sword but couldn’t hit the side of the barn with a six-shooter.”
“I’m wondering why they didn’t try to turn you,” Phelan said, suspicion darting
through his amber gaze.
Brell struggled to lift his head. “Someone—or something—came in, looked down at
me then left. Maybe they thought I was dying or too weak and not worth the effort.”
“That’s most likely the reason,” Fontabeau said.
Phelan nodded in agreement. “Could be. They only pick the healthy and fit it
seems. That’s probably why they left Nellie alone. She’s too old.”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“What about the old coot?” Fontabeau asked. “I didn’t see him about.”
“We’ll need to look for his ass. I don’t know where everyone is, but if they come
back tonight, we need to be together where we can fight them off.”
“Help me get Mr. Brell up,” Fontabeau ordered.
“Call me Des,” the man on the bed said. “We’re all in this together now.”
Phelan and the gunman hefted Des from the bed and walked him to the door. It
was a struggle for the man was heavy and dead weight. Phelan suggested one of them
carry him fireman style or it would take all night to get him to the saloon.
Grunting, Fontabeau took his boss’s weight and hooked an arm over Des’ legs. The
three of them made it down the stairs quickly and out into the pouring rain. Once in the
saloon, Phelan took the burden of the limp man’s body on his own shoulder and hefted
him up the stairs with Fontabeau right behind.
“Lucy? Open up. It’s Phelan.”
There was a loud scraping as the dresser was pulled away from the door then the
portal cracked open.
“You still you, Reaper man?” Lucy asked, the gun pointed right at him though it
wobbled as her hand shook.
“I hope so.” He carried Des into the room and dropped him on the bed.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lucy asked.
“Megrim,” Fontabeau replied. “A really bad one.”
“The gods bless you, son,” Nellie said. “Let me get you a cool wet cloth.” She went
over to the pitcher and ewer she had moved to safety on the bedside table.
“Do you know where the old man who came in just before we left this morning
might have gotten himself off to?” Phelan queried.
“Deal Pederson?” Nellie asked, looking back as she poured the water. “Long white
beard? Smells like a privy what’s overflowed?”
“That would be him,” Phelan replied with a grin.
“He’s holed up in the bathhouse,” Nellie reported. She dropped a washcloth from
the dresser into the bowl of water then wrung it out. “Said wouldn’t none of them
strange folk think to look for a body there.”
“Let’s hope he was right. I’ll go check,” Phelan said. “Stay here, Beau. If I’m not
back in ten minutes, I most likely won’t be coming back. Get everyone out of here and
to safety. Contact—”
Fontabeau shot out a hand to grip Phelan’s cheek. “Shut the fuck up! You’d better
get your ass back here, Reaper. Don’t make me have to come looking for you.”
“You heard him,” Lucy snapped, holding her hand for the washrag. “Don’t be
talking nonsense, Phelan Kiel.” She put the rag on Brell’s forehead.
“Now go,” the gunman snapped, “and watch your back.”
“Take care of our wards,” Phelan said.
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BlackMoon Reaper
“Just be careful,” Lucy called from the bed.
“Should have gone with him,” Fontabeau said as he shoved the dresser against the
door once more.
“He’ll be fine,” Des said. “I feel it.”
“I hope so,” Fontabeau said. He moved to the window and pushed the curtain
aside, although the heavy downpour made it impossible to see anything on the
darkened street. Even his enhanced vision did him little good for all he saw was Phelan
running across the street.
Lucy walked over to the window. “Something I need to know, Cajun?” she asked.
“About what?” he countered.
“You and Lord Kiel?”
“Nothing to tell,” he said then glanced around at her.
“I saw the way you looked at him,” she accused.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” he said. “Leastwise not to him. I offered. He turned me
down flatter than a flapjack.”
Lucy stared into his eyes for a long moment then nodded. “I see.”
“The door’s wide open for you if you’re of a mind to walk through it, Lucy-Lou,”
he said. “Ain’t no guarantee he’ll be waiting on the other side but…”
“There are never any guarantees in life, Cajun,” she said. “What’s to be, will be.”
