ThunderClaw: Science Fiction Romance (Alien Warrior Book 2)

by Penelope Fletcher

  ‘Bluetooth?’ Rowan looked pained. ‘This is proof?’

  ‘What? It’s no of this world.’ I thrust both hands in my hair. ‘When the aliens are near it lights up.’

  ‘Lass.’ Patrick scrubbed a hand over his stubble. ‘If you want our help, you’ll have to do better than this.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know how ridiculous this sounds?’ I snatched up a macrame toss pillow I’d made as a teenager at comprehensive school.

  I threw it at his head.

  He caught it; the long-suffering sigh undaunted.

  ‘I can no make it less crazy.’ I flung out my arms. ‘Believe me already.’

  ‘Tell us then.’ Patrick sat forward, dropping the cushion behind him. ‘You say they’re after you? Can find you anywhere.’ He glanced around, eyes widening and head bobbling exaggeratedly. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Good point.’ Aled slathered glossy butter onto bread. ‘Where to are these aliens now then?’

  BOOM.

  We sprung a foot in the air, hair standing on end, swearing.

  White-rimmed eyeballs rolled.

  Footsteps thumped along the ceiling.

  Stationary since its mooring a decade before, the caravan rocked as the front door ripped away.

  Embarrassingly, my first reaction was vindicated pointing. ‘Haw!’

  Pointed ears twitching at my cousins’ startled gasps, Éorik stuck his head inside. Brilliant gold medallions for eyes swept over the scene. His feral features tightened as he took in my family and me huddled together.

  Beowyn crashed through the skylight. He landed on the coffee table, collapsing the cheap wood. Light reflected off his silver-tipped horns, and his fanged grin sparkled. Star-shaped pupils contracted sharply. ‘A’koh’kolu.’ The glittering earpiece translated that to a demanding, ‘She who is mine.’

  Rowan squawked. He slapped the device from his hand, and it bounced to a stop on the floor a yard or so from me.

  Without stopping to think, I snatched it up to shove it in my ear.

  Slouched in his seat, with a slow blink, Patrick twisted his head towards me. ‘I believe you.’ He smashed his amber bottle on the side table. The room flooded with the yeasty smell of hops, and beer puddled next to his foot. Shifting from couch bum to soldier, Patrick leapt towards the threat wielding the serrated glass like a shank, foam flying from his knuckles. ‘Run!’

  Beowyn punched him in the sternum sending him airborne.

  Patrick landed sprawled on his chair.

  ‘A’koh’kolu dalas boh.’ Beowyn pointed to the spot between his boots. ‘She who is mine will come now,’ parroted the translator.

  I backed up, my chin lifting.

  Nostrils flaring, he crouched, head canted at an odd angle.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Aled shoved me behind him.

  Alien faces grew fierce.

  ‘I’ve got the big one.’ Rowan heaved off his blanket. He used it to snag Beowyn’s snarling face, covering the alien’s head and shoulders. He struggled to cinch his skinny arms around a torso double his heft. ‘Sìne, run!’ He was tossed off and went flying into the wall.

  It buckled under the force of his weight, cracked from floor to ceiling.

  Sparks sprang from the light switch in the crack’s jagged path. The overhead lights died and plunged the room into blackness. An eerie glow was cast over the chaos by the wood stove.

  Aled blundered across the room with a bellow. He hurled himself at Éorik, and they landed in a snow drift.

  In a blur of twisted movement and garbled sound, the man was grappled onto his back. The alien roared in his face, the male’s primal resonance quaking the ground like subterranean thunder.

  Patrick shook off his stupor and jumped into the fray. He swung a left hook into Beowyn’s side, followed by a jab to the stomach. Crunch. ‘Shite.’

  Shaking out his fist, he picked up a lamp and smacked him with it. No Scotsman was afraid to fight dirty. Bulb shattering, the metal tubing bent into a skull shape. He stared at it in stupefaction. ‘Ah, fuck me.’

  Body swelling, Beowyn snarled.

  He ripped away the lamp then flicked it out the window.

  Glass rained. The screaming wind snapped the curtains, and blew snow into the room, plummeting the temperature. Food wrappers whirled, and cans toppled over.

  Cloak billowing, Beowyn stomped towards Patrick, who skipped back, hands groping for something to throw.

