Gena Showalter | Exclusive Excerpt: Shadow and Ice

As Knox sprinted across the frozen tundra, he summoned a thick cover of shadows.
In seconds, total blackness shrouded him, hiding him—and Vale—from the view of others.

“Can’t see,” she said, her teeth chattering. “So
dark.”

“You don’t need to see.” The urge to return to the prison and
pick off survivors bombarded him, but his desire to save the little Terran proved stronger.

One minute had ticked into another, more and more of her
strength drained, until she stopped fighting entirely. She even lost her grip on her bag.

Earlier she’d mentioned medicine. He doubled back,
grabbed the pack and hefted it over his shoulder, but she offered no thanks. The feisty mortal
had grown quiet, as well.

At this rate, she would freeze to death before he reached his
bunker.

Rifters? He glanced at his right hand. Good to go.

Rifters were made of a crystal-metal hybrid and resembled
open-ended thimbles. They fit over the first, second and third fingers, and stretched from the
nail bed to the middle knuckle. When you clinked them together, they vibrated. When they
vibrated, you could wave them through the air to cut a doorway to somewhere else on Terra.
You had only to imagine where you wanted to go. Somewhere you’d been before, or seen in
pictures.

On his left hand was a bejeweled ring that acted as a type of
projector; underneath it, injected in his knuckle, was a rice-size device, the key to
communicating with his home-realm.

Every combatant had a transmitter and a set of Rifters.

Though Knox wasn’t as far from combat as desired, he
pictured the bunker. Picking a spot with his gaze—about a hundred yards ahead—he clinked
the Rifters together, and waved the vibrating pieces through the air. In the spot he’d selected,
two layers of air seemed to peel away from each other, as if they’d ruptured, an entrance to
the underground paradise appearing.

To prevent anyone who might be nearby from gazing inside
the home, he also beckoned shadows to rise from the ice and shield the doorway. If
combatants couldn’t picture his safe house, they couldn’t open a rift of their own in order to
enter.

No matter how many centuries had passed since his last
visit, he had no doubts the bunker would be intact. It was a masterpiece of technology earned
from one of his previous All War victories, able to update automatically, self-clean, self-sustain
and produce what he needed, when he needed it.

The bunker was his “weapon choice.” He’d known he could
steal swords, daggers and guns from other warriors. Could—and had. Minutes after arriving on
Terra, he’d beheaded Legend of Honoria and claimed possession of the brass knuckle
daggers. Minutes after that, he’d removed the heart of Jagger of Leiddiad and

claimed a revolver. Holster the gun, and it would mystically
reload.

Vale groaned.

He ran faster, faster still. The rift would remain open for sixty
seconds. No more, no less. Almost there…

Knox entered the bunker…everything was intact, as
expected, even clean and well lit. Most of the weapons he’d won were stashed away, hidden
by shadows. To the right, a small table with different maps, just as he’d left it. To the left, a
waterfall cascaded into a large, stone-rimmed tub that resembled a natural cenote. Just
ahead, a soft bed positioned underneath a canopy of fruit trees.

If the other warriors ever discovered the plethora of riches here, he would become everyone’s favorite target. Well, more of a favorite target.

Knox tossed Vale and the bag onto the bed and spun, facing
the rift, ready to kill anyone who dared to follow him through. Five seconds. Ten. Vale
muttered incoherently about coffee beans, potatoes and eggs. He needed to tend to her, and
soon, but didn’t allow himself to face her. Fifteen seconds. Twenty.

The rift wove back together at last.

Knox sheathed his daggers and rushed to the bed to look
over his guest. Her lips were tinted blue, her cheeks chapped and too pink, the rest of her too
pale. Once vibrant gold and green irises had dulled and were now glazed with pain. Worse, her
movements had become uncoordinated.

When mortals were exposed to cold for too long, their
bodies sacrificed their extremities to care for their internal organs. Vale was at that stage, no
longer able to shiver.

“Tired,” she might have whispered.

“Stay awake—that’s an order.”

“Trying…”

“We need to warm you up slowly.” Too quickly, and her heart
would burst from strain created by uninhibited blood flow.

But how? The bunker had no fireplace.

“Warm…yessss,” she breathed.

The bath—it was controlled by a computer system, just like
everything else in the bunker. With simple vocal commands, he could heat the water to his
specifications.

Very well. “Vale, to warm you properly I will need to remove
your clothing. All right?”

“Yes, anything—just want to be warm.”

With strong, sure motions, he removed her jacket, thermals and tights, leaving her in a bra and panties. His jaw slackened. Her body. All feminine curves, ripe sensuality and wicked temptation.

Desire delivered a hard one-two punch to his gut—desire he
couldn’t control or override. He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Ignore her appeal. Persevere. Do not stare.

She was curvier than he’d expected, with plump breasts, a
trim waist and delightfully rounded hips. On the flat plane of her stomach and thigh were
multiple tattoos of flowers. Some petals appeared raised—to cover scars? Yes, oh, yes.

Someone had hurt her.

He tensed, ready to strike at the offender in the most horrific
ways. Or offenders, plural? He would kill them all, ripping out their—

Ignore the rage!

Knox slid his arms underneath Vale’s exquisite frame, and
lifted her against his chest. Light as air. Though she hadn’t succumbed to sleep, her limbs
remained lax, her head lolling back and forth.

For a moment he missed her indomitable spirit. Which was
foolish. Her indomitable spirit would cause nothing but problems.

Knox carried her to the tub, plucking a piece of fruit along
the way. He kicked off his boots before stepping into the cool water, shirtless, though still
wearing pants. For the girl’s sake—mostly. He submerged her, only her face remaining above
the surface.

“Gauge the female’s core temperature, heat gradually to
prevent complications from hypothermia,” he commanded.

As they soaked, the grit and grime from battle washed from
his skin, and the antiseptic qualities of the self-cleaning water disinfected any lingering
wounds, speeding up the healing process.

He ate the fruit, his stomach grateful for nourishment after
being empty for so long.

In the ensuing fifteen…thirty…forty-five minutes, the water
warmed to an Iviland summer. Hot, but not stifling.

      Soon, she would awake.  What would he do with her then?