WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Do you think you will make a good resident of Haines City, Lord Cree?” Lord Naois questioned.

  Cynyr’s gaze shifted to that Shadowlord. “I would do my best, Your Grace.”

  “Then you have no objections to being assigned to the town?” Lord Dunham asked.

  “No, Your Grace. I have no objections.”

  The Shadowlords consulted amongst themselves for a moment then Lord Kheelan decreed Cynyr would be assigned to the town near the Exasla Territory.

  “With one provision,” Lord Kheelan stressed. He held Cynyr’s gaze with a look that made it clear to the Reaper the provision was of the utmost importance. “You must not—under any circumstances—make contact with or cause problems for—Donal Greeley.” At Cynyr’s look of puzzlement, the high commissioner reminded the Reaper of who the man was. “Your mate’s first husband.”

  Cynyr had long ago decided to make Aingeal’s husband pay for having cast her off, trading her for a brace of animals. That and the abusive way he had treated Aingeal while they were married had made for Donal Greeley a lifelong enemy in Cynyr Cree.

  “The High Council granted the annulment though we were unaware the man had such nefarious plans for his wife,” Lord Dunham said. “Had we known, we would not have agreed to the annulment.”

  “A good thing for you, though, wasn’t it, Cree?” Lord Naois asked. “Else you would not have been able to Join with the lady.”

  “You are to stay clear of Donal Greeley,” Lord Kheelan said. “Is that understood?”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Cynyr said, though every instinct screamed at him to demand vengeance in his lady’s name.

  “There are two other matters which we will need to address before you return to Haines City, but for now, that is all,” Lord Kheelan said. “You are dismissed.”

  Cynyr quickly saluted the Shadowlords then pivoted on his heel and marched to the door, Arawn Gehdrin right behind him. As he passed the other five Reapers, he was relieved to see respect in their eyes and not censure.

  Aingeal was waiting outside the High Council chamber when Cynyr came out. She would have run to him but the stern look on his face pulled her up short. She came sedately forward, wringing her hands as she searched his face for signs of what punishment he would be made to undergo.

  “Mo tiarna?” she questioned so softly, her voice was nothing more than a breath of sound.

  “I have some good news and some bad news, wench,” Cynyr said. “Which do you want first?”

  Aingeal’s face fell. “The bad.”

  “Aye, well, the bad is the Council has decreed you watch my punishment,” he said as though the matter was of little import to him.

  “W-what kind of punishment?” she asked.

  “The good news,” he said, ignoring her question, “is they have decided we may stay together and have reassigned me to live in Haines City.”

  Aingeal’s eyes widened. “Truly?” she gasped.

  “It seems the good citizens of that city requested Cree’s presence, though for the life of me, I can’t imagine what he could have done to cause such affection for himself,” the Prime Reaper said, his grin belying the severity of his words.

  “He’s a good man!” Aingeal snapped, raking her eyes over the tall man at Cynyr’s side. “Why would they not want him?”

  Gehdrin’s eyes flashed at her ready defense of her mate and he reached out to slap Cynyr on the back. “You’ve a hellion far worse than any revenant worm with which to contend, Cree. I don’t envy you, brother.”

  The other Reapers chuckled at the remark and Aingeal turned a withering glare to them.

  “You will need to report to Level One within the hour, Cree,” the Prime Reaper said, the smile slipping from his handsome face.

  “Aye, milord,” Cynyr agreed.

  “What is Level One?” Aingeal asked.

  “The lowest part of this building. It is where the Containment Cells are located.”

  “Containment…? What are they going to do to you?” Aingeal demanded. She paid no attention to the other Reapers as they walked off.

  “I am to be imprisoned for—”

  “What?” she shouted.

  “For a month, wench,” Cynyr said, glancing up at the Reapers who had turned at the outburst. “Only a month then we’ll be allowed to return to Haines City and Moira McDermott’s god-awful grits.”

