Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (14 page)

splinters. Jaborn was shrieking in his own language and Cynyr knew they weren’t compliments to his

heritage.

From the one look he’d gotten of the alley, it was a dead-end. Jaborn was hiding behind a barrel, his

arm resting on the top, waiting for his opponent to rush him. There was only one way into the alley.

It was a stand-off for the time being, Cynyr thought. He looked up at the ceiling of the porch above him

and knew the only way he was going to get Jaborn was to take him from the roof.

Sheathing his whip handle, the Reaper lifted his leg and tugged at his boot. The spurs would give away

his position. Barefoot, he stuck his head quickly around the corner once more and met with a hail of

bullets that barely missed him.

“Can’t you shoot any better than that, you son of a camel humper?” the Reaper shouted.

“Stom ta jora!”Jaborn screeched.

“You shut the fuck up,” Cynyr said softly as he took off his other boot. He moved down the porch,

reached up, grabbed the timber which ran the length of the edge of the porch, stepped back and pulled

himself up, swinging his legs so he could flip himself up onto the porch’s roof.

“Kama ima shelha lokahat le laila?”he yelled to Jaborn, knowing the insult to the rogue’s mother would

cause a violent reaction.

Cynyr landed on his belly, the slight noise masked by another barrage of bullets plowing into the spot

where he’d been standing. Jaborn was screaming now, the question of how much his mother charged for

a night of sex infuriating him beyond rational thinking. Scaling the window on the second story, getting a

toehold high enough that he could lever himself to the roof of the building, Cynyr crouched on the slippery

slope, took out his laser whip and crept to the edge. He held the handle of the whip out to the side, his

wrist circling in preparation for his trademark sidearm crack.

Jaborn was reloading from the gun belt hanging over his shoulder. He was still shouting insults in his

mother tongue and failed to see the Reaper poised on the incline of the roof above him. It wasn’t until the

pop of the whip sang through the air that he looked up, his mouth open, eyes wide as the fiery lash cut a

clean swath across his neck. There was a grunt as Jaborn’s head tumbled from his body, but he managed

to squeeze off one last shot before he crumpled to the ground.

* * * * *

Moira was nodding beneath a thick comforter when the crash came. She jerked awake, her old eyes

widening when she saw the Jakotai brave crouched amidst the scatter of broken glass on the floor. She

watched the evil grin stretch across his war-painted face, saw him straighten up, a wicked knife clutched

in his hand. Shouts were coming from the direction of the stairs but the brave didn’t seem to notice. He

glanced at Aingeal asleep in her heated dreams then flipped the knife over in his hand, preparing to throw

it at Moira.

He never got a chance to try his aim, for Moira kicked the comforter aside, bringing up the repeating

rifle Mick had reluctantly given her and pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into Otaktay’s shoulder instead of the chest for which Moira was aiming. The force

spinning him around, the brave hit the wall and bounced off it, smearing blood on the fading wallpaper.

He snarled, looked toward the door that was opening and threw himself out the window. The clatter of

his body hitting the porch roof below was loud with groaning timber and cracking wood.

Mick rushed in, followed by the sheriff and two other men.

“The window!” Moira yelled.

By the time Mick got to the window, there was no sign of the brave. Yelling down to the men who had

been assigned to watch the hotel, there was no answer and Mick feared the men had met a brutal end.

“Is she all right?” Mick asked, looking to Aingeal.

“Slept through the whole shebang,” Moira said. She pushed up from the rocking chair in which she’d

been sitting. She staggered a bit but shrugged off the steadying hand of the barber. “Dirty, thieving

bastard would have stuck me with his blade if I’d given him the chance.”

“Board up this window,” Mick told one of the men. “Inside and out. I’m going to check downstairs.”

“You be careful, Michael Brady,” Moira warned. “That one is insane.” She shuddered.

Aingeal slept on, mercifully unaware of how close she had come to being taken by Otaktay. Her fever

was still high but she was sweating and that was a good sign. By the time she woke an hour later, the men

killed by the Jakotai brave were on their cooling boards at the mortician’s and there were men stationed

just outside her door. Eying the boards over the window, she asked Moira what had happened.

