Page 9 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the globe with a softplink. I wipe it away quickly, but another follows. And another. My shoulders shake, the weight of it all pressing down on me. I squeeze the globe gently, afraid I’ll shatter it but needing to feel something, anything, that connects me to them.

The limo slows as we approach the outskirts of downtown. The flicker of torches and the faint sound of chanting reach me, but I don’t look up. I can’t. Not now. Not when the ache in my chest is this raw.

Jareth’s words echo in my mind.You need someone. Or better yet, a woman.I scoff, but the sound comes out hollow. He’s wrong. I don’t need anyone. I’ve survived this long without them.

But as I sit there, the globe clutched to my chest, the lie feels heavier than the truth. Iamlonely. More than I’ve ever admitted, even to myself. The tears come harder now, silent sobs wracking my body. I don’t have the luxury of breaking, but for this moment, in the back of this limo, I let myself. Just for a moment.

The limo eases into downtown Coldwater, the streets eerily quiet for a town that’s supposedly in the throes of protest. I wipe the dampness from my cheeks with the back of my hand, the residue of vulnerability clinging to my skin. The globe sits heavy in my lap, its weight grounding me as I peer out the tinted window.

Discarded signs litter the sidewalk, their slogans—No Dam Way—scrawled in bold, angry letters. A few stray flyers cling to the lampposts, fluttering in the chilly breeze. The remnants of a crowd, but where are the people? My eyes scan the area. No mob. No shouting. Just a couple of bikers leaning against their motorcycles in front of city hall, their posture relaxed, almost bored. They’re decked out in blue, black, and red, their jackets adorned with a red cobra emblem. It means nothing to me.

“Huh.” I mutter to myself, leaning back in the seat. “Guess they got tired of yelling.”

The holographic driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, his expression neutral. “Would you like me to stop, Mr. Irons?”

“No,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “Keep driving. Nothing to see here.”

The bikers don’t even look up as the limo glides past. One of them lights a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dim light.The other laughs at something, the sound harsh and grating, but they’re not bothering anyone. Just loitering, like bikers do.

I turn away, my attention shifting back to the globe in my hands. The subtle warmth of it seeps into my palms, a quiet reassurance. I run a thumb over the smooth crystal surface, tracing the intricate patterns of scales locked inside. Red and orange, fire and blood, the colors of Vakuta. The colors of my parents.

“Take me home,” I tell the driver, my voice firmer now. “The cabin.”

The limo accelerates, leaving the hollow shell of the protest behind. I stare out the window, the passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across the interior. The globe feels heavier now, not just in weight but in meaning. Jareth’s words echo in my head again.You need someone. Or better yet, a woman.

I scoff, but it’s a weak defense. The truth is, I’ve been alone for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like not to be. This globe is the closest thing to company I’ve had in years. It’s a monument to who I was, who I lost, and who I’ve become. A reminder that I’m still here, even if no one else cares.

CHAPTER 5

REILY

We’re huddled at Dick’s, crammed into a corner booth under the glassy stare of Niner, the nine-foot grizzly bear mounted on the wall. Clem’s clutching his beer like it’s the only thing holding him together, the foam sloshing over the rim every time he slams his fist on the table. Seabus is next to him, his face redder than a boiled lobster, muttering curses under his breath like a broken prayer. I’m on my sixth or seventh beer—I stopped counting after the third—and my head feels like it’s floating a foot above my shoulders.

“That damn Hoag,” Clem growls, his knuckles white around the bottle. “He’s got his little greasy fingers in every pie in this town. Selling us out to Irons like we’re just—what? Collateral damage?”

“Collateral?” Seabus snorts, his voice thick with beer and bitterness. “We’re roadkill, Clem. Straight-up roadkill. That dam’s gonna flood Mirror Lake, and Silver Creek’s gonna be a goddamn puddle. What’s left for us? Huh? Tell me that.”

I lean back, the wood of the booth pressing into my spine. “We’re not done yet. Hoag thinks he can just brush us off, but we’re not gonna let him. We’ll find another way.”

“Another way?” Clem’s laugh is more of a bark. “Reily, that protest was our shot. And what happened? Those biker goons ran us off like we were stray dogs.”

“Jack and his gang of rejects,” Seabus spits. “Ain’t nothing but a bunch of two-bit thugs with bad tattoos and worse attitudes.”

“Cold Slither,” I mutter, swirling the dregs of my beer. “More like Cold Shit.”

Clem slams his bottle down, and the sound makes me jump. “We’re not just gonna roll over, Reily. If Hoag and Irons want a fight, they’re gonna get one. I don’t care if it’s stupid or violent or whatever. I’m done playing nice.”

Seabus nods, his jowls quivering like a bulldog’s. “Damn right. We hit ‘em where it hurts.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Clem’s phone buzzes, cutting me off. He checks it, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “Uber’s here. Gotta get home before the wife starts hollering.” He slides out of the booth, his movements stiff and heavy. “You coming, Seabus?”

“Hell yeah. I ain’t gotta death wish. Martha’ll skin me alive if I’m late again.” Seabus grunts as he stands, his belly brushing the edge of the table.

Clem tosses a few crumpled bills onto the table and claps me on the shoulder. “You gonna be okay, Reily? Need a ride?”

“Nah,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll nurse this one for a bit. Clear my head.”

Clem hesitates, but Seabus is already dragging him toward the door. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright?”

---