Taken By The Alien Next Door

by Tiffany Roberts

  The local authorities had been understanding the few times they’d come to investigate, and Zevris’s dealings with them had been surprisingly easy. It had likely helped that, when asked to demonstrate the level of noise produced in his shop, he’d activated and adjusted the sound-dampening devices he’d installed throughout the home. The officers had barely been able to hear the table saw running from a few feet down the driveway, much less from the opposite side of the street.

  Though he knew it was petty, Zevris had been sure to deactivate the dampeners after the police departed.

  Those noise complaints had been rejected time and again, and eventually the neighbor had seemed to relent. Now, Zevris was merely subjected to the man’s glares and passive aggressiveness. He took some pleasure in responding to them with what he hoped were warm, friendly smiles.

  On his way to the front door, he paused and crouched beside the flowerbed under the front window. His chrysanthemums were in full bloom. They were arranged in alternating colors—orange, white, yellow—and added a splash of vibrancy that broke up the greenery so common everywhere.

  Zevris would never have imagined himself as a gardener, but the homeowner’s association required ornamental plants in every front yard, and he’d needed to learn in order to comply and avoid complications. He didn’t understand why anyone had the right to tell him what to plant on a piece of land that was supposedly his, but it was not his responsibility to unravel the reasons behind strange human behaviors. He just needed to learn enough about them to obtain a human mate.

  He lowered his hand, touching a finger to the dirt beneath the plants. It was starting to dry out; he’d need to water them in the morning.

  Rising, he continued to the door. A glance at his phone showed the dots still blinking. Apparently, Kindra had a great deal to communicate.

  Zevris deactivated the internal defense system he’d installed—simple forcefields to seal the doors and windows—unlocked the door, and stepped into his dwelling. Even with the door closed behind him and the blinds shut, there was enough light for him to see clearly, but he flipped on the overhead lights regardless. It had taken some time to gauge how poorly most humans saw in low lighting, but it was knowledge of which he regularly made use.

  Small details were what held fronts like this together. As oblivious as many humans often seemed, they were surprisingly observant at their cores. They had an almost instinctual talent for detecting minute oddities that many other species might never have noticed.

  The phone vibrated. He lifted it to discover a massive block of text on the screen.

  Without reading a word of the text, Zevris blocked Kindra’s number.

  He kicked off his boots, tossed his phone onto the counter, and sent a mental command to deactivate the holoshroud connected to his neural transceiver.

  For an instant, the air around him rippled and shimmered as the hologram that disguised his true appearance broke down into a wire-like mesh of light and faded completely. A brief thrumming sensation rippled across his skin; he’d felt it every time he’d deactivated the holoshroud, and it was always so faint that he’d long wondered whether it was real or imagined.

  Though the holoshroud’s projection didn’t physically alter Zevris in any way, he always felt more himself while it was deactivated. Perhaps there was some wisdom to be found in human sayings about the power of the mind.

  Or, perhaps, Zevris was simply tired of never being…himself.

  Outside this dwelling, he had to be Logan Ellis, a thirty-two-year-old human male who had moved to the area last year after relocating from a small town in a place called Montana. Logan made his living as a woodworker and had just learned to sell his creations online. He was a simple man, a lonely man, and he wanted nothing more than to find a woman for lasting companionship.

  Inside this dwelling, he was Zevris Akkaran, an althicar serving in the Exthurizen—a secretive branch of the Azmus Protectorate’s military—who had performed covert operations on more than a dozen alien planets. He had fought open battles, he had conducted ambushes, he had sabotaged enemy operations and stolen intelligence, had assassinated key targets. He’d spent most of his adult life embedded in hostile areas without direct contact with or support from his commanders. He was a simple male, a lonely male…and he wanted nothing more than to find a female for lasting companionship.

  He ran a hand over his face, muttered his favorite human curse—fuck—and headed upstairs to undress and shower. His weariness only strengthened as he stood under the steaming water, and he knew it was not merely a matter of this evening’s events. He’d been tired for a long while. That was why he’d requested his release from service.

  This was his final mission. This was the last operation he would conduct as Althicar Akkaran. After this, he wouldn’t have to bounce from planet to planet, constantly adapting to new places and cultures, constantly living in immediate danger. He just needed to make it through this assignment, and it would all be over. He could find a new purpose. He could rest.

  All he needed to do was find a human female who he was drawn to enough to form a mating bond—and who was willing to enter that undying bond with him. A simple, straightforward objective.

  On a planet filled with people who were anything but simple and straightforward.

  Zevris had a feeling he was going to be on Earth for a long, long time.

  Two

  Zevris grunted as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the two boxes of cereal. They bore different images on their faces, had different names and color schemes, and displayed the logos of two separate—presumably competing—manufacturers. Each called itself part of a balanced breakfast, and both proclaimed America’s favorite cereal!

  His understanding of the word favorite made those proclamations confusing. In that context, the word was being used as a singular modifier. If there were two cereals that were America’s favorite, would it not have been written as One of America’s favorite cereals?

