I felt no disbelief. He was too impossibly real to be fake.
Spikes grew out of his head, and the shape of his pupils was wrong. His tooth enamel glistened with diamond flecks. Taws and peltry hugging his bigness exuded a dirt smell. Chevrons decorated him wrist to neck. There was an honest to God claymore poking over one thorny shoulder, and a stubby metal thing hooked over one pointed ear. The curve was pierced with silver studs that gleamed against his swarthy skin.
‘And your man?’
For the first time, his attention left me to focus elsewhere.
Transfixed by one, I managed a glance at the other. My head snapped around so fast my neck cricked.
Though the bold curves and flat planes of his face were rigid with aloofness, his allure couldn’t be denied. Masculine beauty acted as a stunning offset to Beowyn’s rough-hewn charm. He was gold-limned silver to his King’s unending dark, hair a fall of white to his knees, the horns framing his skull ivory. He wore the same style armour as Beowyn, but it revealed musculature far more defined, and two smaller, double ended weapons were strapped to his wide back. His lips were full but seemed not as soft. His clean jawline was not as square, but his cheeks were deeply hollowed. Beowyn’s hair and fur were raven, his skin bronzed, but this male’s flesh was mahogany by comparison, stark in contrast to his pearly fur. It lent him a radiant, monochromatic guise.
I envisioned them front to front, light and dark locked in a clinch. My lashes lowered. I took a mental leap backwards, shutting that down.
‘That is my High Commander and Royal Defender. Éorik Arkbjorg Tij SnowBlade.’ He gazed at his subordinate’s bent head with naked adoration.
At the gruff cadence of Beowyn’s voice, my eyes left the genuflecting Commander. I swallowed with an audible click. ‘I’m Sìne.’ My given name sounded underwhelming. ‘Of Clan Grae.’
‘Sìne.’ Beowyn’s whisper carried a world’s worth of possession.
Their intense scrutiny flustered me.
I stiffened, face hot as I pushed past the shock of their presence to remember just what was going on. My submissive body language did not reflect my skittish temperament. ‘Are you wanting to tell me what you’re about then?’
Snapping a nod, he dropped me onto my feet.
Before I gathered the shreds of my composure, he lowered himself onto his knees. Redness spread along my jaw and spilt into my cheeks.
Beowyn’s face lifted, etched with fierceness. ‘I humble myself because it is you, Sìne. It is to you whom I offer my life, my heart, my seed.’
I rubbed clammy hands over my hips. ‘Oh.’ Because what at the fuck else was I going to say?
‘I searched countless galaxies for the twin to my soul.’ He spoke with quieted force. ‘I ached for the touch of my One, for she who would bear my weight as she bore my cubs.’ His gaze held mine captive. Electric veins of light radiated from his star slitted pupil, shattered glass floating on a molten current. ‘I found her.’ His voice grew thick, a fist thumping his chest. ‘I found you. My female. At last, I take you home. My House is complete. Vayhalun has a Queen.’ Bated, he knelt.
I stood speechless. Blinking. It seemed forever but was likely a trifling five-minute stretch. ‘I.… You….’ Arms limp at my sides, chest heaving, my words escaped strangled. ‘You want me,’ a thumb to my chest, ‘and my baby to go with you into outer space? To an alien planet in another galaxy as your woman?’ I sought out the brooding sentinel watching me with cold detachment. ‘Do I have that right?’
Éorik cocked his head. ‘You are his One.’ His gravelly voice made me shiver. ‘And so you are my Queen.’
‘Not just my woomahhn.’ Beowyn grinned crookedly. ‘My wife. The everlasting match of my soul.’
I reeled down that windy tunnel again.
I blush as my eyes meet those of the fancy Southerner in my class. He’s a handsome one. Charming. He keeps sneaking looks. He smiles. God, what a smile, wonky and fulsome.
‘I’m Liam.’ He takes my hand and stares into my eyes. ‘Sorry if you think this is forward, but you're just the prettiest thing.’
I’m a puddle of goo, and my heart is already half his. I stammer my greeting, thanking him for his compliments and offer ones of my own. He’s so smart, so attentive.
I’m so lucky he’s talking to me.
I edged towards the door. ‘We should discuss this further. I need to check on my daughter.’ I pushed out my palm, patted the air. ‘You kneel there and wait, aye?’
