Immortal Outlaw
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Renowned for her contemporary romantic comedies, Lisa Hendrix now turns her talents toward the paranormal with Immortal Outlaw, the second novel in a riveting new series about a crew of Viking warriors condemned to live out eternity as werecreatures …
PRAISE FOR Immortal Warrior
“Blending paranormal with historical and a touch of the comedy that she is known for, Lisa Hendrix gives us the first in a stunning new series bound to rocket straight to the bestseller list. Her heroine was smart and sassy, her hero was strong and patient, the subplot was awesome, and the twist at the end was completely unexpected. I can’t wait to get my hands on the next one.”—Manic Readers
“Gripping … I expect both this book and its sequels to find their way on the must-buy lists of book lovers everywhere!”
—Wild on Books
“Immortal Warrior will sweep you off your feet … A fast-paced paranormal delight that will have you adding Lisa Hendrix to your must-buy list. Shifters, witches, Norse gods, and more make this series unforgettable.”
—Night Owl Romance
“A bold and beautiful fairy tale for grown-ups: an enchanted story of a stalwart warrior and a feisty lady … Not to be missed!” —Romantic Times
“A sizzling and engrossing romance from the pen of Lisa Hendrix, Immortal Warrior should not be missed.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Five stars. Hendrix weaves this fascinating tale as seamlessly as the most skilled storytellers of old, with a lyrical quality to her writing that draws the reader in … Immortal Warrior is going straight to my keeper shelf. I highly recommend that you buy a copy for yours.”
—Romance Novel TV
“Absolutely stunning … Starts off a new paranormal series with a bang! Immortal Warrior is an excellent paranormal romance—but to the medieval lover, it is all the more exquisite … Bringing together Norse sagas, English history, and medieval fairy tales, Lisa Hendrix adds her own unique vision to this popular classic tale of magic.”
—Medieval Book Reviews
“Lisa Hendrix has struck immortal pay dirt with this novel, and I, for one, will be anxiously awaiting the next installment of this saga … Five martinis for a story I could not bear to put down.” —The Girls on Books
“Lisa Hendrix has penned a winner … A fast-moving, thrilling tale that kept me up at night.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
PRAISE FOR THE ROMANCES OF LISA HENDRIX
“A fast-paced and fun battle of the sexes!”
—Susan Andersen, New York Times
bestselling author of Coming Undone
“A charming contemporary romance that goes down like a refreshing piña colada. Take this one to the beach with you during your spring break and enjoy the fantasy.”
—The Romance Reader
“I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I hope that Lisa Hendrix has more of these hilarious comedies up her sleeve. I know I, for one, will be on the lookout for more!”
—The Best Reviews
“A fast, fresh, and funny look at modern love, ancient magic, and new age zaniness … An enchanting book by a talented storyteller.”—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author of Snowfall at Willow Lake
Immortal Brotherhood Novels by Lisa Hendrix
IMMORTAL WARRIOR
IMMORTAL OUTLAW
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
IMMORTAL OUTLAW
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Hendrix.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-05740-7
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To Kaldi and his goats,
without whom this book
would not have been completed.
The Legend
SENT BY THEIR jarl to capture a great treasure of gold and jewels, the warriors led by Brand Einarsson fell under a spell cast by the powerful sorceress who guarded the hoard and whose son they had killed. The witch Cwen cursed them to spend eternity as shadow beasts, living half as animal, half as man, each taking the form of his fylgja, the spirit companion whose image he wore. After she worked her foul magic, Cwen took their amulets and had them scattered across the land so they would never be found, and she drove the men off into the forest to live their accursed lives.
Some twelve-score years later, Ivar Graycloak, known to the Normans who by then ruled England as Ivo de Vassy, found both his amulet and a woman who loved him even knowing the monster he was, and through their combined magic, Cwen’s power over him was broken. The eight remaining warriors found hope in Ivar’s victory and began to scour the English countryside for their fylgja amulets. They ransacked ancient ruins and burial mounds, standing stones and wells, gr
aveyards, and even the most venerable buildings of the Christian church, searching for some trace or clue of the amulets. And as they searched, they also watched for signs of Cwen, who had been sore wounded and gone to ground.
