“Dead?” Marc asked. “How can that be?”
“The poison obviously,” the healer stated. “It acted very slowly on the hellion but in the end destroyed it.”
“Then we must transfer another into him,” Marc told the physician and when the healer shook his head, he demanded to know why not.
“Unlike their Lupine and Hell-Hound cousins, Panthera Reapers have only one hellion, a male. Once destroyed, there is no other within the Reaper to replace it as the Lupe and Hound fledglings will.”
“Then find one of them,” Marc demanded. “The gods know there are enough of them mucking about the Megaverse.”
“A lot more of them than Panthera,” Oran observed.
“I took the liberty of contacting Modartha and they are sending two Lupine hellions. It was thought they would be more compatible than the Hell-hound variety. The hellions should be here late this evening. I will transfer one of them as soon as it arrives.”
“I knew there had to be a reason he wasn’t healing as he should,” Antonia said.
“I fear as his hellion died within him, it gave off some other toxins that certainly have not helped his condition,” the healer told her. “Try not to worry, milady. We will have him back on his feet as quickly as possible.”
As the day wore on Antonia forced herself to stay awake though the call of the Sun drained her. She sat beside her husband and watched every breath he took. Now and again, either Oran or Marc would come in to check on her and their friend. It seemed they could not rest either as they waited for the ship carrying the hellions to arrive. By the time it did, all three were dog-tired and weak from their all-day vigil.
“He’ll go into Conversion when the hellion is transferred,” the healer told them as he made preparations for the Transference. That will bring him out of stasis so we need to move him to a con cell beforehand.” He nodded toward a metal container sitting a small tray beside a bottle of disinfectant, a stack of cotton gauze, a set of forceps, and a scalpel sealed inside a plastiform bag. “I am sure he would prefer you not see what is in there or view the procedure.”
Antonia glanced at the covered container and shuddered, shook her head to indicate she had no desire to see what a hellion looked like. She stood to one side as the healer pushed a button to retract the shield that kept her from touching Garrick. When it was once more inside the wall behind the sled, she stepped forward to touch her husband’s hand. It was cold as ice and her eyes flicked to the healer.
“To be expected,” he told her when she asked why Garrick’s flesh held no warmth. “The TAOS lowers the body temperature.”
She caressed Garrick’s hand then moved out of the way as two technicians moved in to lift her husband to a gurney. He was so still, so very pale. The sight of him so helpless broke her heart. They were careful to keep the fine mesh that covered his naked loins in place as they moved him.
“He’ll be all right,” Marc said, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
“He has to be,” she said, feeling the heart within her stutter.
She, Marc and Oran followed the gurney as the technicians rolled it out of the room and into the corridor beyond. There were six con cells at Warwyck Castle and it was toward those cells the technicians made their way.
Instead of locating the cells in the lower level of the keep as would have most designers, Garrick had insisted on having his near the dispensary. The builder had questioned that decision but it had been the lord’s to make. The titanium reinforced cubicles housed inside six-foot-thick concrete walls lined with tungsten mesh were located in a separate room two doors down from the dispensary. There were three cells on one wall and across from them, the other three cells. Each cell had a foot-thick titanium door into which a four-by-six-inch plexigon viewing panel had been set. Inside the cell was a single stainless-steel bunk suspended from one wall and a three-inch-round iron grate that served as a latrine in one corner. The floor was concrete.
The cell had been designed to keep a Reaper confined during Conversion.
The healer walked ahead of the technicians to one of the cells where the door stood open. He stepped aside to allow them to roll the gurney into the room then followed them inside as they transferred their patient, turning him gently to his stomach atop the stainless-steel platform, positioning his arms above his head. He placed the tray he carried on the bunk in the space bracketed by Garrick’s arms.
“Is it all right if I watch?” Marc asked.
“If you like,” the healer said.
Marc looked at Oran. “Would you take Tonia…?”
“I’m staying,” she told him, chin raised. “I don’t want to see what you do or have any desire to see him Convert, but I want to be near him.” She looked past the healer. “He will know I am here and that is all that matters.”
The healer nodded. “As you wish, milady.” He looked around. “Find a chair for her ladyship,” he ordered one of the technicians.
Marc entered the cell to stand at the head of the bunk. He laid his hand on Garrick’s head to stroke back a lock of hair. “You know,” he said. “I can’t help but wonder if you’re going to howl like a wolf once that critter is inside you, my friend.” He smiled. “Better a howl than a bark, huh?”
The healer removed the bottle of disinfectant from the tray, removed the top, picked up a gauze pad and placed it over the opening. Tilting the bottle to the side, he saturated the gauze with the liquid then handed the bottle to one of the technicians.
From the doorway, Antonia watched the healer swab the orange liquid onto a large area of Garrick’s naked lower back. When he reached for the scalpel, she turned away. Oran met her eye and smiled at her as she made her way to the chair that had been provided for her. She sat down, threaded her fingers together, lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Ugh! That’s what’s inside me?” she heard Marc ask and winced.
“Aye, except yours is green,” the healer replied. “I’ve never seen a dead hellion but it seems it begins to decompose. All right. Now for the new fledgling.”
