To Race the Wylde Wynd Chapter 7

To Race the Wylde Wynd Ch.7

Chrysta rested her back against the gate, letting it support her. She removed the helmet and ran her shaking hand through her short hair.

“Well wasn't that the most fun we've had in a long while.” This statement was dripping with sarcasm. It got a snort of strained laughter from Grant,

“Seems like the last time we indulged in this much Jim Dandy fun was last year about this time.”

Templer holstered his weapon, looking from one to the other. He listened to the pounding of heavy hooves as El Diablo made another circuit of his paddock. The angry animal was still snorting and popping his fangs. The Talon decided that being around destria must affect people's sanity, and not in a good way! A small part of his mind told him this was something he needed to report to the Hand. He stomped the errant thought... flat!

The woman stepped away from the gate and the stride that seemed so smooth while dealing with the stallion became a staggered lurch as her leg gave out. The priest's strong hands caught her by the shoulders and provided some support until she could find her balance. Grant, who was walking back towards the kitchen door, turned towards them in alarm. Chrysta waved a hand at him.

“Go ahead Grant, Everything's fine. I'm just sore and tired.”

In the dark the bartender could not see the blood dripping from her fingers. He hesitated a moment before heading back into the Inn.

Catching Templer's raised eyebrow the woman gave a small shake of her head.

“It's not that bad.” She whispered, “I see no reason to upset him.”

She straightened and took a tentative step, testing her leg.

“Let's see if we can make it up to the room without getting blood all over the floor. You have not seen anything until you've seen Grant's M.H.T kick in.”

“M.H.T...? I haven't heard of that disorder... is it serious?”

Chrysta smothered a giggle with the hand that was not bleeding at his dry tone. “SHHHH... M.H.T. is short for Mother Hen Tendencies. Poor man doesn't even know he has this dread disease. The symptoms, when they manifest, turn him into a royal pain in my ass!”

She rolled her eyes as she said this bringing a smile twitching to the corner of the gunman's mouth. He could sympathize. Templer was familiar with what it was like to live with a pain in the ass. Azra growled.

“Not funny Host... I could say the same thing about YOU!”

They made it through the darkened kitchen and up the staircase without running into Grant. Chrysta staggered once on the stairs and Templer rested his hand on the small of her back to provide support. He was surprised at the muscle he felt there.

“HMPH,” This derisive snort came from his outrider. “The woman hauled your heavy ass up that ravine by herself! She trains and rides two thousand pound animals that want nothing more than to eat her for dinner and you are surprised that she is muscular. Geez Constantine... where did your Makers put your brains when they re-assembled you?”

Templer didn't feel the need to answer that insulting comment, so he ignored the demon. The gunman DID catch himself looking back over his shoulder to make sure they hadn't tracked blood all over Grant's floor.

Once they made it to their room, Chrysta sat down at the table and turned the lamp on. She unbuttoned then rolled up her bloody, torn sleeve. There was a heavy arm guard buckled around her forearm. El Diablo had sliced the tough leather about two inches below the elbow to right above her right wrist. The woman swore softly as she fumbled left handed with buckles made slick with blood.

Templer watched for a moment, then couldn't stand it. “Here, let me help.”

With a thought... he elongated one talon on his blade-hand. Slipping the sharp claw underneath the strap she struggled with, he sliced through the blood soaked leather with care. The second and third parted just as easily.

“Thanks...” The woman murmured as she peeled the wet leather off of her arm. She made no comment about what he had just done... but then she had other more important matters on her mind. Blood started to pool at an alarming rate on the table top.

“Shit!” Chrysta's face whitened at the sight of the bleeding gash. “That's a little worse than I expected.”
She clamped her left hand above the wound in an attempt to slow the blood flow.

“Would you get the med. kit for me? It's in that cabinet, top shelf, left hand side.”

The woman gestured with her chin to give Templer some idea of where to look.
Constantine hesitated... but Azra stopped him before he could say a word.

“Don't offer Host... I am dead serious about the state of our reserves.”

Smoothly switching gears, he asked. “Should I be getting the town healer?”

Chrysta just snorted. “Out here... small stuff like this is handled with traditional methods. Doc is at best a Third Tier Healer. It is understood around town that his meager strength is best reserved for when someone has a MAJOR accident. This is something I can handle if you would be so kind as to get me that kit.”

The priest searched where she indicated but didn't see the med kit she wanted.

“Hmmm, far back left hand corner just behind the pic...” Azra's rough voice trailed off into shocked silence.

Templer removed the picture, forgetting about the med kit. In the photo, Chrysta stood with another man in front of a destria that could only be El Diablo. Mounted on the beast's back, was one of the most feared men in the realm... Tynan Thranatos... First son of the cursed House Dracul. As surprised as he was at seeing that particular Vamphyrr this far from Hell, this was not what caused the man to spin around. Slamming the photo down in front of the startled woman he growled out,

“Who is that man?!”

