WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“After a sagart,” he replied. “A priest.”

  “You think they have one?”

  “Every town has a holy man,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “All I need is one to say the rightful words over us, no matter his religion.”

  “This is important to you,” she said, a bit surprised that a Reaper would feel he needed such a thing.

  “Very important to both of us,” he said, for he had taken as much from her thoughts. Her first marriage had been a sham, a simple going-through-the-motions affair. This one—the real thing and her last one—would be everything she desired it to be.

  He marched to the door, buckling on his gun belt as he did. A Reaper was never without his weapons. Flinging open the door, he stopped, turned and pointed a finger at her. “You stay put until I get back. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded, unable to do anything else. Long after the door closed behind him, she stared at it, completely amazed at the turn of events in her life.

  * * * * *

  People were lying scattered about the hotel lobby floor as Cynyr came down the stairs. A few were still awake and those turned uneasy eyes to him, looking away quickly when he glanced at them.

  “I need a priest,” he told the hotelman whose back was to him.

  “What the hell for?” the man snapped, and turned around only to stagger back when he saw who was speaking. He held up a hand as though the Reaper was about to cut him down. “Please, sir, I didn’t realize it was you who was—”

  “A priest,” Cynyr repeated, his eyes narrowed.

  “I could fetch Father O’Malley for you,” a youthful voice suggested followed by loud shushing.

  The Reaper turned and his hawk-like gaze zeroed in on the one who had spoken. A young lad of about fifteen was sitting up on a pallet, his mother and father flanking him, their nervous eyes locked on Cynyr.

  “I’d consider that a favor, young sir,” Cynyr said. “Would you be seeing to it as quickly as you can?”

  “Yes, sir!” Despite the tremor of his mother’s hand reaching out to stay him, the boy jumped up and headed for the door.

  “I’m in your debt,” Cynyr said, but his gaze was on the boy’s family. By then every person littering the floor was awake and trying not to stare at the Reaper.

  “Your lady hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, I’m hoping,” the hotelman said, trying to get back into the good graces of the bounty hunter. He bestowed a wavering smile on Cynyr as he turned around to glare at him.

  “I am hoping you didn’t charge these good folks to allow them to sleep on your hard, cold floor,” Cynyr said, locking his eyes on the hotelman and refusing to let the other look away.

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “There is an old Gaelach saying that goes Mídhílis an té a fhágann slán agus an bóthar ag dul i ndorcha.” Cynyr narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what that means?”

  The hotelman shook his head. “No, sir, I—”

  “Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens,” came the translation. “Do you know what that means?”

  “That I ought not to have charged them for sleeping on my floor?”

  “And?”

  The hotelman winced. “That I ought to give them back their money?”

  “And?”

  A pained look spread over the hotelman’s florid face. “I should give them a hot meal in the morning?” he asked, wondering where such an idea came from.

  “That would be most neighborly of you,” the Reaper proclaimed. He looked away from the hotelman and caught a few people smiling at him.

  The door opened and a grumpy old man wearing a wrinkled cassock came in shaking his umbrella. “Who’s dying?” he demanded, and when he saw the Reaper, came to a stop, his jowls wobbling. “Who the devil did you lash, boy?”

  “No one’s dying that I know of, priest,” Cynyr said. “You’re here to perform a Joining.”

  “The devil you say!” Father O’Malley exclaimed. “I’ll not be sanctioning any such thing without the proper—”

  “The lady is upstairs and waiting for you to say the words. If you’re not up to the task, I’ll find a man who is,” Cynyr cut him off.

  O’Malley drew himself up, his rheumy eyes narrowing to thin slits. “You watch yourself, boy. I may not be able to take you in a fight, but I can curse your evil soul to hell and back!”

  “You can do that later,” Cynyr said, and reached out to grip the old man’s arm. “All I need you to do is say the proper, legal words over my marriage and—”

  “Your marriage?” O’Malley shrieked, and jerked his arm out of Cynyr’s grip. His face turned white and he looked around at the nervous people scattered around the room. “You aren’t going to allow this travesty, are you?” When no one spoke, he turned around in a circle, spearing his parishioners with a sharp look. “You aren’t going to let him get away with forcing a decent woman into Joining with him, are you?”

