WyndRiver Sinner Read online

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, and pushed the maid from the room, shutting the door behind them.

  “That man isn’t to be trusted,” Aingeal said.

  “My thoughts too, wench,” the Reaper agreed. “He was thinking if he could get his hand on my whip, he could sell it for a goodly price.”

  Aingeal frowned. “The chances of that happening are slim to none, I’d think.”

  “Even if he acquired a whip, no man but the one it was created for can operate it,” he said. “He’d just have a handle and that’s all.”

  Comfortable beneath the covers and loving every touch of the Reaper’s hands upon her feet, Aingeal was looking at him through half-lowered lids. He was an incredibly handsome man with finely chiseled features that caused a soft heat in her loins. His dark hair was damp and curling slightly around his ears. Hanging free of his britches, his silk shirt was opened to reveal the crisp hair peppered thickly on his brawny chest. As he worked, his right pectoral flexed in such a way she wanted to run her palm over it.

  “Keep thinking thoughts like that and I’ll be under those covers with you,” he said, standing up and replacing the coverlet over her feet.

  “Umm,” she said, her gaze shifting to the tray of food.

  “Is that the only other thing you have on your feeble mind, wench?” he asked, and was amazed to hear himself laugh.

  “I’m starving,” she said, licking her lips.

  “After that breakfast?” he asked, one thick brow arched.

  “That was four hours ago,” she reminded him, pushing herself up in the bed.

  Shaking his head, he retrieved the tray from the dresser and brought it over to the bed. He set it on the nightstand and handed her a bowl of the soup. “Smells like beef barley.”

  “Smells wonderful,” she said.

  While she dug into the hearty soup, he put a slice of ham between two thinly sliced pieces of bread and took a healthy bite.

  “My favorite sandwich,” he said.

  “You don’t eat small children then?” she asked as she chewed a fat chunk of tender beef.

  “Only every other Sunday and then only as a treat,” he replied, for he’d heard all the vicious tales of his kind.

  “With or without salt?” she asked.

  “I prefer them simmered slowly in a rich custard sauce,” he replied dryly.

  “Is it true you turn into a wolf on a full moon?” she asked, eying what he was eating.

  Cynyr crammed the remainder of his portion of the bread and ham into his mouth then prepared a sandwich for her. “Every third full moon is more like it,” he told her. “We transition about four times a year unless we have need to shape-shift for other purposes.”

  “Like what?” she asked as she chomped into the bread and ham.

  “Piss one of us off and we just might run you to ground in our lupine shape.”

  Aingeal cocked her head to one side. “How many Reapers are there?”

  He shrugged. “Legal ones? There are seven of us. Rogues? Only the High Council knows for sure.” He took her hot toddy off the tray, set it down where she could reach it then put the tray of empty dishes on the dresser.

  Aingeal chewed thoughtfully as her lover took a sip of the hot toddy. “What happens when you’ve taken out all the rogues? Will they send you to some other world?”

  The Reaper skirted the bed and sat down beside her, leaning back against the headboard with his toddy. “I have no idea what the High Council has in mind, but I wouldn’t think they’d ship us off somewhere else. They want the security of knowing we’re here to protect the people should other rogues find their way to this world.

  Sneezing again, Aingeal reached for the hot toddy and drank a large swig of it. “I hate colds,” she said, fanning her mouth for the liquor was still very hot.

  “Drink it all down,” he advised. “Maybe you’ll sweat it off.”

  She turned her head and gave him a hot look. “You plan on getting me hot and bothered, Reaper?”

  He grunted, finishing the last of his toddy. With a constitution such as his, he didn’t need the medicinal powers of the drink but he liked the taste of it. He got up, put the glass on the tray sitting atop the dresser and then shrugged out of his shirt, the warmth of the liquor having elevated his normally high body temperature. Draping the shirt on the footboard of the bed, he sat down on the bed, his back to her as he shucked off his britches.

