A Reaper's Love (WindWorld)

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  As he walked he could feel the others staring at him. They may have decided to work with him but they still had reservations about his loyalty. At least two of them hated him—one beyond all reason. He had no idea what he could have done to cause such raging enmity in Mikhail Fallon but clearly the man had issues.

  “Your woman will smooth things over,” the hellion whispered to him for the first time.

  “Which woman?” he mumbled.

  “The only one who truly matters,” was the answer.

  That didn’t tell him anything and no matter what other questions he posed to the creature, it said nothing more. He presumed the ugly thing meant the life-mate of the dead Reaper whose hellion was now hosted inside Coulter.

  His gear was already on the jet that had brought him and Laci to the Exchange. Without waiting for the others, he went up to the roof, hopped on the helo and had the pilot take him to the airfield. He boarded the Gulfstream, stretched out in a seat as the chopper returned to pick up the other three Reapers, and closed his eyes.

  He’d had a hard childhood. Pitifully hard. He’d had no friends, no close acquaintances and didn’t really get along all that well with his siblings. He’d loved his foster family and they had shown him in every way they loved him in return but they were gone now. He had no idea where his brothers and sisters were and frankly didn’t care. He had no intention of looking them up. In the military, he hadn’t made any friends there either, but being alone and a loner had never bothered him. He preferred solitude, silence, not having to interact with others on his downtime.

  Until now.

  For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he wanted the friendship and camaraderie Cree, Sorn, Fallon and Reynaud had between them. He wanted to be asked to have a beer with his fellow teammates. He wanted to know the same easy companionships and esprit de corps the other men felt with one another. He desperately wanted to be a part of their clique. To be one of them, to be included. He didn’t like being shunned, disliked and feared. He wanted to belong.

  “Fat fucking chance of that,” he said to himself.

  He had a feeling they were always going to hold him at arm’s length and he knew he had the Triune Goddess to thank.

  He must have drifted off for the sound of shuffling feet, laughter and the smell of Reapers jarred him upright in his seat. Cree gave him a strange look as he stopped beside Coulter’s seat.

  “Neal told me to give you this,” the Alpha Prime said and handed a one-foot-square tin box to Coulter.

  Coulter took the box and Cree moved on with Sorn then Fallon following. Neither of them looked at him as they went to their seats. Muscle working in his jaw at the slight, he took the lid from the box to find eight slender boxes nestled inside. He took out one and opened it. The box contained twenty vials of an amber-colored liquid, two vials of a pale blue-liquid and a signet ring. Instructions on filling and using the ring was folded behind an elastic band on the inside of the lid. He took three boxes from the larger one.

  Getting up from his seat, he waved the steward away as he was about to instruct the passengers to ready for takeoff. He went to Cree and handed him the three boxes.

  “The rings,” he said.

  “Figured as much,” Cree acknowledged.

  Coulter returned to his seat. If Sorn and Fallon wanted to ignore him, he’d ignore them. He nodded at the steward then buckled his seatbelt and took the instructions from his ring box and began reading.

  “It’s too gods-be-damned big for my finger,” Fallon complained.

  “Read the instructions,” Cree said. “It goes on your thumb.”

  “Why?” Fallon asked. “Who the hell wears a ring on his thumb?”

  “Assassins,” Coulter said.

  “Why the thumb?” Sorn asked.

  Coulter swiveled around in his seat and held his hand up with his four fingers together and thumb extended as though he was holding a glass. “Think about it,” he said. “You wrap your hand around your target’s arm, his neck, just above his knee, the calf of his leg or his ankle. You squeeze your hand together and the needle in the band on the underside of the ring slips out.”

  “Huh,” Sorn said, slipping the ring on his thumb. He flexed his hand as Coulter showed them and grinned. “Easier than having it on your ring or index finger.”

  “That’s the idea,” Coulter said.

  “How do you get the needle to pop out?” Sorn inquired.

  “Read the instructions,” Cree repeated.

  “You need to press the insignia on the top of the ring,” Fallon said, having perused the instructions. When Cree frowned at him, Fallon shrugged. “Sorn has trouble reading Dr. Seuss. Real stuff is way over his head.”

