Warrior: Monster Slayer (The Monsterworld Saga Book 1)

by Sam Ryder

  WARRIOR: Monster Slayer

  Book One of the Monsterworld Saga

  Sam Ryder

  Copyright 2018 David Estes

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A sneak peek at The Fatemarked Epic, available NOW!

  A sneak peek at PROTECTOR, the sequel to Warrior, available NOW!

  ONE

  TERMINATION

  My boss’s assistant was a cold-hearted shark of a woman who could petrify even the bravest of souls with a single glare.

  Next to my boss she was Mother-fucking-Theresa.

  “Ms. Martin, your seven o’clock appointment is here,” the assistant said as she opened the door. She held it for me, and I noticed her finger twitching slightly, as if she was fighting the urge to slam it in my face. Thankfully, I was able to scurry inside before she closed it with a soft click.

  My boss, Patricia Martin, Destroyer of Souls, didn’t look up from her monitor, which was facing away from me. I stood there dumbly, which was my posture of choice these days. “Uhh,” I said, my mouth feeling as dry as the Sahara.

  Still nothing, her lips pursed as she clicked and typed. Her blonde hair was pulled into a severe bun, which elongated her forehead.

  I’d just been playing Alien Civilization (or A-Civ, as it was widely known) the night before—as I did most nights—and I couldn’t help but to be reminded of the alien brood mother I’d faced in combat. My class 9 marine (that’s good, in case you were wondering) had lasted all of two minutes before the brood mother had dismembered him and eaten his heart.

  Yum.

  I had a feeling this meeting might be even shorter before I lost a major organ.

  Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she looked up. Those eyes.

  Those eyes.

  I could’ve been looking into the calculating stare of a serial killer plotting my demise.

  “Mr…” she said, squinting.

  She didn’t know my name, despite the fact that I’d worked here for more than five years, in the same cubicle, day in and day out. She walked past my desk every day. Multiple times. “Ryder,” I said. “Sam Ryder.” I wondered why she hadn’t just looked at the name tag on my right breast pocket. After all, she was the one who’d instituted the policy that we all had to wear them while inside the building.

  Why? you might ask. Because she couldn’t remember any of our names to save her life.

  “Mr. Ryder, why are you here?” she asked.

  The question was so unexpected it tied my tongue into knots. My mind, as it does, began cycling through the many sub-questions underlying the main one. Why are you on this planet? Because I was born, I guess. Why are you at work still when it’s dark out? Because everyone else is. Why are you in my office, you filthy maggot? Ummm…

  I chose to answer the last one. “Because you set up a meeting with me?” Was I telling her or asking her? Even I didn’t know.

  “Did I?”

  “Y-Yes? I think?” Now I was wondering whether I got the time wrong, or the date, or the place. Something. I took a deep breath. No. I was right. Even her scary assistant confirmed I was her seven o’clock appointment. Who sets up meetings for times that are after normal business hours anyway?

  “Hmm.”

  “If I may…” I said, flinching slightly when her razor-sharp eyes darted back to meet mine. She cocked her head to the side. Cold, calculating. Like a velociraptor contemplating a problem as complex as opening a door to get to the human hiding behind. When she didn’t say anything, I continued. “Perhaps you wanted an update on my project?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Project? What project?”

  I felt like screaming. Not knowing my name was one thing. Not knowing what had consumed most of my waking hours for the last six months was something else entirely. Hell, she’d given me the project. Sort of. Via a memo. Handed to me by her assistant, who’d snapped her hand back when our fingers brushed past, as if I might carry some rare sort of plague transmuted by skin-to-skin contact. I’d seen her squirting copious amounts of hand sanitizer afterwards.

  “The Sell! efficiency project?” I said. Again, like it was a question. Where was that memo anyway? I was sure I’d filed it somewhere…

  “Sell! is already efficient,” she said. She started tapping away at her keyboard, harder this time.

  “Not as efficient as it could be,” I blurted out. Honestly, I’d thought the project was busy work, a waste of time. But once I delved into it, I discovered all kinds of issues with the software. Sell! was our company’s sales software, which was used by representatives internationally. I already had a solid list of at least three major improvements and a dozen minor ones.

  Now, however, my mind went blank as she narrowed her eyes at me and said, “We’re replacing Sell! anyway.”

  “What? When was this decided?”

  “A year ago. Two maybe. It’ll be a complicated transition. I have a team working on it.”

  “A team?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m speaking to a child?”

  Responding to that question felt like trying to run a gauntlet on A-Civ.

  She sighed again. Leaned closer to her screen, the light glowing softly on her cheeks. A small smile curled the edges of her lips, though her eyes remained hard and serious. A killer smile, if there ever was one. “Now I remember why I set up this meeting…”

  She rummaged around in a drawer and then removed a small, rectangular paper. A slip, if you will.

  It was pink.

