Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (25 page)

falling into step beside her. He kept glancing at her, for she was walking with her arms still wrapped

around her in a position of withdrawal and defense.

Bevyn Coure, Owen Tohre, Phelan Keil, Glyn Kullen and Iden Belial were waiting just inside the door

when Arawn opened it for her and ushered her inside. The men were attired in the dress uniform of the

Reapers—black silk shirt, black leather ties, britches and boots. She nodded at the Reapers but did not

speak. Bevyn came to stand beside Arawn as his second-in-command.

“You are one of us, Lady Aingeal,” Arawn said. “Not only a Reaper’s mate but a Reaper in your own

right. Each of us is pledged to protect you and defend you as one of our own. We are here for you.”

Aingeal nodded. She was aware Kullen and Belial had slipped in behind her, Tohre and Keil standing to

either side of her. Arawn and Bevyn were in front of her.

“Are you ready?” Arawn asked softly.

She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. Her stomach was queasy, a lump sitting in her upper

chest, her blood pounding furiously through her veins. She could feel sweat gathering in her palms and

uncrossed her arms to run her hands on the skirt of her gown. The moment she touched the muslin, she

frowned then met Arawn’s gaze.

“I haven’t learned the art of rearranging materials around me, Lord Arawn,” she stated. “Would you do

it for me?”

Arawn frowned but then realized what she was asking. He bowed slightly then waved his hand at her.

The black outfit formed on Aingeal like a second skin and she raised her head proudly.

“Now I’m ready,” she said.

The Prime Reaper smiled at her.

Walking with the two highest-ranking Reapers before her, one at each side and two following behind,

Aingeal felt invincible. She could feel their support and that made her feel somewhat better. Though her

nerves were screaming at her and she could feel sweat trickling down her neck, she was determined not

to show the first hint of fear or despair when she was faced with the sight of her husband’s misery.

The three Shadowlords were waiting for her when she and the Reapers came down the stairs to the

building’s lowest level. Attired in the dark gray robes of their position, they were an imposing sight. They

were standing before a metal plate centered in the rock wall and as she approached, they moved to stand

to either side of the six-foot-by-six-foot plate. A fourth man dressed in white stood off to one side.

“Lady Aingeal Cree reporting as ordered, Your Graces,” Arawn stated, and both he and Bevyn stepped

aside, allowing Aingeal to come up between them.

“Lady Aingeal,” the man Aingeal knew must by the high commissioner greeted her. “I wish it was under

different circumstances that we meet.”

Grinding her nails into the palm of her hand, Aingeal nodded to the tall man. She had decided long ago

she would not grovel before him or the other Shadowlords, nor would she give them anything more than

a cursory respect.

Lord Kheelan’s left eyebrow crooked upward as he plucked her mutinous thoughts from the ether. He

knew his fellow Shadowlords had intercepted her feelings—and most likely the Reapers as well—but he

chose not to reprimand her for her insolence. He introduced himself then the two men beside him and

finally the healer who bowed respectively to Aingeal.

“Lord Cree’s punishment will end in a few days,” the high commissioner said. “You and he will be free

to return to Haines City.”

“When he is able to travel,” Lord Naois stated.

Aingeal’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes were riveted to the high commissioner. She wanted to get on with

it so she could go back to her room.

Lord Kheelan asked his fellow Shadowlords to raise the metal panel.

Aingeal tensed, tearing her attention from the high commissioner to look at the panel. Lords Dunham and

Naois were pulling on ropes that were attached to the top of the panel. Slowly, the metal sheeting moved

upward to reveal thick iron bars—at least the diameter of a large man’s arm—embedded in the stone

wall in a grate pattern.

Almost as soon as the panel was completely raised and the grid work in full view, a howling unlike

anything Aingeal could have imagined rent the silence. She flinched despite her resolve not to show any

sign of her nervousness. She could see another grid-work barrier identical to the first beyond the first

grating with the space of five feet or more between the two sections. It was upon that second grid that

the creature leapt—clinging to the bars with sharp, yellowed claws wrapped around the thick iron.