  He settled on a novelty ashtray carved from marble.

  He pitched it.

  Thunk.

  Pawing his forehead, Beowyn pitched and swayed.

  ‘Aye, you prick.’ Patrick sneered. ‘How do you like me now?’ He spotted me cowering in the corner. ‘What are you playing at, girl? Schooch!’

  Blank with panic, I gave into the urge to run. I raced to the back of the caravan. I snatched up Fergie’s clothes and yanked them onto her. My daughter roused with sleepy protest, but I clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her confusion. I hauled her onto my shoulder and rushed from the room, down the hallway.

  The whole caravan rocked to and fro as the men fought up front.

  Opposite the bathroom was a rear exit, and I used it to slip into the cold night. Hair flying everywhere, snow up my nose and sticking to my lashes, I used the weak porch light of Rowan’s adjacent caravan to guide the way.

  My ankle buckled when I skidded on ice coating the entrance steps.

  Cursing the pain, I fumbled with the door, hands bloodless and stiff with cold before barging inside.

  Another caravan, smaller, and smelling of peppermint (Rowan) and pipe tobacco (Fergus).

  I kicked the flimsy door closed.

  Screeching wind quieted, replaced with my harsh gasps.

  Thoughts untidy and fast, I kept the lights off to avoid detection. I shuffled from foot to foot. I could feel myself unravelling, overwhelmed, and unable to cope. What next? I still didn’t have a plan. It was hard to think let alone come up with one. The sole thing arrowing through the blind fear was the instinct to protect my child. Was that why I kept running? Was I afraid for Fergie, myself, or was it something else?

  Whatever the cause of my visceral aversion to the Veraks, I had no time to dawdle. I loved my cousins, and they were rowdy brawlers, but I was under no delusions they’d win against the creatures hunting me.

  Guilt swamped me.

  I’d selfishly come for their advice and protection, bringing powerful, unknown enemies to the gate.

  Spinning a circle, I rushed into the bathroom.

  I placed Fergie inside the avocado bathtub. ‘Stay here, wee bit. Only come out for your uncles or me, aye?’

  Thumb stuck in her mouth, Fergie nodded, hazel-green eyes awake and staring. She was a good girl. She would do as told. Uncle Fergus slept in the room next door; a comforting enough thought that I patted her head then snapped the shower curtain closed.

  I dashed back into the blizzard, thinking to lead them away.

  Beowyn yowled my name.

  Tears running, breathing all out of whack, and thoroughly confused as to what I was doing, or going to do, I turned and bolted. I stumbled through the snow, making high, panicky noises when I slipped or glanced off a tree.

  I felt the moment I became prey. It was a subtle shift in the air. The fine hairs on the back of my neck lifted, a foreign chill creeping down my spine.

  They were running me down.

  Snow eddied around me in a choking blanket of frost. My legs pumped, sucked deeper and deeper into snow drifts, my lungs burning. Branches snagged my hair and clothes. I ran. I fled unseeing through the darkness.

  So when the ground disappeared, I screamed bloody murder, arms pinwheeling. An empty vastness yawned, ready to swallow me whole.

  Seized by the collar of my jacket, my velocity came to a disorienting stop, legs and arms flying out in front.

  The world rotated with me as the pivot.

  Disembodied by the loss of ground, I sensed solid mass and attached t
o it like a barnacle. I stopped caterwauling long enough to realise I clung to broad back, a metal length digging into my torso. The Great One clung to a branch jutting out of the fragmenting rock. Glued to his back was me, wailing obscenities. My hair wrenched my scalp, the wind trying to rip me apart as it howled and pressed at our bodies. My fingers were numb icicles.

  Whimpering, I burrowed my face into Beowyn’s warm neck. ‘I dinnae ken what ye are about, but take me home. I cannae stand heights, and I cannae stand ye.’

  Hanging beside us by his claw tips, a disgruntled High Commander turned to his liege. ‘What was it you said? ‘How hard could it be?’’

  Beowyn started beeping. He used those scary looking claws, mouth and sharp teeth to yank the device from his armour and glance at the screen.

  My mouth dropped open. We were moments from splattering on the mountainside. I could not believe he was checking his messages.