“Look at that bitch wiggle,” Marc commented. “Fuck me! Are those teeth?”
“Indeed they are,” the healer answered. “Here we go.”
“Shit!” Marc exclaimed then Antonia heard retching sounds and knew the hellion had been placed inside her husband. She glanced up as Marc came out of the cell to plaster himself to the wall beside her. He was white, his eyes wide. “That was fucking gross.”
The healer and technicians hurried out of the cell and the door was shut and locked. Even as the bolt was engaged there came a tremendous roar of fury from the cell then the door vibrated as it was hit brutally. The sound of claws dragging down the titanium surface made everyone on the outside of the cell cringe.
“Guess that answered that,” Marc said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not a panther wail.”
Fury resounded from the con cell. Ferocious growls. Frustrated howls. Manic scratching. Vicious thumps against the door. It was a cacophony of rage battering the ears of those outside the protective room.
“I’ve never heard him react this way before,” Oran said, visibly shaken.
“He’s never had a Lupine hellion riding him,” the healer said. “By all accounts a Panthera hellion is as aloof as its canine kin. There is nothing more violent than a pissed-off wolf.” He raked a trembling hand through his sparse ginger hair. “He’ll calm down after a bit.”
“By the goddess I hope so,” Marc said. “He’s going to have bruises galore when he Converts back.” He slid down the wall, spiked his hands along his cheeks and rested his elbows on his knees. He directed his query to the healer. “Any idea how long this will last?”
“Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days. My guess is somewhere in the middle. He’s still working the poison out of his system but that hellion was a full-grown queen so it won’t take her long to heal him.”
“Ugly bitch,” Marc mumbled. He looked up at th
e healer with horror dawning on his handsome face. “And it will lay eggs inside him, won’t it?”
“Aye,” the healer acknowledged. “It will.”
“Argh,” Marc said and his cheeks bulged as though he might get sick.
“Leave,” Antonia said. She didn’t want to hear anything more from Marc or the healer. “I’ll keep vigil.”
“Tonia—” Marc began.
“Go,” she ordered, her eyes stern. “I don’t need you here and he wouldn’t want you here so go.”
Marc and Oran exchanged a look. The younger man shrugged then walked over to Marc, reached out a hand to help him up. Palms slapped, fingers clenched and Marc was drawn to his feet. He opened his mouth to say something to Antonia but she gave him an unyielding squint and he nodded.
“Call if you need us,” he muttered.
After Garrick’s friends, the healer and the technicians left, Antonia drew in a long, steadying breath then slowly exhaled. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap and with every enraged growl, every violent hit against the door, she tensed. It wasn’t that she was afraid her husband would break through the portal. She was concerned for the savage battering his body was taking. Though she could sense the human intelligence behind the furious howls, she could not picture in her mind what he must look like at that moment.
Slowly, she got to her feet with her hands still clasped together. She took a step toward the door but an ungodly yowl stopped her.
“No!”
The word came at her like the rush of an arrow. It was garbled, gruff, lower pitched than Garrick’s normal voice but it was loud and brooked no disobedience. She stilled with her gaze locked on the plexigon panel behind which she could see light.
“All right,” she said and stepped backward until her calves met the resistance of the chair. She sank down with her heart beating hard and fast, the blood pounding in her ears.
Another yowl of frustration rent the air. A heavy thud rattled the door then everything went as silent as the grave.
“I love you,” she whispered.
She heard a soft mewl from behind the door. It was a lost, lonely sound that made her soul ache but she smiled. He had heard her. He knew she was there for him. That was all that mattered.
* * * * *
Alyx looked around him at the men who were working on the breach in the wall. No one was paying any attention to a fat, greasy-haired laborer whose clothing was filthy and stank of pig shit. The others gave him a wide berth as he carried fieldstone from the cart to the wall. He was roasting inside the heavily padded clothing and the uniform he had stuffed inside the tattered tunic for safe keeping gave the illusion he weighed a good fifty pounds more than he actually did. When he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he had laughed though he nearly choked on the horrendous stench wafting up from the dirty clothing. Dragging his hands through mud, streaking his face with the cloying slickness, he looked no different than the other men toiling on the breach. His shoulders were slouched as theirs were and keep his head down like the good, sullen worker he was pretending to be.
He’d been carting the heavy stones for about an hour when he finally saw a chance to sneak unseen into the hole in the wall. The moment he was inside, he disappeared into the shadows—keeping his back to the wall and his eyes open as he slipped deeper into the keep. Listening for any guards who might be lurking about, he wound his way to a steep stairwell black as pitch and began to climb, hoping the door at the top was not locked. When he gained the top, reached for the handle and pulled downward, he had to sink his teeth into his lip to keep from shouting with the victory of an open door and the possibilities that lay beyond the threshold.
* * * * *
Lying curled behind the door, Garrick drew the scent of his woman deep into his lungs. He could hear her heart beating and was concerned that the rhythm was too fast. Much too fast. He chuffed from worry then closed his eyes. Using the vast psychic powers with which he had been born and those that were leaching now into his blood from the new hellion, he willed her heart to slow, willed it to be in perfect synchronization with his own.
