PRINCE OF THE WIND (28 page)

"Riain, look out!" she yelled, but her warning came too late.

She saw him skidding down the embankment, watched helplessly as he rolled, coming to rest in the rippling river.

"Water! No!" he cried, scrambling to escape the sucking mud, but his strength was rapidly failing and he could not seem to pull himself free.

Then Maeve saw her, coming toward them with a look of infinite satisfaction on her ugly face. In the witch’s hand was a double-edged dagger, the blade gleaming in the flashing lightning.

"Stay away from him!" Maeve ordered, standing between her lover and Suzanna de Viennes.

But like the DreamWaif she was, an intruder in another’s unconscious, there was no substance to her body, and Suzanna walked through her to kneel at Riain’s side.

"Did you really think you could escape?" the witch purred. "You should have known better."

A piteous moan pushed from Maeve’s lips as Suzanna gripped Riain’s raven locks. Maeve put out trembling hands to keep the witch from her purpose, but the effort was in vain; the dagger plunged into the Reaper’s throat.

"You are mine, Riain Cree."

The blade slipped across cringing flesh.

"And mine you will stay!"

"NO!" Riain screamed and jerked up from his troubled sleep. His eyes were wide, staring, and sweat poured from his face.

" ’Twas a dream, sweeting," Maeve said, putting her arms around him.

He was trembling as though with the ague and buried his face in her breast.

"Do you have the dream often?" she asked.

"Every night of my life," he answered, a shudder rippling through him.

"Does it always end the same?"

He nodded, reaching up a quivering hand to wipe the hair from his eyes. "She carries me with her through the Abyss. I know I will spend eternity in hell with her if you ever catches me."

"She’ll not catch you. I’ll not allow it."

Riain pulled out of her embrace and got shakily to his feet. He flung his cloak around his shoulder and hunched before the fire he had built earlier. "Atramentous warned me that if she should touch me before the poison could work, I’d have to go through it all again."

Maeve frowned. "What poison?"

He jerked his chin toward the pile of discarded clothes. "Maiden’s Briar. I was given it by—"

"I
know
What gave it to you!"

"He says if I take it, I will find the Gatherer’s Realm, but if Suzanna or Dearg Duls touch me before—"

"I know
that
legend, too!"

"It is my only way out. When I can no longer fight Suzanna, I will take the potion and go to the Gatherer."

"You’ve many a day before then, Milord. You are a far cry from wanting to be with the Gatherer."

"I feel so lost here, Maeve. I am not sure how I will fend in this strange land. Will I know the language?"

She touched his forehead. He blinked several times, then pulled back.

"What did you do, Lady?"

"Now you will understand their words and they will understand you. I have not the time to teach you to read their language, but that is not necessary for now."

"I want to stay in this land and be with you."

She smiled sadly. "You can not stay long, for even now she has found her way into this world. You must go soon."

"But you will come with me."

She shook her head. "The time has not come for us to be together."

"Ah, Maeve!" he whispered, tears gathering in his golden eyes. "The only way for us to be together is for the two of us to die, isn’t it?"

"It isn’t time, yet. But, aye, we will be in the Gatherer’s Realm together."

He threw his arms around her, showering her with kisses, forestalling the inevitable. "I’ll not let her harm you. On my life, I will not let her take you from me."

A ripple of unease flowed over Maeve. She looked past his shoulder to the woman standing in the copse of oaks and pushed him away. "You must go. Suzanna is near."

He looked to where she was staring. "I see no one—"

"Do not let it alarm you. It was but a friend come to warn us. Now, go before the witch finds you."

He got to his feet, drawing her with him. He pulled her into his arms, held her, kissed her forehead, her eyes, lips, then gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Take care."

"And you, Milord," she encouraged, then stepped back. "Hurry. She is almost upon us."

"I love you."

"As I love you."

With a shake of his magnificent body, his human form dissolved and the corvine took over.

Rhiannon followed the flight of the raven as it darted among the oaks. She looked at Maeve, nodded, then vanished in the pre-dawn light.