“Damned big hailstones hit this town, gal,” Moira said. It wasn’t a lie. She just didn’t answer Aingeal’s

question. “Bad weather this year.”

Aingeal stared at the boarded-up window. She saw a dark smear on the wallpaper and knew exactly

what it was. She turned uneasy eyes to Moira.

“Were any of the townspeople hurt?” she asked.

Moira sighed. “Two men lost their lives to that heathen, gal, but there ain’t no need for ye to worry.

We’re watching out for our Reaper’s lady.”

Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes. Two good men had died protecting her and she felt the guilt of it all the way

to her soul. As bad as she felt, she made it worse by turning her face into the pillow and crying as though

her heart would break.

* * * * *

Cynyr was less than a mile from Haines City. Thirst had gotten the better of him and he’d stopped at the

creek, letting Storm drink his fill while he squatted down to scoop water up in his cupped hand. His mind

was on Aingeal, for he could feel her sorrow. It tore at him and drove deep into his heart. Something had

happened but, whatever it was, he could not pull it from her mind, so strong was her grief.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he started to stand when the pain shot through his back with

such force, he went to his knees. The arrow hit him directly in the right kidney and burning agony rippled

all the way through his body. Jerking around, pulling his gun as he did, he fired from the hip at the

advancing brave running at him, his undulating cry meant to frighten and disorient.

The first bullet hit dead center and the second went right between the brave’s flaring eyes. A surprised

look flowed over the Jakotai’s face and he came to a dead stop. For a moment he wavered there then

pitched forward to the ground, a tomahawk clutched tightly in his upraised fist.

Cynyr fell to his left side, gasping as the pain doubled in intensity in his back. He could feel the parasite

writhing within him and knew the revenant worm was hurt. Acid from the creature’s maw of a mouth was

pouring into Cynyr’s wound—scalding him, burning a pathway through his flesh. The nestlings were

agitated, wriggling around, lashing their barbed bodies at his internal organs. Gasping, the Reaper

reached behind him, scrambling for the shaft of the arrow. He got hold of it and clenched his teeth. With

a howl of agony, he jerked the arrow free of his flesh and felt blood streaming down his hip.

“Storm,” he whispered, and the horse perked up his ears. It moved over to him, nudging the Reaper

with his nose. “Down, boy. Down.”

Trained to do his master’s bidding, the big black lowered himself to his forelegs then folded his hind legs

under until he was stretched out on the ground. He waited patiently as his rider dragged himself over the

saddle. The scent of the Reaper’s blood made the mount uneasy, but he was well-trained and held his

position until his master was lying atop him, hands clutched in his mane.

“Up, boy,” Cynyr said, and steeled himself for the punishing pain he knew would come with the horse’s

standing.

Storm rose carefully, sensing the agony his master was in. The horse stood still, awaiting instructions.

There was no way Cynyr could move his legs. He was in far too much pain. His whole insides felt as

though they were being fried and he knew he was close to passing out.

“Find Aingeal, boy,” Cynyr whispered. “Find our lady.”

The beast snorted and very gently took a few steps. His ears twitched as though listening for further

commands but his master lay motionless on his back, arms hanging down to either side of the long,

elegant neck. With infinite care, the horse began moving until he was trotting at a brisk clip, his long stride

eating up the distance.

Matthew Schumann was shoeing a horse when he heard the whinny outside his blacksmith shop. He

straightened up as the whinny came again and let go of the roan’s foreleg. Walking to the door, he saw

the big black standing there pawing the ground, its rider lying still on the broad back.

“Walker!” Matthew shouted. “Samuels!”

Men came running from the livery. Others had seen the horse trotting into town and were spilling out

from the saloon, the café, and Mick Brady was hurrying from the barbershop.

“Is he alive?” Mick called.

