hard canter down the main street.
“A touchy little brat, ain’t he,
Mo Regina
?” Fontabeau said as he watched the Reaper
riding out of town.
“Go slow with him, My Reaper. He has known great hurt in his young life,”
came the
gentle reply.
“I’ll take extra care with the young one,” Fontabeau told Her. A good century older
than Phelan, he had much experience with hot-headed young men.
17
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
As he took the Tail of the Dragon farther up into the mountains, Phelan could not
get the gunman out of his mind. The taste of him was still on the Reaper’s tongue and
every now and then he would turn his head and spit. He could feel the hardness of
Fontabeau’s body pressed against him.
“Lord Kheelan?” he asked through gritted teeth, sending his thoughts thousands of
miles to the east.
“I am here.”
“Tell me about the hell hound Reaper Fontabeau,” the Reaper demanded then
added a belated please to his request. “Why is he here?”
There was silence from the Citadel.
“Lord Kheelan?”
The High Lord did not respond.
Phelan reined in his horse and sat there with his head cocked to one side, listening.
There was a rustling along the ether between where he was and the fortress of the
Reapers but no words were being spoken. He felt his heartbeat accelerate.
“You didn’t know he was here, did you?” he asked.
Still there was silence and Phelan could imagine the High Lord conferring with the
other two Shadowlords. When at last Lord Kheelan spoke, there was heavy anger in the
sorcerer’s voice.
“We were unaware of his existence but we have him now,”
the High Lord snapped
.
“We’ll get back to you!”
Phelan was sure that meant the Shadowlords had reached down and somehow
snatched up the hell hound. He looked skyward, wondering if one of the drones was
nearby. Most likely that had been the source of the shifting in the ether and he grinned.
“Glad I’m not in your boots, hound,” he drawled. He clucked his tongue and
Ulchabhán
started forward again, pricking its ears as its rider laughed.
By sundown, Phelan had reached Haxton Cove, but he had heard the ruckus from
the booming mining town long before the serpentine road led him into the settlement.
The pop of gunfire, the rinky-tink of a piano, the hoots and the curses of drunken men,
the rattle of harness and wagon braces echoed off the mountains. As his horse clip-
clopped down the dusty street, he was stunned at the activity of a large city rolled into
the tight confines of a small town where men walked shoulder to shoulder amidst the
bustle.
18
BlackMoon Reaper
What surprised him most was no one paid any attention to him as he rode in.
Usually when he ventured into a new town—a place where he’d never been before and
where he was not immediately known—men stepped aside, women and children
scattered and even animals slinked out of his way. Here, no one so much as glanced his
way, going about their business as though he were invisible, and he wasn’t so sure he
liked that.
Dismounting in front of what appeared to be the only hotel in town, he tied the
reins to the hitching post then turned to survey the busy streets. Men in dirty clothing
and soil-streaked faces staggered about amidst younger freshly shaven men in new
clothing that had yet to be smeared with dust from the mine. The latter carried brand-
new pick axes and shovels with shiny scoops. The former carried bottles of rot gut
clutched in their grimy hands.
Shaking his head at the vagaries of the human condition, the Reaper stepped up on
the boardwalk and ventured into the hotel—the door to which was standing open.
Inside, the smell of boiled cabbage assailed him.
“Ain’t got no rooms, milord,” the man behind the desk reported. “Unless you be
asking me to toss someone out. I’ll do it if that’s your pleasure.” His tone suggested it
wouldn’t be to his.
That too was a surprise to Phelan. He was accustomed to hotel clerks jumping to
make room at the inn for him, or to at least wring their hands and bemoan the fact there
were no vacancies. He went up to the desk and cupped his hands over the edge.
“I don’t need a room, but I’d like a place to clean up,” he told the desk clerk.
“Baths are out back,” the man said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “One dollar
for used water. Five for clean.”
Phelan’s left eyebrow shot up. “You think I’d bathe behind another man?” There
was steel in the gruff way he made the query.
For the first time the desk clerk showed a hint of unease. He sniffed, rubbed his
nose with the back of his hand then sniffed again.
“Reckon whereas you might not,” he allowed. “Five dollars then. Towel and soap
be a dollar extra.”
The Reaper saw red and the tint began to form in his amber eyes. “How ’bout I
don’t pay you one cent? How would that be, you thieving bastard?”
Watching the crimson glow pulsing from the lawman’s narrowed gaze was enough
to put the fear of the gods in the desk clerk and he stumbled back, putting a hand up to
ward off the coming fury.
“Aye, m-milord!” he stammered. “Whatever you want!”
“Then get that bath ready. Now!”
It was unusual for Phelan to behave in that manner and it shamed him. He knew
the Shadowlords would chastise him for scaring the desk clerk, but at that moment he
didn’t give a damn. The man had pushed all the wrong buttons. Cursing, he turned and
19
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
stomped back out the door and to his horse, snatching his saddlebags from the mount.
When he came trooping back in, the desk clerk was wringing his hands, bobbing his
head and looked on the verge of curtseying.
“They’re pouring your water, milord. I got you a clean towel and a fresh bar of soap
too.” He tried to smile but couldn’t quite seem to pull it off. “What else can I do for
you?”
“See to my horse while I’m bathing,” Phelan snapped. “Feed and water him then
get him back to me by the time I’m finished.”
“Aye, milord. Right away, milord!”
The desk clerk all but ran out of the room.
Taking a deep breath to release some of the anger boiling inside him, Phelan found
the door leading out to the bath house and went through it. The smell of cabbage was
stronger as he passed the kitchen and the odor made his stomach roil. He glanced in the
cooking room as he went by. An old black woman dipped a curtsey to him and he
tipped his hat to her.
