Reaper's Vow (18 page)

“Cole!”

He liked the way she said his name, all breathless and airy. Even through the door, it sounded good. He'd like her to say it like that when she climaxed.

“Did Wendy hear that?”

There was a pause and then, “She sneaked off to see those kittens again.”

“That girl needs a better corral.”

“She has so little fun here . . .”

He sighed. That was true. “I'll send her home when I get Rage.”

“Thank you.”

“And I'll get your damn meat.”

“Venison?”

He shook his head. At least the woman wasn't afraid to ask for what she wanted. If that tendency extended to bed, they'd be good.

“I'll see what I can do. And Miranda?”

“What?”

“When I come back, we're going to have a chat about your habit of slamming doors.”

“What if you don't come back?”

“I'll always come back to you.”

Whether she knew it or not, it was a promise.

* * *

Something was wrong in these woods. Cole stopped at a stream, set his rifle against a rock, and knelt down, letting the cold water run over his hands. He'd been hunting now for three hours. It wasn't unusual to hunt for three hours and not find anything, but it was unusual to hunt for three hours and not find any signs of anything.

Something had spooked the game to the point it'd all gone to ground. Not much could cause that. An upcoming storm, if it was going to be a doozie, could sometimes. But not for three hours. And not so thoroughly.

A ripple in the energy around him set the hairs on his neck to rising. He shook the water off his hands and with apparent nonchalance sat back on his heels, drying his hands on his pants before grabbing his rifle, spinning around ready to shoot. Except there was no one there. Nothing. Just the ghost of a sensation in a forest gone quiet.

He knew that feeling. He'd had it for the last two months while hunting Addy. He'd had it strongest right before that last battle. Only Reapers could trigger his alarm with that invisible presence.

Clark. Had he followed Cole? He wouldn't put it past the man. Clark wanted him dead, and the Reaper didn't seem the type to be content with the council's ruling.

Grabbing his hat up off the ground, Cole stood. That feeling of something being wrong intensified as he stared around the woods. Dense and thick, they should have rippled with life, instead no birds sang and no squirrels chattered. It was as if everything around him could feel what he did. The danger lurking.

The spot on his shoulder itched. He rubbed at it, feeling the heat through his clothes. He pulled his shirt aside and looked at it. The wound had healed very quickly, already barely more than a few dark brown marks on his skin. There was no redness to show infection. He shook his head, sliding his fingers over it again, remembering that tight little body against him and the soft breasts melting into his chest. His cocked twitched in his pants. He licked his lips as he thought of the taste of her kiss. The urge to get home hit him hard. He shook his head and put his rifle over his shoulder. Since when had a Reaper camp become home?

He headed down the mountain toward the meadow where he'd left Rage. The farther down the hillside he went, the more his shoulder burned, and the stronger that sense of not right became. He started walking faster. The tickle grew stronger, the burn hotter, and soon he was running. When he got to Rage, he heard it. The first gunshot echoing off the hills. There was no way to tell which direction it came from. No way to tell how far away it was. The sounds were just an echo bouncing over and over. But he knew. Down in his gut where it mattered. He knew. Shortly after that first shot came another. And then another.

In his mind he heard a scream.

Addy!

Shortly after that scream came another. Pinging between gunshots, the voice echoed in his head in a high, desperate cry. Pushing through his consciousness. Tearing a place for itself from his mind. High-pitched, young. Fuck. Wendy.

From Miranda nothing.
The camp was under attack, and the one who should be screaming his name was silent. Fuck.

Rage snorted and tossed his head. Grabbing the reins off the ground, Cole leapt onto his prancing horse's back, spun him around, and kicked him hard.

“Go!”

Something was very wrong in the Reaper village.

Rage gave Cole everything he had. Stretching out into that ground-eating gallop that had saved their asses so many times. Not flinching at the roughness of the terrain. Just recklessly plunging down hills, weaving through trees, charging up the rocky terrain. Giving Cole all he demanded and then some.