  “Even when she wants to do it?”

  Every eye there jerked to the top of the stairs where Aingeal was standing in her flannel gown. She was looking at Cynyr and her face was glowing with a love everyone there could not miss.

  “He’s bewitched you!” O’Malley snarled. “Mesmerized you!”

  “No, Your Grace,” Aingeal said. “He’s merely loved me and loved me well.”

  Sputtering, O’Malley turned his outraged glare to Cynyr. “It is unheard of!” he grumbled. “Reapers do not marry!”

  “This one does,” Cynyr said. “Are you up to it or not, old man?”

  O’Malley’s eyes flared. “Old man?” he repeated, his jowls quivering. “The devil take you, boy!”

  “He got me a long time ago,” Cynyr said with a shrug.

  Aingeal started down the stairs, her bare feet quiet on the treads. Her nose was bright red from the cold but she was smiling so prettily everyone there smiled in reply.

  It would later be passed down from generation to generation what took place on the stairs of The Guthrie House that evening. A legend was born. Those who bore witness to the miracle that descended the red-carpeted steps, who never embellished one single detail, for no embellishment could outshine the true tale of the Reaper’s Bride.

  Walking slowly down the stairs, Aingeal barely felt the long flannel gown changing around her. The scent of gardenias drifted up to her and the faint scratch of lace along her throat let her know the movement of her lover’s arms had fashioned upon her the wedding gown of her dreams.

  The bridal gown fit her as though it was a second skin. Long lacy sleeves were gathered at the shoulders and tapered to a soft V at her wrists. A softly scooped neckline was adored with tiny seed pearls and the same pearls shone around the hem. The full skirt fell from a drop waistline to form a soft demi-train behind. An underslip of white satin showed through the lace covering the skirt and bodice. Upon her long hair was a shoulder-length veil that cascaded down her back from a lacy tiara. Edged with more seed pearls and the incandescent sheen of tiny diamonds, the veil had several satin appliqués of gardenia scattered down its length. Her feet were no longer cold and when she glanced down, she caught a glint of satin peeking from the hem of her gown and her smile widened.

  “You think of everything,” she thought, and warmth touched her mind.

  A bouquet of pink roses and white gardenias—not a flower to be found on the plains and one not seen by her in many years—trailed from her hands as streamers of white satin ribbon fell in a waterfall from the flowers.

  “Everything.” The thought touched her lightly and her heart swelled as something cool fell lovingly around her throat. Putting up one hand, she traced the edge of a choker she knew sparkled with diamonds.

  The people scattered about the hotel floor were on their feet, moving back from the stairs as Aingeal descended. They were alternating their stares from the beautiful woman in the remarkable dress to the black-clad warrior standing proudly at the foot of the stairs. Everyone there swore the uniform he wore was brand new, never worn. The
silk shirt fit without a wrinkle. The black leather tie was the exact same shade as his uniform britches and boots. Though the gun belt was slung low on his waist, he appeared to be dressed formally and a perfect match for his bride-to-be dressed so elegantly in white.

  “How about suitable attire for me?” Father O’Malley complained, and as the Reaper turned to him, the old man felt the weight of a chasuble settle upon his shoulders. He looked down and was astonished at the finery he wore. With a grunt, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. “Show-off,” he mumbled.

  Cynyr turned his gaze back to his lady and he was struck anew with her beauty. He was as nervous as a green youth as he waited for her to join him. His every instinct yelled at him to rush the stairs, jerk her to him and scream at the holy man to pronounce the Joining. His palms were itching at wanting to touch her so badly his teeth hurt.

  “Stop looking at her like she’s your next meal,” Father O’Malley warned. “You’ll scare the gal!”