  Something in her lover’s face unsettled Aingeal, and she tried to slip past his guard and read the sentence in his mind, but he was blocking her just as the lead-lined walls behind which the High Council met had blocked her ability to hear what was transpiring in the chamber.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Reaper?” she asked, her heart racing.

  He reached for her hands and lifted them to his chest, holding them captive against his heart. “Wench, I broke a Council rule by taking you to mate without permission.”

  “Would they have granted that permission?” she snapped.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I also broke Council law by Transferring one of my parasites to you. That is the reason for my punishment, and I am prepared to meet that punishment as it is meted out.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “You, as my wife, must be prepared to stand beside me no matter how you feel about the sentence.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

  Cynyr took a deep breath. “My stay in the Containment Cell must be without Sustenance or tenerse,” he stated.

  “But you’ll Transition,” she said.

  “Aye, I will.”

  At first she didn’t understand why such a sentence would be punishment. Reapers Transitioned four times a year, more if they made themselves change. Then she thought perhaps it was because she was to be a witness to his changing and he did not want her to view the shape-shifting.

  “I don’t see—” she began, but he laid his finger across her lip.

  “When you Transition, it is generally for the space of a week. Rarely do we go beyond eight days,” he said. “During that time, most of us are either on assignment and change out amongst animals from which we can feed or we lock ourselves in a place where we can not harm any stray humans. If we’re roaming free, tenerse isn’t a priority because we are feeding the parasite what She needs. We take tenerse only to control the Transition to keep us from shifting out of cycle.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “You have experienced what it is like to need the tenerse,” he said gently. “You know how uncomfortable it can be when the parasite is demanding to feed.”

  She nodded slowly, beginning to suspect what he was about to say.

  “You have seen the pain I had when I needed to feed.”

  “Oh, Cynyr!” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “No.”

  He was being bombarded by her misery, for the reality of his situation was being brought home to her.

  “I can handle it, wench,” he said, gathering her to him.

  “I’ll go to them! I’ll talk to them,” she said, trying to pull free of him but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “And shame me before them?” he asked quietly. “Have them think I sent my woman to plead my case?” He shook his head. “No, wench. You’ll stand by and watch me take my punishment and not show the first sign of weakness. You are not only a Reaper’s mate, you too are a Reaper now.”

  She wanted to rail against the men who were forcing her love to go through impending torment. Her minor discomfort when she’d needed tenerse had not seemed particularly bad but she could well imagine what it was going to be like for Cynyr to spend an agonizing four weeks in the throes of such suffering.

  “Don’t dwell on it, wench,” he said. He kissed her on the top of her head then released her. He stepped back. “Now, smile for me before I go.”

  “Cynyr…” she began her face pinched with misery.

  “Smile for me,” he bid again, and when she managed to do so tremulously, he chucked her under the chin, turned and walked away, l
eaving her standing in the corridor, her heart in her tearful eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aingeal was sitting despondently in the center courtyard when Arawn Gehdrin found her. He had been dispatched by the High Council.

  It had been well over three weeks since she had last seen her husband and every waking hour, every sleepless night was an agony for her. At first, she had tried to deny herself both the Sustenance and tenerse that had been provided for her, but had been unable to endure the building pain. She was angry that she was such a weakling and could not go more than a day without taking the substances.

  She had felt the Prime Reaper coming but chose not to speak to him. As he came to stand beside the long marble bench upon which she was seated, she didn’t bother to glance up at him or acknowledge his presence.

  “They say we’re going to have an early winter this year,” the Prime Reaper said as he put a foot on the bench and leaned an elbow on his crooked knee. “It’s good you’ll be out of here long before the snow flies.”

  “I am accustomed to snow, Lord Arawn,” she said.

  “I’d never seen snow before I came here,” he said. “On Rysalia, the climate is always temperate. I’ve been here over twenty years and have yet to accustom myself to it.”

  “You can get used to anything if you but try.”

