“Is that the bastard in there?” Alyx snarled in her ear as he clamped her struggling body to his. He dragged her back from the door.
His arm was like a steel band around her waist as he pinned her arms against her, his free hand plastered tightly to her mouth to keep her from screaming. She tried kicking back at him but he ignored her, pulling her along with him as he moved down the corridor between the cells.
“Is it Warwyck?” he demanded. He flexed his hand until he could pinch her nostrils closed between his thumb and index finger.
Antonia couldn’t breathe. Lights were beginning to dance in her head. She thrashed against him, fought his rigid possession of her limbs but the lack of oxygen was shutting down her world and she was rapidly losing strength.
“Aye, it’s Warwyck, all right,” she heard him say as though from far away though his lips were touching her ear, his spittle running down the side of her face. “Well, having him confined just makes it easier to dispatch the prick!”
As light faded and darkness reached in to pluck away her consciousness, the last thing Antonia heard was the enraged roar of the great black wolf that was clawing furiously at the con cell door.
* * * * *
Once Antonia was in Clay’s clutches—and it could be none other’s—the call for stealth was out of the question. Screaming his orders into his friend’s head was all Garrick could do.
“He’s down here! He has my woman!” he bellowed. “Set the entire keep on his fucking ass!”
Marc gathered five stalwart warriors and headed at an all-out run for the con cells. Oran had been dispatched to rally all the guards for a room-by-room search of the structure in case Clay had managed to escape the dispensary wing or had accomplices. Around them a klaxon blared to warn the inhabitants there was a dangerous trespasser among them. The alarm meant every loyal member of the household would begin looking for that trespasser to detain him.
Inside the con cell Garrick was going berserk. He clawed savagely at the door in an attempt to get free, to get to Antonia. A dim part of his brain reminded him he had designed this room. He had made it impregnable, impossible to escape. Fury lashed at him like a barbed whip as he dragged his claws down the titanium surface—scoring it deeply but not doing the damage he wanted. Frustration brought hisses and growls and a roar of rage that shattered the plexigon view port.
He’s not down here, Marc sent to him. We’re beginning a sweep of the ground floor.
Find him!
We will.
Fear that Clay would escape the keep with Antonia slashed at his heart. He had a vision of a ship standing ready to take her off-world. Space was vast. There were hundreds of planets in their galaxy alone, thousands in the Megaverse. Any direction from which to choose to take a fleeing ship. Battleships standing ready to blast any ship trying to intercept Clay’s into space dust.
Don’t let him get out of this keep! he roared.
We won’t, Marc vowed.
He had no idea how long this cycle of Conversion would last. No notion whatsoever of when he would be able to shift back to human form. What did the Lupes and Hounds call their cycles? Transition? Aye, Transition. Was that longer than a Panthera Conversion? Shorter? Did it—like his Conversions of old—leave a Reaper exhausted? Weak? Drained? Depleted of energy and strength? Unable to aid those who needed his help?
“Bastet, help me!” he pleaded with his goddess. “Please don’t let me lose her again!”
He had not expected the goddess to answer and wasn’t surprised when She didn’t.
* * * * *
Antonia lay unconscious, draped over Alyx’s shoulder as he carried her down the dark stairwell. He had realized he couldn’t risk a light for that would only lead his pursuers straight to them. He went slowly—testing the edge of each step with the toe of his boot—so he would not lose his balance and plunge them down the stone risers. Tapping the edge firmly, he stepped down carefully, making sure his heel was pressed tightly to the base of the step he’d just left. He kept one arm secured around her upper thighs and the other pushed to the cold fieldstone beside him. In his mind he kept running a litany as he prayed that Antonia remain unconscious until he’d taken them to the bottom of the stairwell. Her struggling could pitch them to their deaths. Unable to see, he had no idea how close or far he was from the bottom step. A fine film of sweat wetted his upper lip and ran down his temple. He blinked away the salt that dripped into the corner of his eye as it continued down his cheek.
The sound of the door at the top of the stairwell opening made him go as still as a statue. He held his breath as the light from a phosphor lamp chased away the ebon shadows and threw his shadow down the last six or so steps.
“There he is!” someone shouted and the tramp of boot heels descending was like an icepick to his brain.
Hurrying down the last few steps, he came to a skittering stop when he found his way blocked by laborers and an armed guard with a laser pistol.
“Halt!” the guard said uselessly and lifted the pistol. “Or I’ll shoot.”
Steps were thundering behind him.
Antonia took that moment to groan.
“No, no, no, no, no!” he hissed.
“Stop!” The command was sharp and filled with lethality.
Clay turned, looked behind him at the men double-timing it toward him down the stairs. He turned again to face the laborers and the laser pistol-wielding guard. Panic reached out to grip him with sharp talons. His eyes bulged with terror for as he whipped around once more, the man he saw striding toward him was Capt. Marcus Zoltán, Warwyck’s second-in-command and a man who hated him as much as Warwyck did.