It wasn't enough.

The spot on Cole's shoulder burned like fire. He put his hand on it, focusing harder. Then he could feel it, like a blink, a knot of tension so tightly controlled as to be barely discernable. He poked at it.

Miranda.

No answer. He tried again, urging Rage to go faster, but the horse was already running flat out, flecks of sweat flicking off his neck, his breathing labored but not faltering. Just pushing forward with that heart that was so much of him.

The thundering of the hoofbeats blended with the sound of gunshots. They echoed through the hills, one on top of the other, resonating with the panic inside Cole.

Miranda.

Dammit woman, answer. And then, jaw tightening, he sent another thought to her. Just in case she couldn't.

Live.

One word, carrying all the force of his personality behind it. An order he wanted obeyed. He felt the flinch of her energy. She was alive, but for how long? And what condition was she in? For once he was glad she was Reaper. A Reaper could stand a hell of a lot without dying.

Hold on, Miranda.

Despite every instinct telling him to find Addy, to get to Miranda and Wendy, when he got close to the village, Cole pulled back on the reins, slowing Rage. Charging in and getting himself killed wasn't going to help anyone. He didn't regrow body parts. He couldn't afford to be reckless.

Pulling Rage to a stop by a copse of trees at the foot of a small rise, Cole jumped off and led the tired horse beneath the cover. Dropping the reins, he climbed the ridge.

The mark on his shoulder burned as hot as his rage. His clothes were too tight; his skin was too tight. He wanted to rip them off. He wanted to . . . He didn't know what, but the compulsion inside was strong to do something. Something he didn't understand, but he could feel it simmering. The need . . . the potential. Something just . . . more. Lurking.

More shots sounded. This close he could hear the shouts and snarls, which meant all were not fighting as wolf. Interesting. It would be a lot more interesting if he knew whether that was an advantage or disadvantage. As he started climbing the rise, the cold coherence of prebattle surrounded him like an old friend as he blended into the shadows, casting out for energy. So much came at him at once it was almost a blow. Unlike with humans whose energy was weak and easy to sort through, Reaper energy was different. They were individually strong, yet their energy was cohesive. The threads blended together as if on some level they thought with one thought, but the strands shone through with varying levels of clarity. As if some hid or overpowered others. Cole stored the information for later.

Scouting cautiously from the top of the ridge, he could see bits and pieces of the Reapers' village through the trees. There were flashes of light in the gloom, random movements, and smoke. A lot of smoke. They were setting things on fire. It was impossible to tell more than that. He checked for Miranda again.

Miranda.

Nothing. Dammit!

A flicker of panic whipped his attention around. He focused hard on that thread.
Miranda?

As soon as he thought it, he knew it was wrong. The energy was too weak. Too scattered. Too . . . young.

Wendy. Weaving his way through the clamor in his head to that single thread, he pulled it close. Panic, pure and simple, came at him. And not the kind of panic that came from worry, but the kind of panic that only being in the face of danger inspired.

I'm coming, Wendy.

Goddammit, he was coming. Plunging down the hill, he mentally ran over his options. They were few. He could ride Rage in with guns blazing. That was the fastest. An option with humans. Not an option with Reapers.

Fuck.

Hold on, little bit. Just hold on.

He had the impression of heat. And choking. And surrender.

Oh shit. His gut went cold. She was in the fire. He didn't let his panic slip past his control, just channeled his fear and frustration into an order.

You will hold on!

He ran faster, picturing that fairy-child face, those big brown eyes so like her mother's. That incredible spirit.

Hold on!
he mentally barked again. Hoping she could hear. Demanding she hear.

And then he did the hardest thing he'd ever done. He let her go. He needed all his senses to get to her.

Controlling his breathing, his senses strained outward for danger, as he skimmed the edge of the trees heading to the village. When he got close enough to smell supper cooking on the outskirts, he spotted a Reaper standing guard in the shadows. Not one of Isaiah's men. Cole blocked his own energy, slipped inside the man's mind, and, coming up behind him, slit his throat. Then Cole brought the blade across the man's neck again, cutting off his head.

