Catherine Spangler - Shielder 02 - Shadower.pdf - Catherine Spangler - SilverWitch

Shadower

Catherine Spangler

Shielder Series Book 01

Dorchester Love Spell

December 2000

ISBN: 0505524244

Chapter One

He'd always figured he would end up in hell. He just hadn't planned on arriving there while he was still

drawing air into his lungs.

Well, he had been wrong—once or twice—before. Dreary and rank smelling, Giza's was a hellhole all

right. Hazy lighting combined with narcotic-laden smoke created a murky mist, shrouding those present in

anonymity. The dimness was probably for the better, Sabin Travers thought, scowling as he stepped in

some unidentifiable muck on the floor. Too bad the poor lighting couldn't mute the drunken bellows of the

miscreants of the universe who congregated here, or the stench assaulting his nose.

If he didn't need the solace of some good Elysian liquor, he'd have killed the time watching Radd repair

his ship. Just the thought of that cursed ship was enough to propel him toward the bar for a refill. Spirit,

what a day! Galen had eluded him again—a reward of a thousand miterons blown to blazing hells. Then

his ship had developed a problem with the stardrive, and he'd barely made it to Calt. Thank Spirit he'd

finally been able to commission a new ship, which would be ready within the next lunar cycle.

Sabin set his mug on the counter. "Hey, Thorne, give me a refill."

A small, gnome like man scurried along the inside of the bar. His bald head, overly large for his body,

bobbed up and down. "S-sure thing, M-Mr. Travers." Ducking an empty glass heaved at him by a

soused Antek and ignoring the raucous laughter from the rest of the drunks, Thorne poured more golden

Elysian elixir into Sabin's mug. He deftly snatched the miteron Sabin tossed him before scooting back to

his safe niche near an exit.

So this was the nucleus of his existence, Sabin thought sardonically. Endless hours spent among the

dregs of humanity. He had no real home, nor anyone to go home to, for that matter. Never would. It was

simpler that way, he reminded himself.

"Here's to the carefree life," he muttered.

Just as he lifted the drink to his lips, a flash of color at the end of the bar caught his eye. A woman leaned

in at the counter, clasping a drink between slender fingers. Her hair had drawn his attention; hair a rich

bronze color reflecting myriad highlights, even in the dim interior of Giza's. It was gathered into a sleek

twist on top of her head, revealing a graceful neck.

Her profile didn't appear too bad either, although he couldn't see the lines clearly at this distance. The

tawny cape she wore hid her figure, but she held herself with an air of confidence. She emanated an

elegance not seen among the worn-out females who routinely serviced the degenerates frequenting this

soulless planet.

She was as out of place in this den of iniquity as a baby kerani in a pit of Oderan sand vipers. And she

would last about as long. Sabin felt drawn to her, despite the fact that he usually avoided entanglements

with women, preferring the uninvolved physical release he could find at the Pleasure Domes. This

wouldn't be anything more than an offer to see the lady safely out of this abyss, he told himself, striding to

the end of the bar.

As he approached, sidestepping an unconscious Leor sprawled across the floor, she glanced up from her

drink, making momentary eye contact with him. He stared into unique eyes, as golden as the Elysian

liquor he'd been drinking. And as intoxicating. He felt as if he'd been poleaxed. Her face was equally

striking. The angular bone structure created a perfect frame for mesmerizing eyes, a patrician nose, and a

lush mouth suggestive of decadent possibilities. Heat surged through his body.

Her gaze shifted, coolly sweeping the length of him. Then, with an indifferent shrug, she returned her

attention to her drink.

Sabin seldom cared if women were interested in him or not, but he wasn't used to being ignored. Placing

his hand on the counter, he leaned toward the woman. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than his

own six feet. Her scent, sweet and musky, launched a secondary assault on his senses.

He forced his focus back to the reason he'd approached her in the first place. "Don't you know it's

dangerous for a lone female to be in Giza's, much less anywhere on Calt?"

She didn't even look up. "Go jump in the Fires."

Despite the sharpness of her words, her low voice struck an even deeper chord. Further intrigued, Sabin

took on the challenge. Shifting to lean back against the bar, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Tsk, tsk.

Not very original. Talk like that certainly won't deter these lowlifes. You really should let me join you.

You'll be safe with me."