  Aingeal was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded for she’d never had anything more potent than hard cider. Putting aside the glass, she looked around then gasped.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, and was on her knees, her hands trembling as she touched his back.

  Cynyr swung his legs up on the bed and propped himself up on the headboard. “It’s not important,” he said.

  Aingeal had tears in her eyes. “Who whipped you like that?” She noticed one faint white line that curled over his left shoulder and another that was a wider band at his waist.

  “It happened long before I became a Reaper, wench,” he said, “else the parasite would have healed it. Don’t concern yourself about it.”

  “Who did that to you?” she demanded, putting her fingertips over the scar on his shoulder.

  Cynyr sighed. “I was a slave, Aingeal,” he said. “Sold to a quarry master when I was fourteen. You don’t work fast enough, hard enough or you just give one of the line bosses the wrong look and you left yourself open for a lashing.” He shrugged carelessly. “It was a way of life, wench.”

  A tear slid down Aingeal’s cheek. “How long were you in the quarry?”

  Her fingers were tracing the puckered scar on his shoulder and sending heat spreading through his chest. She was close enough for him to smell her hair and he thought his little cake of lemon soap had never smelled so good. He put his hand up to smooth her silky tresses.

  “Twenty years or so,” he said. “I was there until I died.”

  Aingeal’s hand stilled. “What?” she whispered, her eyes going wide.

  He took her hand in his and laid her palm on his naked chest. “Wench, I don’t like talking about that time, but just this once I’ll tell you the way of it. After that, we won’t discuss it again. Do you agree?”

  She could feel his heart beating sure and strong beneath her hand. His chest was warm, the crisp hairs covering it tantalizing her flesh. She could not seem to take her eyes from staring at his wide, brawny shoulders and the heavy muscles of his biceps. He was a stunningly built man with a flat stomach and lean hips and—

  “You’re naked!” she said, her eyes going to the sleek rod nestled between his powerful thighs.

  “Wench,” he said, reaching out to cup her chin in his hand and lifted her face until her gaze was fused with his. “Do you want to hear my tale or do you want to ogle my privates?”

  Aingeal licked her lips. “Both,” she admitted, but resolutely kept her eyes on his face.

  “Then come here,” he said, opening his arm for her. When she moved so that she was in the shelter of his arm, he enfolded her, locking her against him with both arms around her so she could not look up into his face.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, and at her nod, he drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “All right, here is the way of it…”

  “The quarry on Cairéal was considered to be the hellhole of the universe. Slaves lived in appalling conditions without even the most basic of necessities. Housed below ground in crowded barracks where a man’s bed was the hard ground and his only cover a meager, tattered blanket, the workers existed on maggoty food and brackish water. They worked from sun-up until sundown with only a fifteen-minute break for lunch. Health conditions were so poor men died at a rate of five to ten a day with new slaves brought in weekly to replace the dead.

  “Brutal overseers made good use of the bullwhips that kept the workers in line. It was not uncommon for a slave to be beaten to death for the smallest of infractions. The theft of an extra biscuit or sneaking an additio
nal cup of water could result in a death sentence. Those who did not die beneath the slap of the whip were often times hurt so badly they were maimed for life.

  “In the spring of 3478, the conditions in the quarry had become so horrendous, men could no longer endure them. The slaves rose up in rebellion and attacked the overseers, hacking them to death with pick axes and sledges. Having taken all they could of the savage treatment at the hands of the quarrymen, the slaves had decided it was better to die quickly than suffer the lingering death of choking on the quarry dust and coughing your lungs up or being lashed to your grave by a vicious overseer.

  “Militia was brought in to put down the uprising. The underground rang with the screams of the dying as the militia waded into them with laser pikes and clubs. Hundreds of men were driven back into a newly mined section of the quarry then burned to death by blasts of laser fire. The stench was horrific.

