BlackMoon Reaper (4 page)

hard canter down the main street.

“A touchy little brat, ain’t he,
Mo Regina
?” Fontabeau said as he watched the Reaper

riding out of town.

“Go slow with him, My Reaper. He has known great hurt in his young life,”
came the

gentle reply.

“I’ll take extra care with the young one,” Fontabeau told Her. A good century older

than Phelan, he had much experience with hot-headed young men.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

As he took the Tail of the Dragon farther up into the mountains, Phelan could not

get the gunman out of his mind. The taste of him was still on the Reaper’s tongue and

every now and then he would turn his head and spit. He could feel the hardness of

Fontabeau’s body pressed against him.

“Lord Kheelan?” he asked through gritted teeth, sending his thoughts thousands of

miles to the east.

“I am here.”

“Tell me about the hell hound Reaper Fontabeau,” the Reaper demanded then

added a belated please to his request. “Why is he here?”

There was silence from the Citadel.

“Lord Kheelan?”

The High Lord did not respond.

Phelan reined in his horse and sat there with his head cocked to one side, listening.

There was a rustling along the ether between where he was and the fortress of the

Reapers but no words were being spoken. He felt his heartbeat accelerate.

“You didn’t know he was here, did you?” he asked.

Still there was silence and Phelan could imagine the High Lord conferring with the

other two Shadowlords. When at last Lord Kheelan spoke, there was heavy anger in the

sorcerer’s voice.

“We were unaware of his existence but we have him now,”
the High Lord snapped
.

“We’ll get back to you!”

Phelan was sure that meant the Shadowlords had reached down and somehow

snatched up the hell hound. He looked skyward, wondering if one of the drones was

nearby. Most likely that had been the source of the shifting in the ether and he grinned.

“Glad I’m not in your boots, hound,” he drawled. He clucked his tongue and

Ulchabhán
started forward again, pricking its ears as its rider laughed.

By sundown, Phelan had reached Haxton Cove, but he had heard the ruckus from

the booming mining town long before the serpentine road led him into the settlement.

The pop of gunfire, the rinky-tink of a piano, the hoots and the curses of drunken men,

the rattle of harness and wagon braces echoed off the mountains. As his horse clip-

clopped down the dusty street, he was stunned at the activity of a large city rolled into

the tight confines of a small town where men walked shoulder to shoulder amidst the

bustle.

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BlackMoon Reaper

What surprised him most was no one paid any attention to him as he rode in.

Usually when he ventured into a new town—a place where he’d never been before and

where he was not immediately known—men stepped aside, women and children

scattered and even animals slinked out of his way. Here, no one so much as glanced his

way, going about their business as though he were invisible, and he wasn’t so sure he

liked that.

Dismounting in front of what appeared to be the only hotel in town, he tied the

reins to the hitching post then turned to survey the busy streets. Men in dirty clothing

and soil-streaked faces staggered about amidst younger freshly shaven men in new

clothing that had yet to be smeared with dust from the mine. The latter carried brand-

new pick axes and shovels with shiny scoops. The former carried bottles of rot gut

clutched in their grimy hands.

Shaking his head at the vagaries of the human condition, the Reaper stepped up on

the boardwalk and ventured into the hotel—the door to which was standing open.

Inside, the smell of boiled cabbage assailed him.

“Ain’t got no rooms, milord,” the man behind the desk reported. “Unless you be

asking me to toss someone out. I’ll do it if that’s your pleasure.” His tone suggested it

wouldn’t be to his.

That too was a surprise to Phelan. He was accustomed to hotel clerks jumping to

make room at the inn for him, or to at least wring their hands and bemoan the fact there

were no vacancies. He went up to the desk and cupped his hands over the edge.

“I don’t need a room, but I’d like a place to clean up,” he told the desk clerk.

“Baths are out back,” the man said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “One dollar

for used water. Five for clean.”

Phelan’s left eyebrow shot up. “You think I’d bathe behind another man?” There

was steel in the gruff way he made the query.

For the first time the desk clerk showed a hint of unease. He sniffed, rubbed his

nose with the back of his hand then sniffed again.

“Reckon whereas you might not,” he allowed. “Five dollars then. Towel and soap

be a dollar extra.”

The Reaper saw red and the tint began to form in his amber eyes. “How ’bout I

don’t pay you one cent? How would that be, you thieving bastard?”

Watching the crimson glow pulsing from the lawman’s narrowed gaze was enough

to put the fear of the gods in the desk clerk and he stumbled back, putting a hand up to

ward off the coming fury.

“Aye, m-milord!” he stammered. “Whatever you want!”

“Then get that bath ready. Now!”

It was unusual for Phelan to behave in that manner and it shamed him. He knew

the Shadowlords would chastise him for scaring the desk clerk, but at that moment he

didn’t give a damn. The man had pushed all the wrong buttons. Cursing, he turned and

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

stomped back out the door and to his horse, snatching his saddlebags from the mount.

When he came trooping back in, the desk clerk was wringing his hands, bobbing his

head and looked on the verge of curtseying.

“They’re pouring your water, milord. I got you a clean towel and a fresh bar of soap

too.” He tried to smile but couldn’t quite seem to pull it off. “What else can I do for

you?”

“See to my horse while I’m bathing,” Phelan snapped. “Feed and water him then

get him back to me by the time I’m finished.”

“Aye, milord. Right away, milord!”

The desk clerk all but ran out of the room.

Taking a deep breath to release some of the anger boiling inside him, Phelan found

the door leading out to the bath house and went through it. The smell of cabbage was

stronger as he passed the kitchen and the odor made his stomach roil. He glanced in the

cooking room as he went by. An old black woman dipped a curtsey to him and he

tipped his hat to her.

