Arena Shifters (A Paranormal Romance Novel)
Read Arena Shifters (A Paranormal Romance Novel) Online
Authors: Casey Evans
ARENA SHIFTERS:
A Paranormal Romance Novel
By
Casey Evans
Kindle Edition
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PUBLISHED BY:
Casey Evans on Amazon
Arena Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Novel
Copyright © 2013 by Casey Evans
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used
fictitiously.
This book is not intended for readers under 17 years
of age.
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ARENA SHIFTERS:
A Paranormal Romance Novel
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter Two
:
The Punishment and the Forbidden
Pleasures
Chapter
Three : A Day in the Life of a Gladiator
Chapter Five
: The Fox and The Hound
Chapter Six
: The Birthday and the Blood Orgy
Chapter
Seven : The Ecstasy and the Agony
Chapter
Eight : Unwelcome Information
Chapter Ten
: Petronia's Last Stand
Chapter
Twelve : Dangerously Bored
Chapter
Seventeen : Consequences
Chapter
Nineteen : Cat and Mouse
Chapter
Twenty : The Final Arena
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The Arena
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The midday sun beat down
unmercifully on the sands of the arena, drying the splatters of blood, as ropes
of the coppery red liquid flew from spinning blades. Every now and then an
over- zealous citizen who dared be close enough to the arena floor, would get a
taste of the warm salty blood as it splattered off the weapons and bodies of
the combatants. On occasion, when a frenzied spectator was too slow to withdraw
their outstretched arms a finger or even a hand would be severed by the razor
sharp weapons the gladiators were wielding. Few people realized just how
dangerous the arena could be to someone who wasn’t even part of the contest
that day.
The two brutish gods of the
arena who were part of the day’s festivities were acutely unaware of any
audience participation. Calls for blood and death fell on deaf ears as they
tuned out any distractions. Following a brutal clash, the two combatants
staggered back, shrugging off wounds that would have felled a normal man.
The crowd screamed in fury,
their thirst for blood and violence unabated.
Cletus, the slave from the
House of Lanista Gaius Gracchus Tiberius lifted his helmeted head and roared in
fury. Then, taking his own blade made a bloody slash across his own, yet
unmarked chest, defying his enemy to strike a blow that he would actually feel.
Blood from a dozen fallen warriors mixed with sand and made the ground beneath
his feet slippery.
Cletus was a large man, even
for a gladiator, but he had no shortage of opponents who wanted to cut him down
to size. Eighteen hour days baking under the hot sun in his Master’s Ludis had
made him more than a man. Endless days under the tutelage of the Doctore and
his ready whip have made him a beast.
In one last sign of
disrespect for his opponent Marcus, another gladiator he threw down his Iron
helmet and mask, exposing his grizzled visage; a move designed to mortify his
opponent. Even as his helmet hit the baking sand he lunged forward with his
gladius, aiming for the other man’s still helmeted head and eyes. It was a
devious move, meant to be obvious, and a distraction from the real intent of
his attack.
With a well-timed sweep of
his shield, Marcus easily knocked aside the other man’s weapon and watched as
the sword flew out of his hand and into the lusting crowd. A dozen people
lunged in every direction trying to avoid the path of the bloodied blade and it
spun through the air. A young bare breasted woman was unable to move; the edge
of her dress, by some freak twist of fate was snared by a nail, fastening her
in her place. The wicked gladiator’s blade passed through her throat like a hot
knife through butter before piercing the shoulder of the man behind her. For
about twenty seconds all eyes nearby were on the bloody woman and her ill luck,
before a shout from the middle of the arena commanded their attention once
again.
Gladiator Marcus was
staggering back away from his opponent, clutching his stomach, attempting to unsuccessfully
contain his intestines that were spilling out. Cletus roared with delight, clutching
a wicked looking dagger that his distracted opponent had not noticed. Cletus
turned towards those closest to the arena floor, locking eyes on a beautiful,
well-bred Roman woman dressed in a blue gown. Seeing that he had her full
attention, he brought the bloody dagger to his mouth, stuck out his unusually
long tongue and licked one side of the blade clean of blood and filth. His
daring elicited both screams of revulsion and drunken happiness from those
close enough to see what was happening.
The Roman woman unclasped her
dress at the shoulder and let it fall to her waist, exposing a pair of highborn
breasts that a slave like Cletus would only ever touch in his dreams. His eyes
lingered for a moment on her erect nipples before groans from his eviscerated
opponent drew his attention back to the middle of the arena.
Marcus staggered forward,
sword in hand, nearly tripping on his own intestines, determined to impale the
man who’d assured him an early death. Cletus watched with morbid fascination as
the other man closed the distance. His plan, let the poor man have the dignity
of one final strike with his blade before taking the man’s head off at the
shoulders. But…why bother. He flipped his dagger up into the air, catching it
by the tip of its razor sharp blade. With a flick of his wrist he launched the missile
into the right into the eye hole of the man’s helmet. It was a daring move,
given that he had no more weapons, and his sword was laying in the sand a good
ten meters away. He was rewarded with a quick geyser of blood before the man
crashed at his feet, face down on the hot, coppery red sand; another victory
for the slave Cletus of the house of Lanista Gaius Gracchus Tiberius.