Faltering only to rally with impressive speed, Beowyn smiled, triumphant. ‘I wait for you.’
Averting my eyes, I fled the room.
I grabbed Fergie.
A tornado of motion, I grabbed a bunch of shit.
I got the fuck out of there.
Chapter 2
Sweaty from the drive to my clan’s croft in the Highlands, chills danced along my spine. Navigating the twisting roads in inclement weather was second hand to me, but that journey stressed me so bad.
Fergie slept peacefully in her car seat, drooling.
I’d babbled to the bobble-head figurine on the dash, convincing myself I was not feverish or delirious.
At one point, I’d tucked my hair behind my ear and felt the sleek whatchamacallit Beowyn hooked on to translate their alien language.
Squealing, I’d ripped it off, slapping at my head until it was sore. The device landed on the passenger seat. I badly wanted to toss the thing. I tormented myself by thinking a tracking device hid inside, but I was so worked up, touching it became a big deal. So when the flashing lights dimmed, I ignored it, pretended it didn’t exist.
Wind howled outside the rickety caravan I paced.
Thin panes of glass were cloudy with condensation, and an icy breeze crept through the threadbare draught excluder jammed under the doorway.
Despite the draft, the three bedroom mini home was warm from a crackling wood stove. Printed wallpaper contrasted against oak cabinets lining the fitted kitchen. It matched the varnished, knotty pine fascias covering the main window valance and sills. A three piece sofa suite in red tartan was faded at the seats; tatty scatter cushions wedged into the crease between the armrest and squab to offer more padding. The dining area was denoted by a bench seat upholstered in split leather, its round, particleboard table attached to a tarnished steel pole nailed to the linoleum. Said flooring displayed a moss and mustard geometric pattern, worn away in high traffic areas. The whole space smelt musty, but I caught the faded scent of lemon polish. Plastic bottles, beer cans, crisp packets and wrinkled clothes covered every surface, but it wasn’t too dirty. I’d arrived just before the weekly clean, and, well, my cousin was a butch bloke who did enough cleaning so as not to live in squalor.
Standing by the sink, limescale crusting the draining board and cluttered with soaking pans, I clutched Fergie to my chest. Blind panic had eased to bone-deep unease as I processed the stupidity of what I’d done.
Worse, my sloe-eyed cousin was not digesting the severity of the situation.
Ginger grey-flecked beard full and bushy, Patrick Grae yawned, showing black and silver fillings in his molars.
Having answered the door in boxers, he’d since donned a jumper. Sprawled in his favourite seat, he flexed his bare toes then shook himself all over. ‘Tell us again what’s happening.’ He hunted around the table for his tobacco pouch. Finding it, he plucked out a roll up.
I glared. ‘That shite will kill you.’
‘Fought in a war, cousin. That’s the shite that kills you.’
‘I don’t like it around Fergie.’
Up flicked his eyes. ‘I was no going to light up inside.’ He tucked the offending item behind his ear to snatch up a can of beer. ‘Waiting, lass.’
I shook my head when he sighed at my frantic retelling of the evening. ‘You have to help me. They’re coming. I know it.’ My eyes scanned the ceiling. My voice dropped to a whisper. ‘They might be above us as we speak.’
He scratched behind his ear.
He sniffed his finger then gagged. ‘Whatever you're smoking, I’m wanting some.’
‘Help us hide?’ I adjusted my hold when Fergie squirmed. She whined. I bounced her and patted her bottom.
‘We’re on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Whoever is chasing you is no finding you.’ He burped into his fist and put his drink aside. He shoved his sleeves to his elbows then held out hairy forearms. ‘Settle. Let me hold the wee bit? I haven’t seen her in months.’
I backed up until my knees hit the armchair. I sat. My eyes burned with the back of my throat, and I rubbed my face into my daughter’s frizz. She smelt like soap. ‘Trick, please.’
‘Tell us again what happened.’
‘It sounds crazy. I didn’t believe it. Not at first. He let me touch him. He isn’t…they were no human.’
‘Describe them then.’
‘They have fur.’
Patrick rubbed his beard, eyeing me pointedly. ‘Aye.’
‘All over. I saw it. Felt it.’
‘What else did this alien let you touch?’
‘His horn.’
