Reaper's Revenge (21 page)

“A glorious day,”
Lord Naois Belvoir joined in.

“Remarkable achievement, Kullen. Good on you!”
Lord Dunham Tarnes agreed. The ropes in Phelan and Iden’s hands played out but Glyn had not reached the opposite shore. They were loath to let go for fear the hemp would become entangled in river debris but when the ropes went slack, Iden jumped to his feet. 112

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“He cast off the rope!” Phelan yelled.

Glyn was on his back, his brawny arms churning the water as he looked back at them. There was a wide grin on his face and they heard him whoop as he arched forward, disappearing beneath the waves for a moment before they saw him striking out for their side of the river, his arms pistoning in a flurry of movement as he streaked toward them.

“Damn he’s good,” Iden said with a whistle.

“Said he was a champion swimmer,” Phelan reminded him. He stepped closer to the bank and held his hand down, ready to grasp Kullen’s as the Reaper came to shore. Glyn stopped, treading water about ten feet out. “Come on in!” he said.

“I can’t swim,” Bevyn denied. He looked to Phelan and Iden. The men exchanged a look then took a running leap off the bank, landing a few feet from Glyn. Side by side, they took off toward the opposite shore with strong strokes—

racing against one another, whooping like boys.

Bevyn drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. He’d always wanted to learn to swim and when he’d been turned, that dream had died a quick death. Now, it seemed it might be possible.

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Chapter Twelve

At first glance the gathering at the church was a solemn affair. Standing at the altar awaiting the arrival of his soon-to-be bride, Lord Arawn Gehdrin was ill at ease in a freshly created dress uniform of black silk shirt, black leather tie, belt and uniform breeches. Beside him as best man, Lord Cynyr Cree stood dressed in an identical uniform. Other than the collar insignia of Prime Reaper and Arawn’s dark blue tribal tattoo of a heron, Cynyr’s of a raven, the two men were like matching bookends. In the first pew on the south side of the church, the remaining five Reapers sat side by side, also dressed in the formal black uniforms. The first pew on the north side had been reserved for the father and mother of the bride. Interspersed on both sides were the townspeople of Haines City—Moira McDermott, Matt Schumann and his wife Delores, Brett Samuels, Verlin Walker, John Denning, Healer Tim Murphy, Max Guthrie and many others.

Father William O’Malley stood directly in front of the altar, a sour look on his face. This was the second Reaper Joining he had performed and looked none the least happy about it. His florid face was red with anger, a white line around his thin lips. Rebecca Walker, Verlin’s wife, sat at the piano awaiting the escorting of the bride’s mother to her pew. Becca was playing a soft, old-fashioned tune and when Mick Brady began walking Mary Lynne Brewster down the aisle, she played a more appropriate one. Having seated Mary Lynne, Mick took his place in the pew behind the Brewsters, slipping in beside Moira.

Annie McDermott came down the aisle next as Danielle’s matron of honor. The widowed woman looked happy although tears shimmered in her eyes. At a terse nod from the priest, Becca began the ritual Joining march and everyone rose as Sheriff Dan Brewster escorted his daughter down the aisle. Brewster looked ready to burst and turned his head to smile at his neighbors in the manner of every politician ever elected to office. On his arm, his daughter was radiant with eyes only for the tall man in black who awaited her at the end of her walk. Arawn swallowed hard, for the lovely woman coming toward him made his body clench and thicken. It was all he could do to keep his wayward staff from springing to attention, straining to get a look at the soft female body that would hold it enthrall for a lifetime to come.

As Danielle passed Bevyn Coure, who sat on the aisle seat beside his fellow Reapers, she whispered, “
Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna.”

Behind him, Brett Samuels leaned forward, tapped Bevyn on the shoulder and asked him for the translation of the Gaelach words. Bevyn smiled. “However long the day, the evening will come,” he replied.

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Brett straightened up, confusion on his beefy face. He shrugged, supposing it was a Reaper thing.

Brewster handed his daughter into the care of her husband-to-be, pride lighting the sheriff’s face. “May all your troubles be little ones, Arawn,” he said then joined his wife in their pew.