  ‘It is good tidings.’ He grinned, blindingly happy. ‘Lumen has dropped cub. A male. I shall gift her an atoll on Vayhalun. I am to be an honorary uncle, and it is best the cub has somewhere grand to stay when he comes to visit who he likes best.’ He tongued the screen to type a reply. He purred at me. ‘I cannot wait until you swell with what is mine, sweet puss.’

  Furious with myself, him, and the whole damn universe, I screamed right in his face.

  Chapter 3

  Lah, but his One had healthy lungs.

  Beowyn chortled and bounced in place to give her a thrill.

  Wasn’t it a fun time?

  How dull and predictable bride wars had become on the registered planets. The sweaty battles for dominance they’d once been had devolved into courtly affairs, an exchange of sweets and favours instead of a brutal rite of passage. As Verak King, the females swooned whenever he drew near, floating to the ground, waiting for him to snatch them up. How was that fair? A coiffed heap laid at his feet was supposed to get his heart racing, his blood high? Their tutored response to his aggression was expected to make his sac ache, tempt his maleness to spew?

  It is not so with my human, he mused with feral delight. She had proven herself an old soul, fearless and strong.

  Sìne had given him a fine chase across Earth’s alien landscape, a wondrous night hunt illuminated by the spooky light of a lonely grey moon. His female had tested his fortitude by taking up armaments. She had lain soft in his embrace, biding time, outwitting him with her seductive cunning. The next he knew she wrung from him a declaration of devotion. As she baited him across the lush Isle she called home, the overpowering urge to claim her had been solidified by an unwavering sense of rightness. He had chosen well. Had she conceded defeat when he her besieged her den? Never! His proud female set an ambush, forcing him to prove his mettle. She then braved a storm to add excitement to their game. How unique of her. The relentless quest ended in a heart-stopping rescue even he’d been hard pressed to complete.

  Sìne was magnificent. Her daring stole his breath.

  Truth, he wasn’t overjoyed she’d included her resentful harem in their love sport, but it was bad manners to be jealous of concubines. Perhaps they were involved to assure them of their place in the Royal House? She retained responsibility of past lovers even as his betrothed.

  His heart fluttered.

  Sìne was ruthless and compassionate.

  Lah, but life didn’t get better.

  His ferocious Queen screamed her victory to the heavens. His engorged staff throbbed against his thigh, demanding he complete the claiming. His scowling Commander was sighing.

  Beowyn twisted his head to hide his face and grinned at the craggy mountainside.

  Loudly cursing ThunderClaw ancestors as mewling weaklings, the grump had dived off a precipice without a single thought for his safety.

  Was there nowhere his Defender would not follow him?

  Éorik crouched, cape flying, claws gouging stone, and sighing as if the possibility of plunging to death on a backwater planet was a mere bother.

  Even as cubs, the sound and sight of his legendary sigh had been the same. A deep, gusty rush of air that flexed his chest and made his eyes spark.

  Éorik’s head whipped up.

  Tensing, he bared his teeth in an ugly snarl that further heated Beowyn’s loins. ‘The human males have come.’

  Falling into a deathly stillness, a menacing growl slithered from Beowyn’s lips. ‘The female is mine.’ Her breath on his neck was all that stopped a rampage. ‘I will break them.’

  ‘No.’ The shout echoed through the ravine. ‘Hurt my family over my dead body. I led you here. If you’re going to be angry, you take it out on me.’

  Snow-frosted expressions switched from threatening to thoughtful. The Verak exchanged embarrassed silences.

  ‘Kin,’ breathed Beowyn. ‘Of course, they are kin.’ He craned his neck to look at Éorik. ‘The fight was a test to show her mate is worthy.’ His grin was wild. ‘It would indeed be madness to challenge me for my female. Honoured concubine or not.’

  Heaving up, muscles straining against the reinforced confines of his battlesuit, Beowyn tackled the bouldered incline. Ice crusting the stone added an exciting layer of danger. Gossamer flakes raining from the cloudburst obscured his vision and made it difficult to find foot and handholds. It was a fine thing his finger claws simply punctured the edifice.

  Riding a surge of competitiveness, he glanced at Éorik to ensure he followed and mark his progress. He smirked. The male scaled the rocky peak as if born to climb.

  Commander SnowBlade was nothing but capable. Still, Beowyn’s great alpha instinct to protect what belonged to him was infallible. He snorted. Dare he speak aloud his possessive feelings, insinuating weakness, Éorik would go for his throat.

