Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Teaser chapter
Berkley Sensation books by Angela Knight
JANE’S WARLORD
MASTER OF THE NIGHT
MASTER OF THE MOON
MASTER OF WOLVES
MERCENARIES
MASTER OF SWORDS
MASTER OF DRAGONS
WARLORD
WARRIOR
CAPTIVE DREAMS
(with Diane Whiteside)
Anthologies
HOT BLOODED
(with Christine Feehan, Maggie Shayne, and Emma Holly)
BITE
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris,
MaryJanice Davidson, and Vickie Taylor)
KICK ASS
(with Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, and Jacey Ford)
OVER THE MOON
(with MaryJanice Davidson, Virginia Kantra, and Sunny)
BEYOND THE DARK
(with Emma Holly, Lora Leigh, and Diane Whiteside)
SHIFTER
(with Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day, and Virginia Kantra)
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WARRIOR: THE TIME HUNTERS
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Julie Woodcock.
Excerpt from Enforcer by Angela Knight copyright © 2008 by Julie Woodcock.
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1
July 10, 2008
The outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia
Galar Arvid hated time travel.
First came the electric tingle that built almost instantly to white-hot pain. Then the sickening wrench of the Jump—the nauseating feeling of being ripped apart and reassembled in the blink of an eye. His ears rang from the sonic boom of displacing air, but worse was the blinding blue-white light that left him unable to see for several crucial seconds.
Galar was moving well before his sight cleared, putting space between himself and the spot where he’d materialized. If the killer opened fire, he’d just as soon not be standing around waiting to get hit.
Any sign of temporal aliens? he demanded.
Sensor implants throughout his body did their work, the results processed by the computer that wound throughout his brain in fine strands no thicker than a molecule. The comp gave him access to bursts of great strength, as well as sensor data, any information he cared to know, and an uncanny accuracy with weapons. No indication of non-natives in the area, it told him.
Good. Maybe they’d beaten the Jump thief to the scene.
His sight finally clearing of purple afterimages, Galar turned to look for his fellow Temporal Enforcers. He quickly spotted the two as they moved to safety through the dark, tree-ringed clearing. His comp relayed his snapped mental command over the TE communication channel as he strode toward them. “Report!”
“I hate time travel,” the timber wolf said. A hundred kilos of fur, fangs, and computerized intelligence, the big beast plunked his furry butt down on the leaves to scratch vigorously at his T-collar. Vocalizer lights flashed around his neck in time with the words.
“You hate everything, Frieka,” Enforcer Riane Arvid put in. “Except bitching.”
“That was not the report I had in mind,” Galar said drily.
“Well, I seem to have all my paws,” Frieka replied, contemplating them thoughtfully. “And I don’t want to yark up my dinner, which is a real improvement over some Jumps I’ve made.” To Riane, he added, “Did I ever tell you about the time your father and I . . . ?”
“Yes,” Riane interrupted. “At least six dozen times.” She was a tall woman dressed in temporal armor that clung to her lean, muscled body. The T-suit’s tiny matte navy scales rendered her all but invisible, as well as virtually invulnerable. Only her pretty face showed clearly to Galar’s acute night vision: wide, dark eyes, a lushly sensual mouth, red hair falling around her shoulders, a single jeweled braid swinging beside her cheek. An intricate tattoo swirled down one side of her face in shades of red and blue. Like Galar, she was a genetically engineered Vardonese Warrior, complete with computer, sensors, and fantastic strength.
And, like Galar, she was well armed. A belt studded with weapons and pouches rode her narrow waist, including a shard pistol, several knives, restraints, a fist-sized courier ’bot, and other assorted gear. Temporal Enforcers had to be ready for anything.
The cyborg wolf peeled his lips back from his teeth, an intimidating display in a creature the approximate size of a pony. “You, brat, are a smart-ass.”
“Better than being a dumbass,” she shot back. Despite the acid words, genuine affection warmed the look the two exchanged.
“I hate to interrupt your customary banter,” Galar growled. “But we do have a potential murder victim to save. Frieka, patrol the perimeter an
d give the area a good sniff. I want to know if the Jump thief has been here.” He looked through the stand of trees. Just beyond it, across a neatly trimmed square of yard, lay a long, narrow brick box of a house, looking deceptively peaceful in the moonlight. “Riane, you take the rear of the victim’s home, I’ll take the front. Full camouflage. The natives don’t need to know we’re here.”
