My Reaper's Daughter (35 page)

mourning, for Siobhan and felt again the fury that had he’d known throughout the long

centuries since his death.

“You’d best say nothing more to me about it, Eanan,” he warned. “Not
ever
again. I

don’t want to hear how you mourned me or Siobhan, or your lies about praying for my

soul. Never again. Do you understand?”

Eanan nodded. “Aye, Owen. I do.”

Without another word Owen started off down the corridor, not caring one way or

another if his twin followed.

Silent all the way to the High Council chambers, Owen’s back was ramrod straight.

He barely acknowledged the greetings of the people he passed but managed to thank

those who congratulated him on the birth of his sons.

Eanan tried smiling at those same people but they ignored him, and he realized

what he had done to his obviously beloved and respected twin was now common

knowledge among the residents of the Citadel. Accustomed to having people like him,

treat him with respect because of his Reaper status, he felt the censure like a hot

branding iron laid to his flesh and felt it even keener the moment he was ushered into

the presence of the Shadowlords and the four Reapers who stood at attention before the

High Bench. He glanced briefly at the tall woman he knew to be an Amazeen

Blackwind and frowned. He had the same unshakeable dislike of the female as did most

of his kind.

“Lord Eanan Tohre,” the High Lord greeted him, but the words were spoken as

though they left a bad taste in the Shadowlord’s mouth. “Approach the Bench.”

Eanan was aware of his twin going to stand with his teammates as he moved

toward the dais upon which the Bench sat.

There was no preamble from the High Lord. The man glared angrily at Eanan—as

did the two Shadowlords flanking him—and there was no warmth or welcome in his

tone as he spoke.

“We were not aware the goddess had brought you among us and though we are

annoyed with her for having done so without informing us, She has bid us to accept

you as a member of the Reaper squad and we have no choice but to do as She

commands. She has ordered us to make use of your skills and talents as one of Her

Reapers and we must do as She says though it goes against our grain.”

The High Lord sat back in his chair and regarded Eanan much as he would have an

insect. “We know of the evil you perpetrated against your brother and will have you

know such actions are anathema to this Council. In order for you have even a modicum

of respect from us, you must earn that respect. Is that clear?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Eanan replied. “It is.”

“And you would do well to garner the respect and trust of your fellow teammates

else you might find yourself needing their assistance one day and that assistance will be

denied. Is that clear as well?”

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“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Prime Reaper Arawn Gehdrin has asked to be retired from service but the goddess

has denied his request. She has, however, agreed to allow you to patrol his territory for

him so he can stay more often with his lady-wife and son. Though you will be riding his

circuit, he is still in charge and will remain in charge as the leader of the squad.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do your job. Toe the line. Keep your nose clean and perhaps one day you will

obtain the right to stand alongside the men behind you.” The High Lord leaned forward

again, pinning Eanan with a hot glower that would have turned a lesser man’s gut to

mush. “Fuck with us, cause us even a moment’s concern that you are unworthy to wear

that uniform and I promise you, we will make those eight months in a con cell seem like

child’s play. Do you read me, Tohre?”

Eanan swallowed hard. “I do, Your Grace, and I pledge you will not regret giving

me this opportunity.”

“If you are a tenth the man your brother is, you might prove to be of some value to

us,” Lord Kheelan snapped, and with that said, rose and left the dais, his counterparts

following in his wake.

Eanan exhaled slowly then straightened his shoulders, turned to face the five men

at his back.

“This is our Prime, Lord Arawn Gehdrin,” Owen stated with a nod toward the

oldest of the five. “To his right is his 2-I-C, Lord Bevyn Coure. To his left is 3-I-C, Lord

Cynyr Cree and to his left is Lord Iden Belial. Lords Glyn Kullen, Phelan Kiel and Kasid

Jaborn are on assignment in Vircars.”

Though Eanan put out his hand toward Gehdrin, the Prime Reaper did not take it.

He slowly lowered it, hurt by the rebuff.

“Captain Aracnea,” Lord Arawn said, “show this man to his quarters and go over

his duties with him. He will be under your jurisdiction until further notice.”

“Aye, milord,” the Amazeen agreed and motioned for Eanan to follow her.

Eanan made no move to do so. He looked from Gehdrin to each of the other

Reapers—his gaze finally settling on his twin.

“I know I will have to prove myself to you men, but I promise you will not find my

loyalty or my abilities lacking,” he said.

“It isn’t your loyalty or your abilities that concern us, Tohre,” the Prime Reaper

said. “It is your past sin toward a man for whom we have the highest regard. Prove to

us you will stand at his back and be willing to lay down your life for his, for ours, and

then we’ll talk. Until then, stay the fuck out of our way.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Sixteen

Glyn Kullen could hear every word Mystery whispered to him as she bathed his

face and chest. Though he could not move—not even his eyes—he could see what was

happening around him even if it was through a drug-induced red haze. His mind might

be trapped, his body encased in a fiery torment of agonizing itching and heat, his soul

plundered, but he was aware of his surroundings and aching to break free of his inertia.

Inwardly he was screaming savagely—his screams bouncing off the walls of his brain.

The first time this had happened to him, it hadn’t lasted this long. From out of the

dark recesses of his mind he saw the foreman standing at the crossroads and he’d

drawn up, thinking the man wanted to talk.

“I’ve something to show you over there,” Dirk had said, pointing to the bushes by

the side of the road.

The Reaper had dismounted and as he passed the foreman, the man had grabbed

his arm and spun him around. He’d flinched as the powder was blown into his eyes but

for whatever reason, it hadn’t worked that long. There had been a few moments of

paralysis but more sickness than anything else. Now he remembered being slung over

his saddle and taken to the cabin, dropped in the smelly, ramshackle building and

having John Dirk kick him viciously in the ribs, apparently angry the powder had not

worked as the magic-sayer had wanted it to.