  Placing a hand atop either box, he turned them simultaneously so the nutritional information on each was facing him. He scanned the words, many of which were meaningless to him without a search through the data in his neural transceiver, and the correlating numbers. The numerical values were quite similar between the two cereals, and the ingredients listed were nearly identical—and even more meaningless than the nutritional terms.

  With another grunt, he opened both boxes and dumped the cereals into the large bowl between them. He poured in cold milk next, put the milk jug and cereal boxes away, and carried his breakfast to the kitchen table. He would not speculate as to why humans drank milk—the nourishment some creatures provided to their young from their own bodies—throughout their adult lives. He’d already lost himself in that contemplation a few times before, and it had brought nothing but further confusion.

  It was enough that the taste was enjoyable.

  As he ate his cereal, he unlocked his phone and opened FindMeAMatch. Checking through his matches on this application and the various websites he’d registered for had been a daily ritual for most of his time on Earth. He’d made use of as many modern dating services as he could in the hopes of his wide search turning up the right female with whom to advance his mission.

  For a long while, these daily searches had even been exciting. He’d never seen so many females. Even knowing the male to female ratio amongst his own people had been closer to one-to-one in the days of his forefathers hadn’t prepared him for the abundance of women on Earth. And there was something inexplicably appealing about human females.

  But none had truly called to him, none had really sparked his interest, none had been the perfect, lifelong match that FindMeAMatch had promised. And his enthusiasm for these searches had waned greatly in the week since his date with Kindra.

  His cereal crunched between his teeth as he flicked through the FindMeAMatch profiles. All he could see now were the subtle warnings hidden in each one, the hints that the experience would be somehow
unpleasant should he meet with these females, that it would be a waste of his time. He was more attuned now than ever to the little lies humans so casually—and so often—told. The games they played in pursuit of mates—or, more accurately, in pursuit of sexual partners.

  Preening to flaunt one’s accomplishments and strengths was one thing, but pretending to be something one was not in order to attract a mate was another matter entirely.

  Zevris snickered and shook his head. With half his mouth still full of cereal, he said, “Because that’s not what I’m doing at all.”

  Greetings, female. My name is Zevris Akkaran, a faloran military operative from a neighboring galaxy. I am in search of a mate. Are you receptive to the planting of my seed that we may form a mating bond?

  This entire situation would be comical were it not for the simple fact that the survival of his species depended upon locating females who were receptive to mating bonds—and therefore reproduction. The faloran species had survived two generations after a devastating virus had claimed most of their females.

  They would not survive two more.

  A metallic crash from outside jarred Zevris from his thoughts. His first instinct was to reach for a weapon, but he quickly cast that instinct aside. Stepping out of his dwelling with a faloran plasma pistol in hand would undoubtedly raise questions he was not prepared to answer.

  Someone shouted something outside; the voice was masculine, but the words were too muffled to understand.

  Zevris shoved himself up from the table and strode toward the front door. He deactivated the security field, unlocked the deadbolt, and took the knob in hand.

  He froze. The dark claw on the end of his thumb, though mostly retracted, was fully visible—and it was clearly nothing like a human fingernail. He’d forgotten to reactivate his holoshroud.

  “You damned fool,” he snarled to himself as he activated the hologram. That barely perceptible shimmer warped the air briefly, affording him a glimpse of the assembling light-hexes that vanished as they formed the illusion to mask his true appearance.

  It did not matter that this was a noncombat mission, it did not matter that its nature was different from any he’d undertaken. He could not afford complacency. He could not allow himself to be…comfortable here.

  Zevris opened the door and stepped outside.

  A huge truck was on the street just beyond his driveway, its tail end hanging over his lawn and its rear wheel inches from his grass. The misshapen remains of his mailbox lay on the ground beneath the truck, though the metal post upon which it had been perched remained in the ground. Of course, it was also bent, leaning at a harsh angle.

  He curled his hands into fists and clenched his jaw. How could anyone live on this planet without going mad? Earth itself seemed eager to assail each of its inhabitants with an endless chain of hardships, whittling away at patience and willpower, crushing them beneath a gradually increasing weight that—

  It is a mailbox. What difference will it make if I receive paper mail or not? This is not worth my anger.

  The truck pulled forward, drawing Zevris’s attention back to it. There were large words printed on the side. Grayson Brothers Movers—If our prices don’t move you, our professionalism will!

  Zevris walked along his driveway, watching as the moving truck readjusted and, after several tight turns, backed into the driveway of the neighboring dwelling—the house that had recently been sold. The realtor’s sign was gone now; had it been removed early this morning, or had he simply missed the detail sometime over the last few days?

  Two burly human males climbed down from the cab of the moving truck. The driver walked to the truck’s rear and opened the roll-up door while the passenger, tugging up the waist of his jeans, moved toward Zevris. The name printed on the chest of his shirt was Frank.

  “Didn’t even see it there. Narrow street and all, you know?” Frank shrugged, palms skyward, and turned as though to join his companion.

  “I expect compensation for the damages,” Zevris said.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, yeah. Absolutely. I’ll be sure to pass it on to the office.”

  Zevris squeezed his fists a little tighter. He could almost feel the tendons creaking in his hand. “Is it not customary to exchange information in such cases?”