  “I was one of the lucky ones who was outside when the rebellion began. There were about nine of us who had been pushing a cart of oar to the railhead. We heard the commotion coming from the entrance and knew what was happening. We all looked around for something to use as a weapon so we could go to the aid of our fellow workers, but the overseers were on us so quickly, we never got the chance. Four of those with me that day had their brains bashed out by an overseer’s club. One was incinerated where he stood and the rest of us were forced to our knees, our hands behind our heads.

  “As the screaming and yelling blared out of the mine, we could hear the hoof beats of the militia’s horses pounding up from the valley below. Not a one of us kneeling there that day was spared the fate of our fellow workers. Though by then our hands had been tied behind us, the militia aimed their laser rifles at us and mowed us down. I felt the blast of a single burst pierce my chest and was knocked over.

  “But when the dust had settled and the leaders of the revolt dragged out of the mine to be hanged, drawn and quartered—their heads cut off to be impaled on pikes outside the mine entrance as a warning to any other workers so inclined to rebel—I was still breathing though I was in ungodly pain. Despite the agony, I made not a sound as I was dragged off with the others and shoved into a mass grave where we were left to rot—another deterrent to those who would dare to rise up against the quarry owners.

  “By the setting of the sun, there were scavengers from the nearby village wading among the dead—stripping off what little usable clothing there was. I was dying, my throat so parched my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. When hands touched me, I prayed whoever it was would slit my throat and let me leave that tortured world.

  “I remember water trickling into my mouth and cool, soft hands stroking my face. I forced my eyes open and saw an old woman kneeling over me, a gentle smile on her withered face. The next thing I knew, I was in her arms and she was lifting me, walking out of the pit with me held close to her chest. At some point, I ceased to breathe and it didn’t matter where she was taking me. I thought she was the Gatherer and my life was over. I could see light hovering above me. I reached out to that light but the old woman wouldn’t let me go to it. When next I opened my eyes, she was lying beside me in a warm, soft bed, my head pillowed on her sunken chest.”

  Aingeal’s hand clenched against his chest. “She wasn’t the Gatherer?”

  “She was Morrigunia,” he replied. “The Triune. She had taken me as Her own.”

  “She brought you back from death’s door?”

  “While the breath was still gone from my body, she bore me to the ground and laid me on my belly. It was then she made me what I am.”

  “I remember the pain most of all. It was excruciating and it filled my entire body with a throbbing, grinding agony that had me writhing on the ground, grabbing handfuls of dirt as I struggled. Nothing in my life had ever prepared me for that pain—not the whippings I received as a little boy or the vicious, brutal lashings I was given as a man. No amount of hunger or thirst could compare with that anguish. It felt as if my body was being turned inside out, my flesh tearing, my blood boiling. There was a solid wave of gnawing torment in my back and no matter which way I twisted, I could not relieve the pain.

  “And then I heard the voice speaking to me…

  “‘Accept Me, warrior. Protect Me and I will protect you!’

  “It was not the old woman’s voice that spoke to me but something inside me that whispered to me, crooned in a low, sultry voice like that of a lover.

  “I begged that voice to help me. I promised anything if only the tearing misery would stop.”

  “There was something inside you?” Aingeal questioned, her face pale.

  “Morrigunia had carved a place along my back and had dropped the thing onto me. It wriggled into the cut and attached itself to my kidney where it remains to this day.”

  A sick look entered Aingeal’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked so quietly her words were but a breath of sound.

  “The thing is called a revenant worm and there is a psychic bond between it and me. It gives me my great strength and longevity. It gives me the ability to read minds and influence people even at a distance. It is what allows me the facility to shape-shift.”

  “As I lay there the pain began to lessen, but then something occurred that I could not believe was happening. My body began to change. My joints popped, the bones elongated. I sprouted fur over my flesh and my fingernails grew to thick, yellowed talons. Fangs burst from my gums and my nose shot forth to become a leathery black snout. My body contorted until I was no longer man but a wolf-like creature with a desire to rend and tear and drink blood.