“Put her down,” Zoltán ordered. The men behind him also carried laser pistols and the barrels were all pointing at Alyx, the red dots playing over his face.
“She is my wife,” Alyx snarled, his grip on Antonia’s legs tightening.
Zoltán shook his head. “You know fucking well she isn’t. Put her down before she gets hurt. I know you don’t want that.”
“I won’t let him have her!” Alyx shouted at the top of his lungs. “Better she be dead than in his hands again!”
Private Justin Murphy—the young guard standing with the laborers—was a smart man. He longed to advance up the ranks of the Modarthan Army. One day he wanted to be where Marcus Zoltán was now—second-in-command to a noble leader. Not having been born to a member of the upper class, that was the highest rank to which he could aspire but he meant to reach that level. Realizing how dangerous the situation was for General Warwyck’s lady-wife, he knew he was the only one among them who had the wherewithal to stop a tragedy before it happened. With the trespasser’s back to him as he shouted at Capt. Zoltán, Murphy took aim at Clay’s right thigh and pulled the trigger of his pistol.
Pain ripped through Alyx’s thigh and his leg buckled beneath him. He cried out, stumbled and as he began to crumple, Marc leapt forward and took hold of Antonia, wrenching her away from him. Alyx went down, fell to his side and doubled up with a shrill shriek of agony as he wrapped his fingers around the burning torment in his thigh.
Marc eased Antonia to the stone floor—draping her upper body over his right arm. In the low light he could see her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to gain consciousness. Shoving his other arm under her knees, he got to his feet, lifted her high against his chest.
“Bring that son of a bitch,” he ordered the men flanking him as he turned and headed for the stairs. “Let him escape at your peril.”
“Aye, Captain!” the men said in unison.
With one of his men leading the way with the phosphor light, Marc carried Antonia up the stairs. She had awakened and stiffened for just a moment before she realized whose arms held her. She put her own arm around his neck.
“Did you catch him?”
“Aye,” Marc said. He shifted her against him to make it more comfortable for her.
“Is he alive?”
“Unfortunately so.”
&
nbsp; She laid her head on his shoulder.
“Take him to Garrick,” she ordered in a tight voice.
“That was my intention,” he replied.
“Thank you for rescuing me, Marcus,” she said.
“It was my honor, milady.”
* * * * *
Alyxdair Clay struggled violently as he was held before the door behind which his mortal enemy lurked. His shouts, his pleading, his screams—and eventually his incoherent babbling—had no effect on the men who held him. As the door opened, urine flowed freely down his trouser leg when he saw the black wolf perched in the corner of the room.
“Compliments of every Modarthan man you sent to a torturous death,” Marc said as he and Oran flung the resisting prisoner into the room then slammed the door shut.
The last thing Clay saw were the sharp white fangs that revealed themselves when the wolf grinned.
Epilogue
Hand in hand, they strolled under the bright light of the New Moon. In the distance a loon called out over the waters of the silvery lake that arched to the north of Warwyck Castle. A light breeze flowed over and around them—kicking up the hem of her gown and tugging playfully at strands of her long hair. They were silent for he was still processing the words she had spoken to him an hour before. His hand tightened on hers.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he drew her to a halt beside him.
“As sure as I am about anything in this life,” she replied.
He looked out across the Moon-kissed meadow where stalks of wheat waved in the breeze. The raspy sound of the wheat blades rubbing against one another was in cadence to the chirp of crickets.
“I don’t know for how long it will be,” he said.
“It matters not,” she replied and withdrew her hand from his to slip her arm around his waist. She leaned in to him. “Where you go, I follow, milord.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.
“I know you didn’t.”
“And I can turn it down.” He tucked her under his arm.
“But you won’t,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t.”
He thought about that for a moment. The war was finally over and her people were now firmly under the rule of his. Her king was now nothing more than a figurehead, an iconic remnant of Volakisian law. The real power and authority over the planet would be in the hands of the Lord High Protector of the Commonwealth of Volakis—a fancy title that meant the man given it would, in effect, regulate the entire world.
“I’m a soldier,” he said. “Not a fucking politician.”
She laid her head on his chest. “I don’t believe your father considers you a politician, Ricky,” she reminded him. “And it is a great honor.”
“It will be a pain in my ass,” he grumbled. “All that courtly bullshit.” He waved his free hand around in a circle. “All that pomp and circumstance and…” He growled. “Bullshit. It stinks.”
“All bullshit does,” she quipped.
He looked down at her with a stern expression. “You know what I mean.”
“Of course, I do,” she said.
“The upside is I can bring your parents and sister home,” he mumbled.
“Aye, you will have the power to do that, won’t you?” she asked, hiding a smile against his shirt.
“I’ll have to bring that boy with them.”
“My little sister’s beau?” she queried. “That would be wise unless you want a very unhappy trio of females riding your ass.”
“I only want one female riding my ass,” he replied. “The thought of your sister and—the goddess forbid—your mother riding it is very unsettling.”