  “Fuck you,” Sorn said.

  “Amber vials are the toxin and the blue ones are the antidote in case you stick yourself, Sorn,” Fallon continued. “Flip the insignia up to pour the toxin into the well.”

  “And for the love of Alel be careful doing it,” Cree said.

  The jet began to taxi down the runway. It would be a boring flight to Watertown, NY with a stopover in Syracuse to pick up the empath.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I thought you said we were picking up a guy,” Fallon said as the young woman entered the plane and the steward began closing the door.

  Coulter frowned. “The Supervisor said the empath’s name was—”

  “Is,” the woman corrected, her silver gaze pinning Coulter to his seat. “My name is Skylar McQueen.” She continued past the men to the rear of the plane and two empty seats.

  Cree’s eyebrows shot up. “Say again,” he said.

  That penetrating gray stare shifted to the Alpha Prime and a pair of pale lips twisted. “I know you,” she said. “Too bad the Blackwind failed in her mission to take you back to Amazeen for execution. Her bad.”

  “You’re dead,” Cree stated, a deep scowl settling on his features.

  “As a fucking doornail,” she agreed and tossed a heavy swath of polished silver hair over her shoulder. “Always have been, always will be.”

  She swung the black leather backpack from her shoulders and tossed it to one of the empty seats. Smoothing the seat of her ankle-length white gauzy dress under her shapely rump, she sat down and dragged the seatbelt around her.

  “You. Are. Dead,” Cree repeated.

  “And you’re a broken record,” she replied, opened her backpack, took out an iPod and a pair of ear buds and pressed them into her ears.

  “She’s fucking dead,” Cree said, switching his angry gaze to Coulter.

  “You’ve made that clear,” Coulter said.

  “That’s not Coure’s woman, is it?” Sorn asked. He turned to Cree. “Is it, Aiden? Please tell me that isn’t Wyndom Coure’s life-mate.”

  Cree didn’t need to confirm it. Coulter knew. The moment the woman’s gaze landed on him, he’d seen the flash of recognition in her silver gaze and felt the hellion twist inside him. He was host to the hellion of the woman’s life-mate.

  “Aye,” Cree said with a snarl. His eyes were glinting scarlet. “It’s Coure’s Banshee.”

  Fallon was staring hard at the tall woman at the back of the plane. His eyes were just as angry as Cree’s. “Are you kidding me? They expect us to work with that bitch? A good man died because she deceived him into thinking she was gone from his world!” he snapped.

  “It wasn’t me who lied to Wyndom Coure,” she said. “I loved that man more than anything in the Megaverse.”

  “Yeah, right,” Fallon sneered. “Loved him to pieces, did you? No, wait. More like to ashes.”

  “Fuck you, Hell-hound,” she said and flipped him the finger. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I know I lost a good friend,” Fallon threw at her.

  “Aye, well, I lost my life-mate,” she said, flicking her stormy eyes to Coulter.

  “Coulter has Coure’s hellion, doesn’t he?” Sorn asked.

  “Yeah,” Cree mumbled. He too cast Coulter a hard l
ook.

  “Fuck, Coulter,” Sorn whispered.

  “No, that isn’t going to happen,” she stated. She pulled one ear bud from her ear. “Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate. I’m here to do a job. I don’t like being here any better than you like having me here. I fucking loathe Reapers even more than any Amazeen who ever drew breath. Coulter isn’t my life-mate. My life-mate is gone.” Her voice broke and a glittery film washed over her silver stare. “I am being forced to work with you bastards and fight alongside you because Morrigunia made a fucking big miscalculation when She paired Wynd and me. I’m paying for that miscalculation. You pricks are nothing to me. Coulter is nothing to me. I may have to lower myself to be his Extension but that’s as fucking far as it goes. He better not even try to get in my pants and if he tries to fuck another female as long as he has my life-mate’s hellion inside him, I’ll rain hell down on him like a fucking volcano!” She shoved the ear bud back in place, settled down in her seat with her fingers laced over her stomach and closed her eyes, shutting them out.