“I think so,” Matthew replied. He was standing beside the horse, peering up into the pale face of the

Reaper. “Bleeding pretty badly.”

“Let’s get him to the saloon. It’s the closest,” Mick ordered. “Brent, go get the healer.”

Very carefully the men eased Cynyr from his horse. Samuels and Schumann took him beneath the

shoulders and knees and began carrying him across the street. Brady picked up the Reaper’s hat, which

had fallen to the ground, and fanned away the mud against his leg.

“Looks to me to be an arrow slit in his shirt,” John Denning, the saloonkeeper, said.

“Damned Jakotai must have got him,” Mick grumbled.

“If he did, odds are there be one less Jakotai sliming the earth this afternoon,” Denning commented.

“I hope you’re right,” Mick replied.

As they reached the saloon, Healer Murphy came running, his black bag clutched in his hand. “Put him

down on the billiards table!” the healer ordered.

Denning hurried forward, sweeping aside the balls scattered across the table, shoving them into the

pockets before stepping back to allow the men to lay the Reaper down.

“Where’s he bleeding from?” the healer inquired.

“There’s blood all down the side of his britches,” Denning replied. “Looks like he got hit in the right side

of his back.”

Easing his patient over to his left side, he saw the slit in the silk shirt. “Arrow,” he said. “Turn him all the

way over, men.”

With care, Samuels and Schumann eased the Reaper to his stomach, gently pulling his arms out from

under him.

The healer took hold of the cut in Cynyr’s shirt and ripped it open. As he did, he jumped back, shouting

with fear. Every man there put as much distance as they could between them and the billiards table for

something sickly green in color—triangular head weaving from side to side—had come up from the

wound in the Reaper’s back. With red eyes glaring from a warty head, the creature hissed and spit,

spraying acid onto the felt tabletop, acid that burned holes through the table and plopped to the floor with

a sizzling hiss.

“What in the name of Alel is that?” Samuels whispered.

“His parasite,” Aingeal said.

The men turned, seeing the Reaper’s woman walking slowly toward them, supported on both sides by

Moira McDermott and her daughter-in-law Annie.

“The thing’s nearly slit in two,” Mick said, watching the weaving revenant. He pointed to the deep cut in

the parasite’s scaly body.

The healer crept forward a ways, too afraid to get that close to the beastess. “What can we do,

ma’am?” he asked Aingeal.

Aingeal came forward, assisted by the women. Instinctively she knew the creature was in pain but she

had no knowledge of how to help it. It had drawn its head back as though ready to strike her if she got

any closer. Its mouth was opening and closing, showing sharp fangs that dripped with acid and splashed

onto Cynyr’s back, burning the flesh.

“You are hurting him,” Aingeal told the creature, and she pulled free of Moira and Annie’s grips.

“Ma’am, don’t get no closer!” the healer warned.

“He accepted You and protected You as best he could, now You would hurt him?” She moved almost

to the edge of the table. “Did You not promise to protect him?”

The creature weaved from the wound in Cynyr’s back. Its fiery eyes were flashing a warning, but it

closed its mouth, preventing the acid from falling to its host’s body.

“By the gods there are more of them inside him!” Samuels shrieked, pointing at the multitude of little

green triangular heads that poked up through the wound. No larger than a man’s little fingernail, they

writhed around the larger revenant worm then disappeared back into the Reaper’s body.

“Tell me what to do for You,” Aingeal said. “How do I help You to help him?”

Suddenly something buzzed through Aingeal’s head and she slammed her palms over her ears. The

sound was like a million angry bees and so loud it brought tears to her eyes. She nearly fainted from the

volume and staggered back, feeling Moira’s arms going around her.

The parasite stopped moving. It was staring straight at Aingeal. It had retracted back down into the

Reaper’s back until only the red, elliptical eyes were showing from the wound.

“I think,” Aingeal said, “she just wants us to leave her alone.”

“But the cut needs suturing,” the healer said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Sustenance!”‘The one word cut through Aingeal’s brain like a hot knife and her knees buckled.
“Feed