WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “No, my love,” Aingeal said, completely unaware of the men surrounding her. “Never hide from me.”

  The creature was whimpering, scratching at the stone wall as though attempting to dig himself a hole into which he could crawl. He was hunched in upon himself, trying to make himself as small as he could.

  “He recognized her,” Bevyn said, turning to Arawn with a surprised look. “He’s ashamed of how he looks.”

  The piteous moans and groans coming from the creature—not to mention the wild feral smells wafting from the cell—disturbed every person there and Lord Kheelan ordered the panel shut.

  “I am waiting for you, Cynyr!” Aingeal called out as the panel slid down to hide the bars. “I am here, beloved!”

  A mighty howl reverberated from behind the metal panel.

  Aingeal spun around and fixed the high commissioner with a look that would have frightened a normal man. “How much longer is he going to have to suffer at your hands?” she snarled.

  The Prime Reaper stepped forward and took her arm, refusing to release it when she jerked on his hold. “Lady Aingeal,” was all he said, but carried in those two words was a warning.

  Lord Kheelan was looking at the female Reaper with what everyone there except Aingeal recognized as compassion. Although he had ordered her to be there to see her husband’s punishment, it seemed he might be regretting it.

  “Three more days and—”

  “No,” Aingeal said, shaking her head furiously. “You end it today!”

  Arawn pulled on her arm. “Lady Aingeal, you can not—”

  “Now!” Aingeal shouted, her eyes flaring. “You end it now!”

  Everyone there expected Lord Kheelan to reprimand the woman, but the Shadowlord did not. He was staring at the brutal hatred stamped on Aingeal Cree’s face. It was obvious to them all that the high commissioner had earned for himself an enemy who would never forget what he had done.

  “You end it now,” she repeated, her voice low and full of contempt.

  Not once in all the years Kheelan Ben-Alkazar had possessed the immense powers of a Shadowlord had he faced anyone he could not intimidate simply by a look. Such was his control over those around him, all it took was a mere glance to turn men’s bowels to water and their resolve to putty in his hands. It was a novelty for him to be facing anyone—and especially a woman, a member of the supposedly weaker sex—and have that person stand up to him with not even a flicker of fear showing. Never in his lifetime had he even entertained the notion of standing down to another’s demands but—he reasoned as he looked at Aingeal Cree—there was always the first time.

  “Desden,” the high commissioner said and the healer hurried to his side. “Prime the rifle with a tenerse dart and have Sustenance brought for Lord Cynyr.”

  “He’ll need more than the normal dosage,” Arawn stated, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amazement at the high commissioner giving in to Aingeal’s demand.

  “Aye, give him as much as you think he’ll need,” Lord Kheelan agreed. He would not look at Aingeal now.

  “That’s more than will fill one dart, Your Grace,” the healer protested. “I will need at least four large darts full of a week’s portion each and—”

  “Get us rifles and we’ll take care of it,” Arawn interrupted the healer.

  “You are going to shoot him?” Aingeal asked. “I don’t want you to do that.”

  “No one can go in there to administer the drug,” the Prime Reaper said.

  “I can,” Aingeal said.

  “No, Lady, you can not. He—”

  “Can you put as much tenerse as you will need into one vac-syringe?” Lord Kheelan cut him off.

  The healer bit his lower lip. “Aye, Your Grace, but—”

  “Then fill the vac-syringe and let the Lady go to her husband.”

  “No!” every man there—except Lord Kheelan—yelled in unison.

  “She thinks she can control him, let her do so.”

  Arawn pulled Aingeal around to face him. “Lady, listen to me. He is not your husband at this moment. He is a wild animal, a savage creature who—”

  “Who will not attack me,” Aingeal said.

  “Lord Gehdrin, stand aside!” Lord Kheelan ordered, his voice terse.

  Though his face showed his reluctance to do as he was told, the Prime Reaper let go of Aingeal and moved back. His fellow Reapers stayed where they were although each of them looked as though he was filled with rage.

