BlackMoon Reaper (16 page)

“Lord Dunham here. We sense your fear of the mine, Lord Sorn, and know the Ridge Lord is

not well. Lord Cynyr Cree is the closest and we will dispatch him if you think his help is

needed.”

“But your fear of going into the mine prevents you from being of any help to Lord Kiel,”
the

High Lord said.
“Should we send Lord Cree?”

Fontabeau was standing just outside the headframe, staring at the block of

explosive inside the cage. He strained to hear something—anything—but only the tell-

tale silence came back to him.

“Aye, I believe you should. I fear for Phelan,” he said.

“Then he is on his way,”
the third Shadowlord said.
“Contact us if you need to.”

But it was not the Shadowlords Fontabeau wanted reassurance from at that

moment. He closed his eyes and called out to the Triune Goddess, hoping Morrigunia

was close by to hear his call. When after the third attempt he gave up with a long,

ragged sigh, he heard the High Lord’s soft voice.

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“We too are trying to contact Her, Lord Sorn. We will keep trying.”

“Does it seem to you She is always around when you don’t need Her and never

around when you do?” he asked with exasperation, and was surprised to hear the High

Lord laugh.

“Aye, that it does!”

“I too am trying to reach Her.”

Fontabeau turned around to find Brell at the door of the captain’s shack. “You

feeling any better?”

“My head hurts like a Diabolusian warthog’s inside it nibbling away,” Brell

reported, “but at least I can walk without staggering. Do you want me to go after him?”

Fontabeau knew the Ridge Lord wasn’t up to the task but was grateful the warrior

offered.

“We’ll wait for the Reaper they are sending. Hopefully it won’t be long before he

reaches us.”

“I don’t like this quiet,” Brell said, sweeping his gaze over their surroundings.

“Something is definitely not right about this and what’s that gods-awful smell?” He

pointed at their horses. “Even they are reacting to it.”

The horses were skittish, snorting, their eyes rolling as they stamped at the ground.

Fontabeau had been so absorbed with speaking to the Shadowlords and trying to

raise Morrigunia he hadn’t noticed the oily scent that appeared. He drew a deep lungful

into his body and almost immediately his head began to hurt.

“I don’t know what it is,” he told Brell.

“It’s making my eyes water,” Brell said as he reached up to wipe at his eyes. “And

it’s setting my nerves on edge.”

“Aye, mine too. I guess that’s why the horses are so jumpy.”

“Let’s hope so.”

* * * * *

Deep in the tunnel system, Phelan was wiping his own eyes. The farther he went,

the stronger the odor became. It had a familiar stench about it but he couldn’t quite

place where he’d encountered it before. He didn’t remember the Ceannus having such a

rank smell when he’d ventured down there the day before. But the odor put him on his

guard and he stopped to see if he could gain a direction from which the scent was

coming.

Putting a hand to his aching head, he shifted his shoulders. The feeling that

something slimy was sitting on them, draped around his neck, was overwhelming and

it added to his unease. He removed the saddlebag slung over his shoulder because its

weight was causing even more apprehension.

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Once more he tried to contact the Shadowlords, though he was sure they couldn’t

hear him. He tried calling out to Morrigunia as well.

“So nice to know they’re watching my back,” he mumbled to himself as he reached

an intersection where three tunnels met.

Something clinked off to his right and he snapped his head toward the sound,

cocking it as he listened. His amber eyes tracked back and forth in the low light as he

concentrated, and when the sound came again, he straightened, starting in that

direction.

* * * * *

Cynyr Cree kissed his wife Aingeal goodbye, touched his son on his chubby little

cheeks then walked out of the house. Ten steps past the front porch, he shape-shifted

into raven form and took to the air. He could move faster, cover more distance in his

avian nature than he could on horseback or in a lupine state.

Something had been nagging at Cree all morning. He had been restless, gaining

Aingeal’s irritation as he’d paced the living room. He had just come off an assignment

and had been looking forward to a few days of down time to enjoy playing with his son

and loving his woman. He suspected Aingeal was pregnant again, but she was hiding

the knowledge from him.

Soaring over the tops of the Osage orange trees filled to overflowing with their

warty pale green fruit, he contemplated having another son. Thanks to the evil bastard

who had kidnapped her, she had miscarried their first child. Losing little Ancyn had

hurt her. She had her heart set on a dynasty of Cree boys for them to love and spoil.

“After Briton, there will be Chastain then Dayton, Evan, Finian, Galvyn, Harold…”

“Oh hell no!” Cynyr had bellowed at his lady. “No Harold!” The mere thought of

them naming a son after their fussy little steward set his teeth on edge.

“Then Harbin,” she said.

“Acceptable,” he’d agreed with a sniff.

“Then Ionatan, Jamison, Kenyon, Lorcan, Malone, Nolan, Oisin, Padraig,

Quinlan…” She’d smiled. “Ranger, Sloan, Taegan…”

“Enough, wench!” he’d cried, hands up. “That isn’t a dynasty. It’s a litter!”

“Aye, well, if you aren’t up to the task…” she’d goaded.

He’d shown her that he was. Now he suspected she was carrying little Chas within

her.

Just as he knew she’d planned.

Not that he minded. He was right proud of himself for impregnating her even

though Harold kept giving him looks that said he thought his employer was a satyr of

the highest, rankest order.

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“Please leave Harold alone, Cyn,” she’d pleaded. “You keep glowering at him and

when you do, he burns things.”

“I hate that prissy little fruit!” he’d told her.

“No you don’t,” she’d replied. “He’s grown on you.”

“Aye, like a canker,” Cree had grumbled.

“Behave or I’ll have to nip you on that stubborn ass of yours,” she’d warned with a

twinkle in her eye.