Regrow that, bastard.

He moved forward, the scent of smoke stronger in his nostrils. When he came around the corner, he could see what was burning. Flames nibbled up the side of the barn while smoke billowed all around in a thick cloud.

Wendy.

Dread settled like a ball of ice in his gut. Wendy was in that barn. He knew it as well as he knew his name. The impression of heat and choking took on an all-too-vivid significance.

Caution was no longer a concern. Cole ran through the battle, ignoring the bullets pinging at his feet, the shouts of the men he knocked over, and the claws tearing at his clothes. The only thought he had was getting to Wendy.

Hold on.

A Reaper leapt out in front of him, teeth bared in a horrific grin. Without breaking stride, Cole shot him four times and watched him go down, knowing he'd get back up again. Eventually. But eventually wasn't now. And Cole just needed the Reaper down for now. Cole leapt over the body. It was a clear shot to the barn.

When he got to to the door, the heat drove him back in a hard shove. A Reaper might be able to survive such a fire, but Wendy wasn't Reaper.

Son of a bitch.

Wrapping his bandana around his hand, Cole grabbled the latch and threw open the door. Outside the battle raged. Inside the fire devoured everything in sight with a dull, constant roar of satisfaction.

Nothing could survive that. Nothing. Not even a Reaper. Why the fuck couldn't the little girl be a Reaper?

He searched for her energy. There was a flicker of something. It could have been her; it could have been his imagination. The fire roared a challenge. A hay bale in the corner burst into flame. It was hell pure and simple, and going inside was nothing short of suicide.

Pulling his hat down tight over his brow, Cole whispered, “Fuck” and charged for the door.

11

Miranda was there before him, coming out of nowhere, screaming Wendy's name, her skirts flapping about her legs, coming too close to the flames. Grabbing her by the back of the shirt, he yanked her away. Not fast enough. A tiny lick of fire caught the hem of her skirt and started to spread. He beat at the flame. She turned to him wildly.

“Dammit, woman, hold still.” The skirt still smoldered. He ripped it off.

She strained against his grip. “Wendy!”

He shook her to get her attention. When her gaze met his, her energy locked with his, and he told her. “I'll get her, but you stay here.”

She looked at him and shook her head. “You can't.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement. He shoved her behind him, whipping out his revolver, not relaxing when he saw that it was a bloody Clark.

Miranda threw herself at him. “Wendy's in there. Get her. Please.”

Clark caught her shoulders, gave the burning barn one look, and shook his head.

“If she's in there, she's dead,” he told her.

Miranda screamed. Cole swore and dipped his bandanna in the water trough to the side of the door before tying it around his face. Didn't that son of a bitch know that would just send her back into the fire? Couldn't he feel how much she loved her daughter? That she'd burn with her rather than leave her alone?

As if on cue, Miranda jerked out of Clark's arms and headed back in. Cole grabbed her again by the shoulders, shaking her. Using all his energy to drag her gaze to his.

“I'll get her for you.”

The fire roared in the background. Clark swore. Bullets fired. Men died. None of it mattered, not in that moment. Only Miranda mattered. When her energy wrapped around his and clung, he repeated, “I'll get her.”

Before she would answer, Cole shoved Miranda back at Clark.

“Hold on to her. Do
not
let her go.”

“Fuck you.”

Cole turned back to the fire. He probably was fucked. In the brief time they'd been arguing, the flames had spread; there was only a small corner to the left of the door where they hadn't reached. Taking a breath and reaching mentally for Wendy, he dove forward, clinging to the trail of energy that was the little girl. The happy little sprite who was so terrified right now her energy stuttered in and out.

Over the roar of the flames he hollered, “Stay where you are, Wendy! I'm coming.”

