Page 39 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“I’ll play me,” I say, rolling my neck until the bruise under my jaw hums like a struck chord. “Which is mean.”
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the teeth out of the hinges. Red light washes the block; everything looks blood-drenched whether or not it is. Two guards jump to attention, spines straightening like they borrowed steel. The crowd in the other cells goes quiet. Even the bad singing stops.
Brozen Khong does not enter; he occupies. He fills the doorway, bone spurs catching the red like wet teeth, skin night-black under the wash, eyes a bad, bad kind of joy. Splitter hangs lazy in his fist, humming a note that makes my molars hurt. He smells like hot iron and old salt and the kind of hunger that makes people into decorations.
“Well,” he purrs, and his voice is a velvet razor. “Sunlight and gold. My gifts have excellent taste.”
“I’m not a gift,” I say, and my mouth is flippant before my sense files an objection. “I’m a rental with a steep late fee.”
One of the guards barks a laugh and shuts it down so fast his throat clicks. Brozen doesn’t look away from me. He steps close, bone spurs scuffing the deck, the red halo turning his blade into a nervous sunset.
“You are humor,” he decides, amused. “Humor keeps a crew loyal. I will keep you near.” His gaze flicks to CynJyn, sweeps her like an appraisal. “The yellow one bites.”
“She eats men for breakfast,” I say, leaning into the bars until they creak. “You first.”
“Careful,” CynJyn hisses, which is absurd because she’s staring him down like a saint with a knife.
Brozen’s smile widens. “Fire,” he murmurs, eyes back on me. “I like that you burn. We will bank it. We will take it out onfestival nights and let the crew remember why they follow a man who brings them trophies they can smell.”
“Funny,” I say, ignoring the shake in my hands. “I was thinking the same about you. Put you on a pole, let children throw rotten fruit. Tradition, you know.”
One of the guards shifts like he wants to strike me. Brozen lifts a finger without looking and the guard becomes stillness incarnate. That finger traces the air between us and stops a hair shy of the bone-wrapped bar.
“I should scold you,” he says, and there’s a theater to it, a lazy drag. “But I find myself in a generous mood. The Bloodseeker runs fat on luck. The other captains whisper my name like a prayer. Splitter is thirsty and we have a full jug.” He taps the blade lightly against his thigh. “Perhaps we let insolence ripen. Perhaps we plant you where the crew can watch you refuse to bend.”
“You’re mistaking me for a palm tree,” I say. “I’m a cactus. Hug me and find out.”
He barks a delighted sound. “You will make an excellent pet.”
“I will make an excellent grave,” I say sweetly.
CynJyn snorts. “Put that on your crest.”
“Captain?” one of the guards blurts, not sure if he’s allowed to speak. “The chain is keyed. You said?—”
“I did,” Brozen says, without turning. The air fur along his neck shifts; it’s the only warning I get that he’s leaning closer. He sets his palm against the bar. It’s warm through the bone, too warm. “Tell me, little sun,” he murmurs, so quiet I could pretend he isn’t letting the whole block hear, “what does your father pay to keep your throat uncut?”
“My father doesn’t pay for my throat,” I say, because fear is loud and I refuse to give it the mic. “But if you need money, I know a club where you can charge admission to watch you bathe.”
CynJyn elbows me. “Stop making eye contact with the tiger.”
“It’s a cat,” I say. “You don’t look away from cats.”
Brozen’s gaze slides to the ceiling, a lazy pan that is somehow more dangerous than a spear. He sees nothing. He’s looking for nothing. He is sure I have nowhere to put my hope. The duct above us holds its breath, all steel and prayer.
“Tonight,” he decides, stepping back, his blade making lazy figure-eights in the wash like it wants to draw blood just to feel its own weight. “We feast. Tomorrow, we play.”
“Don’t trip over the door on your way out,” CynJyn mutters. “It’s shy.”
He laughs again, big this time, and turns his back in a room where only fools turn their backs. He doesn’t know that the ceiling has teeth. He doesn’t look up. Power makes men brave and lazy in equal measure.
“Keep them pretty,” he tells the guards. “Keep them lit. And if anyone touches my pet without permission, I take hands.” He taps Splitter against the nearest wrist like a promise and strolls out, cloak swinging, bone spurs brushing sparks against the frame.
The door slams. The klaxon ratchets down a notch, still grumbling, a heartbeat we can’t dial down. The guards relax all at once, exhale like they’ve been auditioning for statues. One says, “Captain’s in love,” sotto voce; the other says, “Captain doesn’t do love,” and checks a wrist reader whose face is cracked like a bad tooth.
CynJyn leans into me. “Okay,” she breathes. “I’m not saying he’s ugly, but if ugliness had a hobby?—”
“Shh.” My chest hurts. I look up.
