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An Excerpt From: REAPER'S REVENGE

CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2006.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Reaching out to lovingly stroke her husband’s mane of thick brown hair, Aingeal knew a contentment for which she had longed. For the first time in her life she was wanted and needed and cherished. The man lying beside her was the love she had prayed for so desperately but had never had faith in finding. He was her all and she would give her life for him.

“As I would for you,” he said, plucking her thoughts from the ether. His hand returned to her belly. “For both of you.”

Covering her husband’s hand with her own, she laced her fingers through his. “I can’t wait for our child to kick for the first time.”

Cynyr sighed deeply. “Neither can I.” He rubbed her stomach gently, at peace with himself and the world.

They were silent for a long time as they listened to the click-clack of the train’s wheels on the rail. The car was slowly rocking them and that would have lulled them back into sleep had there not come an authoritative knock at their sleeping quarter’s door.

“Breakfast is ready,” Harold Warrington, the servant provided for them by the High Council, announced. “I will be laying out your plates momentarily. Please be on time for once!”

That said, the snippy little man left, his heavy footsteps sounding on the carpet.

“How can a man not even five feet tall and weighing less than my saddle make so much noise when he walks?” Cynyr asked.

“Attitude,” Aingeal suggested. She prodded her husband into moving so she could get up. “I don’t suppose we have time for a bath.”

“Not when His Majesty has decreed we be on time,” Cynyr grumbled. He swung his long legs from the bed, and with a wave of his hand was dressed in a fresh black silk shirt and leather britches.

“Show off,” Aingeal accused. She was up and slipping into the black denim jeans her husband had provided for her. He had yet to show her how to fashion her own clothing from thin air and she doubted he ever would. It seemed to be a matter of pride to him to be able to provide for her.

Cynyr was watching his lady and trying to hide the smile that was tugging at his lips. Like her Reaper brethren, Aingeal had long since dispensed with wearing underwear. As she was buttoning the black cotton blouse over her ample bosom he was reminded of the disagreement they’d had concerning his choice of clothing.

“I prefer a white shirt,” she’d argued but her husband had been adamant.

“Your nipples can clearly be seen in a white blouse, wench,” he’d said. “It’s black for you!”

Admitting he was right didn’t take away the sting of disappointment of not getting her way, although she had admitted that wearing an outfit so close to the uniform he wore wasn’t so bad. When they had been at the Citadel—the headquarters of the High Council—she had been required to dress in womanly fashion with all the accoutrements she now found restricting. She was glad Cynyr didn’t require her to dress in gown, camisole and bloomers.

“I’d prefer you butt-naked but such would be a distraction,” he said, once more intercepting her thoughts.

“Mick would probably like me like that,” she teased, and laughed at her husband’s low growl. Her friendship with the town barber in Haines City was a tad too close for her husband’s comfort.

Cynyr was preparing their vac-syringes of tenerse and as he loaded his frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Aingeal asked.

“My back isn’t paining me,” he said. “The queen is lying still for once.”

“She’d better,” Aingeal quipped. She turned her back to her husband and swept her long hair aside for him to administer the drug to her.

A sharp, biting pain drove straight through the Reaper’s back and he nearly dropped his vac-syringe. Striving not to let his wife see his agony, he stepped up behind her with hands trembling from the brutal pain chewing through him and stuck the needle into Aingeal’s neck. He bent down to kiss the spot where a single drop of blood had appeared.

“I guess I’m getting used to it,” Aingeal said. “That didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it usually does.”

Unaware her husband was being tortured by his parasite, Aingeal picked up the other vac-syringe and turned to give him his shot. She felt terrible when she watched his face pinch from the discomfort racing through his veins.

“Do you give yourself more tenerse than me, mo shearc?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, reaching up to rub at the agony spreading down his neck and shoulder. “It’s given according to your weight.” He forced a smile to his lips. “You weight less than the down from a fledgling bird.”

She snorted. “You’ll change that in the months to come,” she said, “when I’m waddling around like a fat pig.”

Cynyr put out his hand and laid his palm over her flat belly. He couldn’t seem to stop doing that. It was there his child was growing and he loved touching his lady so she could feel how proud and delighted he was with her pregnancy. She covered his hand with hers and when he lowered his mouth to hers, welcomed his kiss.

The knock hit the door only once but Harold’s imperious voice sound like a barrage against the panel. “Breakfast is upon the table!” he barked, each word spat out like a cannon shot.

Shaking his head, Cynyr ground his teeth. He was going to have a talk with Warrington—who had informed him the High Council had assigned him to be the Crees’ servant in Haines City.

Opening the door for his lady, Cynyr put his hand to the center of her back and ushered her from their sleeping quarters. Harold was stomping down the corridor ahead of them, not bothering to look around to see if they were following.

“Have you ever noticed how he walks?” Aingeal whispered.

“Not until today,” Cynyr replied, and was amused as he watched Harold’s ass swaying to and fro like that of a woman.

Having positioned himself behind Aingeal’s chair, Harold was waiting impatiently for his charges to gain the table. His pencil-thin mustache twitched, his very thin lips pursed as they approached.

“I am told we will be arriving in Haines City around noontime,” Harold informed them as Aingeal took her chair and he pushed it up to the table for her. Snapping her napkin, he laid it in her lap and walked around to take up Cynyr’s to do the same.

“Thank you, Harry,” Cynyr said, knowing how much the nickname annoyed the fussy little man. He could hear Harold’s teeth grinding.

Before each of their plates was a large goblet of chilled Sustenance. The dark red liquid in the goblets stood out against the pristine white of the starched tablecloth with its white china dishes.

“Will there be anything else?” Harold inquired with a sniff. His beady eyes were surveying the bowls of bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, crisply fried potato chunks, buttered toast and—much to his disgust—the mound of grits that had been spooned onto the lady’s plate.

“Everything looks delicious as usual, Harold,” Aingeal assured him.

A faint smile tugged at the little man’s face and he bowed, thanking her for her compliment. With that done, he turned toward the kitchen at the front of the railcar.

Taking up the Sustenance first, husband and wife downed the liquid that allowed them to exist peacefully with the parasites nestled within their bodies.