"Golden One?" Trace chuckled. "Now that’s a hoot, Sis!"
Riain came to the bed, took Trace’s hand, and held it. "It will not be a rough journey. There is great peace at the end of your road."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Goldie snapped, pushing Riain away from her brother.
"Sis," Trace sighed. "He knows and he’s trying to—"
"Get out of here, Cree!" Goldie snarled. "Now!"
Riain opened his mouth to apologize, but Goldie grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the door. She didn’t give him time to say anything before she pushed him into the corridor and shut the door in his face.
"He’s decided not to have the operation," the white-clad woman said. She was walking toward him, a tray in her hands.
"It would do no good, and only prolong his pain."
The woman nodded. "That’s why he doesn’t want to go through with it. He knows it’s a losing battle." She looked at the door. "I think he’s just been holding on long enough to see his sister."
Riain glanced at her tray and saw vials of potions. "You will make his last hours comfortable with those?"
"We’ll try. He’s a DNR."
Riain did not know what that meant, so said nothing. He could see great compassion in the woman’s eyes. "Tell her I am grateful for her help, but I won’t be seeing her again. Tell her Suzanna will be here tonight."
"Oh," the woman said, confusion reflected in her gray eyes.
"She’ll understand."
* * *
Just before the stroke of midnight, the door to Trace’s room opened. The soft shaft of light fell on his face and he turned toward it.
"Hello, sweeting," a soft feminine voice greeted him.
His voice was weak, his breath shallow as he looked into beautiful green eyes. "Well, hey yourself, darling…"
"Would you like to go with me?"
Trace smiled sadly. "Yes, ma’am, I surely would."
She gently touched his forehead. "I’ve a favor to ask first."
Chapter 7
* * *
He sat on the park bench for a long time, staring at the purple vial in his hand. The weight of it was miniscule, but the potency so lethal, a single drop could kill a dozen strong men.
Overhead, lightning stepped through the heavens and the rain started again. It was close on the witching hour and he could feel time slipping away. Soon, she would find him and they would begin their dance of death. If his dreams held true, she would cut his throat and drag him into the infernal regions of the Abyss.
"Or I can stop you here and now, Lady."
In his dreams, he ran from her, stumbling toward the rushing water he could hear only a few yards away. In the arms of Morphia, he was helpless, unable to keep her from touching him, vulnerable, hopeless, unable to stop the inevitable from happening.
But that was in his dreams.
In reality, he would make a stand. He would fight her with the last intake of his breath.
Deliberately, he put the poison in his pocket and stood. He could feel her closing in, could smell her. Soon, he would hear her evil voice calling to him.
He squared his shoulders and stepped out from the shelter of the overhanging branches that had kept him fairly dry. Rain pelted him as he took the pathway toward the river. In seconds, his clothing was soaked. Beneath his boots, gravel crunched but he made no attempt to mute his footsteps. The sooner the witch found him, the sooner he could try to put an end to this living nightmare.
The young man who lay dying in the Healer’s Place had given Riain the courage to try to break the vicious cycle that would surely begin this night if he failed. The calm acceptance of death that Riain had seen on Trace McHatton’s face had been all the impetus he needed to make his decision.
"The journey will not be hard," he said aloud. "And I will be waiting in the Arms of the Gatherer when it is Maeve’s time to join me."
But first, he would rid the world of one evil.
"Riain Cree!"
He brought up his head and cocked his ear toward her hideous voice.
"Here, Suzanna," he whispered. "I am here, you bitch!"
He would not run. He would not stumble amongst the thorns and pitch headlong down the levee. He would not tear open his flesh on rocks and rough bark as he strove to outdistance her.
"Riain!"
"Here," he said, his voice only a little louder, and he walked faster toward the river.
The ground shook as the sky split apart; small hail fell from the heavens. The ice stones landed on the gravel path, jumping like corn popping on a hot griddle. He was all but oblivious to the small discomfort of hail hitting his head and shoulders. So intent was he on the matter at hand that nothing short of an earthquake would have had meaning for him.
"RIAIN!"
The wind began howling like the banshees of his homeland. The force of the blasts rocked him, tugging at his clothing, but he lowered his head and plowed into the teeth of the wind, his head turned aside to keep the swirling debris from blinding him.
Her stench was stronger in his nostrils as he made the river. He looked over the swirling waters, seeing the white caps frothing in the flare of the almost-constant lightning. He forced himself down the embankment, the water lapping at his booted feet as his heels sank into the red mud.
"RIAIN!"