‘Och, lass, tell me you didn’t.’
‘For crying out loud, it was no his cock. Need I remind you, I made a baby? It requires a certain familiarity with the opposite sex.’
‘Don’t remind me of that bastard.’
I rubbed my palm against Fergie’s flannel pyjama top remembering the sensation of solid, twisty growth. Christ, thinking on it, it was mad. ‘It was a bone like stag antlers. That’s what the texture reminded me of. Warm and rough horns on his head.’
‘Think about what you’re asking me to believe.’
‘They’re coming for Fergie and me. We have to run. Sorry to drag you into it but them’s the drawbacks of family.’ I dug the fingers of my free hand into my hair and squeezed my eyes shut. I had to block out his expression. It had morphed from amusement to genuine concern for my mental health.
Hefting up, he crossed the living space and crouched. He hooked a strong arm around my hunched shoulders. His breath smelt like stale coffee, and his knitted jumper of tobacco and pine. ‘Tell you what. Da is over the way with Aled and Rowan.’
‘Uncle Fergus?’ I sounded young.
‘We took him out of that care facility. Did no like the way they treated him.’ Another comforting squeeze. ‘I’ll round them up. We’ll have a midnight supper.’ The scratch of his jumper against my cheek grounded me.
I rubbed my ear. ‘It’s two in the morning.’
‘Early breakfast then. I caught kippers yesterday. As for no disturbing them.” He made a dry click in his throat. “They’ll shit kittens if we don’t.’
I cringed at the thought of smelly, fried fish, but compared to the black pudding he relished eating with runny eggs, kippers didn’t seem bad.
Chuckling at my wrinkled face, Patrick hugged me closer.
He kissed the crown of my head.
I screech at the sun-drenched vision of his skinny legs running ahead of me through a muddy field. My legs are shorter, pudgier, and I can’t run as fast, but, God, I’m trying. I follow him everywhere. My clever cousin who knows the best hiding places for frogs and slugs. My friend who saves the last bit of sweetie for me.
Waiting for me at the top of the marsh, chest heaving, he laughs and slaps his knee. ‘Come on, wee bit. Catch me. Catch me.’ He speeds off as I’m about to tag him.
I honk in protest.
Bursting out from behind a tree, he snarls. I scream. He chortles, hooking me around the shoulders and kissing my hair.
‘I lost,’ I cry. ‘I’m too slow.’
He shakes his head, grin missing teeth. His curly ginger mop is fire. ‘You’re fast, Sìne. You’ll catch me when you’re older. Just wait and see. You’re going to be fast and brave and the best when you’re older.’
I smile wide, and my face aches. ‘Really?’
I feel special.
Loved.
I relaxed into Patrick’s side letting the stress of the last few hours go. No doubt when Beowyn and Éorik arrived he’d yell at me, but for now, he’d feed me, put a roof over my head and expected nothing in return except the right to lavish affection.
He went to stand. ‘It’s a long drive. You’re exhausted.’
‘Please.’ I huddled closer. ‘Stay.’
‘Hush.’ He slapped at the coffee table for his smartphone. His finger and thumb worked over the touch screen.
Five minutes later, the door slammed into the wall. Gusts of squalling wind laden with sleet were blocked when Aled shambled inside wrapped in denim and whisky sheepskin. He ripped off a trapper hat. Sweaty, black hair ringed his crown, and he sneezed, sending water droplets flying.
Bright blue eyes landed on me, eyebrows hitched. ‘What’s occurring?’
Patrick jostled me. ‘Wee spot of trouble.’
Stoutly-built, he lumbered when he moved. He stomped snow encrusted wellingtons on the bristled welcome mat. ‘Man problems?’
‘No.’ I hunkered down. I didn’t care it was a bare-assed lie. I’d made a mistake trusting Fergie’s father, but that didn’t mean any relationship I embarked upon was an inevitable failure.
I resented the casual implication.
Knowing I was overly sensitive to this topic and likely to say things I’d regret, I kept my mouth shut and let him get his digs in.
Widowed husband of my late cousin Caitrìona, Patrick’s eldest sister, Aled detested Liam. When we’d been a couple, he’d cited his never-ending Welsh disdain for the English as reason enough not to trust him. He’d told me countless times the man was no good. Once it was over, he didn’t come right out and say, ‘I told you so,’ but the underlying smugness was there.
