rogue fired at him. Swiveling his gun toward the man standing by the bar, the Reaper’s
fourth bullet hit the rogue in the heart but not before the bastard fired again, his next
bullet catching Bevyn in the right bicep, making him drop his gun.
Scrambling to his feet, ignoring the pain in his right shoulder and arm, the Reaper
drew his laser whip and took the third rogue’s head off cleanly, grinning at the
surprised look on the dead man’s face. It took less time to flick the laser to the necks of
the other rogues, whose parasites were trying in vain to heal their hosts, and dispatch
them, a bit more time to wait for the hellions to wriggle out in order to turn them into
crispy ash on the barroom floor.
“Three down,” Bevyn sent to the Citadel just as he felt the strange humming around
him and the pull against his flesh.
“They are trying to draw you up!” Lord Kheelan’s voice shrilled in Bevyn’s ear.
There was no need for him to ask who. It was the Amazeen and they had latched on
to him in an attempt to pluck him from Terra. The pull against his flesh was sharp but
he felt as though his feet were nailed to the floor. It was an exacting sensation and it
hurt like hell.
“Morrigunia!” he cried out in agony, feeling as though he were being pulled apart
at the seams.
The Amazeens’ ploy might well have worked had not the Triune Goddess
interceded. Her fury vast as She suddenly appeared in the saloon, green eyes blazing
with rage, long red hair floating like seaweed on a turbulent tide.
“No one fucks with my Reaper!” the goddess shrieked. She lifted Her arm, fingers
splayed wide, and inscribed a large circle in the air and then crushed Her fingers
together as though snatching something from the air, jerking Her arm downward
quickly.
Under Bevyn’s feet, the floor of the saloon shook as a loud explosion rent the early
afternoon sky and he felt whatever had been drawing him cease. He dropped to all
fours, panting with the brutal pain that had been squeezing his insides, elongating them
like taffy at a pull. Falling over to his side, he drew his legs up in a fetal position and lay
there as the debilitating pain slowly faded from his muscles and joints.
74
Her Reaper’s Arms
“The gods-be-damned!” Morrigunia hissed. “There is another!”
The entire room trembled as though it were about to collapse. As suddenly as She
had appeared, the goddess disappeared in a flash of rust-colored dust, a violent wind
whipping through the wind, smelling like rotting vegetation.
Rolling onto his back to draw ragged breaths into his lungs, Bevyn stared up at the
ceiling and the violently swaying oil lights that cast flickering shadows across the walls
as the building settled down. The pain in his arm was bad since his parasite could not
close the wounds for healing until the foreign substances—the lead bullets—had been
removed. He was bleeding badly as he pushed himself up to lean against a wooden
column, fumbling with his left hand for his blade. It was going to be a bitch digging the
bullets out of his shoulder and bicep but it had to be done before he could heal. He was
trying to do just that when the goddess returned, Her beautiful face hard and set.
“There is a Blackwind out there,” She told him, coming to hunker down before him.
“I hate Blackwinds more than I hate Nightwinds.”
Though it had been many years since he had been face-to-face with the Triune
Goddess, he was still as unnerved by Her beauty and the savage glint in Her green orbs
as he had been on the day She had made him. His hand was still on the blade though it
was deep inside his shoulder.
“How goes it, my Bevyn?” She asked, taking the blade from his grasp.
“Not as well as I would have liked for it to, mo Regina,” he admitted, trying not to
look into Her lovely face.
With efficiency, She popped the bullets from his flesh with the tip of the dagger,
snorting at his indrawn breath as the pain hit him, and then flipped the blade over,
extending it to him hilt first.
“You are not the most careful of my Reapers or the smartest,” She chastised him,
Her ivory face with its strange dusting of freckles cocked to one side. “Perhaps now that
you have something to live for you will be more careful in the future.”
He met Her glowing eyes. “You sent Lea to me,” he said softly. “My heartfelt
thanks, mo Regina.”
Her smile was brief but dazzling as She got to Her feet. “Take care of your toy,
Bevyn Coure. You’ll not get another.”
With that, She was gone in a burst of swirling multi-colored flecks of light that were
so bright they hurt his eyes, and he had to turn his head away and close his eyes to keep
from being blinded by the intensity.
Stumbling to his feet, he waved away his torn black silk shirt to better view the
damage done. Already the wounds were closing, only the red edges showing harshly
against his tanned skin. Going behind the bar, he found a clean rag and a pitcher of
water to wash away the spilled blood before fashioning a new shirt for himself.
Surprised he felt so weak, he poured a shot of whiskey, knocked it back then
another before heading out of the saloon to make his way to the church. The sweltering
75
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
heat had to have taken a toll on the women imprisoned there and he was anxious to set
them free. As soon as he’d pulled the two boards crisscrossing the set of double doors,
the women nearly ran him over trying to get out in the cooler air. As soon as they saw
him, they staggered back, clustering in a little group as though they were as afraid of
him as they were of the ones who had trapped them.
Bevyn pointed at one of the women. “You, go set your menfolk in the jail free,” he
said, and saw the younger ones turn their heads toward the barn at