He could almost feel her hot breath on his neck. The flesh at his throat tingled as he remembered the feel of her blade caressing him in his dreams.
A violent clap of thunder rolled overhead; a loud hiss of wind started off to his right. He looked that way, his eyes widening as he saw the cyclone dipping down from the brightly-lit sky.
"You can not escape me!"
She was there, on the embankment above him, her skirt whipping in the severe breeze. In her hand, he saw the flash of the dagger.
"Come on," he said, his jaw clenched. He doubled his hands into fists, pleased with the sensation that nicked at his flesh.
Obviously mindless of anything save her revenge, Suzanna de Viennes started down the embankment, her slippers crunching over the gravel.
He pretended to slide into the water, lowering himself enough so that the churning waves washed over his legs and waist. The feel was awful, the revenant worm screaming at him to get up, to flee. He dug his hands into the thick red mud.
He did not look up at her as she knelt beside him.
"Did you really think you could escape? You should have known better."
He felt her hand in his hair and slowly relaxed his fists.
"You are mine, Riain Cree."
He closed his eyes and tensed.
"You are mine and mine you will stay."
She dragged back his head, her fingers so tight in his hair the pain began to register.
"You have always been mine," she hissed, her anger so strong it was like a beacon in the stormy night.
"No," he said, allowing her to drag back his head. "I am death, bitch!"
* * *
There was a sharp pain along her exposed throat as claws ripped through her flesh. Suzanna shrieked, blood gurgling from her wound. She dropped the dagger and put both hands to her throat. Her eyes widened at the sight of his beastly face, the fierce red eyes glaring in victory.
"Raphian!" she pleaded, scrambling away from the Reaper. "Raphian, help me!"
But the Storm God who raged around her turned a deaf ear. His horrific wind pushed at her and caught her wet skirts, pulling her into the raging river.
"Riain!" she screamed as water closed over her head.
* * *
He stood in the pelting rain and watched her hand sink beneath the churning waves, but knew it wasn’t over yet. Digging his muddy boots into the embankment, he reached the safety of the pathway and stood panting for a moment before cramming his hand into his pocket and pulling out the vial of Maiden’s Briar. Without giving himself time to think, he uncorked the potion and brought it to his lips.
"RIAIN!"
; By the gods, he thought, as he saw the witch climbing out of the water. Her throat was a gaping hole, dark crimson in the flashing light, but she came up the embankment as fast as her sodden skirts would allow, clawing her way with grim determination.
"No!" he shouted. He started to tip the poison into his mouth, but the wind caught the vial and sent it sailing out of his hands. "NO!"
Light became muted, the thunder distant in his ears, even though the storm raged directly overhead. The cyclone twirled only a few hundred yards away; the debris hit him with such force he could barely stand. He was rapidly losing strength as he fought the storm’s onslaught and began to stagger, clutching at the oak trees in his path.
"RIAIN!"
She was closing in, her smell so strong it made him gag. He tripped over an exposed root and went down in the sucking red clay. With every ounce of remaining strength, he pushed up, wobbling on legs that felt like overcooked noodles. So intent was he on escaping his predator, he did not see the thorn patch into which he stumbled. He felt the wicked prick of brambles on his flesh.
She was almost on him as he came to the obstruction of the fence with its sharp projections. He barely made it over the barrier, tearing his skin as he did. He barely felt the pain. It was only through sheer dogged persistence that he put one foot ahead of the other, sensing her closing in.
One moment he was stumbling through the wind-whipped night, the next he was tumbling down an embankment toward the pounding river. Sheer terror enveloped him as he skidded face down into the mud and lay there, rain pelting his back. With his last ounce of strength, he managed to push himself up, flop to his back, blinking against the intrusion of the heavy downpour.
But he could see the embankment above, and in the glare of a stair-step of lightning, saw Suzanna at the top. The dagger was once more clutched in her hand as she stared off to her left. He wondered why she was not looking at him. It seemed as though her attention had been caught and held by something else. He let his head flop to the side—
And what he saw made his heart leap in his throat.
At the top of the rise loomed a building, and in the doorway stood a man.
No! he thought, his eyes growing wide. HE was standing in the doorway. How could that be?
"You will never have me, Suzanna," he heard himself say. "I know how to be free of you."
Suzanna shrieked and ran toward the doorway, her dagger lifted high.
As the light slowly dwindled in Riain’s dying eyes, he saw his doppleganger step back through the doorway just as Suzanna hurtled herself through it.
In the blink of the eye, the portal was gone, vanishing in the storm-ravaged night.
