WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  The Ceannus—the immoral network of scientists who had brought the rogues to Terran shores—withdrew quickly when the first Reaper arrived. Leaving behind instructions on how the rogues could duplicate themselves, increase their numbers in order to overrun the human populace, the Ceannus fled back to their home world, fearful of being caught in the dragnet being cast out to capture the rogues. The Ceannus feared the High Council, for on that invincible commission of men were three Shadowlords—powerful psychics from far beyond the Terran galaxy—capable of searching out and finding even the most well-hidden rogue hiding on Terra.

  Just as the Ceannus had brought rogues to Terra, Morrigunia brought forth Reapers to track them down and remove them from Her adopted world. Creating for the Shadowlords a High Council from which to fairly govern, She meant to secure a peaceful, safe place for the long-suffering people of Terra. The Shadowlords were Her lawgivers, Her judges, Her jury. The Reapers were Her executioners.

  The Exasla Territory was in the very heart of Terra’s southern desert. It was a scorching place where scorpions scuttled across the burning sand and vipers slithered. The towns in the territory were few and far between, most nothing more than a few abandoned buildings with sagebrush rolling down the middle of the street—ghost towns that had not seen human inhabitants for many a year. Wind howled fiercely down the sandstone canyons where buzzards perched on twisted branches and coyotes skulked in search of a meal. Waterholes—speckled with the bleached bones of man and beast—had long since dried up. Miles upon miles of undulating heat rose up from the floor of the desert, making it a very inhospitable place.

  Cynyr was fiercely hot, his shirt plastered to his chest. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt swollen, his throat parched. The heat wafted over him in wave after wave, bearing down on his head and shoulders like a fiery weight. His mount was sluggish for he too was thirsty and feeling the brunt of the desert clime.

  The rogue he was after was called Khnum Jaborn and he had been brought to Terra from Akhkharu in the Diamhair Galaxy. To date, he had killed over a hundred humans and turned fifteen more into creatures like himself. Caspar Hul had been one of them. Of the fifteen the High Council had discovered, only one besides Jaborn still drew breath. Cynyr had taken out the other fourteen with the death of Hul and knew the fifteenth was in WyndRiver Pass. That was providing Jaborn had not transferred more parasites since the last time Cynyr had been given instructions by the HC.

  “He has not.” The three words came softly at him from far away.

  Cynyr took off his hat and armed the sweat from his brow. Salt was stinging his eyes and he was getting one of the vicious headaches Reapers had been cursed with. It throbbed over his right eye with a vengeance.

  “You took a woman to wife without asking.” The statement was said in a matter-of-fact tone with no censure evident.

  “I took what I wanted,” the Reaper said aloud. He was not about to ask forgiveness. His horse sidestepped beneath him.

  “Be careful, Cree.” It was a warning—clear and simple—but again there was no accusation in the timber of the Shadowlord’s voice.

  “I want to know where her first husband is,” Cynyr demanded.

  There was a long moment of silence then, “You don’t need to know.”

  He could feel the HC moving out of his mind and cursed. He was determined to visit Aingeal’s husband and wipe the man off the face of the earth for having sold Aingeal to the accursed Jakotai. If it was the last thing he did, he would make the man pay for all the suffering Aingeal had endured at Otaktay’s hands.

  At the thought of the Jakotai brave, Cynyr’s fangs exploded in his mouth and his eyes turned scarlet red. Knowing it wasn’t quite time for him to Transition, he rationalized his fury had brought out the violent exhibition. It took a measure of self-control for him to retract the fangs and clear the crimson rage from his vision.

  Slamming his hat back on his head, tugging it down to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, the Reaper nudged his mount with a gentle kick of his heels. Listlessly, Storm picked up his hooves and continued on, his head down as though the burdens of the equine world pressed upon his withers.

  * * * * *

  Aingeal was so hot she was delirious. Her head whipped back and forth on the pillow. She did not feel the cool cloth Moira McDermott applied to her forehead. The young woman was lost in a world of steaming heat and parching thirst.

  “Better dribble a bit of water down her gullet, Annie,” Moira told her daughter-in-law. She stepped aside so Annie could move to the bed.