  Though he glanced at Lord Arawn, the healer hurried to fill the vac-syringe as he’d been ordered. His medicine cart was only a few yards down the corridor and he was back quickly, the instrument in his hand. He held out his palm with the vac-syringe lying across it to Aingeal. “Milady, are you sure about this?” he inquired breathlessly.

  Aingeal took the vac-syringe. Without a backward look, she went to the door to the Containment Cell and waited for it to open.

  “I want to go on record to state I think this is a very bad idea,” the Prime Reaper said.

  “So noted,” Lord Kheelan agreed. He motioned for the cell door to be unlocked.

  It was Bevyn who joined Aingeal at the door and began pulling the locking pins from the locks.

  There were triple locks across the heavy iron door—one at the top, one in the middle and one along the bottom. Thick hasps held the locks in place and each was secured by a long, sturdy bolt attached to a chain.

  “There is a barrier between this door and the one to Lord Cree’s cell. It will be up to you to unlock his door,” Bevyn told her. “Once you are past this door, give us time to place the Sustenance on the floor before you attempt to unlock his cell. This door will be locked behind you.” He paused with his hand on the last rod. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “He won’t hurt me, Lord Bevyn. Just open the door.”

  “My lady, he normally would not but in the state he’s in—”

  “I am not afraid of him,” Aingeal said.

  The healer and Phelan Kiel stepped forward with several bottles of red liquid.

  Bevyn pulled the last rod from its hasp and opened the first door. He stepped aside to allow Aingeal into the barrier and waited for the healer and Phelan to carry in the Sustenance and set it down against one wall. As soon as the men were out of the barrier space, he shut the door, closing Aingeal in.

  Aingeal’s heart was racing and she could hear snuffling at the bottom of the door she was facing. She knew her mate could smell her for he was scratching at the panel separating them, growling low in his throat.

  “I have your tenerse, mo tiarna,” she said softly. “I am coming in to administer it to you.”

  She jumped back at the shrieking howl that rent the air around her. Cynyr was pounding on the door, running his claws down it in shrill streaks that hurt her ears. The heavy iron portal was dented in several places and as she watched, several more concavities formed in the door as he hammered against it.

  “I am going to unlock this door and—”

  A savage yowl came from behind the door—a denial if she’d ever heard one. Vicious crashes against the portal made it clear to her Cynyr did not want her to enter his cell. He was doing his best to intimidate her, scare her, but Aingeal was not about to allow him to succeed.

  “I am unlocking the door, mo tiarna.”

  Outside the barrier and outside door, the Shadowlords, Reapers and the healer stood transfixed. Lord Kheelan had ordered the panel raised so they could see what was happening inside the cell. At first they could not see Cynyr for he was tearing into the door separating him from his mate, trying his best to frighten her, but then they saw him lurch back, away from the barrier door and once more plaster himself to the far wall, his face pressed into the corner, hiding it from his lady.

  “Why would she do this?” Lord Naois asked.

  “Le searc air,” the Prime Reaper said.

  Lord Naois—a Serenian—looked to the high commissioner for the translation.
/>   “For love of him,” Lord Kheelan said softly.

  Aingeal had entered the containment cell. The men could see she was trembling, but not once did her footsteps falter as she walked to her crouching mate. She knelt down beside him and put a hand on his furred shoulder.

  What was left of the human inside Cynyr Cree flinched at that touch. It struck him like a bolt of lightning and he whimpered, pressing himself tighter into the corner.

  “Taim’ ngra leat,” Aingeal said in Gaelach then repeated it in Terran. “I love you.”

  The creature that was her husband moaned loudly and those watching saw him shudder violently. His claws were scratching at the two walls flanking him, putting long grooves in the rocky surface.

  Aingeal moved her hand to Cynyr’s neck and felt for the wild pulse into which she knew she needed to inject the tenerse. He hissed at her, but did not move as she put the needle to his skin and released its fiery payload into the thick, furry neck.

  Instantly the creature shrieked in pain and lashed out, knocking Aingeal down as he jumped to his feet and slammed into the iron bars. He grabbed the thick columns and hopped up on it as he had the first time and yanked with all his might.