Then, Maeve was kneeling over him, her arms gathering him close.
"I don’t understand," he whispered. "Who was that man?"
"The young one at the Healer’s Place. He is now at peace, Beloved," Maeve whispered. "The Windweaver has given him sanctuary with her."
"World’s End."
"Where he will be forever young and free of that which took his life."
"Suzanna?"
"She will be cast into the deepest, darkest portion of that unending world where she can never do harm to another."
Epilogue
* * *
The bairn’s wrinkled red face scrunched in disapproving lines as the midwife who held him by his ankles whacked his slippery bottom. His lusty yowl of protest was loud and strident in the stillness of the little thatched-roof hut. He squalled to the high heaven as Maeve laid him on his mother’s belly and cut the cord.
"He has a set of lungs on him, doesn’t he?" Rhiannon sighed.
Maeve lifted the babe and wrapped him in a linen square, then placed him in his mother’s arms. "When the afterbirth is delivered, I’ll bathe him for you."
"No need. I will do it."
"Suit yourself."
"I know you are anxious to get back."
Maeve nodded.
"Thank you, Morrìgan. You spared my son’s life."
Maeve washed her bloody hands, then dried them on her apron. "I did it for Riain."
"I know, but I am grateful nevertheless."
Maeve untied the apron and tossed it into the fire blazing in the hearth. Without another look at the Windweaver, she opened the door and left.
* * *
Rhiannon sighed deeply as she looked at her son’s blotchy face. His little lips trembling in fury and she fumbled at her bodice until she could free a breast. Gently, she guided her son’s questing mouth to her nipple and drew in a long, satisfied breath as he began to suckle.
She crooned to him, an old Chalean lullaby that she knew had been his father’s favorite. When his bright topaz eyes closed and he fell into a sound sleep, she lowered her head and kissed his head with its thick crop of ebon curls.
"How I wish your father could see you," she said and felt tears prickling her throat.
"Rhiannon."
The Windweaver looked up, stunned to see the Reaper standing at the foot of her bed. She blinked, her gaze shifting to the woman at his side.
"I allowed him to come, else I would have heard no end of it," the Gatherer complained. "He demanded to see the brat."
Riain smiled and went to Rhiannon’s side. He looked at his son, then locked eyes with hers. "Well done, Lady. He is a handsome lad."
"Would you like to hold him?"
Riain looked at the Gatherer.
"Go on, you know you want to hold that squirming thing,"
Riain laughed and took his son from Rhiannon’s arms. He touched the babe’s head and groaned when the child twined its tiny fingers around his thumb.
"Daemion," he said, placing a soft kiss on his son’s cheek.
The Gatherer laid her hand on the Reaper’s shoulder. "We must go now."
Riain nodded. "Aye." He took one last look at his son, winked at Rhiannon, then vanished.
Rhiannon turned her gaze to the Gatherer of Souls. "Thank you for allowing him to come, Maeve."
Maeve shrugged. "I will have him for eternity."
With that, she, too, was gone.
The Gatherer’s parting words echoing in the stillness, Rhiannon drew her newborn son closer to her bosom.
Indeed she was thankful that she had been given just a taste of the happiness she knew the Gatherer would know for all time. And grateful the jealousy of that immortal woman had not taken her son from her.
Even more grateful that Riain would know a happiness and peace in the Realm of the Gatherer that he would never have found on earth. There he would be free to be whatever creature took his fancy—when he wished to change—and at his side would be his Lady-Fair, the Keeper of his heart.
One day—when the Twilight of the Gods came and the Old Ones began to vanish before the New God—the Reaper and the Gatherer would join her at World’s End. But that day would be a long time in coming.
Until then, she would raise Riain’s son and—in the embodiment of many a comely lass—give birth to generations of Cree and McGregor men alike.
The Windweaver closed her eyes and slept.
Her work was just beginning.
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Charlotte Boyett-Compo is the author of more than two dozen novels, the first ten of which are the WindLegends Saga. For nearly three full years, Charlee has remained—first with Dark Star Publications, and now with Amber Quill Press—the company’s most popular and best-selling author. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer’s Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia, and now lives in the Midwest.
Most any fan of electronic books—or fans of dark fantasy and suspense—has at least heard her name mentioned, if not purchased at least one of her many offerings. This prolific author has not only managed to gain
multiple nominations and awards for her work, but better still, has built a fan base whose members border on the "fanatical."
Currently, Charlee is at work on at least several books in her various series and trilogies.
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