  Gently putting a hand behind Aingeal’s neck, Annie McDermott lifted Aingeal’s head and let a slow trickle of cool water fall into her patient’s mouth. “By the gods but she’s fair to burning up, missus.”

  “She’ll be right as rain by the time her man comes back,” Moira prophesied.

  “If’n she ain’t, he’ll run this town red with blood, he will!” Annie said with a shudder.

  “He’s a fair lad,” Moira said with a purse of her wrinkled lips. “I’ve got faith in him.”

  Annie shook her head as she poured a bit more water down Aingeal’s throat.

  “How’s she doing?” Mick Brady asked when he poked his head in.

  “Gotta sweat the fever outta her,” Moira reported, and shook out another thick quilt over the semiconscious woman on the bed.

  Mick came on into the room. He had a concerned look on his face. “She’s going to be okay, though, right?”

  “Right as rain,” Moira repeated, tucking the quilt around Aingeal. “Won’t allow nothing else.”

  “I’ve got men stationed in the hotel,” Mick reported. “Surprised the juniper berries out of me that Guthrie allowed it.”

  “The lad would have seen to Guthrie,” Moira observed.

  Mick scratched the top of his head where no hair was growing. “Also got men scattered about town, watching for that brave. So far, there hasn’t been any sign of him.”

  “Nevertheless,” Moira said, “I’d feel better if’n ye was to give me a rifle or two to have handy.”

  “Missus, why?” Annie protested. “I don’t like guns.”

  “Don’t like ‘em, neither, but a woman needs protection,” Moira stated.

  “I’ll get you a repeater, Miss Moira,” Mick said, and couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips as he turned away. The thought of the little old lady shooting a gun at anyone made him want to laugh.

  Moira hadn’t missed Mick’s amusement. She’d caught sight of his face in the mirror over the dresser as he left. She sniffed. Nobody—not even her sass of a daughter-in-law—need know Moira McDermott could shoot out a rattler’s eye from fifty paces, failing eyesight be damned!

  “Cynyr!” Aingeal called out, thrashing at the covers holding her down. She tried to get up but Moira and Annie kept her on the bed.

  “Easy, child,” Moira said. “Your man’ll be back afore you know it.”

  Lost in her sweltering world, Aingeal whimpered. She seemed to know her husband was not close by.

  * * * * *

  Jaborn glanced up at the door to the whorehouse as it opened. Skittering sand came blowing in from the hot desert storm whipping up outside, but he didn’t need to see the apparition who stood framed in the doorway to know death had come calling. Scrambling for his gun belt, pulling out his six-shooter—fanning the trigger in a blur of motion— the rogue got off five shots before throwing himself off the settee and to the side, out of range of the Reaper’s whip. A crack of lightning snapped over the rogue’s head as he rolled away, singeing the curtains on the window and sending them up in a flash of flame. His bare feet skittering on the oak flooring, the rogue ran from the room, crashing through a window as a fiery lick kissed his backside.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jaborn roared, feeling the pain burning his ass. He tucked his head under and rolled away from the window, barely finding purchase in the dirt as he shot to his feet and ran. As he ran, he reloaded his six-shooter even knowing the bullets we
ren’t enough to take down a Reaper.

  Angered at having missed his target, Cynyr stalked the fleeing rogue, keeping the bastard in sight until Jaborn ducked into an alley. His left arm was at his side, the laser whip’s handle clutched in his fist. A thin trickle of blood was slowing at his waist where one of the rogue’s bullets had passed through Cynyr’s torso. He barely felt the pain, for the parasite was quickly healing the wound.

  The entrance to the alley was obscured for a moment as a cloud of dust blew across it. Sagebrush was hitting the Reaper’s legs as he walked and he had to kick some of it away. He felt—rather than heard—a bullet zing past his head and cursed himself for being careless. A headshot wouldn’t kill him, but it would sure as hell slow him down enough for the rogue to get away, to go to ground or possibly even do severe damage to Cynyr.