  “I guess there won’t be any hey-honey-I’m-homes for you, Gravelord,” Fallon quipped.

  “Wow, that sucks,” Sorn said.

  “I feel for you, Gravelord,” Cree told Coulter.

  “I’m fucked,” Coulter said quietly.

  “Yeah, you are,” Fallon said with a laugh. “And it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

  For all her brave talk Skylar McQueen was dying inside. It was all she could do to hold it together. Two of the Reapers were glaring daggers at her. One was looking at her with what she could only term as speculation. The one who was now the host of her beloved Wynd’s hellion wouldn’t look at her at all and—truth be told—she didn’t want him to. She had loved Wyndom Coure with all her being. He had been her first—and she had sworn—her last man. She’d given up her clan, her home, everything to be with him and she’d never regretted those decisions. Not once.

  When she became aware of Wynd’s hellion calling to her, trying to rouse her from her enforced slumber, she had fought awakening with every breath she took. Though she recognized the beastie as being a part of Wynd, she’d never been close to it as she had those who had died when he took his own life.

  Thinking her beyond his reach, her body mangled and broken, the breath gone, the heart stopped, the man she loved could not go on. Had not the Triune Goddess interfered, clouded Wyndom’s grieving mind, the Reaper would have eventually realized his life-mate wasn’t truly dead. Banshees could not die for they had never been alive. Morrigunia had twisted Wynd’s thought processes, warped them until he could not distinguish between what was real and what was part of the goddess’ spiteful solution to end their bond.

  Hating Morrigunia so virulently it made her body tremble and her heart stutter when she thought of the Triune, Skylar wanted nothing more than to foil the bitch’s plans but that was not to be.

  “Wake, Skylar,” the goddess had commanded. “Your new life-mate awaits.”

  She’d been given no choice in the matter. Her eyes opened at the goddess’s command and she sat up, swinging her legs from the cot where she had lain in stasis for over twelve years. Her voice had been rusted, grating as she’d protested Morrigunia’s words.

  “It matters not what you want,” the Triune snapped. “It is what I want that counts.”

  Punishment, Skylar thought.

  For me. For Wynd.

  She opened her eyes to look at the man sitting in the front of the plane.

  And for him.

  He wasn’t hard on the eyes by any means and there was a decided sadness to him that resonated to her. Skylar wondered what he had done to piss off Morrigunia. That he had was a given else She would not have thrown a celibate Banshee at his handsome head otherwise. She almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  So engrossed was she with watching him staring miserably into space, she flinched when he looked around at her. Their gazes fused and he frowned. He turned, reached for something on the console beside him then unbuckled his seatbelt, got up and came toward her.

  She tensed. She didn’t like men—and especially not Reapers—but she sensed in him something that wasn’t as threatening as the vibes coming off Cree and Fallon who were curiously watching Coulter.

  “This is yours,” he said, extending an oblong box toward her. “It’s the ring.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. She took it then tossed it into her backpack.

  “You should read the instructions,” he said and when she merely stared up at him, his lips twisted and he pivoted on his heel and went back to his seat.

  “She’s a laugh a minute, ain’t she?” Fallon asked with a snort.

  “And you’re a braying jackass,” she mumbled under her breath but he heard her.

  “Wynd’s the lucky one,” Fallon said. “At least he’s rid of your uptight ass.”

  Hurt unlike anything she’d experienced since her life-mate’s soul left her world struck Skylar so hard she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to keep from sobbing.

  “Leave her be, Misha,” Sorn said. He was still staring at her as though she were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. It wasn’t a rude staring—more a contemplative one—but it annoyed her nevertheless.

  “Take a picture,” she told him. “It will last longer.”

  Sorn smiled. He had strong, even, very white teeth and his fangs glistened. “Baby, I don’t need to take a picture. You’re imprinted right here.” He tapped his temple.

  “And that’s all that’s up there,” Cree said.

  “I pity your life-mate,” she said to Sorn. “Whatever she is.”

  “Don’t got one yet,” Sorn said.

  “You dodged a bullet, Sorn,” Fallon said. “The Triune could have given you that one.”

