Page 43 of Alien Devil's Wrath
My eyes snapped open.
ZAREK
The barricade splintered under another impact. Wood cracked like breaking bones. Metal shrieked its surrender. The desk I’d used as foundation shifted backward, mahogany legs carving grooves in stone.
They’d found a support beam from the collapsing upper levels, judging by the rust-red dust that fell with each strike. The steel groaned with each impact, adding to the symphony of structural failure echoing through the compound.
I pressed my shoulder against the failing barrier, but my strength was gone. Eighteen hours of holding this position. Eighteen hours of killing anyone who tried to reach her. My healing factor had stopped working around hour twelve. Now I was running on spite and stubbornness, bleeding from wounds that wouldn’t close. The floor beneath me was dark with dried blood—mine and theirs mixed beyond recognition.
Behind me, Bronwen lay still in the corner. The silver traceries covered most of her visible skin now, intricate designs that pulsed faintly with each heartbeat. Her breathing was deep, even. The transformation was almost complete. Another hour, maybe less.
Time I didn’t have.
The desk split down the middle with a sound like a spine snapping. The crack spread through ancient mahogany, wood that had survived centuries splintering in minutes. Through the widening gap, I saw them. Dozens of guards, weapons raised. Fresh troops pulled from other sections—their uniforms still clean, eyes still sharp. They’d been reinforced while I’d been bleeding.
The first guard through the breach—a Lyrikan with silver hair now dark with soot—took a shard glass in his throat. Color-shifting eyes widened as he dropped, hands clutching at the wound. Silver blood spurted between his fingers, creating patterns on the floor that looked almost artistic. The second, a Mondian, got my fist in his temple. His scales cracked under impact, but there were too many. Always too many.
A rifle butt caught me across the jaw. My vision exploded into stars, each one pulsing with its own painful light. I staggered, caught myself against the wall that was sticky with blood, swung at the next shadow. My fist connected with armor, sending shock waves up my already damaged arm. The guard—another Mondian—barely flinched.
They swarmed me. Six, eight, ten of them. Different species, different strengths, all converging. I fought with everything I had left—teeth finding a Poraki’s throat, tasting his bitter blood; nails raking across a Merrith’s delicate features; elbows cracking against whatever came close. Broke someone’s nose with a wet crunch. Dislocated a Krelaxian’s shoulder, his scream high and alien. But exhaustion made me slow, sloppy. A boot caught my broken ribs. Fire spread through my chest. I doubled over, and they drove me to my knees.
I tried to rise. A rifle stock cracked against the back of my skull. The world tilted, colors bleeding together. My palms hit the floor, finding purchase in congealed blood. Throughthe ringing in my ears, I heard boots. Measured. Unhurried. Expensive leather that clicked against stone with steady rhythm.
Slade stepped through the ruined barricade.
His uniform was pristine despite the chaos above. Every button caught the emergency lights. Every crease sharp enough to cut. He’d taken time to clean up, to look exactly right for this moment. Fresh cologne tried to mask the death-stench, but underneath I could smell his excitement. His pale eyes found mine, and that familiar smirk spread across his face. The same expression he’d worn when he’d ordered the retreat without my squad. When he’d watched from the transport as we were overrun, outnumbered, screaming for backup that would never come.
“Hello, Zarek.” His voice carried false warmth, like oil over water. “You look tired.”
Two guards flanked him. His elite. Both Mondians, scales gleaming despite the smoke and dust, weapons trained on my head. Their eyes were cold, professional. They wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t miss.
“Get up,” Slade said.
I pushed myself to my feet, swaying. Everything hurt. Ribs grinding against each other with each breath. Left shoulder a constant scream of dislocation. Cuts and punctures leaking blood I couldn’t afford to lose. But I stood. Faced him.
“Eighteen hours,” he said, circling me slowly, leather boots clicking. “Impressive. You killed forty-three of my men. Guards with families, with futures. All for her.”
His gaze shifted to the corner where Bronwen lay. The hunger in his eyes made my teeth clench hard enough to crack.
“Don’t—”
His fist connected with my stomach. What little air I had left exploded. I dropped to one knee, gasping, tasting iron. Hegrabbed my hair, yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him. His manicured nails dug into my scalp.
“You don’t give orders here.” He released me, stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. Then drew his plasma blade—ceremonial thing with his name etched in the hilt. The energy hummed to life, casting blue shadows that danced across his face.
“On your knees,” he said. “Properly.”
The guards’ rifles pressed against my skull, cold metal against fever-hot skin. No choice. I knelt, hands at my sides, meeting his gaze. Behind him, through the gap in the barricade, I could see more guards watching. His audience. He always needed an audience.
Above us, an explosion shook the building. The structure was failing. Dust rained from new cracks in the ceiling. The emergency lights flickered, casting us in stuttering shadows. The compound was dying around us, but Slade only had eyes for this moment.
“You know, you bringing me the Regalia was just luck,” Slade said, bringing the blade close to my throat. The heat made my skin tighten, adding the smell of singed hair to the death-stench. “I can sell it to the Conclave for any price I ask. But having you walk right into my prison? Getting to finish what I started with your squad? That’s a gift.”
The blade pressed against my throat. Not cutting yet. Just heat and promise and the faint sizzle of skin beginning to burn.
“The shields are still active, you realize,” he continued, savoring the moment. “Even if by some miracle you survived this, you’d never leave. Trapped here forever. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”
My squad. Zylos, who’d been barely twenty. Krall, who’d had a daughter waiting for him. Lorak, who’d saved my lifetwice before Slade’s betrayal killed him. They’d died confused, abandoned, wondering why their commander had left them.