Misshapen feet pressed against the bars as the being inside the Containment Cell swung on the bars,

yanking at them with such force the thick iron rattled in its slots.

Covered head to toe in a coarse matting of thick brown fur, Cynyr Cree hung there on the bars, snarling,

his black leather muzzle pulled back from sharply pointed fangs. Salivating as he pulled against the iron,

thrusting one clawed hand through the bars in an attempt to reach his watchers. His crimson eyes glowed

with fury, spreading a dark red glow on the metal. His growl was vicious, insane, but when he stilled long

enough to take in the woman watching him, he let out a pitiful yowl and dropped from the bars, his thick

claws scratching against the stone floor as he scrambled to the corner of the cell and cowered there,

hiding his face against the wall.

“No, my love,” Aingeal said, completely unaware of the men surrounding her. “Never hide from me.”

The creature was whimpering, scratching at the stone wall as though attempting to dig himself a hole into

which he could crawl. He was hunched in upon himself, trying to make himself as small as he could.

“He recognized her,” Bevyn said, turning to Arawn with a surprised look. “He’s ashamed of how he

looks.”

The piteous moans and groans coming from the creature—not to mention the wild feral smells wafting

from the cell—disturbed every person there and Lord Kheelan ordered the panel shut.

“I am waiting for you, Cynyr!” Aingeal called out as the panel slid down to hide the bars. “I am here,

beloved!”

A mighty howl reverberated from behind the metal panel.

Aingeal spun around and fixed the high commissioner with a look that would have frightened a normal

man. “How much longer is he going to have to suffer at your hands?” she snarled.

The Prime Reaper stepped forward and took her arm, refusing to release it when she jerked on his hold.

“Lady Aingeal,” was all he said, but carried in those two words was a warning.

Lord Kheelan was looking at the female Reaper with what everyone there except Aingeal recognized as

compassion. Although he had ordered her to be there to see her husband’s punishment, it seemed he

might be regretting it.

“Three more days and—”

“No,” Aingeal said, shaking her head furiously. “You end it today!”

Arawn pulled on her arm. “Lady Aingeal, you can not—”

“Now!” Aingeal shouted, her eyes flaring. “You end it now!”

Everyone there expected Lord Kheelan to reprimand the woman, but the Shadowlord did not. He was

staring at the brutal hatred stamped on Aingeal Cree’s face. It was obvious to them all that the high

commissioner had earned for himself an enemy who would never forget what he had done.

“You end it now,” she repeated, her voice low and full of contempt.

Not once in all the years Kheelan Ben-Alkazar had possessed the immense powers of a Shadowlord

had he faced anyone he could not intimidate simply by a look. Such was his control over those around

him, all it took was a mere glance to turn men’s bowels to water and their resolve to putty in his hands. It

was a novelty for him to be facing anyone—and especially a woman, a member of the supposedly

weaker sex—and have that person stand up to him with not even a flicker of fear showing. Never in his

lifetime had he even entertained the notion of standing down to another’s demands but—he reasoned as

he looked at Aingeal Cree—there was always the first time.

“Desden,” the high commissioner said and the healer hurried to his side. “Prime the rifle with a tenerse

dart and have Sustenance brought for Lord Cynyr.”

“He’ll need more than the normal dosage,” Arawn stated, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amazement at

the high commissioner giving in to Aingeal’s demand.

“Aye, give him as much as you think he’ll need,” Lord Kheelan agreed. He would not look at Aingeal

now.

“That’s more than will fill one dart, Your Grace,” the healer protested. “I will need at least four large

darts full of a week’s portion each and—”

“Get us rifles and we’ll take care of it,” Arawn interrupted the healer.

“You are going to shoot him?” Aingeal asked. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“No one can go in there to administer the drug,” the Prime Reaper said.

“I can,” Aingeal said.

“No, Lady, you can not. He—”

“Can you put as much tenerse as you will need into one vac-syringe?” Lord Kheelan cut him off.