Decades passed and neither Cwen nor any of the amulets were found, and the warriors lost hope and once more resigned themselves to their half lives. Slowly, as Ivar had, some began to make their way along the edges of human-kind, finding work and friends and even the occasional moment of peace among mortal men and women.
Others could not, their animal forms being too strange to move easily among the beasts of England or too deadly to live near her people. One of these was Steinarr, son of Birgir BentLeg, called Steinarr the Proud, who so terrified the English as the lion he became each night that he was driven from forest to forest without cease and who did such damage to the other warriors that most would not tolerate his company. But even a man who lives in the wilds has need of clothing and food and other things of men, so he learned to find coin where he could, turning to thievery, banditry, and even, when the opportunity presented itself, to hunting men …
—from the Dyrrekkr Saga of Ari Sturlusson
(E.L. Branson, trans.)
CHAPTER 1
Nottinghamshire, August 1290
HE KNEW BETTER than to try to help an Englishman.
But this one was old and tiny, and the reavers attacking him were young and hale and armed with clubs. And three against one was too many, even when the one wielded a quarterstaff and knew how to use it. Steinarr tossed his packhorse’s reins over the nearest branch and quickly fitted an arrow to his bowstring. Before he could take the shot, however, the biggest of the three slipped in behind the old man and brought his club down hard. The crack made Steinarr’s stomach clench; he well knew the sound of a deathblow.
His arrow hit the outlaw’s shoulder before the old man hit the ground. The reaver bellowed with pain, and his two friends whirled, searching for their attacker. In quick order, two more arrows thudded into the side of the cart between them, and they panicked. Spinning their horses around, they tore away. The injured man trailed after them, weaving perilously in his saddle, the shaft of Steinarr’s arrow protruding from his back. Steinarr sent another arrow whizzing past his ear into a tree for good measure, then watched the three disappear up the road.
When they were gone, he galloped over to the old man and leapt off to check him. It was too late; he was gone, his eyes empty and his skull laid open like a gourd, his blood darkening the dust of the road.
Steinarr lifted the old man’s flat purse from his belt and emptied it into his palm. All that tumbled out were two silver farthing pieces. Not even a full penny. He shook his head in disgust. Thievery he understood. He practiced it himself when he needed to, waylaying a merchant or nobleman or the occasional churchman when other means of getting money failed. But he chose only those with silver to spare, and he left their skulls intact. These three had set upon a poor man and killed him merely for the sake of killing.
And he, fool that he was, had both failed to save the old man and lost one of his best steel arrowheads in the process. Steinarr considered taking the old man’s cart as recompense, but it looked about to fall to pieces, as did the sad little mare, more bones than meat, that stood between the shafts. Even the harness she wore had been patched a dozen times, apparently with more hope than skill. Weighing what little he might gain against the time he would lose taking them to market, he decided to keep the halfpenny and send the mare back down the road for others to find.
First, though, there was the body to deal with. Steinarr dropped the farthings into his purse, and then dragged the old man off the road a little way. He used the edge of his shield to scrape a shallow grave, which he covered over afterward with stones and brush. It wasn’t a good grave, but it would serve for the time being, and he could tell the priest in the next village where to find the body to do a better job. Finishing, he took a moment to stand over the grave, silently asking the gods to watch over the old man on his journey.
“His name was John,” said a soft voice behind him. “John Little.”
Steinarr whirled, hand reaching for sword, but he froze as the voice registered and he saw who stood in the verge. A woman? Here? “Where did you come from?”
“There, my lord,” she said, pointing to a thick patch of bracken a few yards behind her, still swaying where she had passed. “John heard them coming and bade us hide. He said no one rides that hard in this part of the forest but outlaws or soldiers, and that we wanted to meet neither, since they are so often much the same.”
“You are fortunate. If those three had seen you …” He knew by the way she blanched that she understood his meaning. “’Tis a shame John Little did not take his own good advice.”
“He thought they would not trouble with him. He had nothing of value to steal.”
“Only his life,” said Steinarr, and her moss green eyes glittered with tears as she nodded. He gave her a moment to collect herself before he asked, “What was John Little to you? Father? Servant?”