Her smile widened. “I’m sure it is.”
“I’ll have to find something for him to do,” he said on a long sigh.
“My sister’s fella?”
“Your father,” he groused. “But the fella too, I suppose. He isn’t going to freeload on your family until he and your sister take their vows. It’s going to be a fucking nightmare.”
“You poor man,” she said, caressing his chest. “The things you must endure for love of me.”
“Aye,” he said then sighed dramatically.
“Mayhap there is something that will help you endure this a mite better,” she suggested.
“I don’t see how anything will make this shit any better,” he snapped.
“Not even what shall be arriving in the spring?” she countered.
He pursed his lips. “What did you order now for the keep?” he asked. “You know we won’t be living here but in the capitol.”
“Not to worry. The item will be delivered to the palace,” she said.
“And how much did this item set me back?”
“A single sperm, I think.”
“Well, at least it didn’t cost me an arm and—” He stopped and his chin slowly tipped down until his rapidly blinking eyes were staring at her. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” she said smugly and squeezed his waist.
“You’re pregnant?” he whispered.
“Comes from all the fucking we’ve been doing of late,” she replied.
“You’re pregnant?” he asked again, a bit louder.
“As pregnant as pregnant can be.” She tilted her head up. “How’s them apples, milord?”
Tears filled his eyes. “You are going to have my baby?”
“Aye, well, it’s either yours or some mysterious nightly visitor who has been sneaking into our bedchamber and—”
She got no further for he slapped his arms around her and lifted her from the ground. His face beaming, his smile so wide it looked painful.
“You are having my son!” he crowed.
“Or daughter,” she corrected.
He swung her around, laughing as he turned. Her gown billowed out behind her.
“Ricky, you’re making me dizzy!” she said, laughing with him.
He quickly returned her feet to the ground but kept a strong embrace wrapped securely around her.
“You will be the most cosseted woman in all of Volakis,” he swore. “Pampered to within an inch of your sanity.”
“Or yours,” she mumbled against his chest.
“Goddess, woman!” he said, throwing his head back. “You have made me the happiest man in the Megaverse!”
“That was, of course, my sole intent,” she teased. “I gave little thought to how happy it would make me.”
He released her, stepped back and grabbed her hand. “Come, I need to tell Marcus!”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him she suspected Marcus already knew she was with child. He’d come across her twice now when she’d been relieving herself of the morning sickness. Though he had not asked, she had seen the gleam in his eye and the knowing smile he tried to hide.
All the way back to the keep she couldn’t help returning her gaze to the happy face of her husband. The moonlight was not solely responsible for the way his eyes glowed with green fire. She thought of his words to her in his tent that night so long ago.
“There’ll be no more escapes for you Antonia,” he’d said. “Ever again.”
She had no reason to ever escape him. He was the love of her life. The only man she would ever love. Her heartmate. Her soulmate. Her lovemate. Her lifemate. He was the epilogue to her life’s book and he would be the prologue. He was the last thing she thought of before taking to her bed in the mornings and the first she thing she thought of when she woke at night. He was the Wind beneath her wings. Her everything. She would love him until a day after forever.
And they had forever stretching out ahead of them.
About Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Charlee is the author of over eighty books. She was married 43 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, who passed away in 2009. She is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, the proud grandmother of Preston and Victoria and the giddy grandmother of great-granddaughter Amber Dawn. She is the reluctant house mother to seve
n obnoxious felines she believes are alien infiltrators from the planet Kys'r'azz Prime. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.
Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
Tell Us What You Think
We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email the author directly or you can email us at [email protected] (when contacting Customer Service, be sure to state the book title and author).
Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
30 Days to Syn
BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn
BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn
Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis IV anthology
Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology
Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction II anthology
Dancing on the Wind
Ghost Wind
HardWind
In the Arms of the Wind
Journey of the Wind
Kiss of the Wind
Passion’s Mistral
Prince of the Wind
Shades of the Wind
Shadowlord
WesternWind: Reaper’s Justice
WesternWind 1: WyndRiver Sinner
WesternWind 2: Reaper’s Revenge
WesternWind 3: Prime Reaper
WesternWind 4: Tears of the Reaper
WesternWind 5: Her Reaper’s Arms
WesternWind 6: My Reaper’s Daughter
WesternWind 7: Embrace the Wind
WesternWind 8: BlackMoon Reaper
WesternWind 9: Dark Reaper
WesternWind 10: Sins of the Reaper
WindVerse 1: Pleasure’s Foehn
WindVerse 2: Secrets of the Wind
WindVerse 3: Ardor’s Leveche
WindVerse 4: Prisoners of the Wind
WindVerse 5: Phantom of the Wind
WindVerse 6: Hunger’s Harmattan
WindVerse 7: Craving’s Chinook
WindVerse 8: Emperor of the Wind
WindVerse 9: WindChaser
DeliveredIntoHisHands Page 25