  Slipping to one of the buildings flanking the alley, Cynyr put his back to the wall and risked a quick look. Another bullet slammed into the wood right beside his cheek—splintering the wood and breaking off a piece that gouged into the Reaper’s jaw.

  “Jaborn!” he yelled, his temper high. “You don’t stand a chance!”

  “Lech le azazel, ya ben Zona,” Jaborn shouted in Akhkharulian.

  “I’ve been to hell, pig. Now it’s your turn,” Cynyr yelled back, using the one word he knew was the gravest of insults aimed at the rogue.

  Rapid gunshots hit the side of the building and the Reaper moved back, shielding his eyes from the flying splinters. Jaborn was shrieking in his own language and Cynyr knew they weren’t compliments to his heritage.

  From the one look he’d gotten of the alley, it was a dead-end. Jaborn was hiding behind a barrel, his arm resting on the top, waiting for his opponent to rush him. There was only one way into the alley.

  It was a stand-off for the time being, Cynyr thought. He looked up at the ceiling of the porch above him and knew the only way he was going to get Jaborn was to take him from the roof.

  Sheathing his whip handle, the Reaper lifted his leg and tugged at his boot. The spurs would give away his position. Barefoot, he stuck his head quickly around the corner once more and met with a hail of bullets that barely missed him.

  “Can’t you shoot any better than that, you son of a camel humper?” the Reaper shouted.

  “Stom ta jora!” Jaborn screeched.

  “You shut the fuck up,” Cynyr said softly as he took off his other boot. He moved down the porch, reached up, grabbed the timber which ran the length of the edge of the porch, stepped back and pulled himself up, swinging his legs so he could flip himself up onto the porch’s roof.

  “Kama ima shelha lokahat le laila?” he yelled to Jaborn, knowing the insult to the rogue’s mother would cause a violent reaction.

  Cynyr landed on his belly, the slight noise masked by another barrage of bullets plowing into the spot where he’d been standing. Jaborn was screaming now, the question of how much his mother charged for a night of sex infuriating him beyond rational thinking. Scaling the window on the second story, getting a toehold high enough that he could lever himself to the roof of the building, Cynyr crouched on the slippery slope, took out his laser whip and crept to the edge. He held the handle of the whip out to the side, his wrist circling in preparation for his trademark sidearm crack.

  Jaborn was reloading from the gun belt hanging over his shoulder. He was still shouting insults in his mother tongue and failed to see the Reaper poised on the incline of the roof above him. It wasn’t until the pop of the whip sang through the air that he looked up, his mouth open, eyes wide as the fiery lash cut a clean swath across his neck. There was a grunt as Jaborn’s head tumbled from his body, but he managed to squeeze off one last shot before he crumpled to the ground.

  * * * * *

  Moira was nodding beneath a thick comforter when the crash came. She jerked awake, her old eyes widening when she saw the Jakotai brave crouched amidst the scatter of broken glass on the floor. She watched the evil grin stretch across his war-painted face, saw him straighten up, a wicked knife clutched in his hand. Shouts were coming from the direction of the stairs but the brave didn’t seem to notice. He glanced at Aingeal asleep in her heated dreams then flipped the knife over in his hand, preparing to throw it at Moira.

  He never got a chance to try his aim, for Moira kicked the comforter aside, bringing up the repeating rifle Mick had reluctantly given her and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet slammed into Otaktay’s shoulder instead of the chest for which Moira was aiming. The force spinning him around, the brave hit the wall and bounced off it, smearing blood on the fading wallpaper. He snarled, looked toward the door that was opening and threw himself out the window. The clatter of his body hitting the porch roof below was loud with groaning timber and cracking wood.

  Mick rushed in, followed by the sheriff and two other men.

  “The window!” Moira yelled.

  By the time Mick got to the window, there was no sign of the brave. Yelling down to the men who had been assigned to watch the hotel, there was no answer and Mick feared the men had met a brutal end.

  “Is she all right?” Mick asked, looking to Aingeal.

  “Slept through the whole shebang,” Moira said. She pushed up from the rocking chair in which she’d been sitting. She staggered a bit but shrugged off the steadying hand of the barber. “Dirty, thieving bastard would have stuck me with his blade if I’d given him the chance.”

