Warrior (2 page)

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.

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.

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.”

“Dammit, you can't run a tab with Billy Dean. He'd kill you over a two-hundred-dollar debt as soon as spit.” If only to send a warning to all his other crack-addict customers.

“Yeah, I know, it was stupid, but—I needed it bad.”

“You always ‘need it bad.' Why in the hell did he give you that much rock to begin with?”

Bruised eyes flickered. “He didn't exactly give it to me. I was over at his place last night. You know. Partying. He got real drunk. . . .”

“And you smoked all his crack when he passed out.” Jessica swore in a long, ripe roll. “You're lucky he didn't kill you when he came to.”

Ruby gave her a sickly smile. “I wasn't exactly there when he came to.”

“Shit.” Her stomach slid into an anxious tumble. Ruby was right. If her sister didn't have the money by the time Billy Dean tracked her down, he really would beat her to death.

Jessica stalked across the living room to her purse and dug for her billfold with paint-stained fingers. She pulled out the roll of tips she'd carefully hoarded over the past week from her job at the restaurant. She'd have to find some other way to make up the difference in her half of the rent.

Maybe that gallery dealer would buy a painting. . . .

Galar stood wrapped
in darkness and tension as he watched the house. He relaxed only slightly as Ruby pushed open the front door, clattered down the brick steps, and jumped back into her battered car. Tires slung gravel as she sped away.

She'd later tell the cops she'd gone off to visit her drug dealer.

Nine p.m. He grunted. According to the police report he'd seen, the attack would come sometime around 2300, or eleven o'clock. That estimate could be off by a couple of hours either way, which was why Galar and his team had arrived so early to stake out the scene. If they meant to save Jessica Kelly's life, they had to be ready for anything, anytime.

The blood the police would find splashed all over the living room tomorrow would be identified as Jessica's, and the coroner would report that the woman couldn't have survived. She would never be seen again. Everyone from law enforcement to art historians would believe she'd ended up in an unmarked grave.

Galar's team was the only hope she had of survival— assuming the would-be murderer was indeed a time traveler. If sensors indicated the killer was a native of 2008, there would be nothing they could do. They'd be forbidden to interfere.

Actually, had police already found Jessica's body, Galar and his partners would have been forbidden even to make the attempt to save her. And if they had tried, they'd have failed. You couldn't change history.

Still, he thought there was a chance. When he'd run across the police report while scanning the Outpost's historical records, his gut had told him this was a temporal crime. A twenty-third-century collector would pay a great deal of money for historically unknown Jessica Kelly originals. Which was one hell of a motive for a time-Jumping art thief with a taste for murder. Goddess knew there were plenty of them out there—ruthless men and women, skilled in the use of the primitive weapons that were all you could take on a Jump. The tachyon blazers of the twenty-third century had an ugly habit of exploding if you attempted a temporal leap with one. That left blades, projectile weapons, or fists.

It was Galar's duty to catch such criminals. Whether or not their crimes were part of history, you couldn't just let time travelers Jump around preying on helpless natives. If there was any possibility a victim could be saved, agents of Temporal Enforcement were honor-bound to make the attempt.

If Galar's team succeeded, Jessica would be given a new life in the future.

If.

Jessica stood in
front of the canvas, the brush limp in her hand. All the boiling creative energy she'd enjoyed earlier had been drained away by her sister's visit. Now there was nothing left but helpless worry and angry frustration.

“Think you were suckered?”

She looked around to find her housemate leaning a shoulder against the frame of her bedroom door, watching her with sympathy in those big green eyes. Charlotte Holt was a petite woman, her build lush rather than leanly muscled. Her hair was a tumble of red curls that irritated her with its tendency to frizz in the Georgia humidity. She wore a skirt and a silky black top, as if ready for a night on the town.

Jessica turned back to her canvas. “I'll still pay my chunk of the rent, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Don't be insulting.” Charlotte moved closer and slipped an arm around her waist in a half hug. “Of course you had to give her the money. You couldn't let your sister get killed. Even if she is an idiot.”

Jessica snorted and hugged her back. “What I really need to do is drop a dime on Billy Dean. Unfortunately, whenever the police bust him, he never seems to have any drugs. Ruby says he's got dirty cops in his pocket.”

“Maybe.” Charlotte tilted her head, considering the painting. “That girl truly is a moron. This is good. Amazing, in fact.”

“You really think so?”

Charlotte met her gaze, her own steady. “This is the kind of painting you'll find answers in, when you're ready to look for them.”

Jessica blinked. “Wow. And here I thought it was a picture of a naked lady.”

Her friend snorted. “Twit. You know, you've got the least ego of any genius I've ever met.”

“Genius, my ass.” Uncomfortable, she stepped away from her friend and started capping the tubes of paint. “Anyway, if I'd ever even thought about developing an ego, my mother beat it out of me years ago. She and Ruby never understood my stuff.” Jessica reached for the jar of turpentine and started cleaning her brushes. “Mom's idea of art was Elvis on black velvet. You know, I gave her one of those when I was ten. I think it was the only thing I ever painted that she actually liked.”

“Just because your mother didn't get it, that doesn't mean nobody else will.” Charlotte moved to the couch to open the portfolio Jessica had put there in preparation for the upcoming interview. Her clever fingers flipped through the canvasses, pausing now and again. Skillful swirls of paint depicted a dirty child with hollow eyes, looking up warily from a mud puddle. Next a prostitute, standing hipshot and defiant in a sweatshirt and ripped jeans, face hard and hungry. A homeless drunk, his face weathered from decades of cheap booze. And in between, the nude studies Jessica did to lighten her mood, long-limbed and clean, surging with energy. “Anything this gorgeous is going to get attention. ”

“I don't know about that.” Jessica stirred her brush in the turpentine, watching red paint swirl from the bristles like blood. She pulled the brush out of the jar and wiped it on a clean rag, then set it aside on the taboret. “Nobody has yet.”

“That's because real art isn't always comfortable or pretty,” her friend told her quietly. “It's not the kind of thing you pick out because it matches your couch.”

Jessica sighed and screwed the cap back on the jar of turpentine. “Trouble is, it's not the kind of thing that pays the rent either.”

Any sign of
the killer?
Riane asked Frieka on their private frequency. She scanned the woods, then turned her sensors on the house for the twentieth time in the past three hours.

Nope.
The wolf's paws whispered through the leaves. Then again, the soft rustle might have been the wind. Thanks to the genetic engineering that had extended his life, Frieka had almost thirty years of combat experience, much of it with her father. He could be silent as a ghost when he wanted to be.