  Glancing at the priest, Cynyr wanted to ram his fist into the old man’s booze-reddened nose. He had little respect or love for priests—and with good reason—but he kept himself in check. It was essential his Joining with Aingeal be done the right and proper way. Why he felt such a thing was so important, he couldn’t explain even to himself.

  Aingeal put out her hand and her lover stepped forward to claim it. Her flesh was hot and it concerned him. He opened his mouth to berate her, but she put her fingers lightly across his lips.

  “I’ll go directly back to bed when the ceremony is done,” she said.

  “When he carries you up yon stairs,” the priest corrected her.

  “Aye,” Cynyr said, his heart beating wildly at the thought.

  “Is there anyone here who objects to this man taking this pretty gal as his wife?” O’Malley called out.

  No one would have objected even if they’d had the inclination to do so, for the Reaper’s fierce frown swung over each of them.

  “I didn’t think so,” the priest mumbled. He looked at Aingeal. “Are you free to marry, gal?”

  “My husband had our marriage annulled by the High Council, Your Grace,” she said. “I am free.”

  The priest looked as though he would be the one to object, but one glance at the Reaper changed his mind. “All right. Do you take her as your wife?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you take him as your husband?” O’Malley asked, then held up a hand before she answered. “Think now. If this ain’t what you want, all you need do is say so.”

  “It is my most fervent wish, Father,” she said in a soft, gentle voice.

  O’Malley sighed loudly. “Then by the authority vested in me by the Holy Church and the High Council—”

  “Hold on!” someone shouted, and everyone gasped, turning to look at an old woman who hobbled forward, bent nearly double over a wobbling cane. “Can’t pronounce them yet, ye old fool!”

  Cynyr’s face showed his consternation, but as soon as the old lady reached them, she stood as straight as her crippled frame could and with one arthritic hand tugged at a ring on her other hand.

  “It was me Joining ring,” the old woman said as she pulled the golden band from her left hand. “Ain’t taken it off since the day it was put on me finger. Ain’t no need to take it to me grave, though.” She extended the ring to Cynyr. “You know what this is, don’t you, son?”

  The Reaper let go of Aingeal’s hand. “Aye,” Cynyr said softly as the old lady placed the ring in his palm. He knew the symbol well and looked down at the woman. “Are you sure you want to part with this, grandmother?”

  “Wouldn’t have given it to ye if I wasn’t,” she stated. Her eyes twinkled. “May ye know as much joy of her as me Noel did of me!”

  “Moira McDermott, hush!” the priest growled.

  “Póg mo thóin!“ Moira snapped.

  A few people who understood the old language chuckled and the priest’s face turned red, but he did not admonish the old lady.

  “Tell her the meaning of it, son,” the old woman said, her wrinkled lips pursed at the priest.

  Cynyr turned the ring so it was the correct way in his fingers. “This symbol ring is called a claddagh and it is as ancient as the hills.” He slipped it only as far as Aingeal’s first knuckle. “The heart is to signify our undying love for one another.” The ring went over her second knuckle. “The crown stands for our loyalty and lasting fidelity—one to the other—and the hands clasping the crown mean ours is not only a love but an enduring friendship.” He slid the ring with the crown, hands and heart facing Aingeal all the way on his love’s finger. “Worn in this fashion, it states to the world our love has been sealed and we belong one to the other.”

  Aingeal could not stop the tears that fell down her cheeks. She looked at the old woman and thanked her with eyes that spoke more than words could have said.

  “You’re welcome, lass,” Moira McDermot said and stepped back, waving her hand for the priest to continue. “They ain’t got all night, Willie!”

  Father O’Malley rolled his eyes. “I pronounce you husband and wife.” He frowned at Cynyr. “You have the right to kiss her,” he said.

  Cynyr was aware his hands were shaking as he put them on Aingeal’s cheeks. Her smile was so bright he was nearly blinded by it. His heart was thudding loudly and he wondered if she could hear it.

  “I love you,” she said, and realized it was true. How it could be when she’d known him barely twenty-four hours she didn’t know, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she heard the truth in them.

  “Love at first sight,” he said as he lowered his lips to hers.