“Aye,” he said, turning away from her. “You got that right.”
“But you’re wrong. He won’t be asking me to be his mate. Not with me being what
I am,” she said.
“You think that matters to one of our kind, Lucy?” Fontabeau demanded. “There’s
not a one of us who didn’t die for crimes we committed—imagined or not. He doesn’t
see the whore when he looks at you. He sees the woman you could be.”
Lucy bit her lip. “I’ve baggage, Cajun. There are things in my past that could rear
up to hurt us.”
“Then tell him, but I don’t think it will make a hill of beans worth of difference to
him. He’s already made his mind up even though he doesn’t know it yet.”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Gods-be-damn it, that hurt, old man!”
Phelan had a hand to the back of his head where a wooden washboard had
connected with his skull. He was hunkered down in the bathhouse, waiting for the
world to stop spinning around him. The pain was so intense it made his eyes water.
“Then don’t go sneaking up on a body then!” Deal Pederson growled. “How was I
to know you weren’t one of them whatevers lumbering around?”
“You stink to high heaven so I’m assuming you’re all right,” Phelan said, getting to
his feet. He wobbled for a moment then pulled his hand from his head and looked
down to see black blood streaked on his fingers. “Son of a fucking bitch! You broke the
skin.”
“Well shit, boy. Ain’t no sense in hitting somebody lest you do it hard enough to
stop ’em in their tracks,” Deal said with a sniff.
Phelan was losing what little patience he had. “You need to come on over to the
saloon with the rest of us. We can’t protect you otherwise.”
“Who says I’m the one needing protection?” the old codger grumbled. “Seems to
me you’re the one with the bump on your noggin.” Nevertheless he went over to collect
his bedroll and saddlebags. He squinted his watery eyes at Phelan. “Well, what the
tarnation you waiting on, son? An engraved invitation to head out?”
“I ought to leave your smelly ass right here,” Phelan griped.
“Yap, yap, yap. That’s all you young whippersnappers know how to do. Less lip,
boy, and more action!” Deal commanded, pushing Phelan none too gently toward the
curtain that served as the bathhouse door.
Grinding his teeth to both the pain in his head and the rancid odor rolling off the
old man, Phelan tried to stay downwind of the old coot as they trudged across the street
that was nothing more than a quagmire now. He didn’t mind the rain lashing at him
since it helped the agony between his temples, but once they were inside the saloon, the
ripe stench wafting to him from the old man’s sodden clothing made him gag.
“Mother of the goddess, don’t you ever bathe?” he gasped, putting a hand under
his nose and over his mouth.
“Hell no!” Deal snapped. “Bathing is highly overrated.”
Trudging up the stairs with the old man right behind him, all Phelan wanted to do
was lie down until the pain passed. The hit had been delivered with more strength than
he would have thought the old bastard had in his withered arms. He put his hand up
and flattened his palm on the door.
“Beau, I’m back.”
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BlackMoon Reaper
There came the scraping sound of the dresser against the hardwood floor then the
portal opened. One look at Phelan’s face and Fontabeau’s crinkled with concern.
“What happened?”
“Son of a bitch hit me with a fucking washboard,” Phelan replied, shuffling into the
room. “Nearly caved in my skull.”
The old man made a rude noise with his rubbery lips. “Didn’t do no such thing,” he
snapped. “If’n I’d wanted to kill you, boy, you’d be in the arms of the Gatherer.” He
grinned his toothless grin. “Again.”
“I think he gave me a concussion,” Phelan complained.
“You’re a Reaper, boy. You’ll heal,” Deal said with a snort.
“Come lie down next to Des,” Fontabeau said. “You look like you’re about to pass
out.”
Lucy hurried forward to take Phelan’s arm. “He does!” she exclaimed. “Come on,
baby. You come stretch out beside Des.”
Phelan tried to shake his head no, but the pain elevated to a sharp crystal shard
between his temples and his knees buckled. Luckily Fontabeau was there to catch him
as the Reaper’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
“Well hell,” Deal said, craning his neck to see around the burly gunman as
Fontabeau carried Phelan to the bed. “Didn’t think I hit the little bugger that hard.”