  Arawn looked out over the beautiful lake where geese were lazily paddling across the glassy surface. The cherry trees were bare of fruit now, but the memory of them in full bloom—when they were at their most majestic beauty—always delighted him. The petals falling to the ground like snow and floating upon the lake water was a sight that never failed to calm him.

  “Why have you sought me out?” Aingeal asked, fearing she knew the answer.

  “The Shadowlords have sent for you.”

  “They are going to let me see him now?” She’d tried several times to get in to see the High Council but had been turned away, the last time with a stern warning not to come again until sent for.

  “Aye,” Arawn said quietly. “His Reaper brethren will accompany you to Level One.

  Aingeal was watching a family of geese waddling past. She’d brought bread crumbs with her each time she’d come to the courtyard, but now her bag was empty and the geese paid no attention to her.

  “I am carrying his child,” she said.

  “We know.”

  There was no need for Aingeal to ask how the Reapers and Shadowlords knew. They were as adept at reading minds as she was becoming. Rarely, though, did she use her newfound ability, for others’ thoughts were their own and she did not like to intrude. Some minds—like that of the man standing beside her—were closed and locked against her probing.

  “Is our child to be taken from us?” she asked, her hands twisting in the bag on her lap.

  Arawn turned his face toward her. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  Aingeal shrugged. “It seems Cyn and I have little say over our lives. Nothing the High Council does would surprise me.”

  The Prime Reaper was silent for a moment then skirted the bench and came to sit down beside her. “Aingeal, yours will be the first Reaper son born on Terra since before the War. The High Council is as delighted as my men and I are.”

  Aingeal looked around at him, her face showing her surprise. “I forgot Cyn had said there were Reapers here before the War,” she said.

  “Half a dozen or so,” Arawn answered. “They and their families were evacuated before the War started.”

  “Did they run?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Morrigunia swept them up and took them away along with those who were close to them. It was Her decision to do that, not the Reapers’. I am told my brethren were quite furious that She had not allowed them to remain on their adopted world to help rebuild it.”

  “She knew what was going to happen?”

  “She is the goddess of Life, Death and War. She knew.”

  “Where are the Reapers now?”

  “No one but the Triune Goddess knows, but I suspect wherever they are, they are safe. They earned their rest whether they thought so or not.”

  “To be a Reaper is not to be the captain of your soul,” Aingeal said quietly.

  “It sometimes feels that way,” Arawn agreed.

  The two were silent for a moment. Aingeal—though anxious to see her husband—was afraid of what it was she’d see. She had gloried in her own Transition and found it exhilarating. Despite the pain of her shifting, she was looking forward to her next cycle.

  “He most likely will not know you,” Arawn said. “He will be more animal than man and in a great deal of pain.”

  “Don’t,” she said, and stood up. She let the bag fall to the ground as she crossed her arms protectively over her chest.

  Arawn stood up as well. “I am only trying to prepare you for what you’ll see, my lady.”

  “There is no need,” she said, lifting her head. “I’ve imagined the horror of it many times over the last few weeks.”

  “I am sure you have.”

  She took one last look at the tranquility of the lake then began walking back toward the building, Arawn falling into step beside her. He kept glancing at her, for she was walking with her arms still wrapped around her in a position of withdrawal and defense.

  Bevyn Coure, Owen Tohre, Phelan Keil, Glyn Kullen and Iden Belial were waiting just inside the door when Arawn opened it for her and ushered her inside. The men were attired in the dress uniform of the Reapers—black silk shirt, black leather ties, britches and boots. She nodded at the Reapers but did not speak. Bevyn came to stand beside Arawn as his second-in-command.

  “You are one of us, Lady Aingeal,” Arawn said. “Not only a Reaper’s mate but a Reaper in your own right. Each of us is pledged to protect you and defend you as one of our own. We are here for you.”

  Aingeal nodded. She was aware Kullen and Belial had slipped in behind her, Tohre and Keil standing to either side of her. Arawn and Bevyn were in front of her.