“Neither. A kind stranger who offered his aid when our horse went lame.”
“You said ‘our.’ Who is the other?”
“My cousin.” Twisting, she spoke over her shoulder to the bracken. “Stand up and let this good man see you, Rob. He means us no harm.”
A tall, bony lad wearing a green chape over his reddish hair slowly unfolded from the bracken. He hadn’t filled out yet, but by the small, pointed beard that decorated his chin, he must be about the same age as the maid, perhaps eight and ten.
He appraised Steinarr warily. “How do you know? He looks like one of them.”
“And so I might be.”
The maid shook her head. “You drove them off.”
“Perhaps I hoped to rob the old man for myself.”
“He did empty John’s purse,” pointed out the boy.
“He would be a fool to bury John’s money with him.” She turned back to Steinarr. “I am sure he intends to return it to John’s family.”
“ ’Tis only a halfpenny,” said Steinarr.
“Several days’ food for a poor man,” she said.
And didn’t he know it? Steinarr decided to shift her mind to other matters. “You were foolish to reveal yourselves. What is your name, boy? ”
“Rober—”
“Robin,” interrupted the woman. “His name is Robin. Mine is Marian. We are pilgrims.”
The boy looked flustered, but nodded. “Aye, pilgrims. Bound to Lincoln to pray to Saint Hugh.”
But not bound to tell the truth, apparently—not that their lies or their true purpose made any difference to Steinarr. He pulled the two arrows out of the cart and returned them to his quiver, then swung up on the stallion and started up the road to retrieve the shaft he’d put into the tree. “Well, Robin, I hope you take better care of your cousin on the rest of your journey. Fare you well.”
“No!” She bolted out onto the road after him. “Surely you will not leave us here alone, my lord.”
“You have your saint to protect you,” Steinarr said over his shoulder. “I am told that should be enough for a good Christian.”
“But those men will be waiting for us.”
“Possibly.”
“They will kill us!”
“If you are lucky,” he said darkly, and once more saw his warning raise a shadow of fear in her eyes. Good. She should be afraid, especially with only Robin for protection. He’d already shown his colors—a lad that size should have been fighting next to the old man, not hiding in the bushes. “Go back to Sheffield and wait for a larger group of travelers. It should only be a day or two.”
“He is right,” said the boy, flicking a spider off his sleeve as he joined her in the road. “We should have waited to begin with.”
“We have no time for waiting,” she muttered, then louder, “Why can we not travel with you, my lord?”
“Because I have better things to do than pl
ay shepherd to stray pilgrims.” Steinarr reached the tree, worked the arrow loose, and jammed it into the quiver with the others. “Make haste, so you are out of the forest by dark. A safe journey to you.”
Which would have been a good way to take his leave, except he’d forgotten that his rouncey was still tied where he’d left him, and these supposed pilgrims stood between him and his horse. As he turned the stallion around to go back, hope flared in their eyes. In her eyes.
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “I only fetch my pack horse. Your path is there.” He pointed back the way they should go, then swung his arm around to point south and east. “And I go that way.”
She stood there in the road open-mouthed as he retrieved the rouncey, and she was still there when he led the horse back into the road. He could feel her accusing eyes burning into his back as he headed off. He was nearly out of hearing when he heard her call out, “Some help here, Robin, if you please.” He glanced back to see her tugging at the mare’s harness.
Good. They were going back. Satisfied, he cantered the horses until he’d left the pilgrims well behind, then let the animals settle back into a walk. Keeping one eye alert for the outlaws, he let his mind wander to other things. He was working through his plans for capturing Long Tom when the sound of an approaching horse snapped him back to the present and sent his hand to his bow. He already had an arrow nocked to the string when he realized the sound was behind him, not ahead.
Them. His curse echoed through the forest as he turned. “You go the wrong way, Pilgrims.”
“We go the way we must, my lord,” the maid called back, as they came bouncing up the road bareback on the old mare.
Then they would go it alone. Making a quick decision, Steinarr reined his horses off the road and headed into the forest.
“I told you,” he heard the boy say. “He will not suffer our company.”