“Don’t eat here, milord,” she said to him. “Food ain’t fit for humans. You go on up
to Miss Lucy’s if you want decent food at a fair price.”
He stepped into the kitchen. “I appreciate the warning, milady,” he told her.
“Would you tell me what’s wrong with the food here?”
“Weevils in the flour,” she explained. “Meat is stringy and dry. Cabbage was
beginning to rot when it came to me.”
“And he sells that to his customers?” Phelan asked.
“Aye, he does, milord, but that ain’t the worst of it. Sometimes the meat is road kill
and it’s been sitting there a day or two afore it’s picked up. By the time I get it, it’s
mostly rancid.”
Phelan felt the bile rising in his throat.
“Do the customers know?”
“I’d think not, milord, else they wouldn’t eat here but up to Miss Lucy’s.”
He switched his attention from the old woman to the pot she’d been stirring. He
went over to her, handed her his saddlebags, picked up the pot of boiling cabbage.
“Will you get the door for me, milady?” he asked.
“Aye, milord, that I will!” she said with a toothless grin, and moved ahead of him
to the back door.
He carried the big pot outside and dumped it on the ground. The smell was strong
as the grayish-green water spread into the dirt. Clumps of unidentifiable meat lay
among the cabbage.
“Where’s the biscuits you made to go with the stew?” he asked.
“In the oven.”
20
BlackMoon Reaper
He nodded and went back inside, carrying the pot with him. He set it on the
counter, opened the oven, took a potholder and pulled out the pan of biscuits. They
joined the cabbage on the ground. He also added the tins of flour and cornmeal and a
few crates of vegetables that had seen better days.
“If he asks you what happened, you tell him to come see me,” Phelan said, taking
his saddlebags from the old woman.
“He won’t do that, milord,” she said with a chuckle.
“And if he so much as raises his voice to you, you let me know, and it will be the
last sound he ever makes. Understood?”
“Aye, milord,” she said, and grinned.
Angrier than he had been before, Phelan stomped out of the kitchen and behind the
hotel to the bath house. Two slovenly looking women were just finishing pouring hot
water into a big copper tub when he flicked the curtain aside and entered.
“It’s ready for you, milord!” one of the women said, backing away from him. The
other stood stock-still like a deer caught in lantern light with her mouth slack and eyes
bulging.
“Out,” he said in a tired voice, and the first had to drag the other one away, leaving
him alone in the small cubicle.
Phelan hung his head. His outrage had given him a wicked headache. He stood
there for a moment trying to get the anger under tighter control then flung his
saddlebags to the seat of the lone ladder-back chair. Yanking the tails of his black silk
shirt from his leather uniform pants, he unbuttoned the cuffs with quick little flicks then
ran the buttons down the front, shrugging out of the garment before wadding it into a
ball to pitch across the room.
“Gods-be-damned little prick,” he insulted the desk clerk. Just the idea of the man
charging patrons to eat weevil-infested, rancid food made his blood boil. He stripped
off his belt, shucked his boots, stepped out of his pants then kicked the leather garment
as hard as he could. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he peeled off his socks then
submersed himself in the hot water.
If there was one thing a Reaper loved more than sugar, it was hot water. They could
stand for hours beneath a shower given the chance. It hadn’t been all that long ago that
they would not go near running water for fear of drowning, believing the
geis
that had
been leveled against them by the goddess. Now they knew they could indeed swim and
were damned good at it. Water was one of the addictions they allowed themselves
without regret.
Laying his head along the curved back of the tub, draping his arms over the sides,
he slid down in the water as far as his tall frame would allow, but even then his knees
were crooked and standing out of the water. That was all right with him at the moment
for the water was lulling him, leeching away some of the rage that was prodding him.
He closed his eyes and took long, deep, calming breaths in an effort to push the rest of
the anger aside.
21
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“He is from
Moddoilid
.”
Lord Kheelan’s intrusive voice snapped Phelan’s eyes open and he jerked, sloshing
water over the side of the tub.
“She brought him here to work undercover. That is why he does not wear the black. That is
also why we did not know of his existence until now.”
Phelan ran a hand through his hair. “Where is he now?”
“We took him back to Robbinsville. You will no doubt see him again.”
The words were
spoken with no small degree of irritation.
“Why didn’t She tell you about him, Your Grace?”
“Who the hell knows?”
the High Lord snapped.
“You couldn’t get the information from him?” It was pushing it, but Phelan was
more curious than cautious.
There was a stony silence that caused Phelan to shift uneasily in the tub and when
the Shadowlord spoke, he knew he’d best cease asking any more questions.
“You do your job and he’ll do his. Work with him if you must. You got that, Kiel?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” he answered, and felt Lord Kheelan pulling back.
“Whoa,” Phelan said. Apparently the hell hound was more than the Shadowlords
had bargained for. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of the Citadel’s
High Chamber when they interrogated Fontabeau.
For a reason he didn’t understand, Phelan felt pride in the gunman. It was a rare
thing for a Reaper to come out with the upper hand in any confrontation with a
Shadowlord. That Fontabeau had said volumes for the warrior’s strength of purpose
and resolve.
“Good on you,” Phelan said as he reached over for the soap and began lathering
himself. “Gods-be-damned good on you, Sorn.”
* * * * *
Feeling the desk clerk’s angry eyes following him as he strode forth in a fresh
uniform he’d conjured to replace the old one, Phelan sauntered across the street with
his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and toward the loud music pouring from Miss
Lucy’s saloon and whorehouse The Ruby Load. The smell of roast beef wafted out to
him through the batwing doors, and when he pushed them open, the place was bustling
with customers, the tickety-tic of the roulette wheel and the click of dice. In the corner a