Dark Goddess
Humanity's past lies buried beneath the ruins of near annihilation, concealed by a secret entity and its ancient blueprint to enslave mankind.But at the dawn of a far more treacherous new battle for domination, the war between humanity and its alien puppeteers is forged by a group of determined rebels whose forbidden knowledge of their inhuman enemy only begins to prepare them for what lies ahead…In her chrysalis state, Baroness Beausoleil was a betrayer, a murderer, an arch foe of mankind. How, her metamorphosis into Overlord Lilitu poses a far greater menace. But she needs human help in a plot to overthrow her brethren and seize control of the last remaining Anunnaki stronghold on Earth. Buried deep in the sands of the Sinai, a secret port can unleash the dangerous mysteries of an alien race–unless the Cerberus rebels can out a she-god with an army at her disposal…and the cunning and cruelty to wrest Earth for herself.
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Dark Goddess
Outlanders>®
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Special thanks to Mark Ellis for his contribution to the Outlanders concept, developed for Gold Eagle.
Prologue
The former barony of Beausoleil, the Tennessee River Valley
Sean Reichert moved in quickly, knocking the cudgel aside and striking the slagjacker hard in the belly with his right fist.
Air exploded from the small manâs lungs with a sound like a protracted, phlegm-saturated cough. The wooden club clattered to the floor and the man clutched at his midriff, doubling over. Reichert drove a knee into the slagjackerâs face, enjoying the sensation of the manâs nose collapsing under the impact.
Blood spewing from both nostrils like an opened faucet, the man collapsed to the floor of the tavern and lay there, twitching. Reichert swept the people watching from the tables with a bright-eyed stare and boyish grin. âWant to see me his kick his head loose of his shoulders?â
The patrons of the Tosspot Tumor didnât answer. The few who hadnât averted their gaze glared at the young man with angry, resentful eyes. Larry Robison, sharing a corner table with a nude woman with hair the color and texture of a hayrick, called out, âYeah, we so fuckinâ want to see it.â
He chucked the blonde beneath her chin with a finger. âDonât you, baby?â
The woman blinked her glassy, unfocused eyes and reached for the bottle on the table. âUh-huh.â
âThatâs what I thought,â Reichert said. âSo, here goesââ
Grin widening, he drew back his combat-booted right foot, then kicked it forward. The thickly treaded sole skimmed over the prone manâs face as Joe Weaver caught Reichert by the collar and pulled him off balance.
âThatâs enough, you bloodthirsty moron,â Weaver snapped, dragging the younger man across the room. He slammed him hard against the slab of rough-hewed pine that served as the bar.
Reichert struggled, but Weaver applied a wrist lock to the youthâs right arm and kept him in place. Reichert strained to get free for only a few seconds. âI showed the son of a bitch,â he shouted jubilantly. âI put him in his place, by God. Nobody disses usâTeam Phoenix for America, fuck yeah!â
Despite his Germanic surname, Sean Reichert was Latino, with straight black hair, a dark complexion and a carefully maintained mustache. Although only of medium height, his athletic body carried tightly packed muscle.
Joe Weaver was considerably taller, heavier and older, his square-chinned face framed by a bronze- hued beard. A pair of round-lensed spectacles covered his slightly slanted eyes. Wearily, he said, âThe poor bastard didnât dis you. I think heâs hard of hearing.â
Reichert paused, glanced at Weaver, then at the unconscious man whose blood filled the cracks between the floorboards. âWell, heâs fuckinâ hard of breathing now, too.â
He laughed uproariously at his own joke and with a disgusted head shake, Joe Weaver released him. Larry Robison joined in with the younger manâs laughter. Tall, with a deep chest and wide shoulders, Robison had a big head covered by a mop of dark brown hair. Like Weaver, he affected a beard, but trimmed closer to the jawline. The nude woman caressed his beard with trembling fingers, then she slid sideways, draping herself over his lap.
The Tosspot Tumor tavern was fairly typical of most such establishments in the Tartarus Pits of any baronyâone big common room redolent with the reek of home-brewed liquor and unwashed bodies. A makeshift bar coursed along the rear wall, a row of wooden barrels with rough planks nailed atop them to serve as a buffet. A scattering of tables and chairs completed the furnishings.
The tavern did double duty as a brothel, so a single doorway behind the bar led to a small, dark bedroom. From the room came a hoarse cough and then a gravelly male voice snarled, âFor fuckâs sake, canât a man get a decent nightâs sleep anywhere in this shithole world?â
Reichert and Weaver glanced toward the shadows shifting beyond the open door, hearing the squeak of bedsprings and the thump of booted feet on the floor. âSorry, boss,â Reichert called. âWe didnât know you were supposed to be sleeping.â
âBesides,â Robison said, âitâs near the middle of the afternoon.â
A teenage girl stepped through the door, brushing a strand of brown hair away from her eyes. She clutched a frayed sheet around her thin frame, leaving one knobby shoulder bare. Robison was reminded of a sorority girl returning from a particularly boisterous toga party, but he doubted she was old enough to attend even the most liberal-arts college. He never was quite sure what a liberal-arts college was supposed to be, but he presumed it was a place that liberals sent their kids to learn how to be artists, so he hated them as a matter of course.
