Gladiator Bear's Battle (Shift In Time 1) Read online

  GLADIATOR BEAR’S BATTLE

  HISTORICAL PARANORMAL ROMANCE

  BY

  ANYA NOWLAN

  A LITTLE TASTE…

  Removing her cape, her teeth dug into her lower lip as she stared up at Erden. He smiled at her softly, crossing his arms over his impossibly wide chest.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” he teased, as if she was not risking her health and future every time she snuck down to see him.

  “The party. It is tomorrow,” Kiya said blankly, walking deeper into the tiny, barely lit room.

  She put the cape down on the stool she had previously used to keep other items she had brought him. Truth be told, she had been down here quite often now, sacrificing nights of sleep for the opportunity to talk to him. Speaking with Erden gave her perspectives on life she had never had. Her outside existence had ended as a child and she had known little else other than the sanctuary that was the villa. But he had lived a whole life outside and yearned to get back to it. His dreams became her dreams and soon she found that her day was not quite complete without him.

  What she had feared for years now had finally happened. She had fallen in love. Hopelessly so.

  She finally dared look at Erden again, her eyes meeting his. The apprehension and worry she carried in her soul reflected in his expression. He understood why she was there.

  “So you fear this is goodbye?” he asked, walking closer to her.

  Without pausing to think about it, she snaked her hands around him and drew herself against his chest. She could hear him gasping under his breath, but he put his hands around her shoulders and let his body mold around her small, curvy frame.

  “I hope this is hello,” she admitted.

  Copyright © 2015 Anya Nowlan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Gladiator Bear’s Battle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means by anyone but the purchaser for their own personal use. This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of Anya Nowlan. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover © Jack of Covers

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  www.anyanowlan.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A LITTLE TASTE…

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  BIG BEAR PROBLEMS EXCERPT

  WANT MORE?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Erden

  The sun beat down on his tanned, exposed skin like the merciless bitch that it was.

  Erden’s lips were turned back in a snarl and his hands ached from gripping his mallet as hard as he did. Blood trickled into his left eye but he couldn’t spare a moment to wipe it away. Not even a fraction of a second could be lost, or the tales of his might may end up as nothing more than the laments of a gladiator lost in battle.

  A flash of movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he swung around gingerly, the cuts and gashes that had accumulated on his limbs and body making spritely actions difficult, if not impossible. The bestiarius that attempted to sneak up on him while his partners distracted him had made a valiant effort, but it was not enough.

  Like a giant blessed with far too much speed, Erden twirled around the mallet that must have weighed as much as each of the men and brought it down right where the man had been standing. He missed his target—the man’s head—by only a fraction of an inch, but the howl of pain as he rolled away noted that his aim had mostly been true. The crackle of thigh bone shattering into a thousand pieces under the weight of the weapon told him as much.

  Cheers erupted in the arena around him, as men, women, and children alike screamed his name in a cacophony that had long ago stopped meaning much to the weathered gladiator. He didn’t get lost in the adoration of the crowd anymore. No longer did the squealing voices or the plentiful bosoms that the simple women sometimes bared for him distract him. He had learned too much to let the simple things grab his attention. No, a bear only lived as long as he was always ready, and Erden was intent on living.

  For the briefest of moments, his eyes looked up toward the senator, sitting on his gilded throne. He wore a slight smile on his aging yet strict features, but his hand stayed firmly on the armrest of the seat. No reprieve for him yet. Erden growled, his gaze slipping over the hunched body of his lanista, the man who owned him. Every hair, nail, and tooth on his body was accounted for by Julius Augustinus. The man stared back with blazing gray eyes that seemed as lifeless as they were filled with fury at the same time.

  A sharp pain rattled through Erden and a downward glance quickly proved the cause of it. A lance had been stuck into his thigh, almost piercing straight through. His cold, rage-filled brown eyes shifted to the man standing more than thirty feet from him, whose aim had been so true as to wound him from a distance. In the process, though, he had left himself unarmed.

  Not today, Erden thought, letting go of the mallet with one hand.

  He gripped the lance and with a grimace of pain—followed by shocked gasps and then raucous screams from the crowd—yanked the blade out of his leg. He didn’t stop the howl of pain that accompanied it. Let them hear it. It would be one of the last things their ears would be blessed with.

  “Is that all you have to offer, little bugs?!” he roared, a taunting grin on his face.

  The two bestiarii, both great gladiators sent to their untimely deaths against Erden, quieted and looked at each other. Erden didn’t need to look behind him to know that the third man was staring at him much the same, and the fourth that he had struck down many minutes ago would have as well, if he still had eyes to see out of.

  “It will take more than that to cut down the Bear of the North,” he seethed, baring his teeth as blood seeped out of the deep wound on his thigh.