He didn't know if she could hear him. Hell, it didn't even matter. Thinking she could kept him pushing forward as the heat seared his lungs and burned his skin. He followed the trail of her energy through the smoke, bumping into objects he couldn't see. Feeling his way around, pausing only when forced to regain his bearings. The smoke was so thick he felt like he had to part it with his hands to pass, but when he did, there was just more smoke, more blindness, more heat. He coughed and choked. His eyes watered.

Get down.

The command came out of nowhere before crystallizing in his mind. Harsh and masculine the order repeated. The taste of ash coated his tongue. Cole spat. Shit, he wasn't even sure which way was down. He dropped to his knees. The smoke wasn't so dense. He supposed he owed whoever had invaded his head a thanks. And he would right after he found Wendy. He had to find Wendy.

He started crawling. The scream of horses joined Miranda's scream. He could hear her chanting in his head.

Please, please, please, please . . .

He didn't know if she was begging him or praying to God. In the end it didn't matter, because without God's help there was no way in hell anybody's ass was getting out of here.

He kept going, digging through the smoke. He got back by the tack room where the water trough was. This far back in the barn, the fire wasn't so intense. The bastards must have set fire to the front and sides but left the back. Still, he didn't see how little Wendy could be alive. He leaned back against the wooden trough. In his mind Miranda chanted. He wanted to swear and curse. He wanted to pray. He didn't have the breath for anything but another hoarse call of Wendy's name.

There. That might have been someone.

“Wendy,” he called her name again, and this time there was a cough and a splash and an answer.

“Here!”

He blinked and sat up. Son of a bitch, she was in the water trough. Smart little girl.

He crawled up onto his knees and reached into the trough. She was right there, shaking, coughing. Her face was streaked with black ash, her hair was a wild tangle, and her big brown eyes were bloodshot and terrified.

“You, Wendy, are one beautiful little girl,” he told her. “What do you say we get out of here?”

She nodded.

“Then dunk under that water and get your hair really good and wet,” he told her. “Then we're going to leave.”

“But the fire . . .”

“Isn't going to touch you,” he finished for her.

He wouldn't let it.

For a split second she hesitated, but then she pinched her nose closed and went under the water. Before she could pull herself up, he grabbed her dripping out of the trough and held her against his chest. Her arms crept around his neck as she coughed and shook.

“I knew you'd come for me.”

“Good girl.”

She pulled the bandanna down off his face.

“I heard you.”

He nodded and looked around.

“How did I hear you?”

That wasn't something he needed to go into right now. “Save your breath.”

While he figured out how to save their asses. One thing was sure. They couldn't go back the way he'd come in. The front of the barn was a wall of living, breathing fire. Arms of yellow and orange snaked out of the black, wrapping around fresh wood, pulling it into the conflagration, creating more smoke. More destruction. More death. Cole closed his eyes for a second. The horses had stopped screaming. Such a waste.

“Are we going to die?” Wendy whispered hoarsely, her gaze following his.

“Not today,” he told her, standing. The devil wasn't taking her today.

She clung tighter. Yanking the bandana from around his neck, he dipped it in the trough.

“Lift your face up.” The order came out a croak. He tied the fabric around her face. She tugged at it. He couldn't stop coughing long enough to tell her to leave it be, so he just shook his head at her and held it in place before heading to the back wall, bracing his back against it and lying down.

He sent a thought to Addy as hard as he could, picturing the back wall of the barn. He didn't know if it were actually possible to transmit thoughts, and this was a heck of a time to find out. He waited in vain for a response. Above timbers creaked and sparks fell. There was no response. He sent the same image again. Unfocused. Just tossing it out there. He didn't care who the hell opened that back wall. Friend or enemy. He just needed to get out. This time there was a response. Masculine, calm, incredibly powerful.

We're coming.

Cole's body covered Wendy's. She cried out, her little arms going around his neck again; she was clinging to him, putting all her faith in him.

“Help's coming,” he told her. He blocked her view of the flames with his shoulders, feeling the bite of the multitude of ashes peppering him through his shirt.

“We're just going to lie down here where the air is fresher and wait a bit.” She coughed and nodded at him. He pushed her hair away from her face.

