr Cree howled in agony. He began jerking violently against the restraints securing his wrists and ankles, gnashing his teeth and hissing as he tried to get up from the cot. He began foaming at the mouth as he bucked like a rabid wolf trying to break free of its trap. Sweat was pouring from his body and his legs and side, his left arm began swelling where the fang marks pierced the flesh. His skin bursting open around the punctures, a glowing blue slime ran down his calves 54

Reaper’s Revenge

to mix with the ooze of his black blood seeping from his pores. The stench of the noxious slime was horrible.

Working quickly, Morrigunia wiped away the slime as it appeared. Her face was set and hard as she concentrated. Anger snapped in her vivid green eyes and she was chanting in a language older than time itself as she worked. It was all Arawn and Bevyn could do to keep Cynyr’s limbs pressed to the cot. He was bucking against them with such force, the cot jumped as he arched and twisted. The Reaper’s eyes were wild, glowing a deep scarlet, and black blood beaded his furrowed brow.

Long into the night and well past the rising of the sun Cynyr howled in agony, pulled against his bonds, writhed as the ghoret poison attacked his vital organs and began destroying them. His blood was boiling, his flesh so hot it singed the leather gloves his fellow Reapers wore to protect their own skin.

Morrigunia sat down on the floor beside him to rest for a moment. She shook her head at Moira’s offer to take over.

“One bite would have made him very, very ill,” the goddess said to no one in particular. “But there were four. The amount of the venom in his system is so large, so potent, his flesh has ceased to instantly heal itself. I fear his parasite will not be able to sustain the fight to save his life.”

“His parasite might die?” Arawn asked, never having considered the possibility.

“It is very likely both it and the entire hive will succumb to the massive amount of poison flooding his body,” Morrigunia replied, her shoulders slumped in weariness.

“You can’t let him die,
mo regina
,” Moira said, her voice shaking.

“I won’t,” the goddess said, “but he will need transference in order to live.”

“Take one of mine,” both Reapers offered at the same time. Morrigunia lifted her head and looked up at Arawn. “He will need a revenant queen, not just a fledgling. A new nest needs to form quickly to combat the poison. The queen must be a strong, ancient one. Are you willing to give up yours in order to save him?”

Arawn didn’t hesitate. “Aye,
mo regina
. Do what you need to.”

Morrigunia smiled gently. “It is a very painful procedure, Arawn Gehdrin. The removal of a queen from a Reaper has only been done once before. It is not something I do lightly.”

“Do what you need to,” Arawn repeated. “As Prime Reaper, it is my right to provide for my men.”

“We are with you,”
came the combined voices of the Shadowlords from far, far away.

“Lend your strength to him, Kheelan Ben-Alkazar
,” Morrigunia joined the high lord on his mind-link with Arawn.

“Mine as well as Lords Dunham and Naois,”
the Shadowlord agreed.
“His brothers are
winging their way to you at this very moment.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“When the transference is complete, I will leave you to care for him,”
the goddess said.
“I
have business with the renegade Ceannus.”

“I am sending the other Reapers to aid you,
mo regina
,”
Lord Kheelan protested.
“I beg
you wait until they—”

“I have no need of your help, Ben-Alkazar,”
Morrigunia stated.
“Even now the evil ones
are planning an attack against this settlement. I will not allow my humans to be placed in
danger!”

“Mo regina—” Lord Kheelan began but the goddess waved her hand and his voice was stilled.

“Michael Brady?” Morrigunia called out. “Unlock the cell door. Bevyn, you will need to take Arawn into the other cell and harvest the queen from him.”

Bevyn swallowed loudly. “Me?” he whispered.

“Arawn, give me your blade,” the goddess said and thanked the Reaper when he handed it to her.

Mick Brady hurried forward and unlocked the cell, pulling the door open wide. He was pale, for he remembered well what had transpired when Cynyr had been stabbed in the back. The expression on his face said he wasn’t looking forward to reliving that nightmarish sight.

“Arawn, come here,” Morrigunia ordered, and when the Reaper approached her, she held out her hand for him to help her up from the floor. When she was on her feet, she put her palms on his cheeks and stared into his eyes for a long moment then released him.

Arawn turned as though in a trance and walked out of the cell, entering the one beside it and stretching out on his belly, tugging his black silk shirt from his britches as he lay down.

“You mesmerized him,” Moira said, watching what was happening in the adjoining cell.

“He was brave enough to offer his queen for another,” Morrigunia said. “I would see that he suffer as little as possible in the transfer.”

“He’ll be all right, won’t he?” the old woman asked.

Morrigunia nodded. “His hive will be intact. Another alpha revenant will take over in the missing queen’s stead and begin to grow in power and strength to control the nestlings. Arawn will be just fine. Bevyn? Pay close attention to what I do and follow suit when I have removed the queen. Feel around inside Arawn’s wound until you find her. You will know her by the sting she will give you.”

“How bad a sting?” Bevyn wanted to know.

“Bad enough,” was the reply.

Bevyn’s hand was trembling as he drew his own knife. He was watching Morrigunia who was bending over Cynyr, making a long cut from just beneath the Reaper’s rib cage to his hipbone.

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Reaper’s Revenge

“Empty a bucket, Moira, and bring it here,” Morrigunia instructed. When the old woman did as she was asked, the goddess thrust her hand deep into Cynyr’s back. Her knees threatening to buckle beneath her, Moira clamped her jaw tightly closed and forced herself to watch what the goddess was doing. Cynyr was shrieking in agony, his body jerking against the restraints holding his wrists and ankles. One of Morrigunia’s hands was pressed firmly on his back, seemingly holding him down with little effort as her other hand twisted inside the black, bloody wound. The first time the goddess removed her hand from Cynyr’s back and drew out a clump of what looked to be slugs and dropped them into Moira’s bucket, the old woman thought she would barf.

“Swallow it down, Moira,” Morrigunia said without looking at the old lady. Moira did as she was told and when the second clump of unmoving forms were thrown into the bucket, she had to hold her breath for the odor was horrific.

“Only two more fledglings,” Morrigunia commented, and dropped the dead nestlings into the bucket. “Now, the queen.”

His attention on the goddess, Bevyn’s breathing was ragged. He’d seen fledglings but never a queen. He had never wanted to. When Morrigunia drew the nearly dead revenant from Cynyr’s body, he stared at the hellion with wide eyes. The wet, sucking sound it made as it was pulled free made him gag and turn away, feeling the hot bile rising up his throat.

Arawn also was watching what the goddess was doing but what he was seeing had no effect on him, for Morrigunia had placed him deeply beneath her calming spell. Completely detached, he took in the eel-like abomination with its green flesh covered in hard scales. About a foot in length—the tip of its tail forked and covered with sharp spines—the queen’s elliptical red eyes were turning cloudy as death rapidly approached. Its maw of a mouth in the triangular plains of its warty head was open, revealing rows of sharp glistening fangs as it gasped for breath. A forked tongue lay at the corner of its maw and dripped a slimy white fluid that—when it dribbled on the wool blanket covering the cot upon which Cynyr lay—ate through the material and plopped on the floor, sizzling.