  It didn’t matter. He would have time to heal. He would have time to lament his foolishness for getting cut as many times as he had by these upstarts. He would also have plenty of time to hear the lanista mock him for growing old and weathered, ever closer to the day when he would not be the strongest in the arena, and when someone would come and strike him down where he stood, as he had done to so many before him.

  But that all meant that it would be on another day. Another day to live.

  A slow chanting began around the outer edges of the arena, moving closer and growing in strength. Erden’s muscles whined with exertion and he shuddered as the adrenaline pounded through him, chilling him even though the sand was boiling hot beneath his bare feet. He wore nothing but leather pants that now did little more than hold his gashed skin still on his muscles. Yet the mallet felt lighter in his arms, and a deathly grin spread over his dry lips as he recognized the chants.

  “Blood! Blood! Blood!” echoed from the arena, moving from the poorer seats to the richer, until not a single body in the arena could stand quietly.

  Erden resisted the urge
to seek out the one whose words truly meant the world to him. He knew that just one glance would be enough for him to lose his head and his mind, to get trapped in her beauty.

  Not now. But soon. You will survive this day. For her.

  The two bestiarii who could still fight charged as if knowing what would happen a second later. But it was too late. Just when they began running toward him, one holding a shortsword and the other just his fists—a true mark of the desperation the man must have felt—the hand of the senator rose up for all to see.

  Grinning like Hades standing up from the underworld, Erden dropped the heavy mallet with a thud that could be heard across the arena. As soon as he let go, the chants shushed and not a soul dared breathe. Erden closed his eyes, the smirk still playing on his lips, and let the bear take control.

  With practiced ease, his massive body contorted and expanded right toward his two attackers. He took a running step forward and by the time his foot touched the sand again, it had transformed into the padded paw of a giant brown bear. Another step later, the transformation was complete. His strong body had grown and warped, becoming stronger and wider still. His tanned skin was lost under a thick mane of rugged fur, and the sharp angles of his face, usually softened by his beard, were now the menacing, powerful lines of a bear’s maw.

  The bestiarii knew they were too late. There was nothing left to do. They would have perhaps stood a chance against any other bear. Wear him out, trick him, and make him run back and forth between them—there were options. But not with Erden. Not with the Bear from the North. Not the Slayer of Men. They were dead as soon as the senator’s hand went up, signaling the release.

  Erden met them in a few steps. He could feel the almost trifling hit the man with the sword landed on his neck, the cut barely going deep as the gladiator’s pale green eyes dimmed and dulled. Erden’s mouth filled with the taste of blood as the man’s ribs cleaved apart like twigs under the hooves of a dozen horses. He let out a strangled scream as Erden threw him over his shoulder and into the third man, who had been lying on the ground rapidly bleeding out.

  The crowd cheered once more, their bloodthirsty wails a sign of their appreciation for his strength. Erden smacked his maw a few times, blood trickling down from it and making small pools in the sand. His wise eyes considered the last gladiator, who scrambled for a weapon. It would do him no good. He tried to lift Erden’s mallet, but failed almost comically.

  For a moment, Erden felt for him. He had done nothing to deserve this fate, Erden imagined. His bear was ruthless, even more so than the man, but each gladiator knew that the man he was facing off against during any battle had a story of their own to tell, and often it would not differ much from man to man. Most of them were slaves, taken from their homelands and brought to fight for the amusement of royals and plebs alike, and they had no choice but to strive to live each and every day. Until someone stronger came along. And Erden? Well, in the arena, he was always stronger, despite not being the youngest of warriors anymore.

  With a grumbling growl, the great bear shook off his compassion. He could hear the man pleading for his life, choosing the coward’s way to die. That Erden could not feel sorry for.

  With a glance up toward the senator and his lanista, making sure they were not telling him to spare the life of this maggot, Erden charged. The man turned and ran, but the bear was faster. His massive paws pulled him down on the sand, crushing him beneath him. The last thing the gladiator knew was the sight of horrific jaws closing around his head and chomping down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kiya

  Kiya couldn’t stop shuddering as she walked down the stone steps behind Aelia Fausta, fanning her with the bone and ostrich feather fan she loved so much. Aelia Fausta was dressed in the finest maroon silks and gold jewelry and her feet were adorned with carefully crafted leather sandals. She was a true beauty, the apple of her father’s eye.

  Kiya counted herself blessed for being allowed to serve Aelia Fausta, and for being allowed to visit the tournaments day after day. Though it still confused her how the Romans could be so enthusiastic about seeing bloodshed of that scale, she had learned to appreciate the strength and determination of the gladiators in the arena.

  And it may have had a little to do with a particular bear who was so close to her heart.

  “Your bear did well today, Kiya,” Aelia Fausta said in that nasally voice of hers, sounding like she had a perpetual cold.