Goddess, how he loved his lady. She had turned his world from a dark-stained

existence to the brightest life a man could have. Her smile was enough to make his heart

pound, and when she gave him one of her patented saucy looks…

His wings shuddered as he flew, the blood within his avian body heating as

lecherous thoughts invaded.

He should be in his nest with his lady-bird, he thought, and not winging his way to

Phelan’s aid.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, Kiel?” he asked.

* * * * *

Kiel was wondering the same thing. The closer he came to the occasional clinking

sound, the more his head hurt and his eyes watered. He’d been forced to pull out his

kerchief and blot at the tears rolling down his cheeks. The musky scent had a biting

acridity to it that burned the lining of his nostrils. He’d smelled it before, but for the life

of him he couldn’t place the stench. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he associated it

with a jail cell but that made no sense.

Ahead there was a dim glow wavering over the tunnel walls. The clinking sound

had stopped but shadows moved in the flickering light. Careful to be as quiet as

possible, Phelan inched closer to the luminescence. The odor was stronger, his eyes and

nostrils burning with the stench. He was finding it harder to breathe. His heart was

pounding with what he realized was fear—an insight that puzzled him. Though the

Ceannus were an ugly-ass lot, he saw no reason why the things should make him as

apprehensive as he was fast becoming. He could feel sweat gathering in his palms,

under his arms, tracing a rivulet down his chest.

Suddenly there was a brighter flare of light and then a low rumbling sound that

shook the rocks behind his back. He flattened himself against the tunnel wall as the

sound died down. The light diminished then faded altogether and he heard words he

knew had to have been spoken by one of the Ceannus.

“That is the last of them. You may shut down the BlackMoon.”

BlackMoon
? Phelan mentally repeated, wondering what it was. He edged closer to

the flickering light.

“Our work here is done,” one of the Ceannus said. “Now we wait.”

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Phelan hunkered down and withdrew one of the two remaining charges. His initial

plan had been to place one of the charges in the lab where the ’bots were being

manufactured and another midway the tunnels. Instinct told him here would be a better

place to set one of the charges. Whatever the BlackMoon was, it needed to be destroyed,

but he did want a look at it beforehand. After placing the slapper detonator in the block

of explosive, he rose to his feet and began to cloak himself with the psychic shield that

would make it possible for him to boldly walk into the room with the Ceannus and not

have them see him. He had to get a glimpse of the BlackMoon, gain a mental picture of

it to transmit to the Citadel.

His corporeal body began to fade and when he knew he was no longer visible to the

naked eye he slipped into the room.

The Ceannus were standing off to one side—each flanking a large platform with a

black matte floor. The platform was curved in a crescent shape with soaring polished

tin sides that appeared to have no seams or rivets. Above the platform, running its

length, were five rows of what had to be lights—each light encased in a shiny mesh-like

metal. Running lights along the perimeter of the platform pulsed a soft green color.

Phelan took a few steps closer to the platform, speculating about its purpose. He

kept one eye on the Ceannus who had not moved but rather seemed to be watching him

with their unnerving black insect-like eyes. That silent regard sent a cold chill down his

back and he had to remind himself that they could not see him. Another step and he

turned his full attention on the platform. His eyes moved from top to bottom, left to

right—tracking a mental image of the curious platform that would be stored in his brain

for the Shadowlords to retrieve. That accomplished, he stepped back—his scrutiny now

on the Ceannus as he walked backward out of the room. Outside the room’s opening,

he turned as the shield began to dissolve and plowed into a hulking creature whose

arms came around him in a punishing grip.

* * * * *

Fontabeau went to the window to peer out. “What the hell is taking so long? He

should have been back by now!”

Des ran a shaky hand over his sweating face. “Something must have happened.”

Fear shot a sharper arrow through the gunman. He felt as though his chest were

already ventilated with an entire quiver of the debilitating things. He put a hand to his

heart, flexing his fingers over the pounding organ. Twice he’d gone to the door and

twice drawn back his hand. He was having trouble drawing breath as he thought about

going down into the mine.

“He knows you’re claustrophobic, Beau,” Des said.

“Aye, but what kind of man does that make me that I give in to it? What kind of

Reaper does that make me? What kind of friend?”

“I used to have a fear of high places,” Des said. “I was terrified of climbing even the

shortest ladder.”

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The gunman looked around. “You sound like the fear is in the past. Did you get

over it?”

“With a lot of help from the goddess,” Des replied. “She put me in a situation

where I had two choices—let a friend die or get over my fear.” He shrugged. “There

was no choice.”

Fontabeau winced. “What you’re saying is I’m a coward,” he said, hanging his

head, digging his fingernails into his palms.

“No, that isn’t what I said. We deal with our imperfections in different ways, Beau,”

Des said.

The gunman turned back to the window, laid his head on the cool glass. “Gods, that

stink is making my head split wide open. It’s hard to think!”

“Aye, it is,” Des agreed.

For a moment longer Fontabeau stood where he was then with a violent curse he

straightened and strode to the door.

“It’s been too long,” he said, snatching open the portal. “The gods help me, I’m

going after him! He needs someone he can trust at his back!”

Des said nothing. The stench was making him nauseous and the headache was

worse. He could not hold his head up and the moment Fontabeau was out of the cabin,

Brell slumped on the cot, his legs giving way beneath him.

* * * * *

Cynyr dove toward the coordinates Lord Naois had sent to him, skimming the tops

of tall pines and oaks, surprised to find no other birds soaring through the warm day,

no small creatures walking in the forest below. But it was the stench permeating the

clearing to which he was gliding that brought him up short, causing him to bank away

steeply with a loud caw of protest.

“What the hell…?”
he shrieked as he landed on the branch of the tallest pine he