  “Morrigunia slipped a leash around my neck and kept me chained that first Transition. She told me all I needed to know about what I had become. She promised me never again would I be a slave to any man and that my destiny would be my own if I would but embrace the parasite within me.”

  “Did you?”

  Cynyr’s arms tightened around Aingeal. “I was in too much pain to pay much attention to what the old woman was saying. In my animal state I was unable to speak and for as long as the Transition lasted, I could but snarl and snap at Her, straining at the end of the leash to attack Her. When at last the conversion from man to wolf reversed and I lay at Her feet—naked and defenseless—I understood what was to be my fate from that day forward.”

  “So you accepted the parasite.”

  “What choice did I have, wench?” he asked, his eyes wounded. “I wanted to live, but I never again wanted to be at the mercy of a master who could beat me at a whim or take my life if it amused him. I wanted nothing more than to get back at those who had abused me and Morrigunia had given me a way to do just that.”

  “And that is why you work for the High Council,” she said.

  “There is in the megaverse a place where the revenant worms breed,” he said. “It is a vile place they call the Abyss. The Lord and Master of that loathsome world is one called Raphian, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls. It is He who sent out the first of His fledglings to tempt and corrupt man. Casting them to the solar winds to land in whichever galaxy could sustain their repugnant seed until it could infect humankind, He desires to have dominion over all life. It is He who is responsible for the rogues who kill indiscriminately and with great abandon, enslaving humankind and turning it to base evil.” His jaw clenched. “It is my lot in life to stop the spread of Raphian’s minions. To that purpose, Morrigunia sent me here to the High Council just as She has sent other Reapers to far-flung worlds.”

  “Then She is not the bad one in this,” Aingeal said.

  “She’s bad enough,” Cynyr stated. “She never gives the men She chooses a choice, but makes the decision for them. In that regard, She is no better than Raphian, though the parasites she forces on the unwilling are good for the most part and not evil.”

  Aingeal bent her head and kissed the scar on his shoulder. She traced it with her tongue then looked up to lock her gaze with his. “Let me heal you, mo tiarna,” she said in a low, husky voi
ce. “Let me remove your bad memories and replace them with sweet ones.”

  Cynyr drew in a breath as her tongue lapped at the puckered scar. The pain of that particular cut had been deep and brutal. It had brought the only scream he could ever remember making from his throat when the fiery curl had struck. As she laved that savage mark, he closed his eyes and could almost feel the scar dissolving beneath her tender touch.

  Gently stroking the scar at his waist, Aingeal lowered her lips from his shoulder to plant fleeting kisses on his chest until she reached the nub of his manly breast and drew it into her mouth. She heard her lover gasp and his hands went to her shoulders. She looked up at him.

  “Put your hands down, mo tiarna,” she said in a seductive voice. She placed her lips upon his pap once more and began to suckle.

  Cynyr reached up for the brass crosspiece of the headboard and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. The sensations she was causing were sending lightning bolts of heat down his sides and into his groin. Her tongue was licking him as she drew upon that now rigid nipple. He could feel sweat popping out on his forehead. When he thought he would go mad from her wicked tongue, she released his pap and her lips moved lower down his chest—over his sternum and lower still as she swirled her tongue amidst the midline of hair that trailed to his pelvis.

  “Wench, stop,” he pleaded, for his rod was as hard as stone and pulsing upward in an attempt to make contact with the sweet body so close to it.

  Aingeal pushed up to her knees and, as he watched, drew the flannel gown over her head, tossing it aside. The sway of her ample breasts caught his attention and he could not have looked away if his very life depended upon it. He was barely aware when she slid a leg over his and knelt between his spread thighs.

  “I have no intention of stopping, mo tiarna,” she told him, and lowered her head once more to trail kisses down the tiger line of fine hair running from just above his navel to the thick patch at the juncture of his legs.