The smile faded from Riane’s face, and she straightened, almost throwing Galar a salute before his cold gaze stopped her.
“You’re not in the military now,” he reminded her. “Enforcers don’t salute.” Riane had been in Temporal Enforcement less than a year, after three years with the Vardonese Space Fleet. Old habits died hard.
She nodded jerkily, pivoted with a soldierly snap, and strode away. Galar’s gaze lingered involuntarily on her swaying ass. To his relief, Riane chose that moment to activate her suit’s camouflage field and disappear from view.
He glowered. The instinctive glance at her butt told him it was time to find a woman once this mission was over. It wouldn’t, however, be Riane. He didn’t get involved with those he worked with. Not emotionally, not sexually, not in any way at all. Ever. That lesson had been seared indelibly into his brain a decade before.
Galar turned away, gaze colliding with the wolf’s reproachful ice-blue stare. “She may be a little green, but she’s a good kid, Master Enforcer,” Frieka told him stiffly. “You didn’t have to bite a hunk out of her.”
“Yeah, she is a good kid. So good that if somebody gets killed because you two are busy dicking around, she’ll never get over it. If I have to rip a strip off her to keep that from happening, I’ll do it.” He lifted a brow. “By the way—didn’t I just give you an order?”
The wolf flicked an ear and stalked off, hackles bristling with canine affront.
Galar watched him go. Well, my reputation as a son of a bitch is secure. He activated his own suit’s camo field and headed for the house. Time to do a scan of its layout and find out what the hell was going on.
His computer pronounced the building an example of the twenty-first-century style called a “two-bedroom ranch.” It was constructed of the red brick favored by builders of the period, though its front door and shutters were white-painted wood. Filmy lace curtains hung over the windows.
Come morning, the police would find the house splattered with Jessica Kelly’s blood. Yet there was no sign of that violence now. It seemed Galar’s team had beaten the killer to the scene.
His neuronet computer confirmed that, its voice murmuring in his mind. The house’s residents are in good health.
Something moved inside the house, just beyond one curtain. Wary, alert, Galar moved closer. Through the window, he saw a woman standing at an easel, a paintbrush in her hand. Must be Jessica Kelly, the victim they’d come to save.
Affirmative, his computer whispered in his mind.
Anybody else in the house? Invisible, he stepped up to the window to watch as she worked.
Charlotte Holt, her roommate. Currently reading in her bedroom.
Is she a human of this era?
Affirmative. Sensors indicate no alien chemical traces present in her body. Molecules of the foods and materials of the future couldn’t be disguised.
A native, then. Galar grunted. Charlotte would disappear at the same time as Jessica, though none of her blood would be found. Police would never be sure whether she’d been the killer or another victim. Historians would argue the topic endlessly over the coming centuries.
He’d do his best to save Charlotte if she was a victim. If she was Jessica’s killer—well, he’d be able to do nothing at all, not even save the artist herself. His team was forbidden to interfere in crimes between temporal natives.
Brooding, Galar watched Jessica work. She was tall for a woman of the twenty-first century, leggy in her paint-stained jeans and T-shirt. Dark hair lay around her narrow shoulders, straight and thick and shining. Her eyes were a smoky, intense blue under angular dark brows, her features delicately rounded, her lips full, wide, red as rose petals. The sensuality of her face was matched by a lush body with curvy hips and breasts that looked like delectable handfuls.
She stepped back from the massive wooden easel, the brush held poised and ready in her right hand as she stared at the painting, her expression fierce with concentration. Small, white teeth bit her lower lip, and she turned away to pace. Her body seemed to vibrate with energy and passion as she moved in catlike strides from one end of the room to the other. He really did like those legs.
Yeah, definitely time to find a woman.
Turning back to the easel, she began painting again, using her brush with delicate, careful strokes. Her eyes narrowed, and a flush climbed the soft curve of her cheeks. Full lips parted. The rosy tip of her tongue slipped out, moved over the curve of her upper lip. Sensuality seemed to pour from her like heat from a star as she worked, a product of some intense inner energy.
Long minutes passed before she stopped and closed her eyes, weariness on her face. Arching her back, she stretched her slender arms over her head as if to relieve tensed muscles. The gesture thrust out her full breasts.
Galar wanted to cup them, thumb the tight nipples. Taste. He hardened in a long, sweet rush, and grimaced at the inconvenient hunger. Keep your mind on the job, Arvid, not on her ass.