Chrysta met his blazing eyes with shadowed green ones.

“I assume that you don't mean Ty. The man on the right is First Tier Healer... Forrest Denia. He served as an acolyte to the Maker's Sect. You might recognize him. He would certainly recognize you.”

The priest's breath hissed through his teeth, he did recognize the man in the photo. In the patchwork fabric of his mind the healer had been a lot younger, but Templer definitely remembered seeing him when he suffered under the Maker's knives.

Chrysta sucked in a breath as she watched him struggle to piece together the fragments of memory that the old photo had pulled out of his shadowed past.

“Mother of Demons... you are NOT supposed to be able to remember your Making!”

She was right. He did not remember his original Making. These bits and pieces were coming from the last couple of times the Hand forced him back into the labs for... adjustments. He should not remember these either. The Bindings that the Maker's used to suppress his mind and will, were becoming less and less effective. Holy... if the Hand found out his Vows were not holding; the Maker's table would be the least of his problems! Some of the desperation this thought caused must have shown on his face. Chrysta warily shifted in her chair as if to bolt. Templer dropped his hand... pinning her in place. She wisely froze.

“Please don't judge him harshly, Constantine. Forrest was heavily Tainted. He was lucky his affinity for the healing elements was strong and the Hand didn't cleanse him at the Sorting. He had no choice but to do what was necessary to remain Sanctified. Forrest was not cruel. Like all Acolytes, he was trapped in a situation from which there is little chance of escape.”

Chrysta's tired eyes never left Templer's face. They were drawn at the edges and clouded with pain, both emotional and physical. The gunman realized his hand was clamped over her injured arm. Crimson blood oozed between his fingers to drip on to the table top. He drew a shuddering breath and forced himself to release her wrist. Turning, the Talon strode over to the open window absently wiping her blood off of his hand. His spider-silk cloak sucked in what he offered.

“Judge him! How can you sit there and defend him?”

The priest's voice was harsh as he wrestled with torturous images he was not sure were actual memories or the ghosts of old, familiar nightmares. To make matters in his head even more difficult to sort out, Azra was trying to get his attention and Templer was having difficulties stifling the bastard!

“Nobody is so terrible that they don't deserve to be loved. You of all people should understand. Forrest was Tainted. He... had... no... choice!” Chrysta's voice was soft but unapologetic.

Templer spun around to face her.

“WHAT...?” The woman had NO idea what she was talking about. Her lover was given a choice. All Tainted were given a choice... serve or die. This choice had not been offered to Constantine. Death was final and caused no harm. Instead Denia chose a path of blood and pain. By making that choice... he helped to create those who were damned to spend their lives dealing in the same coin... only a hundred fold!

“Where is he?” Without realizing it, his hand dropped to his gun.

“Not anywhere you can find him.” Chrysta remained seated her face and body as motionless as stone. The gunslinger drew the Trinity. Damn her soul... if he could not pull the answer from her while she lived. He sure as Hell would get it carried on her last breath. This got a reaction, although not the one the Talon expected. Chrysta seemed to uncoil as she rose. The eyes that met his over the barrels of the big gun were as cold and clear as hard glass. Templer felt Azra’s disbelief match his own as the woman turned her back on death and limped heavily towards the bathroom.

“Forrest has gone where nothing can reach him... Templer Constantine... not hatred, not the need for revenge, not even the love of his wife.” Chrysta stopped for a moment and a soft sigh escaped her. “You are too late... Reaper. Forrest is already dead.”

Her use of that hurtful title shocked Templer into stillness. By the time he recovered the woman disappeared behind the door and he heard her turn the water on in the sink.

Still seething... the gunman took one step towards the door intending to follow when a sharp pain stabbed through his leg making it cramp up. He staggered and just managed to catch himself on the window sill.

“HAH! I'll wager THAT got your attention... didn't it!?”

The outrider had his undivided attention. Templer shuddered at the disconcerting feeling of the demon riffling through his ragged memories. Azra dredged up scene after scene for the priest to see. Acolyte Forest Denia HAD been there during many of the modifications the Maker's performed on his unwilling body. What the demon brought to light was that along with sustaining him during life threatening procedures... the man had tried to help him in any little way he could. If Forrest drew blood or performed a procedure it was handled with care. The healer tried to not cause pain or discomfort as much as possible. There were several times when the kindness was as simple as covering Constantine with a warm blanket when “subject zero” lay strapped to an exam table... exposed, in pain, and so very cold.

“I believe that being indentured to the Maker's was a form of torture for Dr. Denia. The man was screwed at birth. Most healers have an ingrained reverence for life. Some of the things that Forrest was forced to do would have been abhorrent to him. He... had... no... choice. You of all people should know how the Order deals with the disobedient. More so if the poor wretch was Tainted.”