  “You’re fired,” she said.

  ~~~

  “Screw you all!” I shouted, both hands raised in the air, middle fingers extended. I kicked over a chair and then faked a punch at my cubicle neighbor who never said a word to me.

  Okay, none of that happened.

  In fact, no one noticed my departure. It was closer to eight P.M. now. I’d cleaned out my desk, which hadn’t taken long considering most of the items were company property. I’d been tempted to steal a pen or, gasp, a stapler, but I was worried security would frisk me on the way out. I certainly wouldn’t put it past my boss to order such an invasion of my privacy.

  No, the most rebellious thing I’d done was to delete and electronically shred all the files related to the project I’d been working on. Then I shredded any harcopy files too. Eat that, Ms. Martin!

  I walked out, small cardboard box clamped tightly in both hands.

  Sweat trickled down my spine. My heart beat too fast. The world pressed in on all sides. What am I going to do now? I wonder
ed. I had bills. Rent. Car payments. Utilities. I’d never done any other job. Shit, I didn’t even know how I’d landed this one, with its meager pay and lack of job satisfaction. It was a paycheck though, and I’d never taken it for granted, always doing my best at whatever meaningless projects I was assigned.

  Until now.

  By the time I got to my car, my mind was spiraling into a dark place of panic.

  I dropped the box when I saw the flat tire. No, tires. All four. Slashed. Sagging rubber sunk into the pavement. Tears bit at my eyes. I wasn’t really a cryer, but I felt like I was standing in a hole. The darkness pressed in around me. The lot was still full, all the other worker bees burning the midnight oil, as usual. Pathetically, I wished I was one of them.

  I sat on the pavement and tucked my head into my hands. A sob escaped me, shaking my chest. Deep breaths. You’re prepared for shit like this, remember? And I was. I lived the Boy Scout motto. I had a AAA membership. I could call them, they would tow my car, maybe even give me a ride home or at least drop me off at a bus stop. I would be fine. I could start job hunting tomorrow. Tonight I’d drink and play A-Civ and then sleep in.

  “Shit,” a voice said, making me jump. “That sucks. So many assholes around these days.”

  I looked up and my heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. Or ten. Or it might’ve stopped beating altogether—in that moment I wasn’t certain of much.

  She had almond-shaped eyes capped with thin eyebrows. Dark hair just visible beneath a trendy, brimless hat. She wore a casual, self-assured grin and a knit, sleeveless dress that accentuated her fit-looking arms. The strappy dress was white, a tantalizing contradiction to her tanned skin, and was cut high around her slender neck. And it was short. Like barely covering anything short, showcasing the upper half of her unbelievably toned legs until they disappeared beneath black, knee-high boots.

  She worked out, that was for damn sure.

  She was just the type of girl—woman—that had always left my mouth dry and my knees trembling in both high school and college. And post-college, if I was being honest.

  And she was talking to me. Except I wasn’t talking back. Because I was staring, my jaw hanging open. I might’ve been drooling a little, because I’m that classy and cool.

  “Yeah,” she said, her smirk growing broader. “You’ll do nicely.”

  “What?” I said, blinking to try to clear my mind. Trying not to stare. Or drool. The slightest edge of hope began to creep in. I was dreaming. Had to be. Which meant I hadn’t been fired. Soon I would wake up and head to work and then leave and play video games. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Not the most fulfilling life, but the bills would get paid.

  “Nothing,” she said. “You’re cute.”

  Yup. Definitely dreaming. I mentally patted my imagination on the back for a job well done. If I was dreaming, then maybe I could control what happened next. As it turned out, I didn’t have to.

  Because then she said three magical words. “Need a ride?”

  Holyshitholyshitholy—

  “I should stay with my car until the tow company comes.” Stupid, stupid mouth. Betrayer!

  “They don’t need help doing their job. But suit yourself.” With a final curl of her lips, she turned away. That’s when I noticed two things I’d somehow missed:

  One, her dress was backless, revealing the twin lines of her shoulder blades and a smooth expanse of skin, cut off just above her hips where the material came to a V. A tattoo encroached from her right shoulder. It was a panther, pouncing down toward the center of her back, teeth and claws bared.

  And two, she was carrying a black motorcycle helmet under her arm.

  Need a ride? Her words came back to me as she walked—no, sauntered—toward her bike. It was parked facing out of a stall a few cars down from mine. Not a ten-speed Huffy, or a chrome road-hog that might be ridden by a bearded member of Hell’s Angels, but a sleek, black racer with a leather seat. A seat which she threw one leg over as she sat. She lifted the helmet up over her head…

  This is my dream! Mine! “Wait,” I said, my voice squeaking slightly.

  Embarrassing, yes, but it worked. She stopped. Looked back at me. Still wearing that small, sexy smile. “Hop on,” she said.

  ~~~

  Though I knew it was a dream, it felt so real. I left my box of worthless crap behind, not even bothering to secure it in my deflated car. Who cared if I got robbed? It was a dream.