Jessica returned to work, her face lit by that intent sensuality. Galar began to feel as if he were intruding on something far more intimate than a woman working on a painting. Almost as though she were naked, with one of those pretty hands busy between her thighs.
Actually, if he had caught her masturbating, he suspected it would have affected him with less searing potency. He’d love to be the object of all that intense passion, that ferocious energy. The thought made his cock harden even more.
What was it about this girl? He was usually better at controlling his hunger than this. Not that it was ever exactly easy. Being a Warlord meant far more than genetically engineered strength, more than sensors and computer implants. The males of his kind were intensely sexual, with a ferocious instinct to protect and defend women in general. And lovers in particular.
Unless they try to kill me first . . .
The rumble of an approaching car jolted him from his uncomfortable preoccupation. He turned, tense and ready, as a battered Ford came around the corner and slewed gravel as it turned up the ranch’s short driveway.
Identify, he demanded.
Jessica’s sister, Ruby Kelly, his comp replied.
Another suspect—and this one, too, was definitely from this time. Galar glowered at the thin blonde as she shoved open the car door and ran toward the house’s brick steps.
Sweet Goddess, he really didn’t want to have to stand by and watch Jessica Kelly die. . . .
Inside the house, Jessica stroked cadmium red across the canvas, painting rays of blazing energy around the writhing female figure. Dark memories seethed through her, bleeding from her brush like poison being squeezed from a snakebite. She knew from experience that when she was done, she’d feel light, boneless. At peace.
Peace she knew so rarely, and craved so much.
“Hey!” Knuckles rattled on the screen door. “You in there, Jess?”
Jessica muttered a soft curse. It had been just cool enough this July night to seduce her into leaving the front door open. Now she was going to pay for it. “I’m working, Ruby.”
“Yeah, I knew that from the paint stink.” Her sister shouldered open the door and sauntered inside, the butt of a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Like Jessica, she was tall, but drug use had rendered her long body gaunt and her skin sallow. A cropped T-shirt with a Confederate flag spread proudly across her meager breasts, and a pair of stained blue jeans flapped loosely around too-thin legs. Her blond hair hung lank around a face marked with fading bruises. She had been pretty once, but hard living had etched bitter lines around her mouth and eyes. She looked a good decade older than Jessica’s twenty-five, though she
was actually a year younger.
Ruby ran a bored gaze over the painting on the easel. “Jesus, that’s ugly. You don’t think you’re gonna sell that piece of shit?”
Jessica could feel her shoulders knotting, but she didn’t look away from her work. She needed to finish if she was going to make her deadline. “I’ve got an appointment with an Atlanta gallery owner Saturday morning.”
Ruby snorted. “You always have an appointment with some fuckin’ gallery owner. Only they never buy your little pictures, do they?”
Familiar, impotent anger sizzled through her. Pointless. Her sister was what she was. “What do you want, Ruby?”
Bloodshot blue eyes flickered, and the younger woman’s tongue flicked over lips that looked chapped under a coat of bright red lipstick. “I need cash.”
Jessica tossed her brush into the mason jar of turpentine. “Let me get this straight—you come into my house, insult my work, and then beg money so you can go buy crack?”
“Not a buy. I owe Billy Dean.” True fear flashed in Ruby’s eyes. She looked around vaguely for an ashtray, found one on an end table beside the room’s single couch, and stubbed out the lipstick-stained butt. Her thin hand shook. “He’s such a mean son of a bitch. If I don’t pay him, he’s gonna beat the crap out of me again. You know he put me in the hospital the last time.”
“I also know you didn’t show up in court to testify so the judge could throw his ass in jail.” Wearily, Jessica raked her fingers through her hair, knowing perfectly well she was leaving streaks of paint through it. “He’s going to kill you one of these days.”
“Maybe tonight.” Her sister dug into a pocket for a battered pack of Virginia Slims and a box of matches. The box slipped from shaking fingers as she lit the cigarette, but typically, she didn’t bother to pick it up. “Look, just give me the two hundred. I swear, I’ll stay away from him from here on ...”
“Two hundred? What the hell did you buy from Billy Dean that cost two hundred dollars? I still have to pay my half of the rent! If I give you that much, I’m going to be seriously short!”
Ruby snorted a plume of smoke. “And if you don’t, I’m going to be seriously dead.”
Warrior Page 1