The demon kept his rough voice soft.

Templer leaned his aching head against the side of the window allowing the cool night breeze to dry the sweat off of his brow.

“Did he know about you?” A morbid curiosity made him ask.

“Yes... Unfortunately, we had to work together to keep you breathing through some of the more extreme experiments done to your body. As you well know, I have not handled being forced into this union with good grace. I am afraid I frightened him quite badly.”

“Hnnn, I'm willing to wager that's an understatement. Let’s face it... you are NOT the average, run of the mill Ifrit!”

The priest straightened and turned around as the bathroom door opened and Chrysta came out, her forearm wrapped in a towel. She had removed her torn shirt. He realized that under it the woman wore a matching guard on her left arm and a hard leather vest that protected her upper back, chest and ribs. There was a soft shirt underneath. Glancing at the silent Talon out of the corner of her eye, she went over to the cabinet and retrieved the med kit. The gunman crossed his arms and watched as she dug out bandaging material and an antiseptic.

“That needs to be stitched.”

“I know.” Templer sighed. He repeated his outrider's opinion to the woman who was wiping the wound with gauze soaked in antiseptic.

“Yep...” Chrysta flicked her uninjured left hand in his direction.

“I am right handed. I have not been able to train my idiot hand to sew and I am NOT drawing Grant's attention to this.” The last part was muttered under her breath.

Templer winced as Azra gave him an ungentle mental nudge and his leg tingled in warning.

“STOP it!” he snarled at the demon. “I can stitch that... if you want?” After his behavior, the priest made the offer with little hope of her accepting.

Chrysta looked at him, her chestnut eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Do I want to ask where you learned to tie a stitch?”

“No...” The woman's quiet acceptance of his unspoken apology went a long way towards easing the sting that being called a Reaper had caused. Templer sat down opposite her and slipped the towel under her arm. “Just be satisfied that I learned from the best.”

With no warning he poured the antiseptic into the long S shaped gash, flushing it out. The firm grasp of his blade-hand prevented the woman from jerking it away as she smothered a yelp of pain with her left hand

“SHIT...Constantine! At least warn me before you do something like that!” She hissed this in a pained whisper. “The last thing we need is Grant popping in up here to check out the noise!”

The gunman didn't say a word. He knew that with the way the wound had to be stinging she wouldn't even feel the prick of the curved needle as he started a row of small, neat stitches. He had just placed the last one when he heard Grant coming up the stairwell. Chrysta's head jerked up. She had been resting her chin in her hand watching his agile fingers. Her wide eyes met his. The priest just did not get it. The woman had faced down a cold blooded killer over the barrel of his gun without flinching but the sound of those approaching footsteps had her panicked.
Without thinking Templer swept the medical supplies into his lap and covered them with the towel. He was rewarded with the flash of grateful eyes and a mouthed "Thank you" as the door opened.

Grant stood in the doorway for a moment just looking at them. If the man had any suspicions, they didn't make it to his placid face. He carried a tray with a couple of covered bowls, two small glasses and a slim bottle of an almost electric blue liquid.

“It's late, you should be in bed, and I'd be willing to wager silver you have had nothing but coffee and Anesthetic since this morning.”

This was directed at Chrysta. The big man set the tray down on the table and fixed Templer with a stern glare.

“You will NOT let her touch that...,” Grant pointed at the blue liquid, “... until she finishes this.”

The man set one bowl in front of her and uncovered it. He set the other bowl in front of the startled Talon. Then he made a harrumphing noise and strode out of the room.
Templer cleared his throat.

“Is that what you meant about M.H.T.?”

“UmmHumm.” The quiet answer got Templer's attention.

Chrysta was pale and she looked exhausted. The woman was swirling her spoon through the savory smelling stew, but had yet to take a bite.

Very casually the priest reached over and snagged the bottle of blue liquid, sliding it over to his side of the table. At the woman's startled look... a gentle, slightly scary smile curved his lips.

“Like the man said. You can have this... as soon as you finish that!” He nodded at her bowl.

For a moment... Chrysta just glared at him with narrowed eyes. Templer could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she calculated the odds of being able to take the bottle away from him.
Then she snorted and filled her spoon.

“Anybody ever mention you are a real bastard, Constantine?”

His smile turned smug as he watched her eat.

“Why...yes... yes they have. Since I can't seem to recall ever having a father... who’s to say they aren't right.”

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drawing people takes me well out of my comfort zone. I do not do it often and really am not very good at it. Still, I had to make an attempt to put an image to the picture in my mind of Talon Templer Constantine. This is done with colored pencil. You may have also noted the change in the spelling of the title. I will be editing my other posts and eventually my books cover, to match. I feel this change reflects the multiple genres represented in this story!