Possessed by a Warrior. Sharon Ashwood

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      Chapter 1

      Sam Ralston shed his robe, tossing it to the floor. He’d done so a thousand times, in many contexts. Most involved women.

      This time, however, he was staring at a wall of knives. They were eight inches in length, set about four inches apart, each point aimed straight out like the quills of an angry porcupine. In the half light, the blades gleamed softly, stainless steel polished to the understated efficiency of a showcase kitchen. The wall of blades blocked the room from end to end, leaving only a narrow gap near the ceiling.

      Getting over the wall was his first challenge. Sam gave a derisive sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. It echoed oddly in the otherwise bare room, adding nothing to the gray-on-gray atmosphere.

      Trust La Compagnie des Morts to come up with an obstacle course designed to shred the runner right at the start. Everything that came after would be painful in the extreme, even for vampires.

      But Sam was one of the Four Horsemen, La Compagnie’s crack unit named after the riders of the Apocalypse: Death, Plague, Famine and War. Units like theirs were called in after the CIA, the FBI, MI5 and all the rest of the international alphabet soup had failed to get results. Then they swept in and saved whatever needed saving.

      As jobs went, the hours were bad but it was never boring.

      Sam was War, and he was better than any trial the Company of the Dead could dream up. He’d proven it, mission after mission. Nevertheless, the Company put all their operatives to the test every so often, which was why he was standing in their Los Angeles facility, wearing nothing but running shorts, sneakers and fangs.

      He flexed his knees and leaped. The gap was too narrow to land on top of the wall—that would have been far too easy. Instead, Sam caught the edge with his right hand, forcing himself to pause in a kind of one-armed pushup before he swung his feet onto the ledge. He felt the muscles in his shoulder and stomach bunch to hold his weight. The maneuver was almost perfect, but one blade kissed his left calf, leaving a trail of blood to snake down his leg and into his shoe. He cursed, mentally docking himself a point.

      Without pausing at the top, he flung himself onto the mat on the other side. Wooden arrows hummed through the air, whispering against the back of his neck, skimming his chest right above the heart. He rolled, grabbing a SIG Sauer from the rack on the wall and taking out the two mechanical bowmen within seconds. He dropped the gun, knowing there were only two bullets inside. Miss once, and he’d be staked.

      Dispassionately, Sam scanned the room for the next course on the menu. The room was lined in more stainless steel, and he could track his movements in a blurry reflection. Dark hair, gray eyes, a body coiled more like a beast than a man. No more emotion than a machine.

      He heard a door open, and an enormous wolf bounded forward. A werewolf, actually. Famine, one of the other Horsemen—but the fact they worked together didn’t mean Kenyon would give him an inch. For the first time, Sam felt his stomach tighten. Everything so far had been a test of strength or coordination. Kenyon, on the other hand, had a very crafty mind.

      The wolf stopped a few paces away, crouching with a warning growl. Pale gold eyes raked over Sam, sending an electric prickle across his shoulders. He growled right back, feeling the low rumble in his chest. His fangs were down, adrenaline bringing out his own beast. His calf stung from the knife wound, and he could smell the blood, the coppery scent almost, but not quite, like a human’s. From the gray wolf’s twitching nose, he’d noticed it, too.

      Kenyon sprang. Sam leaped to grab the wolf in midair, twisting so that they both fell hard to the floor. Kenyon writhed, jaws snapping, hind legs slashing. Sam straddled the beast, the coarse hair rough against his skin. At the same time, he had the wolf’s head between his hands, trying to immobilize him. They were matched for strength. Sam’s only hope was to keep him off balance.

      It might have worked, except Kenyon chose that moment to shift. The burst of energy sent Sam sailing backward. His back had barely hit the floor when Kenyon was on top of him, huge hands around Sam’s throat, shutting off all air.

      “Sucker,” Kenyon gloated. A manic grin lit his Nordic features.

      Sam replied with a hard right jab.

      “Ungh!” Kenyon fell sideways, releasing Sam’s neck.

      Sam got to his feet and glared down at the werewolf, putting one foot across his throat. “Vampires don’t have to breathe, remember?”

      Kenyon rubbed his face and swore.

      “Time.” The voice came from somewhere in the ceiling. “Two minutes, fifteen seconds.”

      Sam grunted. Not bad. Not his best speed, but close. He held out a hand to Kenyon, who took it and pulled himself up.

      “You’re not even sweating,” the wolf complained.

      “Cardio only applies if you have a pulse.”

      Kenyon gave him a scathing look. He’d heal quickly from Sam’s punch, but he’d have a black eye first. “I should have had you.”

      “Dream on, dog breath.”

      The door opened again, and this time one of the human technicians came running in holding Sam’s cell phone. Sam exchanged a look with the wolf, seeing his own question in Kenyon’s eyes.

      The tech waved Sam’s iPhone, a harried look on his face. “For you. It’s Death.”

      * * *

      “Sam, I need you and the others at Oakwood pronto. Code...whatever. Code the whole damned spectrum. Just get your butts over here.”

      Jack Anderson, also known as Death, threw the phone onto the seat beside him, needing both hands on the wheel. He should have been using the hands-free option, but driving with undue care and attention wasn’t Jack’s issue.

      It was the jackass trying to make a hood ornament out of his Porsche that was the problem. Not that anything could outrun his silver Porsche 911 GT2 RS—or at least not here, on the back roads of Wingman County, where soccer-mom SUVs and handyman trucks ruled the two-lane highways. Except the car behind him was a black Mercedes SLS complete with a sniper in the passenger seat.

      Jack navigated a sharp turn, hugging the cliff and ignoring the sheer drop to his right. A bullet punched through the back windshield and tore through the leather seat. Bloody barbarians!

      He could have sworn the bullet had glinted like silver. They know I’m a vampire. Jack stepped on the accelerator, taking advantage of a straight stretch of road to leap ahead. Then the downshift, left turn, and he was on the wooded road leading home.

      The next bullet made a spiderweb of the windshield. Who are these guys? They were bad shots, or maybe just not up to Jack’s standards. Sam would have taken out a tire and sent the car over the cliff. That was how you ended a car chase: one bullet, no fuss.

      He’d picked up the yahoos on his tail about halfway home, just after he’d left the populated part of the coast. They’d started shooting as soon as he was on the treacherous cliff road and couldn’t get away. Jack drove as fast as he could, but the twists and turns held him back. The fact that it was two in the morning and pitch-black didn’t help, either. Vampire night vision only did so much.

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