  “Are you ready?” Arawn asked softly.

  She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. Her stomach was queasy, a lump sitting in her upper chest, her blood pounding furiously through her veins. She could feel sweat gathering in her palms and uncrossed her arms to run her hands on the skirt of her gown. The moment she touched the muslin, she frowned then met Arawn’s gaze.

  “I haven’t learned the art of rearranging materials around me, Lord Arawn,” she stated. “Would you do it for me?”

  Arawn frowned but then realized what she was asking. He bowed slightly then waved his hand at her. The black outfit formed on Aingeal like a second skin and she raised her head proudly.

  “Now I’m ready,” she said.

  The Prime Reaper smiled at her.

  Walking with the two highest-ranking Reapers before her, one at each side and two following behind, Aingeal felt invincible. She could feel their support and that made her feel somewhat better. Though her nerves were screaming at her and she could feel sweat trickling down her neck, she was determined not to show the first hint of fear or despair when she was faced with the sight of her husband’s misery.

  The three Shadowlords were waiting for her when she and the Reapers came down the stairs to the building’s lowest level. Attired in the dark gray robes of their position, they were an imposing sight. They were standing before a metal plate centered in the rock wall and as she approached, they moved to stand to either side of the six-foot-by-six-foot plate. A fourth man dressed in white stood off to one side.

  “Lady Aingeal Cree reporting as ordered, Your Graces,” Arawn stated, and both he and Bevyn stepped aside, allowing Aingeal to come up between them.

  “Lady Aingeal,” the man Aingeal knew must by the high commissioner greeted her. “I wish it was under different circumstances that we meet.”

  Grinding her nails into the palm of her hand, Aingeal nodded to the tall man. She had decided long ago she would not grovel before him or the other Shad
owlords, nor would she give them anything more than a cursory respect.

  Lord Kheelan’s left eyebrow crooked upward as he plucked her mutinous thoughts from the ether. He knew his fellow Shadowlords had intercepted her feelings—and most likely the Reapers as well—but he chose not to reprimand her for her insolence. He introduced himself then the two men beside him and finally the healer who bowed respectively to Aingeal.

  “Lord Cree’s punishment will end in a few days,” the high commissioner said. “You and he will be free to return to Haines City.”

  “When he is able to travel,” Lord Naois stated.

  Aingeal’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes were riveted to the high commissioner. She wanted to get on with it so she could go back to her room.

  Lord Kheelan asked his fellow Shadowlords to raise the metal panel.

  Aingeal tensed, tearing her attention from the high commissioner to look at the panel. Lords Dunham and Naois were pulling on ropes that were attached to the top of the panel. Slowly, the metal sheeting moved upward to reveal thick iron bars—at least the diameter of a large man’s arm—embedded in the stone wall in a grate pattern.

  Almost as soon as the panel was completely raised and the grid work in full view, a howling unlike anything Aingeal could have imagined rent the silence. She flinched despite her resolve not to show any sign of her nervousness. She could see another grid-work barrier identical to the first beyond the first grating with the space of five feet or more between the two sections. It was upon that second grid that the creature leapt—clinging to the bars with sharp, yellowed claws wrapped around the thick iron. Misshapen feet pressed against the bars as the being inside the Containment Cell swung on the bars, yanking at them with such force the thick iron rattled in its slots.

  Covered head to toe in a coarse matting of thick brown fur, Cynyr Cree hung there on the bars, snarling, his black leather muzzle pulled back from sharply pointed fangs. Salivating as he pulled against the iron, thrusting one clawed hand through the bars in an attempt to reach his watchers. His crimson eyes glowed with fury, spreading a dark red glow on the metal. His growl was vicious, insane, but when he stilled long enough to take in the woman watching him, he let out a pitiful yowl and dropped from the bars, his thick claws scratching against the stone floor as he scrambled to the corner of the cell and cowered there, hiding his face against the wall.