  “She wouldn’t have been that cruel,” Sorn replied then quickly shifted his attention to Coulter. Color tinged the Reaper’s cheeks. “Sorry, man.”

  “No sorrier than I am,” Coulter answered.

  “You brought it on yourself,” Fallon said.

  “Let’s knock that shit off, okay?” Cree commanded. “It’s getting old, Fallon.”

  “What did he do?” Skylar asked, wanting to kick herself for having done so when all four men turned eyes to her.

  “Fucked with another Reaper’s life-mate,” Fallon said.

  “Messed with,” Sorn corrected. “He didn’t actually…you know.”

  “Fuck her?” Skylar provided and almost smiled as Sorn’s blush turned darker.

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “That.”

  “I tried to seduce her,” Coulter said, owning up to his sins. “I was given her life-mate’s hellion and believed she was mine.” He leveled his gaze on Fallon. “Unfortunately for me, I fell in love with her before I ever met her because the hellion told me she was mine.”

  “And will be in love with her the remainder of your days,” Skylar said. “When Morrigunia casts a punishment, She really casts a punishment.”

  “Tell me about it,” Coulter muttered.

  “So does knowing he’s gonna go through life suffering cut him any slack in your eyes?” Sorn inquired.

  “Fuck no,” she replied. “I don’t give a Diabolusian warthog’s ass how much he or any of you bastard pricks suffer. You’re a man. Learn to suck it up.”

  “Nice,” Cree stated.

  “Just the way it is, Reaper,” she told him.

  * * * * *

  On Jeeoil, the home of the gods, there was one who sat upon His throne and listened with growing irritation at the conversation between His newly-birthed Gravelord and the Reapers. Jee An Ayr, the Father-God was as displeased with His lady-wife as He had ever been since Time began. It had been He who had given His mate the command to end the fighting on Fanntagh. It wasn’t often He handed to Her anything that smacked of importance. She was a spiteful, devious and obstinate female in the best of times but since it was one of Her creations involved in the f
ighting He thought He could trust Her not to fuck things up.

  “Obviously I was wrong,” He said, tapping His fingers on the arms of the throne.

  The fighting still raged from time to time on Fanntagh. The Banshees were a bloodthirsty bunch of stubborn, hate-filled women who needed the firm hand of a man to force them into line. Unfortunately, no god was willing to undertake the task and Jee An Ayr had better things to do than to worry about such things.

  Such as watching over the Shadowlords, Deathlords, Ridge Lords and—now—the newly birthed Gravelord.

  It was by His hand that the Superlords had come into being. He assigned Bendigeidfran, the god of the Underworld of Gurgón, to choose His most trusted raven courier and unto it, grant the dual blessings of sagery and rebirth. The raven was then to seek out worthy warriors upon whose shoulders the blessing—called The Black Ascendency—would be bestowed. Those Chosen Ones would have dominion over magic, knowledge beyond the scope of normal humans, and control of powers that until then only the gods enjoyed. They would be warriors among warriors.

  And they were as beloved to Jee An Ayr as the Reapers were to His lady-wife. When She interfered with one of them, the Father-God was not pleased. If—in His opinion—the warrior did not deserve Morrigunia’s spite, He would step in.

  As He decided to do in the case of Dixon Coulter.

  But it was not just Morrigunia meddling with the young man’s fate. Jee An Ayr’s evil brother had slyly interwoven His own punishment of Coulter to the mix. Raphian, the Storm God, had planted the seed in Morrigunia’s unstable mind to begin with though She was unaware of His intrusion.

  “You lose again, brother,” Jee An Ayr. “And the next time You make an incursion into the mind of one of Mine, You will regret it.”

  Jee An Ayr turned His eye from the Gravelord to the Banshee and sighed.

  He had His work cut out for Him with that one.

  * * * * *

  Taylor ran his fingertips down his woman’s spine and smiled as she writhed beneath his touch. She was all but purring at his stroke. Her beautiful face was turned toward him, the happy smile showing the sweet little dimples he loved to kiss. He trailed his fingers fleetingly along the crease of her rump and she drew in a breath.