By Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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He shouted. ” a feminine voice inquired. Phelan took the door left open in the young man’s wake as an invitation to enter and did so, removing his hat as soon as he saw the young female standing to one side belting a silk wrapper around a very curvaceous body. ” Phelan inquired with an arch of a thick dark brow. ” the young man yelled, snapping to attention and saluting. “At ease, son,” Phelan said, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. He swept his gaze to the young woman. “My apologies for intruding, milady, but I have official business with your husband.
It was a rare thing for a Reaper to come out with the upper hand in any confrontation with a Shadowlord. That Fontabeau had said volumes for the warrior’s strength of purpose and resolve. “Good on you,” Phelan said as he reached over for the soap and began lathering himself. ” * * * * * Feeling the desk clerk’s angry eyes following him as he strode forth in a fresh uniform he’d conjured to replace the old one, Phelan sauntered across the street with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and toward the loud music pouring from Miss Lucy’s saloon and whorehouse The Ruby Load.
In agony from the judicial torture under which he had been sentenced, the breath slowly leaching from his wrecked body, blood trickling from ears, nose and mouth, Kiel prayed for the death coming to take him. No longer able to make even a single sighing sound, he silently begged for release, for an end to the agony. “Die, Phelan. ” Able only to turn his head, he gave in to the need to take one last look at his accuser. Standing a few yards away, Truian Sayle was the only villager who had stayed to see the execution to its end.