The crowd went wild as the
last of the women still clothed rewarded him by barring their breasts. Cletus
walked around the edge of the arena almost within reach of the retaining wall
and just out of reach from the outstretched hands of his fans. He did a full
two revolutions around the arena before returning to the center; it was a good
day to be a gladiator, even if you were a slave.
Suddenly the crowd went
quiet. Supremely annoyed, Cletus opened his eyes looking for the reason for the
silence. His eyes came to rest on the pulvinar and the Imperial Box where the
Praetor was now standing, his arms extended.
“My good citizens of Savona,
sister city to the glory of Rome, I thank you for joining me for the twelfth
birthday of my nephew Titus Lulius. It has been a fine day of sport, blood, and
honor!”
The Praetor paused to allow
the people their appropriate response. The ensuing applause and screams and tributes
of loyalty were testament to the overwhelming fear the citizens of Savona had
for their Roman Praetor.
He raised his hands again
stilling the crowd. “We have a most special treat for you today!”
More raucous cheering.
“I bring you a woman of
Floretia, the first ever Gladiatrix of the House of Lanista Gaius Gracchus
Tiberius!”
The Lanista stands for a
moment, acknowledging the crowd before sitting back down next to the Praetor.
“The Floretian woman has been
granted the opportunity to avenge the death of her father by engaging in mortal
combat with the slave Cletus.”
The announcement was clearly both
a surprise and an insult to the gladiator still standing in the middle of the
ring holding his helmet in one hand and sword in the other; both of which he
flings to the sand in disgust. No man wanted to stand against woman in combat,
however accomplished the woman might be, and it was doubtful that the Floretian
woman possessed any degree of combat skills enough to give him a challenge. If
the woman did have any skill in combat and actually was able to make a good
showing of herself it would be a further insult to the man who had to stand
against her.
The crowd echoed the
gladiator’s displeasure.
Suddenly the east gate opened
and out strode not a woman, but a child, or nearly so at 18 years of age. She
wore only a worn leather skirt that did wonders for her long, shapely, tanned
legs. She strode across the arena in a pair of dusty, knee high boots leaving
heal marks in the hardened sand. She stopped half way out into the arena and
raised her arms, sword in hand, and slowly twirled around giving the crowd
their fill of her youthful breasts. The crowd took notice. Half of them mad
from desire to rut her in the dungeon beneath the coliseum, and the other half
wanting to see her skewered on Cletus’s sword. All of them watched rivers of
sweat trace little dusty paths down her throat to her breasts where they pooled
at an erect, darkened nipple before dropping to the sand.
The Floretian girl smiled,
knowing full well the effect her still developing breasts had on men, and women
too. She would enjoy the moment; it might be her last. After a long minute she dropped
her arms and continued to the center of the arena where Cletus was standing,
sword in hand, and helmet firmly on his head. The best he could hope for was
that the crowd would forget who killed the woman/child today and he could
retain at least some of his honor before returning to the Ludis for more
training.
The two combatants met in the
center, weapons at the ready, waiting for the signal from the Praetor. For
Cletus, the longer the battle lasted, the more shame he would bring to his name.
After today, no legitimate gladiator would be willing to step into the arena
with him. This was going to be his death, even if he didn’t fall to her puny
sword today. So With those black thoughts in his mind, he struck with a fury
that silenced the unruly crowd in an instant.
He closed the distance
between himself and the girl in two great strides, his sword carving diagonal
swaths through the air from right to left, fully expecting no resistance from
the girl.
The Floretian takes a stutter
step, designed to throw the gladiator’s timing off just a fraction and let her
slip in a blade between his whirling gate of steal he had thrown up between
them. Because she was a women, a child really, he made no effort at finesse or
strategy, relying on brute strength to mow her down like a baby. She allowed
his blade to pass so close to her face it severed a lock of black hair that
hung loosely along a high cheekbone.
For one instant Cletus, upon seeing
the lock of hair fly, thought it something more like her finger. It was all the
distraction she needed to step inside the reach of his blade so that the next
sweeping strike that hit her was his forearm and not the sword. He didn’t feel
the first bite of her blade as it penetrated his left side, nor did he see the
dagger that had materialized in her left hand. Belatedly he realized it was his
own pugio that she had whisked from his belt. Dropping his useless sword he
made to just grab her to throw her to the ground and she didn’t resist as he
wrapped his great arms around her waist. For one tingling moment he was aware
of her steely nipples pressing against his chest before he felt the white hot
bite of his own dagger thrusting up between his legs. He felt a sudden rush of
fluid bathing his legs and pooling at his feet. He looked down stunned, fully
expecting to see urine and not his life’s blood.