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An Excerpt From: HER REAPER'S ARMS
© Copyright CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2007.
All Rights Reserved, XEllora's Cave
CHAPTER ONE
Armistenky Territory, 3473
He needed a drink, he thought as he raced his mount across the plains. He needed something strong, something that would numb the memories; something to erase the feeling of impending doom that had reached out to entrap him. Sometimes the only way he could make it through a week of loneliness, the isolation of his job, was to drown himself in whiskey and attempt to sleep it off.
The trouble with his kind was they had trouble sleeping. Even with a full bottle of rotgut sloshing in their bellies, the nightmares always hovered close by to claim them and to torment their rest, to drag them hissing from the land of nod. Past deeds rose up to jeer at them and the cries of the dead they had dispatched haunted their restless slumber.
It was a hell of a way to live.
As Préachán—his big black stallion—raced over the ground, Reaper 2-I-C Bevyn Coure thought of the balgair, the rogue, he had executed for murdering Onisca. He had hunted the bastard down, driven him to ground and had used his laser whip to slice off pieces of the rogue's body a little at a time until there was nothing left but mush on the blood-soaked ground. He had reveled in the man's screams, had inhaled his fear and agony as though they were perfume. He had taken out his wrath in painful increments that had lasted for hours until his whip arm grew numb and heavy and his energy flagged. Still he had slashed at the body—long after he had sliced the head from the corpse with an expert flick of his wrist—until the killing rage had finally passed and he had been stunned to see what he had wrought.
"I have avenged you, diganeli," he had offered up to Onisca's ghost, calling him his blood friend.
But it had been more than vengeance he had meted out upon the rogue. It had been frustration and disappointment and an attempt to alleviate the bitter loneliness that was slowly driving him insane. The devastation he had perpetrated against the balgair had been excessive and he knew it but it had felt good—at least at the time—to vent.
For the last five years he had carried out the assignments the High Council had handed to him, never once questioning what was expected of him, never balking at the deeds done that were necessary to do what was required. He had killed in the name of justice without a shred of conscience staying his lethal hands. His anger over his own death was still a raw wound in his mind and a dark blot on his soul and nothing seemed to be able to calm the fury riding him with bloodied spurs.
The sun was low on the horizon and spearing into his eyes. Ahead of him were the town of Orson and a saloon where there was bottle with his name on it. He licked his lips at the thought of the liquor burning its way down his throat, the promise of oblivion, the siren call to forgetfulness. The town wasn't much, the people dispensable in the grand scheme of things. He hadn't been there in several years or so and the last time he'd passed through, he had spent two days in a drunken stupor he wished to experience again. Perhaps while he slept, a balgair would sneak in and take his head and the pain would finally stop.
Riding into the rundown town with it's beaten down citizens, Bevyn smiled grimly as those civilians scattered, rushing to hide behind locked doors, and pulled draperies rather than garner the notice of a Reaper. Dismounting in front of the saloon, he glanced around, not surprised to find himself alone on the dirt street, to hear the eerie silence as breaths were held and lips mumbled in silent prayer that he would not stay long in their town.
Hitching up his gun belt, adjusting the dragon claw handle of his laser whip in its thin leather sheath, he tied Préachán to the hitching post and stepped up on the boardwalk, his spurs jangling against the weathered gray boards. Putting his hands on the batwing doors leading into the saloon, he was keenly aware that all noise inside the establishment had ceased and knew those inside had either scrambled out the backdoor or were waiting for him with trembling knees. Out of habit, he swept the interior of the building with his psychic powers and detected no threat to him. He pushed the doors open and went inside the smoke-filled, stale-smelling darkened interior.
Lea Walsh stood beside a sticky table she'd been cleaning when Luke Desmond had come rushing in to tell them a Reaper was headed their way. She'd glanced at Mable, the saloon owner, who had hastened to tell the working girls to stop what they were doing and stay put. She winced at the noise of chairs scraping across the floor as the patrons of the saloon had run for the back entrance, not wanting to be there when the Reaper came in.
Mable was behind the bar and Lea could see her trembling, her red lips quivering. She had snatched up an unopened whiskey bottle and a shot glass and put them on the bar. The white feathers adorning her silk gown were fluttering at the neckline as the older woman swallowed convulsively.
The other saloon girls—Merrilee, Keesha, and Su Lin—stood flanking the roulette wheel, their faces drawn, their bosoms rising and falling rapidly. Their eyes were locked on the saloon entrance.