  “Is she hurt?” Bevyn asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Arawn answered. He wasn’t looking at the wild, savage brute jerking against the bars but at the woman who pushed up from the floor and turned to look at her mate. He saw her sweep away a lock of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand then slowly get to her feet.

  Those watching the monster swinging on the bars could see lethal intent on that black leathery face. His lips were peeled back from fangs dripping with saliva and he was howling his rage. The scarlet gleam from his bulging eyes spoke words his animal mouth could not—he was glaring defiance and pure fury at his tormentors.

  “If he could get his hands on you, Kheelan, he’d strangle you,” Lord Dunham said.

  “No,” the high commissioner replied. “He’d tear me apart.”

  “Look at his hands,” Arawn said.

  The claws were still extended from the ends of the creature’s hands but the fur was dissolving, seeping back into his flesh. The same was true of his feet as he braced the soles against the bars as he hung on the grid work. He was still salivating profusely but the red gleam was softening in his fierce glare and his fangs were receding into his gums.

  Aingeal came toward her mate, her hand outstretched. “Mo tiarna,” she said.

  The creature dropped from the bars and turned to confront her. His arms were raised over his head, his claws extended as though he intended to attack her but then he scuttled off to one side, slamming his back into the wall and sliding down it with a grunt.

  Aingeal watched him as he raised his knees and hid his face in the shelter of his arms. He was whimpering from the pain of the tenerse invading his system. She went to him and squatted down in front of him, putting her hands on arms that were no longer thick with pelted fur. She pulled his arms aside and wedged herself between his legs, slipping her hands around his waist.

  Cynyr was by now more man than beast and his shame knew no boundaries. He let his head fall to his lady’s shoulder and he wept bitterly, the second time he had cried so harshly since he was a young boy.

  “I know, beloved,” she said, soothing his back where the raised scars pulled at his flesh. “I know.”

  He wrapped his arms around his lady and held on to her. His blood was on fire with the powerful drug racing through it but, with her against him, he could hold at bay the agony that threatened to shatter his sanity. The creature was bunching up along his back—causing untold misery—but that pain hurt no worse than the thought of Aingeal seeing him as he’d been.

  “Someone bring him the Sustenance,” Aingeal asked.

  It was Lord Arawn who hastened to do as she’d bid. He unlocked both doors and carried in four of the six bottles that had been left for Cynyr. He hunkered down beside Aingeal—careful not to touch her, for her mate had raised his head and hissed at the other Reaper’s nearness to his lady—and held out one of the bottles. He tried not to look at Cree’s nakedness as the Reaper jerked the Sustenance out of his hand but the white scars that lapped at the man’s chest and shoulder could not be ignored.

  “Leave us, Lord Arawn,” Aingeal asked.

  “Would you like me to provide him with clothing, Lady?” Arawn asked.

  “He’ll do that himself when he’s ready,” she replied.

  Arawn nodded and stood up. He was a bit nervous about turning his back on the other man but did so, feeling the searing weight of Cynyr Cree’s anger between his shoulder blades.

  Once outside the cell, Lord Kheelan told them all to leave. “Let the Crees be alone.”

  Aingeal sat down beside her mate but did not stare at him as he swilled down bottle after bottle of the Sustenance, flinging them aside as he was finished with them. She waited until he had drained the fourth bottle before getting up and retrieving the other two from the barrier. She brought them back to him and handed him the first one.

  Cynyr had a wild smell about him that was very unpleasant and he seemed to know it for he moved away from his lady, putting distance between them. He was still in a great deal of pain but the Sustenance was helping to control the parasite and the demonic thing was no longer bunching up under his flesh.

  “I read the letter the townspeople sent to the High Council,” Aingeal said in a conversational tone of voice. “It was very touching.” She was plucking at the side seam of her boot. “Everyone is eager for us to return.”