Icy amber eyes met his. "I seriously doubt that. And I find my own company preferable to"—she paused

to peruse him once again, a look of revulsion crossing her face—"riff-raff." Clearly, she found him about

as inviting as a rabid desert krat.

Involuntarily, Sabin glanced down to his immaculate black flightsuit and boots that were shined to a high

gloss. He'd showered today, and shaved, although with his heavy beard growth, his jaw no doubt

sported its usual evening shadow. Still, most women found him attractive, and always had.

"I have it from very reliable sources that my company is extremely enjoyable."

Her generous mouth curved into a sneer. "I can't imagine why. Look, I don't want company, I don't want

conversation. I don't want anything from you, not even the time of day. Just stay the blazing hells away

from me! Is that clear enough?"

Obviously, she wasn't the friendly type. "Oh, yeah, lady, very clear. Be sure and tell that to some of the

other characters in here. I'm sure they'll be glad to respect your royal wishes."

"I can take care of myself, I assure you. I certainly don't need any help from the likes of you."

The likes of me? Familiar feelings of unworthiness reared, but Sabin shoved them back. "Fine." Needing

that Elysian liquor more than ever, he returned to the opposite end of the bar to finish his drink in peace.

After that, he'd go see about his ship. He'd find better company with the taciturn Radd than with this

serpent-tongued female. By the Abyss! This day couldn't end soon enough.

Moriah breathed a sigh of relief when the man strode away, an angry set to his shoulders. Males were

forever hitting on her, sickening her with their crude advances. And this man emanated danger, with those

inscrutable midnight eyes glowing in his chiseled face, and his long, black hair tied at the nape of his neck.

Dressed entirely in black, with two evil looking blasters and a phaser slung from his utility belt, he'd

seemed shaped of darkness.

She had taken on bigger men than him, certainly, but watching the lethal grace he displayed as he stalked

along the counter, the ripple of muscles beneath his flightsuit, she suspected his lean body was superbly

trained. He was surely the most dangerous one here. She could handle the rest of these drunken idiots.

She wouldn't be here much longer anyway—assuming her luck didn't get any worse.

Downing the rest of her drink, she cursed Turlock. He was an ugly, half-Antek scum, and she should

never have gone in on that disastrous Ataran deal with him. She had thought she was far ahead of him.

Obviously she'd been wrong, as he had helped himself to her ship while she met with Fletch. Not

surprising, given she owed him several thousand miterons. That ship would be difficult, if not impossible,

to replace. Ultra-fast starcraft equipped with nondetectable armaments and concealed storage

compartments were scarce and costly. Damn Turlock to the Fires!

Now she had to come up with five hundred miterons to purchase her passage off this viper pit. Moriah

shoved aside rising panic. She had faced far more perilous situations than being stranded, without a ship,

in a hellhole. All she needed was money. She scanned the dim bar, confirming the fact that she was the

only female present. In her business, most of her dealings were with males, and the majority of them

surrendered their money for two things: sexual gratification and gaming.

The first option was unthinkable. A shudder wracked Moriah, and she clamped a mental lid on the dark

images clamoring too close to the surface.

The second option terrified her almost as much as the first.

She hated games of chance. They were games with stakes higher than mere gold, or even entire ships;

souls exchanged hands.

Wiping her palms down her cape, Moriah turned toward the gaming tables. She was well versed in most

of the most popular ways to gamble—she'd had years of exposure. Yet, despite her competence, every

time she approached a gaming table, she battled an army of demons. She'd long ago accepted that most

of her life's memories were best forgotten, but that didn't make them go away, especially in situations like

the one she now faced.

She chose a table where a new game of Fool's Quest was starting. Players had already taken three of the

seats—a renegade Antek, a Shen, and a Jaccian; a highly unlikely combination anywhere in the quadrant

but Calt. But then, the long reach of the Controllers—that evil race that ruled so much of the universe—

didn't extend here. Their Antek henchmen couldn't patrol every sector of their huge domain.

Nor could the Controllers maintain mind domination on every planet, moon, or meteorite; which was why

rebel groups, such as Shielders, had managed to survive, despite Controller determination to decimate all

opposition. Calt, having no natural resources, no value whatsoever, held no interest for the Controllers.

Over the years, it had become a hotbed of the lowest life forms in the universe.