Dirk had bent over him. “Leave my woman the fuck alone, Reaper. The Master

wants your soul but I’ll take your worthless life if you don’t!”

The aura of Raphian’s stench was sharp around the foreman but as soon as he was

out the door, Glyn had forgotten all about him—no doubt the doing of the demon. But

this time it was different.

Memory had not been taken from him and he could not help but dwell on the

image of the crying child standing in the middle of the road. Her little fists were

digging into her eyes, her bare feet muddy and too-small dress dripping wet, ragged

and torn. She looked starved, abandoned, and he had reined in his mount and hurried

to her, going to one knee, his heart breaking at her pitiful crying.

“Are you lost, sweeting?” he had asked. When he touched her bony shoulder, he

had flinched at the iciness of the touch.

And then she had lowered her fists and looked at him with eyes far older than any

normal child’s should have been. The stare aimed his way was pure evil. When she

smiled, her teeth were rotten to the pulp—jagged lichen-covered tombstones staggered

in a pulpy dark gray landscape.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

Before he could react to that hideous sight, she had puckered her sunken cheeks

and blown her cold breath in his face. That breath had been fetid, as vile as any charnel

house, and the fumes had coalesced into a powdery dust that had stolen his breath,

choked him, flowing unstopped down his clogging throat and into his lungs like the

tendrils of some poisonous plant.

As he lay struggling to drag breath into his body, the child had turned into a

hulking man of color, the features of his ebony face hidden by the lowered shadows of

the rainy day. The giant leaned over him—huge hands reaching toward Glyn.

“Your day of reckoning is at hand, Reaper,” the man said in a heavily accented

voice, showing teeth so white they gleamed in his dark face.

Thick fingers snagged in Glyn’s shirt and ripped it open, exposing the Reaper’s

chest to the pounding rain. Rough, calloused hands smoothed firmly over Glyn’s cheeks

and forehead, down his neck, over his chest and along his sides, across his belly, dipped

obscenely beneath the waistband of his pants and onto his cock. Where those hands

touched, Glyn could feel the skin breaking open and the flesh beginning to itch

unbearably. Whatever was on the man’s hands was cold and slimy and it seeped

through the Reaper’s skin and passed into his bloodstream.

Torment such as he had never known gripped his body in a crushing hold. He

itched violently and could not relieve that sensation. His flesh burned and he could not

soothe it. His head hurt brutally and he could do nothing to ease the pain.

He remembered being picked up and carried away from the crossroads and into the

greensward of the forest. He had heard running water but all he could see was the

canopy of the trees under which they passed. His captor seemed to walk forever, deeper

into what smelled like marshy, swampy land. When at last he stopped, he dropped to

his knees then leaned forward to deposit Glyn in a pine box that had its lid thrown

back. To Glyn’s horror, the Reaper realized the box was beneath ground level and to

one side of the length of it the dirt was piled high.

He knew where he was but was unable to move. His body was on fire—the itching

so intense he wished he could die. As the lid was lowered—shutting out the rain and

the light—and the thud of a hammer striking the wood vibrated through the close

confines of the coffin, Glyn Kullen screamed as loud as he could, but the sound was

only in his mind. When the first shovelful of dirt hit the lid, he nearly lost his mind.

He would never know how long he lay in the coffin. He did know the air was

becoming thin and though his breathing was shallow to begin with—his lungs partially

paralyzed—he could feel suffocation close at hand.

Tears rolled down his widely opened eyes and fell into the hair at his temples.

Sweat coated him and soaked the remains of his black silk shirt.

And then there was the scrape of metal on wood and he knew a moment of pure

relief. He knew he would not have died even had the air been depleted in the box but

he did not want to spend eternity within those tight, claustrophobic confines. That—to

him and all of his kind—would have been a fate far worse than the most hellish death.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The continuous scrape as the dirt was removed from the coffin was unnerving and

it grated, but freedom was only a few more shovelfuls away. At last the lid was pried

open with a mighty shriek and cool air flooded the narrow box, washing over him to

give some respite from the maddening itching and burning that plagued his flesh.

He had expected it to be Phelan and Kasid who had come to his rescue and a part of

him cringed when he saw the tall man of color bending over the grave.

“Arise, slave, and do your master’s bidding!”

As though his body was attached to strings, Glyn sat up. His head swam miserably.

His hands came up of their own accord and gripped the muddy sides of the coffin. As

though he were a child learning to pull himself up in a crib, he lurched to his feet and

stood there wavering in the rain. His vision was distorted by the first drug. His body

was on fire from the second. He scrambled out of the pine box—clawing his way across

the grave dirt—until he was on all fours before the man who had brought him back

from the grave.

“Stand up, you white bastard.”

He could not place the accent. It was not one he had ever heard before but he could

do no other than obey the harsh command and wobbled to his feet, dirt caked beneath

his nails as his arms hung uselessly at his side.

“Go until I summon you.” The tall man pointed to the Reaper’s horse standing a

few feet away.

Like a puppet, Glyn stumbled toward his horse. The animal shied away from him,

its eyes rolling in fear. He fell into the mud trying to capture the reins but still the beast

sidestepped his attempts—whinnying with fear—until the dark man bellowed an order

for the horse to cease its movements.

Dragging himself into the saddle, the Reaper slumped forward over the horse’s

neck with a heavy grunt as though all the bones in his body had dissolved, all the

muscles shut down. It was all he could do to lace his fingers through the horse’s mane