  Cynyr wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he was through with the last bottle. He was craving more of both addictions—the Sustenance as well as the tenerse—but he needed his lady’s touch even more. Despite the horrid smell that clung to him, he laid down and put his head in her lap.

  His hair was filthy, the strands clumped with oil, and he needed a shave, which surprised her. Not once in all the time they had been together had she seen him shave. She ran her fingertips over the rough stubble. “I kinda like this,” she said, and heard him grunt.

  It was difficult for him to form words yet. He had spent nearly four weeks in a state of beastliness that had taken away nearly every vestige of his humanity. Even his dreams were that of a creature. Only the thought of Aingeal waiting for him kept insanity at bay.

  She stared down at his profile and was struck again with what a handsome man her lover was. His dark hair was thick and curled lightly around the nape of his neck and she was grateful he had allowed her to give him a haircut before he had met with the High Council. His nose was perfectly masculine. His lips were full and she ached to place her mouth upon his. Tracing the arch of his left brow, she saw him turn his amber eyes until he was gazing up at her.

  “I love you, Cynyr Cree,” she said, and smoothed the sideburns that ended at the lobe of his perfect ear.

  He grunted again and she could tell he was having trouble swallowing. She moved her fingers to his neck and lightly stroked the column of his throat from Adam’s apple to the sensuous notch at the top of his sternum.

  His left arm was curled around her thigh as he laid there with his head in her lap, holding her to him. He was curled up in a fetal position and it was only a few moments more when she heard him lightly snoring, his tired, abused body giving in to the rest he needed to heal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They stood side by side before the High Council, awaiting the pleasure of Lord Kheelan. He glanced at the Reapers lined up behind Cree and his lady and hid an amused smile. The Reaper Brethren were there in support of their own.

  “Did you have a good night’s rest last eve, Lord Cynyr?” the high commissioner inquired.

  “Aye, Your Grace. I slept like a baby.”

  “And you, Lady Aingeal?”

  “Very well, thank you, Your Grace.”

  “You enjoyed your bath? I’m told you stayed in the tub for nearly two hours.”

  Cyn
yr almost smiled. “It was very relaxing, Your Grace.”

  “You Reapers do love your baths,” Lord Naois commented.

  “Is there anything about your room you would change, Lady Aingeal?” Lord Dunham asked.

  “Oh, no, Your Grace,” she was quick to say. “Everything was perfect.”

  “You will always have quarters here in the Citadel, as each Reaper does,” Lord Kheelan told the Crees. “We have yet to meet the lovely Lea, Lord Bevyn’s mate, but perhaps when next you visit us, she will be here as well.”

  “Let us hope the next visit that brings together our Reapers will be a joyous occasion,” Lord Dunham observed. “Will you bring the babe back to present him to us?”

  Cynyr had yet to come to grasp with the idea of becoming a father. Aingeal had not had to tell him, for he had sensed it the moment he had come to himself in the Containment Cell. He had stared up at her with shock. “A babe?” he had questioned.

  “That’s what comes of doing the things you do to me, mo tiarna,” she replied.

  The Reaper winced. “Stop calling me that,” he said. “Please?”

  Aingeal had sighed. “All right. How ‘bout I call you my widdle dumplin’ wumplin’?” she asked sweetly, batting her eyes.

  Cynyr narrowed his. “I think not, wench.”

  “You’re no fun, Reaper,” she protested.

  “You want something to call me?” he’d asked. At her nod, he said, “Mo shearc. It simply means ‘my love’.”

  “Mo shearc,” she said, trying it out. “All right. Mo shearc it is.”

  “A babe,” he had whispered.

  “Are you angry?”

  “No!” he said, grabbing his lady and spinning her around, his face bright. “I am thrilled!”

  “Lord Cynyr?” Lord Dunham asked.

  Dragging himself back to the present, the Reaper told the High Council he would bring their son to the Citadel on his first birthday.

  “Do not make the mistake many Reaper fathers have made in the past, Lord Cynyr,” Lord Naois said. “There is nothing wrong with you picking your son up and holding him. The old legends have no basis in fact.”