Moriah stopped behind the empty chair at the gaming table. She tossed her pouch of miterons on the

table. "I'm in."

The Antek grunted, his beady eyes glazed from too much drink. Good. He'd be easy to outmaneuver in

the game. Moriah angled her face away to avoid inhaling his foul odor.

"Lookee, lookee, a lady!" the Jaccian chanted in his sing-song voice. He assessed her with a cunning,

lascivious gaze, then waved a tentacle for her to sit. "Join us."

The Shen, his face shrouded by the deep hood attached to his tunic, reached out graceful, slender fingers

to swoop up her pouch of miterons. He balanced them on his palm as if measuring their weight. "One

hundred fifty miterons is the required wager, mistress," he said, his voice calm and melodic.

It was a standard wager, and one that would enable her to win the entire amount she needed in one

match. And Moriah fully expected to win, having chosen a game that required intelligence and strategy

rather than just pure chance. She would never again allow her life to be controlled by luck.

"There are one hundred and fifty miterons there," she answered.

The Shen returned the pouch to the table. "Have a seat, mistress."

Sliding into the chair, she drew a deep breath, mentally pushing her demons away. She pulled out the

keypad and activated it, then rapidly selected from various choices the three components—power

source, armaments, strategy—she wished to employ in the game. She made her choices carefully, basing

them upon her experience with the beings with whom she was gaming. She hoped these gamers were like

others of their kinds.

A hologram of the three-dimensional, five-tiered battle arena appeared at the center of the table,

followed by images of the players, randomly placed. During the thirty-second countdown before the

game began, Moriah studied the holographic arena, and her foes' strategies.

She had drawn fair positioning, with all three of her components on midlevels below her. The Antek and

Jaccian had chosen as she expected, and could be defeated. The Antek had gone for brute force, while

the Jaccian had selected for mental control. She'd expected the Shen to go for power, but he surprised

her, choosing a blend of game components that closely matched her own choices. He was the opponent

to beat.

The game progressed rapidly, demanding all of Moriah's concentration and skill. As expected, she and

the Shen hurriedly dispatched the Antek and Jaccian components, turning the game into a grueling

two-way battle of wits. As Giza's patrons realized this was a truly challenging match, they gathered

around the table, placing bets on the outcome and offering their own battle tactics. Moriah focused,

tuning out the shouts.

At last she defeated the Shen—just barely. She sank back in her chair, some of her tension easing.

Murmurs of disapproval swept through the crowd. They didn't see many women on Calt, and the vast

majority of those earned their wages on their backs, not at gaming tables. Most of the bets had been

against her.

The Shen nodded in acceptance. "Well played," was all he said, pushing back his chair. Taunts and jeers

followed him as he faded into the crowd.

Moriah wasted no time s collecting her opponents' money pouches and stuffing them into her cloak

pocket. The sooner out of this pit, the better. But as she turned to leave, an inexplicable feeling of being

watched drew her attention toward the bar. The black-clad man leaned nonchalantly against the counter.

His dark gaze locked with hers and an odd fission of awareness sizzled between them. He raised his

drink in a mocking salute.

This was an arrogant, obnoxious man who obviously expected every female to swoon before him.

Narrowing her eyes, Moriah whirled and strode toward the entrance. A loud bellow and a jerk on her

cloak brought her to a halt. She turned to face the Antek she'd just defeated.

His face and snout were blotched red from too much liquor, and drool oozed from his mouth. "No female

beat me," he growled. "You cheat."

She tried unsuccessfully to yank her cloak free. "Let me go."

He snarled, showing razor-sharp teeth. "You cheat, female. Give back money."

Moriah employed a quick chop of her hand to the Antek's arm. She followed up with a solid kick to his

solar plexus. Staggering back, the creature smashed into a table. He slid to the floor, too drunk to get up.

The patrons cheered, hoping for more. No one could expect help here, only blood lust.

Disgusted, she turned back toward the entry. She'd only gone a meter when a tentacle wrapped around

her waist and spun her around. She found herself face to chest with the seven-foot Jaccian. "Lady, lady!

Cheat, cheat!" he sing-songed.

Great, just great. Jaccians were even stupider than Anteks. And tougher.

Catherine Spangler - Shielder 02 - Shadower.pdf

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