“Don’t eat here, milord,” she said to him. “Food ain’t fit for humans. You go on up

to Miss Lucy’s if you want decent food at a fair price.”

He stepped into the kitchen. “I appreciate the warning, milady,” he told her.

“Would you tell me what’s wrong with the food here?”

“Weevils in the flour,” she explained. “Meat is stringy and dry. Cabbage was

beginning to rot when it came to me.”

“And he sells that to his customers?” Phelan asked.

“Aye, he does, milord, but that ain’t the worst of it. Sometimes the meat is road kill

and it’s been sitting there a day or two afore it’s picked up. By the time I get it, it’s

mostly rancid.”

Phelan felt the bile rising in his throat.

“Do the customers know?”

“I’d think not, milord, else they wouldn’t eat here but up to Miss Lucy’s.”

He switched his attention from the old woman to the pot she’d been stirring. He

went over to her, handed her his saddlebags, picked up the pot of boiling cabbage.

“Will you get the door for me, milady?” he asked.

“Aye, milord, that I will!” she said with a toothless grin, and moved ahead of him

to the back door.

He carried the big pot outside and dumped it on the ground. The smell was strong

as the grayish-green water spread into the dirt. Clumps of unidentifiable meat lay

among the cabbage.

“Where’s the biscuits you made to go with the stew?” he asked.

“In the oven.”

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BlackMoon Reaper

He nodded and went back inside, carrying the pot with him. He set it on the

counter, opened the oven, took a potholder and pulled out the pan of biscuits. They

joined the cabbage on the ground. He also added the tins of flour and cornmeal and a

few crates of vegetables that had seen better days.

“If he asks you what happened, you tell him to come see me,” Phelan said, taking

his saddlebags from the old woman.

“He won’t do that, milord,” she said with a chuckle.

“And if he so much as raises his voice to you, you let me know, and it will be the

last sound he ever makes. Understood?”

“Aye, milord,” she said, and grinned.

Angrier than he had been before, Phelan stomped out of the kitchen and behind the

hotel to the bath house. Two slovenly looking women were just finishing pouring hot

water into a big copper tub when he flicked the curtain aside and entered.

“It’s ready for you, milord!” one of the women said, backing away from him. The

other stood stock-still like a deer caught in lantern light with her mouth slack and eyes

bulging.

“Out,” he said in a tired voice, and the first had to drag the other one away, leaving

him alone in the small cubicle.

Phelan hung his head. His outrage had given him a wicked headache. He stood

there for a moment trying to get the anger under tighter control then flung his

saddlebags to the seat of the lone ladder-back chair. Yanking the tails of his black silk

shirt from his leather uniform pants, he unbuttoned the cuffs with quick little flicks then

ran the buttons down the front, shrugging out of the garment before wadding it into a

ball to pitch across the room.

“Gods-be-damned little prick,” he insulted the desk clerk. Just the idea of the man

charging patrons to eat weevil-infested, rancid food made his blood boil. He stripped

off his belt, shucked his boots, stepped out of his pants then kicked the leather garment

as hard as he could. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he peeled off his socks then

submersed himself in the hot water.

If there was one thing a Reaper loved more than sugar, it was hot water. They could

stand for hours beneath a shower given the chance. It hadn’t been all that long ago that

they would not go near running water for fear of drowning, believing the
geis
that had

been leveled against them by the goddess. Now they knew they could indeed swim and

were damned good at it. Water was one of the addictions they allowed themselves

without regret.

Laying his head along the curved back of the tub, draping his arms over the sides,

he slid down in the water as far as his tall frame would allow, but even then his knees

were crooked and standing out of the water. That was all right with him at the moment

for the water was lulling him, leeching away some of the rage that was prodding him.

He closed his eyes and took long, deep, calming breaths in an effort to push the rest of

the anger aside.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“He is from
Moddoilid
.”

Lord Kheelan’s intrusive voice snapped Phelan’s eyes open and he jerked, sloshing

water over the side of the tub.

“She brought him here to work undercover. That is why he does not wear the black. That is

also why we did not know of his existence until now.”

Phelan ran a hand through his hair. “Where is he now?”

“We took him back to Robbinsville. You will no doubt see him again.”
The words were

spoken with no small degree of irritation.

“Why didn’t She tell you about him, Your Grace?”

“Who the hell knows?”
the High Lord snapped.

“You couldn’t get the information from him?” It was pushing it, but Phelan was

more curious than cautious.

There was a stony silence that caused Phelan to shift uneasily in the tub and when

the Shadowlord spoke, he knew he’d best cease asking any more questions.

“You do your job and he’ll do his. Work with him if you must. You got that, Kiel?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” he answered, and felt Lord Kheelan pulling back.

“Whoa,” Phelan said. Apparently the hell hound was more than the Shadowlords

had bargained for. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of the Citadel’s

High Chamber when they interrogated Fontabeau.

For a reason he didn’t understand, Phelan felt pride in the gunman. It was a rare

thing for a Reaper to come out with the upper hand in any confrontation with a

Shadowlord. That Fontabeau had said volumes for the warrior’s strength of purpose

and resolve.

“Good on you,” Phelan said as he reached over for the soap and began lathering

himself. “Gods-be-damned good on you, Sorn.”

* * * * *

Feeling the desk clerk’s angry eyes following him as he strode forth in a fresh

uniform he’d conjured to replace the old one, Phelan sauntered across the street with

his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and toward the loud music pouring from Miss

Lucy’s saloon and whorehouse The Ruby Load. The smell of roast beef wafted out to

him through the batwing doors, and when he pushed them open, the place was bustling

with customers, the tickety-tic of the roulette wheel and the click of dice. In the corner a