Unbidden, Beowyn’s Goliath frame came to mind. I remembered the razor tips of his horns slicing grooves into the ceiling, how his nonchalant push at the door busted the hinges.
‘Wee spot of trouble,’ and, ‘Man problems,’ indeed.
Aled cleared the doorway as another body shoved in, swaddled in a crocheted afghan, baggy sweats, and beat up goloshes. Tufts of auburn hair coiled from the top of his head, and oversized glasses fogged over.
‘Rowan?’ Patrick frowned at his younger, gangly sibling. He peered at the dark void of the open door, a swirling flurry beyond it. ‘Where’s Da?’
‘Asleep.’ Rowan waddled across the floor then slumped into the sofa. Wrapped in the blanket, he shivered. Delicate fingers, blunt nails edged with grime from his job, gripped the fringed edges. ‘Reheated the Kung Po Chicken and watched reruns. A few drams and he was out like a light.’ Though older than me, Rowan looked the same age.
His ruddy face had that plump-checked, wide-eyed, ageless quality with which some people were naturally blessed. He smiled sleepily, eyes cutting my way. ‘Hello there, cousin. Run into a rough patch?’
Aled snorted. ‘She’s having man troubles.’
‘I’m hiding from aliens.’ I glared at them. ‘They want me and Fergie to return with them to their planet.’
‘Two of them, is it?’
‘I’m so very amusing.’ They wouldn’t take me seriously until Beowyn and Éorik came banging down the door.
Not that I wanted them to.
‘I’m hungry, I am.’ Aled rummaged inside the fridge.
‘There’s leftover curry.’ Patrick propped his feet on the coffee table. ‘Tikka masala. Top nosh.’
Grunting, Aled grabbed a plastic container. He lifted the lid. Taking a good whiff, he retched. ‘Ach y fi.’ He shoved the offending item back before toeing the fridge closed. He clapped once. ‘Tea and toast all around.’
Fergie wriggled, nose leaving a snotty smear on my blouse. Murmuring nonsense to send her back into deep sleep, I stood, and walked towards the folding door closing off the rest of the caravan. ‘Trick, I’m putting her down.’
‘Spare blankets in the cupboard.’
‘You’ve no had a woman since you changed sheets?’ The last thing I needed was my daughter
finding a used condom amongst the blankets.
Chugging the beer, he shook his head.
The wedge-shaped room was pleasantly warm.
I kicked aside discarded boxer shorts and crusty socks, wrinkling my nose in disgust rather than offence at an odour.
Rumpled bedding was balled up in the middle of the mattress.
Cotton-scented fabric softener permeated the air, and after a quick pat test, it appeared safe to lay my precious burden on the gingham sheets.
Wrestling Fergie from her quilted jacket, I pried her stockinged feet free of her booties. I plucked off her knitted mittens and unwound the matching scarf. I kissed her curling fingertips, smiling at the peeling glittery nail polish.
She was such a girly-girl.
Tugging off her favourite hat, I smoothed down the wild bounce of copper curls before tucking her in.
On the weekends, I braided her hair before bed to avoid snarls, but Mrs Tait never did, no matter how many times I asked. Getting prissy with the only childminder affordable within my minuscule budget over bedtime hairstyles seemed risky, however, so I never belaboured the point.
Pressing a series of kisses to her smooth cheek and a whispered, ‘I love you,’ I backed out pulling the door.
I kept it ajar to keep an ear on her from the living room.
I paced the caravan’s confines.
Aled kept busy stuffing slices of whole wheat into the toaster. He filled chipped mugs with hot water and pyramid-shaped tea bags.
The remainder of the Grae triplets watched me with matching, narrowed eyes, their colour green as grass.
‘What problems are you having exactly?’ asked Rowan.
‘I’m just after telling you.’ My accent tumbled deeper into my childhood brogue. Being around my clan brought it out in me. ‘It started when I walked home from Charlie’s.’ I detailed my evening. ‘Look.’ I pulled the translation device from my pocket and tossed it to Rowan. ‘See the strange markings?’
He caught it one-handed.
Quiet and staring, they glanced at each other then peered at me.
ThunderClaw: Science Fiction Romance (Alien Warrior Book 2) Page 4