  “Thank you, mistress. But he is not my bear. He’s simply a gladiator from the ludus,” Kiya said, tripping over her words a little.

  She could have pretended that it was because of the language, but she knew that was not true. Though she had not been in the service of the Romans for very long, she had mastered the language as well as any slave could be expected to. Her stuttering had all to do with the man she claimed to barely know at all and she obviously was not tricking Aelia Fausta with it. Some other servants around her, Lucia in particular, giggled discreetly, and Kiya felt a heated blush rise to her cheeks.

  Her dark skin and almond eyes, almost golden in color, made her stand out from the other servants around Aelia Fausta. She had been taken from her homeland, the stretching desert plains of Egypt, when she was already a teenager and sold into slavery. When once she had worn clothes as plentiful as Aelia Fausta’s, she was now dressed in a plain green robe tied with a leather strap, her hair put up with a bone comb that wore the family logo of Julius Augustinus.

  But she did not complain. She was the only member of her family left and she thanked the Gods for sparing her life, as meager as it may have now been. Her parents and sisters had been slaughtered, the unfortunate side effect of being on the wrong side of a conflict. Kiya had been spared in part because of her youth, and in part because of her beauty. She would make a fine whore for the wanton appetites of the Romans one day—that was what the slaver had told her as he dragged her out by her hair, stripped her of her possessions, and threw her into a wooden cage like an animal.

  Since that day, Kiya had not stopped counting her blessings. A humble life was still a life and so far, she had been lucky enough to even keep her virtue intact.

  “So you say, but I see the look in your eyes when he was cut. I hear the shriek on your lips when he is facing death. Every tournament, you seem to live and die with him. That is all right, Kiya. We can all have our little fantasies,” Aelia Fausta said, winking commiseratively to Kiya as a young senator passed by.

  “Aelia Fausta, what a pleasure,” the man said, stopping and bringing Aelia Fausta’s procession to a standstill right along with him.

  “Senator Aurelius Clavius! What a pleasure seeing you here!” Aelia Fausta said, snatching the fan from Kiya’s hands and hiding her lips behind it as the senator bowed lightly.

  The servants all took a respective step back, blocking the paths of many other patrons behind them. But there was no grumbling, no jostling or complaining in the hot day. A senator could stop for as long as he pleased and they were simply made to wait, as custom demanded.

  “Did you enjoy the festivities?” the man asked, his clever olive eyes darting from Aelia Fausta to Kiya and then back again.

  “I did. My father knows to pick only the finest fighters. I am always kept happy when his men win,” Aelia Fausta cooed. “Though, of course, the company during the battles could always be better.”

  Kiya had to elbow Lucia to keep from snickering at the obvious flirting. The last thing they needed was to get reprimanded and spend the next few days scrubbing the floors in the wine cellars. She breathed a little sigh of relief as the senator failed to mention the rudeness of Aelia Fausta’s servants. But his gaze still seemed to linger too often on Kiya, and for the faintest moment she thought she recognized that emotion in men’s eyes that her curvy physique had often brought forth: lust.

  She shifted uncomfortably and disappeared behind the backs of the other servants, attempting feebly to distract herself and the senator from paying her any more at
tention. The chills slowly subsided from seeing Erden win, though there was still a steady flutter in her heart that made her step bounce and her lips easily curl into a smile.

  He had lived! Lived! Yes, they had barely exchanged words in the ludus, the servants and the fighters kept strictly separate, but for years she had watched him fight and win. When she was but a shy girl who could not speak a word of the twisted tongue of the Romans, she had understood Erden. The way he fought was poetry in motion. Powerful, single-minded, clever. She could read his body language better than any book, and it did not take long for the young woman to realize that her eyes kept seeking him out and her heart kept rooting for him even when she should have perhaps shouted for others.

  Like fighters who did not carry the curse of the beast. Fighters who were not forever tied to the animal and its desires. Fighters who could actually love another being, instead of attempting to rip them to shreds at every opportunity.

  At least, that was what the rational voice in her said. She had learned long ago, as a child in Egypt, that the fighters who possessed the spirit of the beast were the most dangerous, and the most hallowed of them all. In Egypt, they led armies and decided the fate of wars. They were looked at as demi-gods, both blessed and cursed as the animal within them took them far from humanity. They were revered.

  Yet in Rome, it seemed not to be the case. Shifting beasts were shunned and used for the amusement of the masses. Yes, they were fearsome warriors, but while the beast was an asset for the Egyptians, it seemed to be a nuisance for the Romans. Kiya had never heard of a shifter gladiator receiving a rudis, the wooden sword that marked the status of a free man for a gladiator who had won enough battles in his life. It was as if the Romans feared that despite earning their freedom, the beast men could not be given that blessing.