The healer bit his lower lip. “Aye, Your Grace, but—”

“Then fill the vac-syringe and let the Lady go to her husband.”

“No!” every man there—except Lord Kheelan—yelled in unison.

“She thinks she can control him, let her do so.”

Arawn pulled Aingeal around to face him. “Lady, listen to me. He is not your husband at this moment.

He is a wild animal, a savage creature who—”

“Who will not attack me,” Aingeal said.

“Lord Gehdrin, stand aside!” Lord Kheelan ordered, his voice terse.

Though his face showed his reluctance to do as he was told, the Prime Reaper let go of Aingeal and

moved back. His fellow Reapers stayed where they were although each of them looked as though he

was filled with rage.

Though he glanced at Lord Arawn, the healer hurried to fill the vac-syringe as he’d been ordered. His

medicine cart was only a few yards down the corridor and he was back quickly, the instrument in his

hand. He held out his palm with the vac-syringe lying across it to Aingeal. “Milady, are you sure about

this?” he inquired breathlessly.

Aingeal took the vac-syringe. Without a backward look, she went to the door to the Containment Cell

and waited for it to open.

“I want to go on record to state I think this is a very bad idea,” the Prime Reaper said.

“So noted,” Lord Kheelan agreed. He motioned for the cell door to be unlocked.

It was Bevyn who joined Aingeal at the door and began pulling the locking pins from the locks.

There were triple locks across the heavy iron door—one at the top, one in the middle and one along the

bottom. Thick hasps held the locks in place and each was secured by a long, sturdy bolt attached to a

chain.

“There is a barrier between this door and the one to Lord Cree’s cell. It will be up to you to unlock his

door,” Bevyn told her. “Once you are past this door, give us time to place the Sustenance on the floor

before you attempt to unlock his cell. This door will be locked behind you.” He paused with his hand on

the last rod. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“He won’t hurt me, Lord Bevyn. Just open the door.”

“My lady, he normally would not but in the state he’s in—”

“I am not afraid of him,” Aingeal said.

The healer and Phelan Kiel stepped forward with several bottles of red liquid.

Bevyn pulled the last rod from its hasp and opened the first door. He stepped aside to allow Aingeal into

the barrier and waited for the healer and Phelan to carry in the Sustenance and set it down against one

wall. As soon as the men were out of the barrier space, he shut the door, closing Aingeal in.

Aingeal’s heart was racing and she could hear snuffling at the bottom of the door she was facing. She

knew her mate could smell her for he was scratching at the panel separating them, growling low in his

throat.

“I have your tenerse,
mo tiarna
,” she said softly. “I am coming in to administer it to you.”

She jumped back at the shrieking howl that rent the air around her. Cynyr was pounding on the door,

running his claws down it in shrill streaks that hurt her ears. The heavy iron portal was dented in several

places and as she watched, several more concavities formed in the door as he hammered against it.

“I am going to unlock this door and—”

A savage yowl came from behind the door—a denial if she’d ever heard one. Vicious crashes against

the portal made it clear to her Cynyr did not want her to enter his cell. He was doing his best to intimidate

her, scare her, but Aingeal was not about to allow him to succeed.

“I am unlocking the door,
mo tiarna
.”

Outside the barrier and outside door, the Shadowlords, Reapers and the healer stood transfixed. Lord

Kheelan had ordered the panel raised so they could see what was happening inside the cell. At first they

could not see Cynyr for he was tearing into the door separating him from his mate, trying his best to

frighten her, but then they saw him lurch back, away from the barrier door and once more plaster himself

to the far wall, his face pressed into the corner, hiding it from his lady.

“Why would she do this?” Lord Naois asked.

“Le searc air,”the Prime Reaper said.

Lord Naois—a Serenian—looked to the high commissioner for the translation.

“For love of him,” Lord Kheelan said softly.

Aingeal had entered the containment cell. The men could see she was trembling, but not once did her