Arawn swallowed again. This time it was from nervousness he would not have thought himself capable of feeling. As he took Danielle’s hand in his and the moment their fingers touched, he felt love drive straight through to his soul. So calm did he feel, so
right
, he wondered what it was he had fought for so long where this beautiful, sensual woman was concerned.

“Let us pray,” Father O’Malley said in a bored voice, stretching his right hand over the couple’s heads.

“Have you said the formal words with Lea?” Phelan leaned over to ask Bevyn.

“No, but I’m thinking I should,” Bevyn replied of his mate.

“Do you think Arawn will turn his lady?” Phelan inquired.

“Not without our permission he won’t!”
came the stern voice from far away. All seven Reapers heard the words as clearly as though High Lord Kheelan stood in the little church. Not a one of them did not remember the hellish torment Cynyr had gone through for his lack of asking and none wanted to witness a repeat of that agonizing torture.

As the ceremony commenced, Moira kept her eye on Cynyr. The lad—though he was older than her by more years than she cared to know—was weak. He was fighting that weakness valiantly and she was worried about him. But it was the grief in his eyes that concerned her more than the frailty of his body. She knew he was remembering the night he had Joined with Aingeal at the Guthrie House, the night the tornado had roared past Haines City and the Reaper had first made their acquaintance. Looking down at the narrow band of white flesh where once her Claddagh wedding band had spanned her finger, she thought again of the gesture and of the happiness her thoughtfulness had given Aingeal on her Joining night. As she watched Arawn slipping a ring on Danielle’s finger, she couldn’t help but wonder where the Reaper had acquired a ring until she looked closely at Annie’s left hand and saw her wedding band was gone. Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, for it had been Moira’s long-dead son Jamie who had supplied the ring for his and Annie’s Joining. Annie turned to meet her mother-in-law’s eyes and smiled sadly. The intricate Celtic band had never left her finger since her beloved Jamie had slipped it on. She treasured the ring, but had offered it to Arawn out of respect and admiration for the man he was and the devotion he bore Danielle.

Moira nodded, approving what she knew her daughter-in-law had done. For the first time since she’d met Annie, the old woman felt real pride in the bride her son had chosen.

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“Man and wife,” Father O’Malley called out with a curt tone. “You can kiss her if you’re of a mind to.”

Arawn’s hands trembled as he cupped Danielle’s face between his strong palms and placed a soft, reverent kiss upon her smiling lips, his gaze fused with hers. Cynyr’s heart ached for his own mate as he joined in the applause that greeted the newly Joined couple. He watched Arawn and his lady walking back down the aisle—no longer two hearts, but one—and felt the terrible loneliness that dwelled within him without Aingeal. It would a few days more before he was at full strength and able to go after his woman, he thought as he held his arm out for Annie to take as he led her behind Arawn and Danielle.

“Alel help the one what caused that look on your face, Lord Cynyr,” Annie whispered to him, patting his rigid arm.

“He’ll need more help than a god can give him,” Cynyr said in a low voice.

* * * * *

Aingeal lay awake listening to the raucous snores of the two rogues. The noise was enough to wake the dead. Even the horses were uneasy from the gods-awful racket. The thought of trying to lead one of the mounts out of the cave passed lightly over Aingeal’s mind but she doubted she could do so without discovery. She hated biding her time until the Reaper came for her—and she knew in her soul he would—but she reasoned it was best to keep up the appearance of being loyal to Otaktay. She turned her head and stared at the handsome Jakotai brave. There was evil lurking in the man. She could feel it, could almost smell it in the air around him. His eyes looked warmly upon her, but those eyes were cold, devoid of care for anything or anyone other than her. The looks he gave her made her flesh crawl and brought an unsettling ache to her back that concerned her.

For several hours she had been feeling strange. She was overly warm, sweating and had thrown aside the buffalo hide the brave had spread over her as cold seeped through the cave. Her mouth was dry, her back ached and she was thirsty for additional Sustenance. She could feel her heart rate increasing along with her breathing. Her body felt strange, unearthly, and she feared she was coming down with some illness that might endanger her life. Restlessly, she turned to her side but that position did not seem to help so she turned to her stomach. That position did not help either, so she flipped over to her back, running her wet palms down her skirt. She felt irritable, anxious and increasingly aggressive.

