Arena Shifters (A Paranormal Romance Novel)

By Casey Evans

Petronia’s days in the Arena are bathed in blood, and her nights are spent as a plaything in the House of Tiberius. She's known lust but never love...and she longs to find peace in the arms of someone who will understand her, respect her, and love her.

She soon discovers that not everything is as it appears in the House of Tiberius. When the eldest son and heir to the family business dies in an unfortunate accident, the remaining son Lucius becomes the sole heir.

As the House's slave begin to rise up, Petronia is forced to make a decision - side with her fellow slaves and friends, or stand against them and take a chance defending her new master...a young boy who may never even live to assume power.

Arena Shifters is a thrilling paranormal romance novel set in ancient Rome. This book contains scenes of steamy romance involving sexy heroines and shapeshifter males. Not appropriate for readers under the age of 17.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casey Evans
• Release date: May 23, 2013

Book preview

ARENA SHIFTERS:

A Paranormal Romance Novel

By

Casey Evans

Smashwords Edition

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PUBLISHED BY:

Casey Evans on Smashwords

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 One : The Arena

Chapter Two : The Punishment and the Forbidden Pleasures

Chapter Three : A Day in the Life of a Gladiator

Chapter Four : Blood Sport

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 Nine : My Bloody Ludis

Chapter Ten : Petronia's Last Stand

Chapter Eleven : Blood Sisters

Chapter Twelve : Dangerously Bored

Chapter Thirteen : Taken

Chapter Fourteen : Punishment

Chapter Fifteen : The Decision

Chapter Sixteen : The Primus

Chapter Seventeen : Consequences

Chapter Eighteen : Tracker

Chapter Nineteen : Cat and Mouse

Chapter Twenty : The Final Arena

Glossary of Terms

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CHAPTER ONE:

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.

As his arms slackened the Gladiatrix spun out of them, dancing back away from him; his own dagger once again buried in his flesh. He looked down at the hilt vibrating with each beat of his heart; what a perfect hit. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about his reputation any more.

From far far away the sound of his rushing blood pushed away thoughts of glory, honor, and a long life in the arena. His vision narrowed till all he could see was the woman child standing in front of him, covered in his own blood. Then the rush of blood faded and the roar of the audience was silenced. He felt the floor of the arena rushing up