  “Board up this window,” Mick told one of the men. “Inside and out. I’m going to check downstairs.”

  “You be careful, Michael Brady,” Moira warned. “That one is insane.” She shuddered.

  Aingeal slept on, mercifully unaware of how close she had come to being taken by Otaktay. Her fever was still high but she was sweating and that was a good sign. By the time she woke an hour later, the men killed by the Jakotai brave were on their cooling boards at the mortician’s and there were men stationed just outside her door. Eying the boards over the window, she asked Moira what had happened.

  “Damned big hailstones hit this town, gal,” Moira said. It wasn’t a lie. She just didn’t answer Aingeal’s question. “Bad weather this year.”

  Aingeal stared at the boarded-up window. She saw a dark smear on the wallpaper and knew exactly what it was. She turned uneasy eyes to Moira.

  “Were any of the townspeople hurt?” she asked.

  Moira sighed. “Two men lost their lives to that heathen, gal, but there ain’t no need for ye to worry. We’re watching out for our Reaper’s lady.”

  Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes. Two good men had died protecting her and she felt the guilt of it all the way to her soul. As bad as she felt, she made it worse by turning her face into the pillow and crying as though her heart would break.

  * * * * *

  Cynyr was less than a mile from Haines City. Thirst had gotten the better of him and he’d stopped at the creek, letting Storm drink his fill while he squatted down to scoop water up in his cupped hand. His mind was on Aingeal, for he could feel her sorrow. It tore at him and drove deep into his heart. Something had happened but, whatever it was, he could not pull it from her mind, so strong was her grief.

  Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he started to stand when the pain shot through his back with such force, he went to his knees. The arrow hit him directly in the right kidney and burning agony rippled all the way through his body. Jerking around, pulling his gun as he did, he fired from the hip at the advancing brave running at him, his undulating cry meant to frighten and disorient.

  The first bullet hit dead center and the second went right between the brave’s flaring eyes. A surprised look flowed over the Jakotai’s face and he came to a dead stop. For a moment he wavered there then pitched forward to the ground, a tomahawk clutched tightly in his upraised fist.

  Cynyr fell to his left side, gasping as the pain doubled in intensity in his back. He could feel the parasite writhing within him and knew the revenant worm was hurt. Acid from the creature
’s maw of a mouth was pouring into Cynyr’s wound—scalding him, burning a pathway through his flesh. The nestlings were agitated, wriggling around, lashing their barbed bodies at his internal organs. Gasping, the Reaper reached behind him, scrambling for the shaft of the arrow. He got hold of it and clenched his teeth. With a howl of agony, he jerked the arrow free of his flesh and felt blood streaming down his hip.

  “Storm,” he whispered, and the horse perked up his ears. It moved over to him, nudging the Reaper with his nose. “Down, boy. Down.”

  Trained to do his master’s bidding, the big black lowered himself to his forelegs then folded his hind legs under until he was stretched out on the ground. He waited patiently as his rider dragged himself over the saddle. The scent of the Reaper’s blood made the mount uneasy, but he was well-trained and held his position until his master was lying atop him, hands clutched in his mane.

  “Up, boy,” Cynyr said, and steeled himself for the punishing pain he knew would come with the horse’s standing.

  Storm rose carefully, sensing the agony his master was in. The horse stood still, awaiting instructions.

  There was no way Cynyr could move his legs. He was in far too much pain. His whole insides felt as though they were being fried and he knew he was close to passing out.

  “Find Aingeal, boy,” Cynyr whispered. “Find our lady.”

  The beast snorted and very gently took a few steps. His ears twitched as though listening for further commands but his master lay motionless on his back, arms hanging down to either side of the long, elegant neck. With infinite care, the horse began moving until he was trotting at a brisk clip, his long stride eating up the distance.

  Chapter Seven

  Matthew Schumann was shoeing a horse when he heard the whinny outside his blacksmith shop. He straightened up as the whinny came again and let go of the roan’s foreleg. Walking to the door, he saw the big black standing there pawing the ground, its rider lying still on the broad back.