“Do you know what Transition is, wench?” Jaborn asked.

Aingeal sat up, anger flashing in her gray eyes. “What are you talking about, pog?”

she insulted him.

Kasid Jaborn hated the insulting, pejorative expression and had not heard it in a very long time. It had certainly not been used in his hearing since he had been turned. 116

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He wondered where the female had picked up such a derogatory term. So offended was he by her use of the word he was tempted not to answer her. He doubted the savage had explained to the woman what Transitioning meant and he was of a mind to let her experience the phenomena without benefit of explanation.

Aingeal got to her feet, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She was agitated, her body’s energy racing at a high level that shocked her. Her skin felt as though it were moving upon her bones and she was beginning to feel suspicious, mistrustful of the man looking back at her.

“What’s happening to me?” she demanded, shuddering.

“You are about to change,” Jaborn replied. He barely glanced at Otaktay as the brave got to his feet.

“You need Sustenance,” Otaktay said. Putting his wrist to his mouth, he tore a gash in his flesh then pressed the wound to Aingeal’s lips.

She drank greedily—the thick warmth as it flowed down her throat taking off the edge of the itching that plagued her. When she grew too tired to draw upon the sweet nectar feeding her, she closed her lips, lifting a leaden hand to rub at her forehead.

“I will give you the tenerse. It will ease your pain.”

The words were coming at her from a distance and made no sense to Aingeal. Her head hurt so badly she could barely draw a breath without a spearing agony stabbing at her over her right eye. She made hardly a sound as the Jakotai injected the potent drug into her neck.

Otaktay replaced the vial and syringe into the leather medicine pouch he wore around his neck on a leather thong. He had already fed well—having gone outside to capture a few wild animals so he could feed his mate. As much as he hated giving himself the pain of the tenerse, that he had done as well so he could look after his woman. It still seemed strange to him that he should care so deeply for her but he could not stop from doing so.

Jaborn shook his head. “That won’t stop the Transition. I doubt it will even slow it down.”

Aingeal tried to stand and couldn’t. She went to the ground on all fours, swinging her head at the pain lancing through her.

“Aingeal,” Otaktay said, realizing what was about to happen. “Let us go to the place I pointed out to you.”

Aingeal shook her head. “No,” she stated. Her flesh was itching and she was sweating so profusely she could feel the moisture dripping down between her breasts. Her face felt as though she had thrust it into a blazing oven.

“Do as I say, woman,” Otaktay growled, and took a step toward her. Jaborn gasped and barely had time to scramble away from the powerful snapping jaws that came straight at him. He’d never seen a rogue shift as quickly as the woman did. He was stunned that she could do so in mid-leap, shedding torn clothing as she 117

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changed. One moment she was human, the next she was a sleek white wolf springing into the air with a fierce growl. Crashing to the ground, he sat there staring after the female as she ran from the cave.

“Come back now!” the Jakotai bellowed, and took out after the she-wolf. A laugh rumbled from Jaborn’s chest. He waded through the slimy muck of the savage’s brain searching for knowledge but found none concerning what rogues could and could not do in regard to Transitioning. He seriously doubted Gibbs had explained anything to the man he’d so carelessly turned. It was obvious to him Otaktay had no notion at all that he could change himself at will. The brave had no notion that with four legs much more powerful than the she-wolf’s, he could catch up to her quickly and bring her down.

“Far be it for me to inform you, savage,” Jaborn chuckled. He was still chuckling when Otaktay came limping back, his face as hard as stone.

“She is running free,” the brave complained.

“She’ll be back,” Jaborn said, though he doubted that was true.

“She does not remember what she is. She will be afraid,” Otaktay said. “A hunter could find her, shoot her.”

Jaborn shrugged. “We each risk that, but just about nothing save the taking of her head will kill her so rest easy. She’ll return when she returns.”

Otaktay slumped to the ground, rubbing his ankle for he had twisted it in his mad dash to catch Aingeal. “She could be burned.”