  Every woman in the room sighed at that kiss. Despite the fact the man was feared, he was as handsome as any had ever known. The woman whose body was pressed to his was a beautiful little thing with light brown hair that swung to her small waist. Together, they were a delight to the eyes.

  Swinging Aingeal up in his arms, Cynyr headed for the stairs. He was surprised when applause rang out over the assemblage and he stopped to look back at those gathered. Aingeal’s head was on his shoulder, her arms around his neck and he felt as though he had won the greatest prize in the entire world. He smiled broadly, letting everyone there know the extent of his happiness then began to climb the stairs.

  Everyone in the hotel lobby had seen Reapers before. Some had actually spoken to the fierce bounty hunters, though none had ever had reason to be privy to a Reaper’s private life. Neither had anyone ever seen a Reaper smile, and it was an eerie sight that made the hairs stand-up on many an arm.

  “The gods help that poor girl,” some man said, but Moira McDermott swatted him on his arm hard enough to make the poor fellow wince.

  “The gods help any man foolish enough to try to take that gal from him,” Moira said. “He’ll fight to the death, he will.”

  Rain was pelting the window of their room when Cynyr carried his lady over the threshold and to their marriage bed. He laid her down gently and stood there gazing at the beauty that was now legally his. Her beauty made his heart ache and he wanted to tear the clothing from her and ravish her until they were both exhausted, but her cheeks were bright with color, her nose red and she looked as though it hurt for her to swallow.

  Aingeal sighed as he waved his hand over the wedding finery in which he’d garbed her and the soft flannel gown once more covered her. She was aching from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, but she wasn’t about to complain. She wanted her lover to consummate their marriage.

  “It has been consummated twice before, wench,” he said, swiping his hand over his own body to remove the dress uniform. In its place he was clad only in a pair of loose black silk trousers.

  “That is such a handy trick, Reaper,” she said, and winced at the gruff sound of her voice.

  “I’m going to have Guthrie make you another toddy,” he said, dragging the covers over his lady.

  “Can’t you conjure it?”

 
“You wouldn’t drink it if I did,” he said with a snort. “Some things a Reaper just can’t fashion.” He came around and sat down on the other side of the bed. He got under the covers with her and turned on his side to face her. She was staring at him with her forehead crinkled. “What?” he asked.

  “Not that I really want it, but I thought you were going to have the hotelman make me a toddy.”

  “He is doing it at this very moment,” Cynyr said. “He’ll bring it up when he’s finished, wondering all the while why he felt the need to do so.”

  Aingeal’s eyes widened. “You can do that even from a distance?” she asked. “Make people do as you bid?”

  “It’s all part of a Reaper’s bag of tricks, granted to him by the parasite,” he said, and yawned. It was late and of a sudden he was tired. Redirecting molecules took a lot out of him and he’d performed that feat too many times in the last twenty-four hours. He felt drained and needed rest. He also needed more Sustenance than the rabbit had provided for him that morning. What he needed was human blood, but he would not take it from the woman lying beside him. He recognized the tremor in his hands and knew he had to sate his addiction before Aingeal would be safe from him.

  There was a slight tap at the door and then it opened. The hotelman came in with a steaming mug. He brought it to Aingeal’s side of the bed and set it down on the night table. His glazed eyes slid over Aingeal and went unerringly to the Reaper.

  “Aingeal,” Cynyr said, turning to look down at her. When their eyes met, he told her to sleep.

  The command was soft but forceful. Aingeal’s eyes fluttered then closed.

  “Come here, Guthrie,” the Reaper ordered.

  Walking as though in his sleep, the hotelman came around to Cynyr’s side of the bed and knelt down, cocking his head to one side to give the Reaper access to his jugular.

  The hotelman’s blood tasted too much of gin but it was rich enough to satisfy Cynyr’s need. He took more than he should have from the man but by doing so he knew Guthrie wouldn’t be in any condition to pester the people who had been forced to take shelter in his establishment. After giving the greedy man a few subliminal orders, the Reaper dismissed him then woke Aingeal.