A Reaper's Love (WindWorld) (22 page)

“I take it your Extensions have okayed you
to go with me,” Coulter said. His eyes were on Laci.

“Our Extensions and two Alphas will be
watching your every move,” Fallon said.

“As well as a Ridge Lord, a Shadowlord, a
Mage, two Nightwinds and the gods only know who else,” Sorn added.

“Don’t forget the two goddesses,” Taylor
put in.

“The more the merrier,” Coulter said.
“Wheels up in one hour, gentlemen. The Supervisor told me there will be three
other Reapers waiting in Seoul when we get there. Oh, by the way, there will be
an empath on our team. We’ll be picking him up in Syracuse.” He turned his back
on them and walked away.

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.

“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 look.

“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 fighting 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.

“Like that, do you?” he asked.

She opened her eyes. “Maybe a little,” she
replied.

He arched a brow. “Maybe a little?” he
repeated then ran the palm of his hand over the silky smoothness of her right
cheek. He dug his fingers gently into the flesh and pressed his thumb into the
valley between.

“Maybe a lot,” she corrected, squirming.

“Turn over, woman,” he ordered.

Laci sighed deeply then did as he
commanded, his hand trailing over her hip as she rolled to her back. His palm
landed over the apex of her thighs, covering the small patch of hair left from
her recent waxing.

“Still sore?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said. “Plow away, Tater.”

His lips stretched into a knowing grin and
he angled his fingers downward as she slid her legs apart for him to cup her.
Slowly he rubbed her while he held her gaze, enthralled.