  As I walked, it felt like I was floating slightly. Until I half-tripped. Not on a stone or a crack in the asphalt—on my own feet. Which was the type of thing I did. Regularly. Particularly in the presence of beautiful women like the one sitting on the motorcycle before me. “Oops,” I said, which was a great save. At least I hadn’t fallen. I was fairly certain I was the only person in existence who couldn’t even manage to be cool in their own dreams.

  “Put this on,” she said, handing me the helmet. “Wouldn’t want you to crack open that pretty little head of yours.”

  Pretty? Me? I couldn’t tell if she was joking, like she must’ve been when she called me ‘cute’ before. I was in my mid-twenties, but already balding. My cheeks were covered by two-day unshaven scruff, a little patchy because I could never really grow facial hair. Still, I preferred the scraggly hair to hide as much of my pockmarked complexion as I could. Puberty hadn’t been particularly kind to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, a response that I considered a small victory. A short-lived victory, as I fumbled the helmet, which was much heavier than it looked. Somehow I managed not to drop it, eventually stuffing it onto my head. It fit perfectly, which made no sense considering her head was much smaller than mine. Then again, it was a dream.

  I’d never ridden a motorcycle before. Except in video games. In real life, I was risk averse. I always looked both ways. I never jaywalked. No skydiving or bungee-jumping either. Once I’d tried to skateboard, but I’d broken my wrist.

  I tried to remember how she had done it as I swung my leg up and over the seat.

  My leg didn’t go high enough.

  My foot hit the seat and I lost my balance. This time, I knew I was going down, dream or not. But then her hand snapped out and she caught me, steadied me, guiding my foot over the seat and around her.

  Holy…

  I must admit, I was aroused. Highly. I wouldn’t be a man if I wasn’t. Some of my childhood tormentors had suggested just that, but here was the irrefutable proof they were wrong. Ha!

  “Well, well,” she said. “Nice to meet you too, Sam Ryder.”

  “How do you—” I stopped, saving myself from asking the rest of a really dumb question. The name tag. I’d forgotten to take it off when I left work for the last time. I felt my cheeks redden, but she was facing forward and couldn’t see them.

  Wait. Yes, she could. She was looking at me in the side mirror. “Cute,” she said, which only inflamed them more.

  “I’ve never seen you at work before. What’s your name?” I asked. I was proud that my voice didn’t crack this time.

  She laughed, removing her hat and letting waves of silky, black hair flow out. She tucked the cap away, though I couldn’t see where.

  Without answering my question, she fired up the engine, the powerful machine vibrating beneath me. “Hang on, Sam Ryder,” she said.

  Where? I was about to ask, but then the motorcycle sprang forward and I was forced to just…grab…whatever I could to avoid falling off.

  Yep. You guessed it. I grabbed her chest. Tightly. Which didn’t help cool off my lance, which was now piercing her.

  At that point I expected her to skid to a stop and throw me from the bike, screaming, “Perv!”

  She didn’t. She merely reached up and maneuvered each of my hands until they were secured on either side of her hips.

  That also didn’t help the situation with my flag, which was standing at full attention now.

  She barely slowed as she turned right out of the parking lot, the bike leaping forward as she accelerated onto the
main road. This time of night, most of the traffic had died away, but that didn’t stop her from changing lanes to pass the only car in the way. The car was going ten miles over the speed limit. We were going at least twenty.

  To me the word ‘limit’ had always meant ‘maximum.’ I usually drove five under. Defensively. I’d never been in an accident. My insurance rates were low.

  She gunned it. Thirty over, from what I could tell from the speedometer. Wind rushed around me and all I could hear was the growl of the engine. The hem of her dress flapped under the press of my fingers, but I could no more control the material than I could a bucking bronco. Directly in front of me, the dress snapped up, stinging my chin, before resettling on the seat.

  In that moment, however, I’d seen what was beneath.

  Heart, be still.

  A leopard print thong. Most of her skin was uncovered, pressing directly against the leather seat.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off that spot, waiting for each moment where the dress would snap up and sting me and I would get another glimpse.

  Again, I applauded my imagination.

  But then I looked up and all my fantasy-dream thoughts vanished. We were travelling at least a hundred miles per hour now, but that wasn’t what froze me. Red lights dead ahead. A busy intersection, cars speeding through. I tried to warn her, but I had no voice or breath. Anyway, it was too late. Even if she tried to stop, we’d end up halfway across the intersection. Or worse, we’d be thrown over the handlebars.

  She didn’t try to stop.

  The lights for the intersecting lanes turned orange.

  She revved the engine, releasing a howl of delight.

  Cars continued to fly through the intersection, more urgent now as drivers tried to beat the light.

  It turned red at the same moment as our light turned green, which was exactly when we crossed the line marked ‘Stop here on red.’

  My heart leapt into my throat because one car had run the very beginning of the red light, probably thinking it was no big deal, because no one would be accelerating fast enough from the other direction. The only problem: we’d never even slowed down.