"He ain't a bad sort if you leave him to what he wants," Mable said quietly. "Most likely he won't ask for one of you but if he does don't look him in the eye, don't speak to him lest he asks you a question, and do whatever he tells you. Do it quickly and you'll be all right. I ain't never heard tell of him hurting a woman but with his kind, you never know what might set him off."
Lea had not been at the White Horse Saloon the last time the Reaper assigned to the Armistenky Territory had come through town. In her twenty-three years she'd never seen one of the infamous lawmen and she had hoped she never would. When she heard the clink of his spurs on the boardwalk, she began twisting the bar rag between her hands, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.
The saloon doors opened and the black clad warrior came striding in as though he owned the place. His six-shooter was strapped low on his right hip and the handle of the fabled lightning whip lay strapped to the other. His black felt Stetson was pulled low over his forehead, the silver conchos band on the crown catching the light. He walked with a swagger that was unmistakable as he bellied up to the bar.
Bevyn's gaze flicked to the woman standing off to one side, swept over the three huddled together, and then settled on the blowsy tramp behind the long rough bar. He strode purposefully toward her, ignoring the tremulous smile of greeting on her painted face. He glanced down at the bottle then back into her frightened face, waiting for her to pour the rotgut. She was quick to oblige him and he picked up the shot glass, knocked back the potent liquid, and then set the glass down for another round.
"Be about your business, ladies," he said quietly to the other women, not liking that they were behind his back. He could see them in the long sweep of mirror behind the bar but he was never comfortable with anyone lurking at his back.
Merrilee, Keesha, and Su Lin made themselves scarce, taking the stairs to their living quarters without a backward glance at him. Mable stayed where she was like a deer caught in a spotlight. She flicked a look at Lea who had lowered the bar rag to the table she'd been about to clean and who was washing it vigorously.
Bevyn propped a foot on the tarnished brass rung that ran along the bottom of the bar and hunched over with his elbows on the nicked top, pushing his empty glass toward Mable to refill. "Anything I need to see to while I'm here?" he asked the saloonkeeper.
"I think there might be, milord," Mable said as she poured his third whiskey. "I can send for the sheriff."
He nodded, swept his glance past her to the mirror to watch the girl behind him as she moved to another table with her bucket and rag. "I don't remember her being here last time," he said.
"She wasn't, milord," Mable said. "If you want me to send her upstairs…"
"Leave her be," he said and continued to watch the girl as she worked. It surprised him that she'd stayed and it intrigued him that she didn't cop furtive looks at him as she went about her job. His curiosity was further piqued that she was dressed for what she was doing and not decked out in whore finery as the other women.
Lea could feel his eyes on her from the mirror. His steady stare was unnerving. She knew if she left the room, Mable would dock her for the day's work and she desperately needed the pitiful wages she got for cooking and cleaning at the White Horse. Thankfully the men in town left her alone and she wasn't expected to turn tricks like Merrilee, Keesha, and Su Lin although she'd had more than her share of men groping her since she'd been working for Mable.
"I'll need a room," she heard the Reaper say.
"Of course, milord," Mable readily agreed. "Lea, get upstairs and make sure our best room is made ready for Lord Bevyn."
He had not taken his eyes from the girl as he spoke. Despite the faded blue calico she was wearing—the cuffs and hem and neckline frayed—she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long, long time. Her breasts pressed against the tight bodice but he figured that was because she had outgrown the dress rather than making an attempt to emphasize the lushness of her chest. As she hurried for the stairs, he turned his head and lowered his gaze to her boots. They were badly scuffed, the soles coming away from the uppers, and when she lifted her skirt to climb the stairs, he could see her stockings had holes in them.
He continued to drink steadily—his shot glass never empty for long—until the girl came back down the stairs. He went back to observing her in the mirror as she took up a broom and began sweeping.
"She got a man?" he asked Mable as he rocked the shot glass between his fingers, staring down into the dark liquid.
"No, milord," Mable said.
He drained the glass and set it down. He straightened up, his hands on the rolled edge of the bar. "Is she clean?"
Mable's eyes widened. "She's not one of my girls, milord," she said, her gaze snapping nervously to Lea. "She just cooks and…"
"Is she clean?" he repeated, his voice hard.
"Aye, milord, but…"
"I want her."
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