  The grouch had a mean left claw.

  With a care for his precious hitchhiker, they crested the pinnacle without making it into a race. Well, they tried. They bounded the last three steps trying to best each other to the summit.

  King and Commander fell to their knees on the safe ground, breathing hard, and teeth bared in feral joy at succeeding the conquest.

  Satisfied with his display of prowess, Beowyn nudged Sìne off his back. He felt reluctant to lose her addicting scent and comforting weight, but amends with her people must be met.

  When he’d fought, he’d believed them to be rivals for her affections. He’d played too rough for it to be considered good breeding. Unless they were warriors like him, and craved the challenge? They had not shied from his wrath. Apologising to a fighting male over such a skirmish would offer an insult.

  Upon further reflection, Beowyn faced the waiting, hard-eyed group, watching and judging their behaviour.

  How enjoyable complicated these humans turned out to be.

  Thumping a closed fist to the other’s chest, Beowyn and Éorik stood, sure-footed. Sìne’s whole body shook with happiness; the Great One was glad to see. When she took a hesitant step, whimpering, his stomach churned.

  Hadn’t he met the challenge to see her through the trial unharmed?

  Sword-toughened hands shot out to hold her still. They roamed her slight frame, checking for injury. His gaze settled on a swollen ankle.

  With a gruff noise of regret, he knelt to probe the joint. Sìne hissed air through blunt, square teeth when he rolled it gently.

  Injury confirmed, Beowyn’s shoulders slumped along with his hope.

  She was hurt.

  Her House was well within their rights to void the engagement.

  If they held a grudge and took umbrage with how the battle had been fought, he risked losing their respect.

  Stiffening at a worse thought, bands of muscle padding his chest constricted.

  He struggled to draw breath.

  Sìne might refuse my suit without the approval of her kin.

  Mind skittering with panic, Beowyn froze, only to realise he almost crushed her tiny foot in his mighty grip.

  ‘She is impressed, Owyn.’ Éorik’s murmur was for his ears
alone. It is fine. It will heal.’

  Hearing the diminutive of his name in that rough voice eased the tightness. His throat felt bone dry. ‘If it is not?’

  ‘If her kin is offended, we will make reparation.’

  ‘That may not be enough. She is harmed, Orik.’

  A deadly whisper came as the reply. ‘Then we do as we have always done.’

  Breaking free of his dread, Beowyn straightened his back, spirits revived. His Defender always knew what action to take. ‘As you say.’ His tone gave both permission and thanks.

  Beowyn’s eyes lifted to meet his female’s. Her pupils were round, and her focus intense. Imagine her just so as we rut. He gazed without fear into her alien stare, and the lust faded into a strange sensation. It felt like falling. He broke away, panting and floundering in uncharted depths.

  ‘I’m okay.’ She tugged her foot from his grip. ‘A light sprain, nothing more.’

  ‘You should not come to harm of any kind.’ Éorik’s voice strained on behalf of his liege.

  ‘This is truth.’ Beowyn grimaced. She tried to absolve him of the blame. The shame cut deep, even as her words supported his Commander’s belief. He had impressed her. She would accept him if he soothed her male folk. He swallowed his pride and lowered his gaze. Showing submission before witnesses was a fitting punishment. ‘I beg forgiveness.’

  ‘I was careless in dangerous weather. It were no your fault.’

  Beowyn straightened, face tight.

  Éorik’s eyes fixed on the human males. His knees bent, hands twitching, ready to reach for his blades.

  Should the next moments go badly, he would eliminate the opposition. It was his way, and none better delivered an honourable death.

  Beowyn caressed Sìne’s cheek. Her skin was smooth and caught the meagre lunar light, its paleness suffused with silvery nuances.

  For once, he was anxious he would not be wanted, yet aquiver with anticipation. He clasped her delicate hand. He had never seen such dainty claws. Taking a deep breath, purposeful, he drew her hand to his groin. It was time to let her feel his readiness.

  She turned her face away, pulling her hand free.

  Indignation present in every line of his body, Éorik’s gaze cut their direction. His face was dark with a protest he dare not voice. The rejection was a blow, aye, but Beowyn merely tossed his horns and expelled a frustrated grunt.