Be at ease, he sent to her. I am well. All will be well, dearling.
The hard thump of that precious organ began to slow until it was beating only marginally faster than his own. Beat-counter beat. Beat-counter beat. Another few beats and it was in harmony with the aching heart inside his own chest.
He breathed a sigh of relief and his muzzle twitched, the whiskers vibrating. One big black paw flexed, flexed again then lay still. He curled his tail and then struck the floor with it before settling down. He needed to sleep off the Conversion—knowing when he woke he would be humanoid again.
The poison had done a number on him, he thought as he lay in that half-awake, half-asleep state. He drew his lips back from his fangs, angered that he had allowed Clay’s vengeance to strike out at him. Never had he wanted a man dead as much as he wanted to see Alyxdair Clay moldering in his casket.
And it wasn’t just because the man had taken Antonia, made her his for a time.
It wasn’t because the bastard had tried to kill him.
What offended Garrick most, what made him despise the man so vehemently were the atrocities he had perpetrated against the Modarthan troops. For that, alone, the man deserved a fate worse than death but short of personally dragging him into the Abyss—which was impossible—Garrick saw no way to condemn Clay to such an evil destiny.
But oh for the chance to have the prick in his hands for just ten minutes!
He growled low in his throat and then growled again. The sound he made wasn’t entirely wolf-like but neither was it purely feline. It was a combination of the two aggressive warnings that rather pleased him so he made it once more for the hell of it.
“Ricky?”
Her soft voice was right at the door. He raised his head—knowing she couldn’t see him where he lay—but froze in place even so.
“I love you,” she told him.
His throat clogged with emotion.
“Sleep well, my love,” she said and there was a soft scratch on the door.
Sitting up on his haunches yet keeping well away from any view she might get through the plexigon panel, he sent strong psychic thoughts to Marc, ordering him to provide comfort for his woman.
It was the only thing he could do until the Conversion had run its course.
* * * * *
Upon finding the door into the keep proper unlocked, Alyx Clay was humming with anticipation. He propped the door open just a little so he could see well enough in the darkened stairwell to strip off the offensive clothing of a menial laborer. Quickly, he replaced that offal-reeking apparel with the Modarthan uniform of a lowly private. Though the uniform was clean, the stench of the clothes he had been wearing for the past two hours clung to him like iron filings to a magnet. Between the pig shit and his own sweaty body odor, the stink made his eyes water. There was nothing he could do about the streaks of mud on his face and packed beneath his fingernails. He only hoped anyone he encountered before he could find a washroom would believe him to be one of the soldiers helping to patch the breach in the wall.
Easing his head around the edge of the door, he surreptitiously surveyed the room beyond. He strained to hear even the faintest of noises but all was quiet. Satisfied he was alone, he quietly entered the room and flattened himself against the wall. Carefully he made his way toward a door he was fairly sure would lead him to the upper floors of the keep.
“I’m coming for you, sweeting,” he said through clenched teeth. His eyes turned as cold as marble tombstones. “And I’m coming for you Garrick Warwyck!”
Chapter Sixteen
Relieved Marc had brought a cot and bedding for Antonia, Garrick settled down, arching his body around until he could rest his chin on his back paws. A deep huff came from his massive chest. His muzzle twitched then he brought his tail around to curl it over his eyes to block out some of the harsh light. It was at that moment he remembe
red there were concealed vid cams embedded in the ceiling for the lights were dimmed to an acceptable level. He sighed with relief. He was comfortable on the floor. Hopefully his woman was comfortable on the cot and could rest. Everyone for whom he cared was safe within the walls of the keep.
Yet why, he wondered, were his nerves strung taut? Why did his brain refuse to shut down so he could sleep?
He opened his eyes and stared at the bottom of the door.
Something felt wrong. Something was off.
He pushed up from the floor and began to pace, his tail whipping from side to side. He rotated his ears—listening for sounds that did not belong. Stopping with one paw raised, he sent his mental powers beyond the cell.
Something wasn’t right.
Danger walked the corridors of Warwyck Castle. It slithered along the walls.
Marcus! he sent across the psychic pathway that only he and his friend shared.
Aye, came the immediate reply.
There is an intruder in the keep.
I’m on it!
Find him quietly. Bring him to me!
Copy that!
Ricky?
He whipped his head to the door. Horror filled his soul for she was staring at him through the plexigon view port. He had not wanted her to see him in his animal form.
I could hear you pacing. Are you all right? Her eyes were filled with concern.
And deep love even a blind man could see.
I am fine, dearling, he sent to her. Lie back down. I’m just too keyed up to sleep right now.
She gave him a look that said she wasn’t buying his excuse but she put her palm against the view port.
He didn’t hesitate. He padded to the door, stood up on his hind legs and put a paw to the plexigon.
Try to rest, she told him.
Aye, he returned. Now go back to bed.
One moment she was standing there at the door and the next she was gone. Her surprised gasp and then a scuffling sound was all he needed to know she was in the hands of an enemy.
“Antonia!” he roared.
* * * * *
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