Maeve dropped to the mossy ground and buried her face in her hands. Where her tears fell, the grass died.

The breeches were too tight on his hips and he felt uncomfortable. The boots were loose, but the shirt fit him as he liked. He blended in well enough to the strange new surroundings and was grateful he had stolen clothing representative of this culture.

Some of the clothing he saw on people passing him made him gape with shock, while some made him giggle like a schoolboy. Even the whores of his native Chale did not go about in full daylight with half their bottoms showing. He stared at one dark-skinned lass whose rump was covered with no more than a wedge of material thrust between her flanks. Shaking his head, he caught the eye of another female on a street corner and was shocked to the tips of his toes when she jiggled her breasts at him.

By the gods, but this future world was worse than anything to be found on the mean streets of Diabolusia!

And the hair! he thought as he stared at one young man whose spiked tresses looked like the comb of a rooster, something out of a madman’s dream.

As one gangly youth—all arms and legs—went rolling past him on boots with wheels, Riain shook his head and sat on the steps of a tall building.

"I do not like this place," he said gloomily.

It was not just the clothing and hair that had depressed him, but the rush of the people, the loudness—far worse than any Fair Day—the stench of strange fumes that made him cough and his eyes burn. The rumble of the wagons that darted past with a high-pitch whine, and the skirl of the carriages that were linked together, which clattered and clacked on the iron road above his head, all combined to give him a wicked headache.

The food wasn’t bad, though.

He had watched many vendors hawking their wares, selling things that had names he could not understand. One man was offering "Pete’s Zuh," whatever that was, and another was pushing "Eye Scream."

Riain knew he wanted nothing to do with any food that made his eyes scream.

Many people seemed to stop at many carts from which steam arose each time the lid was lifted. Riain had watched the pleasure on the customers’ faces as they walked away, gobbling the food, and decided whatever they were consuming must be well worth the price.

Not having money to purchase nourishment from the vendors, he knew he had to do something he had not done since the Labyrinth—use the talents an old thief had taught him to lift money purses of passersby.

After carefully studying the people purchasing things from the vendors, he knew men carried flat leather purses they concealed in their waistcoats. It was like falling off a log as he bumped into one or two of the passersby and plucked their purses without notice.

"How many you want?" the vendor asked as Riain walked up to his shiny red cart.

Riain looked at the two men beside him, who were slathering what looked like yellow and red paint onto a small loaf of bread. Both men had two loaves apiece.

"Two."

"Chili?" the vendor asked, plucking a piece of meat from a rolling thing.

"No, I’m fine," Riain replied, wondering why the man gave him a strange look.

"Onions, then?"

"Onions?" Riain repeated, then shook his head. "No, no onions."

"That’ll be three bucks."

Riain frowned. He opened one of the flat purses he had stolen, then looked at the vendor.

"Here," the man said, dipping into the purse. "Three bucks." He withdrew three pieces of paper.

Riain shrugged, then stuffed the purse into the pocket of his breeches.

The vendor chuckled. "You’re not from around here, are you?"

"What are these?" Riain asked as the vendor thrust two pieces of round meat into the loaves.

"Hot dogs," the vendor replied, eyebrows arching. "Ain’t you never had hot dogs?"

Riain swallowed, his stomach heaving. He looked at the meat, thinking this must be the sexual organs of the poor animals, and nearly gagged. He thrust the offensive things at the vendor and turned away.

Suddenly, "Pete’s Zuh," whatever that was, sounded a whole lot better.

Riain only hoped Pete’s "zuh" didn’t come off or out of Pete’s body.

* * *

What Riain discovered—much to his surprise—was that "Pete’s Zuh" was heavenly, thick with cheese and a tomato sauce that nearly melted on the tongue. Buying a meatless "Pete’s Zuh" had saved him from the possibility of eating that which he might later have thrown up upon learning its true source. He had washed down the "Zuh," as he preferred to call it, with an icy concoction called a "pop." At first, the pop stung his tongue like cheap liquor, but then seemed to satisfy his thirst better than a mug of icy water. Although he followed the pop with a bag of pop corn, he didn’t think the two were related in any way.