  “We’ll just note it on our work order,” Frank replied, raising his voice over the clanging sound of the truck’s ramp being pulled out and dropped down.

  A low growl rumbled in Zevris’s chest, but he silenced it before it became audible. He was more than a little annoyed about the damage to his mailbox, and Frank’s dismissive tone certainly wasn’t helping that, but what recourse did he have? Attacking these men in a fit of rage wouldn’t solve his problems—it would only create new ones.

  He huffed through his nostrils, turned away from the men and their truck, and strode to his fallen mailbox. The deep frown that curled his lips was not half as severe as the angle to which the mailbox’s metal post had been bent. Crouching, he grasped the misshapen box in both hands and lifted it from the ground.

  The mailbox door fell open, snapped off its hinge, and clattered on the driveway. The red plastic flag on the side dangled limply. Zevris’s frown deepened.

  The door of the neighboring home creaked open, the sound followed by a dog barking.

  “Where ya want this stuff, lady?” the moving truck driver asked.

  “Most of the boxes are marked. If they’re living room, kitchen, or work stuff, they’ll be downstairs. The rest will go upstairs.”

  That voice was sweet, soft, feminine, and it coaxed Zevris’s attention away from his mangled mailbox. He turned his head toward the source just as one of the movers dropped a box, which landed on the truck’s ramp with a dull, rattling clang.

  “Please be careful with those!” the female said, raising her hands and spreading her fingers wide.

  There was a dog standing beside the female’s legs, a big beast with brown and black fur. The dog had its head down, sniffing at the ground as though it were the most fascinating thing in all the world. But that could not be right—because as Zevris lifted his gaze, his eyes settled on the real most fascinating thing in this world.

  The female was beautiful, and the fullness of her beauty grew more apparent as she turned toward Zevris. She had long, flowing blonde hair which fell in waves down her back, though some of it was pulled back from her face and twisted atop her head in a haphazard knot. Dark, gently arched brows rested above wide, bright eyes that were framed with thick lashes. She had a straight nose, plump, pink lips, and a small cleft in her chin.

  His gaze dipped to take in her body. She wore a long-sleeved fitted T-shirt that showcased her ample bosom and hugged her waist. The writing across her chest said, I cannot lye, I love making soap. Her jeans clung to her flaring hips, rounded ass, and legs, accentuating her every tantalizing curve—and those curves were quite generous. Generous, and delicious.

  Zevris’s fingers flexed, and his claws extended unbidden. He had the sudden urge to grab hold of this female, to feel her yielding flesh beneath his fingertips, to draw her body flush against his. Something in his lower abdomen drew taut. Heat stirred in his chest and pumped through his veins. It spread into his groin and pooled in his balls, making them heavy, before permeating his hardening cock.

  He swallowed. His mouth and throat were suddenly dry, and he could feel his pulse throughout his body—especially in his shaft.

  Zevris ached with a hunger that had nothing to do with his unfinished breakfast.

  The female’s eyes fell upon him. They widened infinitesimally, and Zevris swore he saw that same attraction he felt, that same spark, in her. Her cheeks pinkened. Then her gaze shifted to the mailbox in his hands, and her eyes rounded.

  “Oh my gosh, what happened?” she asked as she hurried toward him.

  The dog lifted its head and followed her with a bark.

  Now that she was so close, her scent drifted to Zevris. He inhale
d it deeply. It was reminiscent of lavender and warm vanilla, with hints of exotic spice and a dash of something decidedly and indefinably feminine. The combination was unlike anything he’d smelled on this world or any other; it was completely unique to her. How could any fragrance be so sweet, so alluring, so…comforting?

  Humans consider staring rude.

  But Zevris could not bring himself to pry his eyes from this female. He rose from his crouch, still holding the battered mailbox, and his new perspective only offered him new appreciation of her.

  Despite the height afforded by her brown, heeled boots, Zevris towered over her. His urge to take hold of her intensified. He wanted to take her in his arms and shield her with his body, wanted to be the only shelter she would ever need, wanted to protect her from anything the universe decided to throw her way.

  He wanted to press her to the ground and cover her with his body. And he wanted those shapely thighs around his waist as he—

  “Mailbox. Truck hurt…uh…” Zevris shook his head, clearing away those primal thoughts—or at least forcing them out of the forefront. It was no easy feat with her heady scent fresh in his nostrils. “The movers ran over my mailbox. I can’t imagine how fast they must’ve been driving to accomplish this.”

  He lifted the mailbox in demonstration. The dangling red flag swung back and forth slowly, producing a series of sad little squeaks.

  The female looked back at the truck. “They did that?” Shaking her head, she turned that exquisite face back toward him. “I am so, so sorry. I’ve never worked with them before. I only found them from a quick internet search, and their ratings seemed okay for the price. Are they at least going to pay to have it replaced?”

  Eyeing Zevris, the dog approached cautiously, growled, and barked.

  The female frowned at the dog and scratched him behind his ear. “Dexter, hush.”

  Tilting its head, the dog—Dexter—regarded the female. Zevris could not determine whether the animal’s questioning expression was merely an effect of his own imagination. Nonetheless, Dexter seemed to comply with the female’s order.