Going into two rooms, Fontabeau and Deal plucked covers and pillows off the beds.
Unwilling to allow the old man to touch the sheets and pillows with his filthy hands or
hug them close to his smelly body, the gunman made Deal drag the mattresses back to
the room while he carried the linens.
“Take advantage of an elderly man what ain’t got all that long left on this world,”
Deal complained as he wrestled the mattress.
Fontabeau ignored him, just pointed to where the mattress should go. When the
two mattresses lay on the floor, it was difficult to walk in the ten-by-ten room without
stepping on one.
“Anything else you want me to do, your grace?” Deal queried Fontabeau with a
sniff.
“Take a bath?”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Deal stated, and plopped down on one of the mattresses.
“Where are you going, Beau?” Lucy asked as the gunman started out of the room
again.
“I need to contact the Citadel and I can’t do it in here.”
“Why the hell not?” Deal muttered.
“Because it doesn’t feel right and I doubt the Shadowlords would like for me to
make you privy to their business,” the gunman snapped. “And besides, you’re too nosy
by far, old man.”
“Who you calling an old man, you whippersnapper?” Deal sputtered.
Going down the stairs, Fontabeau checked the saloon but there was no one else in
the place. He made sure the doors and windows were locked then stood staring out into
the slanting rain.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“We are.”
He didn’t know which of the three Shadowlords had answered, but there wasn’t
any anger in the voice that spoke so he didn’t think it was the High Lord. “Can you tell
how many untouched humans are in the Cove?”
“Three.”
Fontabeau frowned. He hoped that meant Lucy, Nellie and the old coot.
“How many inhabitants in all?”
“Six and aye, that constitutes those presently under Lord Phelan’s protection.”
“Where did the rest of them go?”
“Those we found straggling out of the town have been dispatched by the drone. The rest have
gone up to the mine.”
“
How did they get past us?” Fontabeau asked.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“They kept to the deeper woods. Obviously you weren’t meant to see them. They did not
enter the mine until you and Lord Phelan were out of sight.”
“But they didn’t get into any of the communities down the mountain?”
“It would appear not.”
“That’s a relief,” Fontabeau said, wiping a hand over his face.
“At first light, the deputy from Robbinsville will bring you the explosives. Rain or shine, the
task needs to be completed. Do you understand, Lord Sorn? We can’t afford to let even one loose
for fear they will take another human life.”
“Aye, I understand.”
“We do not believe you are in danger, but remain vigilant. Send the women and old man
back with the deputy.”
“What of Brell?” Fontabeau inquired.
“The Ridge Lord will remain with you.”
“Ridge Lord?” Fontabeau questioned. “What is—?”
But he realized the connection to the Citadel had been broken, his query left
unanswered. At least, he thought, he knew what Brell was if not what it meant.
Trudging wearily up the stairs once again, Fontabeau rapped lightly on the door.
“It’s me, Lucy-Lou,” he said.
“Is there anyone left in the Cove?” Lucy asked.
“Afraid not,” Fontabeau told her.
With the rain continuing its deluge, the wind pushing against the windowpanes,
the room’s inhabitants settled down on the mattresses to eat a cold but adequate
supper. Phelan woke with a slight hangover from the dose of tenerse and declined any
of the food. Instead, he swung his legs from the bed and sat on the edge with his head
down.
“You need Sustenance?” Fontabeau inquired.
“Aye.”
The gunman unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, extended his arm to
Phelan. The old man and Nellie turned away from the sight of the Reaper feeding, but
Lucy watched, brows drawn together in concentration.
“I spoke with one of the Shadowlords,” Fontabeau informed Phelan. “We’re all
that’s left of the Cove. The others have either been destroyed or are up at the mines. The
deputy from Robbinsville will bring the explosives up tomorrow and we’re to send the
civilians back with the deputy.”
“I’ll stay,” Brell said.
Fontabeau nodded. “The Shadowlord said as much.” He leveled his attention on
Brell. “He called you a Ridge Lord. What is that?”
Desdon Brell scooted up in the bed, leaned his back against the headboard. “I am a
WindWarrior. That is all I can tell you.”
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BlackMoon Reaper
“A sorcerer,” Phelan stated. “A very powerful sorcerer if memory serves.”
“One without powers at the moment,” Brell replied. “Until the headache leaves me,
I am no more potent than the old man.”
“She brought you here for a reason,” Fontabeau said. “I don’t think it was to fight
the threat from the Ceannus.”
“I told you I don’t know why the goddess brought me here,” Brell reminded him.
“But even if I did know, I could not tell you.”
Phelan snapped his fingers. “Now I remember! Ridge Lords are the High Rulers of
the WindWarrior Society. They are dispatched when there is an evil too great for
mortal…” He stopped, staring hard at Brell. “You are immortal?”
Brell laughed, wincing at the sound. He put a hand to his head. “No, Lord Kiel. I
am not an immortal. I can die—just as you can if someone lops off your head. It just
takes a bit of effort on the part of the one trying to do the killing.”
“Phelan was going to say an evil too great for mortal man to fight, wasn’t he?”
Fontabeau asked. “Does that mean you might have been brought here to battle a
demon?”
“That could be the reason. I won’t know until She tells me,” Brell admitted. “Let it
rest, will you, Sorn? My head is splitting apart.”
“I have plenty of tenerse,” Phelan suggested.
“I do not use it,” Brell said. “I can not. There is nothing that will help except the
passing of time for the pain to leave me. How is your headache?”
“Fading,” Phelan replied. “No thanks to that old codger over there.”
Deal snorted. He was lying on his side on the mattress with his back to the others.
“I hate to be a bother,” Lucy said, “but I need to use the facility.” She looked to
Phelan. “Will you escort me down the hallway?”
