Page 11 of Hooded

“So, what you’re telling me is they trade in their own excrement?”

“Yes.”

That ice, the stuff sitting in my stomach, slowly spreads through my limbs.

“Is there a Denaver on this ship?” I ask, the sentence halting.

“No.”

My knees go weak.

“Head count of species on this ship,” I rush out in one long breath as I steady myself against the console.

“One human and one Gryn.”

Oh, fuckity fuck.

“What is a Gryn?”

“They are a warrior species. It is believed their home world is called Ustokos. They are prized among many other species for their fighting abilities, violence, and tenacity. They have been widely traded as part of the illegal slave trade the Council claim to know nothing about.”

The comm almost sounds happy with this pronouncement, as if having one accidentally on board is the greatest stroke of luck ever.

I can guarantee it isn’t. At all. It is the worst possible luck. Not only do I not have my mark, I now have a really, really pissed off alien in my cells who I’m somehow going to have to persuade not to rip me to shreds with his enormous fucking claws.

An alien who can escape from his cell at will.

I am so, so screwed.

“The Gryn on board is a gladiator and is property of the dome on Tatatunga,”the comm continues.“He is known as Klynn the Destroyer.”

“Of course he fucking is.” I groan. “How the hell did this happen? My mobile comm stated he was the mark.”

“There was an error,” the ship says.

“You’re fucking right there was an error.” I slam my fist on the console, but all that particular show of anger does is purge one of the waste ducts.

Somewhat fitting given I’ve managed to create a shit storm of epic proportions for myself. Or rather my malfunctioning tech has.

“Show me…” I can’t quite believe I have to say the words, but I’m going to have to. “…show me Klynn the Destroyer.”

The vid-screen fires into life. Like most versions of alien TV, the screen is covered in writing and symbols which flicker and change in dizzying hues. The dome is viewed from a different angle, the angle of the competitors as a huge door opens and five gladiators stride out.

I curse myself for having missed the opening of the dome. I was too busy preparing for the capture of my mark, who was supposed to be in the pod directly below me.

And what interest did I have in the death games anyway?

Every fucking interest, given I’ve kidnapped one of the dome’s gladiators!

There he is, not quite as large as life on the screen, given I’ve seen him very up close and personal. Klynn raises a dagger and a sword above his head, and the crowd roars. His dark wings are outstretched as if he’s trying to knock the other gladiators over, and his body to, literally, die for is oiled up in such a way it makes me clench my thighs.

Klynn is pretty magnificent up there on the screen.

“The following vid contains scenes of violence,” the comm intones, and I wonder if someone from Earth had a hand in programming it, given the multiple warnings I get on a daily basis.

“Fine, scroll on,” I say through gritted teeth.

What follows is a montage of gladiators, all Gryn, killing various things. None of it is pleasant, and all of it is shown in full gory detail. One thing is certain. Klynn is a destroyer, and I have the most enormous Gryn-shaped problem currently sitting in my hold.

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