“Where are his saddlebags?” Lucy asked. “He’s gonna need some of that stuff he
told me he takes every morning, don’t you think? He said it was for megrims too.” She
spun around and glared at the old man. “You hit my man again and I swear I’ll run my
dagger from your crotch to your gullet, you hear me, old man?”
“Tenerse,” Fontabeau replied as Deal backed away from the furious woman. “And
aye, he will need it, Lucy. The bags are downstairs. I’ll go get them.” He laid Phelan
down, touched his cheek then straightened. As he passed the old man, he gave him a
mean look.
“Don’t you be looking like that at me too. Keep them evil eyes off me, you little
pervert,” Deal grumbled. “Bad enough that foul-tempered harridan done read me the
gods-be-damned riot act!”
When Fontabeau returned, he brought with him a tray filled with things he took
from the kitchen—smoked sausage, cheese, a couple of loaves of bread, some tins of
peaches and a few tart apples. He went back for jugs of water then the dresser was once
more shoved in place.
“This ought to tide us over until we can get you all to the stable and a carriage,” the
gunman said. “Once we have you safely in Robbinsville, we’ll come back up here to
stamp out the ’bots.”
“What’s a ’bot?” Nellie asked. “Is that what all them folks are turning into?”
“Aye,” Fontabeau answered. He began loading one of Phelan’s vac-syringes with a
small amount of tenerse.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Are they turning the Terran people down in the mine?” Des asked.
“Aye, they are. Phelan found a room where they’re doing it and we intend on
blowing the entire mine to smithereens, but just so you know,” Fontabeau locked gazes
with Des, “I don’t think there’s any gems in the mine. It looks like the Ceannus were
manufacturing them from some kind of machine.”
“A duplicator,” Des said. “I once saw one on Ionary.”
Fontabeau came closer to the bed. “All right, it’s time you leveled with us, Des.
Where are you from? You didn’t even bat an eye when I said Ceannus so that tells me
you know what they are. Where’s home?”
“Chale,” Des replied. “And I know all too well what the Ceannus is.”
“And you’re here on Terra to do what exactly?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea. She has never said, but I had no idea it had anything to do
with the Ceannus.”
“You’re not a Reaper,” Fontabeau said. “I’d know if you were.”
“As you well know there are Reapers and then there are Reapers,
mac imshee
,” Brell
said. “But no, I’m not a Reaper. I’m…” He held the gunman’s gaze. “Something else
entirely. If you want to know what, you’ll have to ask Her because I’m not at liberty to
say.”
“He’s out like a light,” Deal observed as he came around to the side of the bed on
which Phelan was lying. “Didn’t mean to hurt the poor lad.”
“Well, you did, so get the fuck away from him!” Fontabeau snapped. “You’ll
suffocate him with that stink of yours!”
Deal mumbled something nasty under his breath but moved away from the bed,
going across the room to slump down in the room’s only chair.
Fontabeau reached down to turn Phelan’s head to the side, felt along his neck for
the heavy vein then injected the tenerse into the young man. Phelan moaned, flinched,
his eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t awaken.
“Giving that to him when he’s unconscious might make him dream,” Des said. He
was staring into Phelan’s face.
“Let’s hope it’ll be a good dream,” Fontabeau replied as he unbuckled Phelan’s gun
belt and eased it from beneath him, hanging it on the headboard so it would be close
should the Reaper need it. He stepped back then turned to Deal. “You come help me
pull some mattresses into the room so we’ll have a place to sleep tonight, old man.”
“All right,” Deal grumbled. He hitched up his loose pants.
Pulling the dresser from in front of the door, Fontabeau commented that the
obstruction probably wasn’t necessary. “I don’t think there’s any of the inhabitants left
save us.”
“What if there are though?” Lucy asked. “Humans, I mean. They’re most likely
terrified out there alone. We need to find them and bring them here.”
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BlackMoon Reaper
“I’ll take care of it,” Fontabeau told her. “Move as much furniture as you can out of
the way if you would, ladies, to make room for the mattresses.”