Sated, his mood greatly enhanced by a full belly, he strolled the streets of the strange town, looking into windows behind which were expensive jewels and more books than he had ever seen in his lifetime. Furniture, odd assortments of what must be implements, children’s toys, all manner of things for sale, astounded him. But the hustle and bustle around him tired him and he grew sleepy, yawning widely.

"I need to find an inn," he said and looked around for what might pass for such.

He could not read the wording over the shops and on signs. Sometimes if he studied a picture on a sign long enough, he could understand its meaning. But there were no pictures of beds scattered about.

As night drew on and the rush of the people dwindled, he began to notice the women loitering about, all watching him with varying degrees of either suspicion or avid interest. He felt uncomfortable at the scrutiny and tugged at his too-tight breeches, which seemed to amuse most of the women.

"Hey, baby! Wanna party?" one called to him.

Riain shook his head. "I just want to go to bed."

Laughter rang out from the women; a few sauntered his way.

"Keep the hell away from my man!" a voice hissed from behind him.

Riain spun around to see Suzanna. She came at him, her hands out to grab him.

He ran, breaking into a loping gait that outdistanced his pursuer, but he could feel her hot breath on his neck as he darted down a dark alleyway. At the end of the alley loomed a tall wire fence. He barely broke stride as he leapt at it, digging his booted feet into the holes and scrambling over.

"RIAIN!" Suzanna shrieked as she hit the fence, clawing at the wire and pulling it furiously. Her red eyes were like the fires of hell as she glared at him.

He felt the Transition starting even as he backed away from her. He didn’t realize he was so close to the time, and as the cramps claimed his belly and the terrible thirst invaded his throat, he knew he should have been paying closer attention.

* * *

Suzanna’s eyes flared as she caught the scent of him. The animal smell was rolling in waves toward her, and she watched in horrified silence as Riain’s facial features began to alter.

"Get away from him,"
a slithering voice whispered in her ear.
"Now!"

She backed away, keeping her eyes on Riain, who had fallen to his hands and knees on the other side of the fence.

"
Run, bitch
!" Raphian’s evil command rang out.

Without further hesitation, Suzanna did.

* * *

The Transition was claiming him with a speed he had yet to experience. With nowhere to turn, to hide in this strange world, he was more vulnerable than he had ever been during a change. Wildly looking around as his hands extended to paws, his nails to claws, his teeth cut his lips as his jaw elongated and the muzzle formed, he threw back his head and howled in frustration.

* * *

In a refrigerator box two blocks away, an old wino peered out on the dark streets of Atlanta, Georgia, and wondered who would die this night.

"The werewolves are out again," he told his drunken companion.

"Sure, Darrell," his companion agreed.

The old wino looked up at the full moon sailing over the tall buildings. "Yep, they’re out." He pulled back as a woman went running past, her ugly face haggard in the moonlight. "So’s the banshees."

"Whatever you say, Darrell. Pass me the Thunderbird, will ya, man?"

Darrell Coates pulled the flap of the refrigerator box closed. "Peoples gonna die tonight out there." He took a swig of the bottle in his hand.

"Peoples gonna die of thirst in here," his companion complained, snatching the bottle.

* * *

The Reaper smelled the two men inside the flimsy shelter as he ran past. They were not what he needed. Their auras were not steeped in evil and their blood did not reek of corruption. He stopped, sniffed the air, his eyes glowing.

Was that a hint of sin wafting toward him from up the street?

His nostrils widened as he lifted his head and sniffed. The scent was putrid, an essence of defilement that only full evil put forth.

He padded to the door of a dilapidated building and sniffed at the bottom. The odor was stronger here. The planks reeked of corruption.

He pawed at the door, his claws raking deep furrows in the peeling paint. He butted the wppd until a crack formed between the lintel and the edge, a crack wide enough to thrust his muzzle and head through until he could wedge his shoulder into the opening.

His keen hearing took in the whimper of a terrified human being. The hackles rose on his back. With stealthy movements, he padded deeper into the building and stopped at a high rise of stairs.