“You don’t have a chamber pot under the bed?” Fontabeau asked.
Lucy raised her chin. “I will not do my business in front of four men and another
lady! If there are no,” she waved her hand, “whatever you called those things lurking
about to be worried over, I would like the privacy to attend to my needs!”
“Oh, all right,” Fontabeau snapped. “Come on.”
“I want Phelan!” Lucy protested.
“I’ll take her,” Phelan said, getting to his feet.
“You sure you feel up to it?” the gunman asked.
“I’m just a bit dizzy.”
“All right then, but you’d best take your weapon with you. When you come back,
I’ll make another trip to the kitchen for more food,” Fontabeau said.
“We’ll get it,” Phelan told him as he swung his gun belt around him and buckled it
low on his waist. “No sense in you having to make still another trip downstairs.” He
looked at Nellie. “You need to go too, milady?”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
The elderly black woman shook her head. “No, milord.”
Phelan went out into the hall first then took Lucy’s hand to lead her to the door she
indicated housed the saloon’s bathroom. He checked it first then closed the door behind
her when she went inside. Leaning against the wall, he rubbed the back of his head.
“Gods-be-damned old bastard put a fucking dent in my head,” he said, fingering
the stiffness of his hair where blood had dried. Keeping an eye peeled toward the stairs,
he used his psychic abilities to scan the area beyond but there was no movement—not
even that of a rodent or insect. Satisfied, he took out his gun, made sure it was loaded
then put it back into the holster. He fingered the grip of the laser pistol but did not
remove it from its leather sheath. He felt a bit naked without the
Speal
that usually hung
at his hip.
“Phelan?”
He turned his head toward the closed bathroom door. “Aye, Lucy.”
“Would you come in here, please?”
His eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth to ask why, but the scent of
her fear through the door caused any questions to still on his tongue. He pushed the
door open, ready to do battle with anything that might be a danger to her. He blinked
when he saw her standing by the toilet, her hands clenched in front of her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Lucy raised her chin. “I’m a whore,” she said. “That’s how I’ve made my way in
this world since I was twelve years old.”
He flinched at that news. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Would you close the door?” she asked, twisting her hands together.
He did as she asked, sensing she had something she needed to say. His head was
pounding still so he leaned against the door, his hands thrust into the pockets of his
pants.
“It was my mother who turned me out,” she said. “Me and my two sisters before
me and my three sisters after me. There were seven of us girls, but our baby sister died
when she was only four. She was the lucky one of us.”
“Your mother ought to be horsewhipped,” Phelan said through clenched teeth.
“She contracted a terrible disease and died raving like a lunatic,” Lucy told him.
“She got back what she deserved and then some.”
“It would seem so,” he agreed. He was sensing there was more so he didn’t push,
didn’t encourage. He just stood there leaning against the wall, willing to give her
however much time she needed.
“The,” Lucy hesitated then flung out a hand as though searching for the right word,
“place where our mother sold us held auctions. Virgin girls went to the highest bidder.”
She looked down at the floor. “I was lucky in that the man who bought me was a kind
person who did not abuse me as some of the girls were. He was gentle with me.”
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BlackMoon Reaper
He was grateful for that. A woman’s first time should never be one she looked back
upon with shame or horror. A child the age Lucy had been should never have been
asked to view the terrible things she must have witnessed.
“He said I reminded him of his little girl,” she said, and Phelan winced at those
words, wondering what sort of degenerate would want to sleep with a child that
reminded him of one of his own. “He had a house where he took me and I lived there
until he died.”
“How old were you when that happened?”
She looked up at him. “Fifteen.” Her lips trembled. “His son came one day with the
sheriff and they threw me out with only the clothes on my back.” She lowered her head
again. “I didn’t even have on shoes and it was snowing.”
Phelan released a long, angry breath. Though it had happened many years before,
he felt the injustice of it, the wrongness of it as strongly as though it had been his own
misfortune. “Where did you go?”
She shrugged. “Where was there for me to go except from whence he’d taken me?”
She rubbed her arm. “I went back to the brothel and stayed there until I was seventeen.”
Once more she looked up at him. “By then my youngest living sister had turned twelve
and our mother brought her there. It was the last time I saw my mother.”
He sensed something darker in her words, something evil lurking behind her moist
green eyes and he knew whatever it was she was about to reveal would lay the
groundwork for whatever might come of their relationship in the future.
Lucy tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and eased down on the closed toilet
lid, perching there as though the wood was scalding hot beneath her shapely rump.
“There was a man named Silus Barker,” she said, twisting a portion of her skirt
between her hands. “He was a mean son of a bitch.” She closed her eyes. “He liked to
hurt the girls.”
“Did he ever hurt you?” Phelan asked between tightly clenched teeth.
“Many times,” she said. “Once, he beat me so bad I couldn’t walk for several days.”
She shrugged again. “That was just the way he was.”
“Where is he now?”
She acted as though she hadn’t heard him. “He bought Lanette,” she said. “My
sister. He usually didn’t want the virgins. Said he didn’t like having to break them in,
but Lanette was so pretty.” A single tear fell down Lucy’s pale cheek. “She was so
pretty.”
Phelan watched her lift her head and realized she was no longer aware of him being
in the small room with her. She was staring into space, her eyes glazed with memories
that had put haunting shadows in the green depths.
“I knew where he lived and I went there to beg him not to hurt her. I was going to
offer myself to him,” she said. “Tell him whatever he wanted to do to me he could if he
just wouldn’t hurt Lanette.”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Fury lashed through Phelan Kiel. He withdrew his hands from his pockets to
double them into fists.
“When I went into that room I knew it was too late,” he heard her whisper. “My