“You all right?”

His voice was more of a rasp, and the question ended in a cough. But she didn't seem to know what that meant. She started chattering in his ear. Nothing had ever sounded so good.

Hurry the fuck up
, he told that energy in his head.

Already here
, the answer came back, and they were.

Axes struck at the back wall, the thuds punctuated by gunfire and men's shouts. Whoever was standing there had bullets flying around him. The weakened rafters creaked another warning. The whole place was about to collapse.

He looked down at Wendy.

“Do you know how to pray?”

She nodded. She folded her little hands in front of her. He'd never felt so helpless.

“Then start.” It took a lot to get those words out.

She did, “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

He wanted to curse because he had enough bad luck without her putting ideas into anyone or anything's head with “And if I die before I wake.” Instead, he stroked his hand over the top of her head.

“Don't get fancy. Just ask God to make that man on the other side of the wall strong and keep him safe. That's all we need.”

He didn't add “and for him to hurry.”

He could see the flames licking across the hay on the floor. It was a race now to see what got to them first. The fire, the smoke, or help. He put his hand on the side of Wendy's face before sliding it down and slipping his fingers behind her head to her nape, and then he pushed himself up so he could get leverage with the other while still hiding the approaching flames. It would only take a second to snap her neck. A horrible damn-him-to-hell second. But she wouldn't die screaming with fire eating at her flesh. God forgive him, if she had to die, she'd die by his hand before he let that happen.

The axe bit through the wood.

“Might wanna hurry it up,” he yelled.

He didn't know if they could hear.

The blade bit through wood, again and again, chipping away at the wall when Cole needed the axe to break through. The heat of the fire seared through his boots. He kicked at it, pulling Wendy up. Finally an axe blade broke the rough wood beside his head.

“Now,” he hollered. “Get us out now.”

They had to get them out of there now. The wood splintered, and there was a roar. Nails screamed in protest as they were ripped from their foundations. Smoke billowed out ahead of Cole.

Arms reached in. Flames licked up. He rolled, taking Wendy with him, pushing her in the direction of those hands. She was snatched from his grip while the flames ate his shirt. Relief shuddered through him. She'd made it.

He coughed some more. He couldn't stop. Couldn't move. Couldn't take his eyes away from the flames consuming his clothing. But he didn't hurt. At least he didn't hurt.

Closing his eyes, he sent a message to Miranda.

She's out.

“Christ, he's fucking burning up! Somebody get some water.”

He heard the cry, but he didn't feel anything. The world was a dark, smoky place. And Wendy was safe. It was a good day.

“Give me that bucket,” somebody yelled.

Water hissed to steam. Another victim of the fire.

His lungs burned, and the darkness clawed at him. He pictured Miranda's smile when she had her daughter back. Pictured the relief and joy. And fell back into the darkness.

* * *

“I don't know what the hell you want me to do with him,” Isaiah said. “A human can't survive these wounds.”

They were just standing there. Clark, Blade, Isaiah, Addy. Miranda stared at Cole's unconscious body. Why weren't they doing something?

“Do something anyway,” Addy snapped.

“You will save him,” Miranda ordered, pushing anything but conviction away.

“He's burned badly,” Blade said, his black eyes as flat as his expression as he relayed that information. “Probably his lungs, too.”

Miranda didn't want to hear that. “He went into that burning building to save my daughter. You won't let him die,” Miranda commanded.

“He's human. Put him out of his misery,” Clark interjected.

“Isaiah?” Miranda said, moving to the bed, closer to her sword, placing herself between Cole and them.

“What, Miranda?”

“Kill him.”

Addy gasped. “You bitch.”

Isaiah grabbed Addy's arm and held her back. Blade just smiled.

“You might want to clarify who you want dead.”

Miranda didn't hesitate. “Clark.”

She wanted Clark dead. He'd left her daughter to die as if she were nothing. She wanted him more than dead. She wanted him to suffer.