Her Reaper's Arms by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Read Free Book Online Page B

in a grove of cottonwood and Osage orange trees, half hidden
    by the shimmering leaves on the spreading lower branches. A horse neighed greeting to
    Préachán and the Reaper’s steed snorted in reply.
    Once more Bevyn halted his horse, allowing his Reaper senses to home in on the
    shack, to test the vibrations that were undulating down his taut spine. His acute hearing
    picked up no sounds, his eyes found no movement other than the impatient and—to
    him—the nervous shifting of the other horse.
    Dismounting slowly, he upholstered his laser whip—his speal —and advanced
    quietly toward the shack, keeping his senses alert to the most minute of changes in the
    air, the ground beneath his feet.
    The closer he came to the rundown building with its gray weathered boards and
    swayback roof pitted with missing shingles, the more the squirmy feeling along his
    spine shifted. Beneath the black silk, his flesh felt wet, the shirt’s material clinging to his
    back and chest as though offal had been smeared on the garment. It was a very
    unpleasant sensation that bothered him intensely.
    He stopped and listened for any movement at all, his gaze intent on the shack’s
    door that was slightly ajar. He could detect no sounds and though his ears were
    perfectly capable of hearing a heartbeat from ten feet away, he heard absolutely nothing
    save the buzzing of flies.
    It was the sudden sound that disturbed him more than the atrocious odor coming
    from the shack. Death was inside the cabin and the stench that was now so
    overpowering, so vile, burned the membranes of his nostrils.
    From one of the Osage orange trees, a hedge apple fell, clunking on the dilapidated
    roof and rolling down it. The light green wrinkled ball landing with a dull thud in the
    dirt as it hit the ground.
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    Her Reaper’s Arms
    Now sick to his stomach from the smell, he took out his black silk handkerchief and
    tied it over his face to filter the odor. To anyone who might have seen him at that
    moment, he looked like a bank robber sneaking up on the door to the shack.
    His spurs jingled against the rotting porch floor as he went to the shack’s door and
    he felt a board crack under his weight. Putting his boot to the door, he nudged it open,
    flinching at the piercing shriek of its rusted hinges. The buzzing sound was louder and
    despite the protection of his handkerchief, the stench was overwhelming, drifting up
    from beneath his chin, making his eyes water.
    The interior of the cabin was dark but there was no mistaking the horrors that lined
    its walls. Bevyn stopped in the doorway, staring at the awfulness that assailed his eyes.
    For a moment or two he could not move, so devastating was the scene upon which he’d
    come. Eyes wide, struggling to draw air through his mouth to blot out the putrid odor
    permeating the air, he stumbled back and barely made it off the porch before he
    whipped off his handkerchief and puked, relieving his belly of its breakfast.
    Tears stung his eyes—a valiant attempt made by his soul to wash away the
    horrendous sight he had beheld inside the shack. Clutching a rough upright that barely
    held up the porch roof, he puked again and again until there was only bitter vetch
    flooding his mouth. Wiping the back of a shaking hand across his lips, he realized his
    entire body was trembling. Nothing had ever affected him as strongly as what he’d just
    seen.
    Staggering off the porch, the Reaper put distance between him and the shack and
    made his way to a fallen log, plopping down on it, leaning forward to put his head
    between his legs in an attempt to calm the fury of his body. He was sweating profusely,
    his mouth watering so copiously he feared the puking wasn’t finished. After a moment
    or two he slowly lifted his head and looked at the cabin, every humane instinct in his
    body shuddering with disgust.
    The bodies he’d seen hanging on the walls had been brutally tortured with an
    instrument he had hoped never to see again