Immortal Essence Box Set: Aligned, Exiled, Beguiled

by RaShelle Workman

“What are you going to do?” Michael asked, quietly, keeping his eyes on the counter. If he moved, no doubt he’d puke again.

  “We’re going to handle everything. Our unit is different than regular cops. Special. I belong to a government group called, A.L.T. And what happened to your mom, it’s the work of a certain type—”

  “The government? Seriously, you expect me to believe that not only are you a cop, but a government-type cop. What are you? Like FBI?” Michael shook his head, which caused him to become even more nauseated. “Why should I believe anything you say?” He finally looked at Frank, glared actually. If he were honest, he’d have to admit Frank did sort of look FBI-ish. The suit. His hair. The way he was acting—too calm. He decided he didn’t care. If Frank would help find his mother’s killer, he’d deal.

  For now . . .

  Michael realized there were sounds coming from the other room. Low voices. Other people were in the house. “What’s going on?” He bolted from his chair and ran back into the living room.

  “Michael, wait.”

  He heard his father following. Frank grabbed his arm as he reached the entry to the living room. Two people in white were leaning over his mother, inspecting her. One had a syringe and a slide like he’d used in chemistry class earlier in the year.

  “Get away from her.” Michael made a move toward her, but his father grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. “Stop. Make them stop,” he yelled. The thought of them doing tests on her, treating her like a lab rat, infuriated him. What did they think happened to her?

  “Like I said, we need to talk.” Frank half pushed, half dragged Michael back into the kitchen.

  Michael breathed heavily, trying not to cry, but seeing her that way, so small and broken. And all the blood, he couldn’t help it. Then the smell—a combination of copper, the effing citrus from the cleaning products, and . . . death. It was too much.

  “Why’d this happen?” He closed his eyes and pressed both palms into them, rubbing. They stung with unshed tears. And his mother’s carved and bloodied body seemed tattooed to the insides of his eyelids.

  “Michael, you’re old enough to understand what I’m about to tell you. He clapped him on the back. Ready?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Our agency has been tracking . . . life forms that don’t originate from our planet.” He stood next to Michael, his presence overwhelming. Calmly, he continued, “The A.L.T. agency was created in the eighteen hundreds. The government believes extraterrestrial life exists. Hell, the whole world does. Our species have been curious about what else is out there for—well, forever.”

  Michael’s head thumped in pain. Was Frank going to give a history lesson right now?

  Frank continued, “They discovered the first real evidence fifty years ago. In the last nine, we’ve known for a fact . . .”

  He paused and Michael took his hands from his face. He wanted to see Frank’s eyes. Instinctively, Michael knew Frank wasn’t lying, wasn’t kidding around. The truth of it sank deep in his bones. But if Frank was going to say it, the word alien, he had to watch the words leave his mouth. See Frank’s lips move to be sure he heard him.

  “Say it.” Michael waited, desperate to go back to . . .

  And then events of the past few days hit him. The girl, Venus. The way she’d made him feel. The color of her blood. What she’d said to his mother. Words like, ‘where I’m from’ and ‘wish you were dead’ filtered through his brain, like the drip, drip of leftover coffee. At each memory, his face shifted, twisted in agony.

  “You tell me, Michael.” His eyebrows scrunched together making the skin between them ripple, like an old pug.

  “No, go on. Finish what you were going to say.” Michael forced himself to concentrate on Frank’s eyes instead of the wrinkled protrusion.

  Frank sat in a barstool next to Michael. “You know what I’m going to say. I can see it on your face. But—” he paused, perhaps gauging how Michael would respond. “Aliens are here on our planet. And you know how the movies portray them as enormous monsters or little green men with big, black eyes?” He’d used his hands to help describe them. All Michael saw were flailing fingers.

  Frank waited.

  Michael’s headache throbbed harder, beating against his eyes and in his ears. Michael squinted, hoping that would help ease the pressure. This was crazy. Unbelievable. Insane. And even more unbelievable? Michael didn’t feel any sort of real freak-out happening inside, at the information Frank revealed.

  Aliens existed. Aliens existed!

  He waited for his mind to sift more thoroughly through the words.

  Aliens. Aliens. Aliens are real. But, that was it. No panic. No fear. Zip! “Okay?”

  “My division, we’re Alien Life Trackers, and little green men don’t exist. At least I’ve never seen them. What I have seen are creatures that look like you and me. Except they aren’t anything like us. We’ve been tracking one for many years. The thing can run fast—like lightning. It’s strong. We’ve shot it with different types of guns, tried to burn it, cut it, you name it. So far, we haven’t found a way to kill it, haven’t even put a scratch on the alien. Every kind of weapon we’ve used has been useless. It mocks us, knows nothing on our planet can harm it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and first finger.

  The horror in Frank’s voice spoke volumes more than his actual words. He heard fear, but more precisely, Michael heard disgust. A familiar sound. He’d been on the receiving end of Frank’s loathing many times. Most of Michael still believed Frank was the enemy. And he wanted to lash out. Fight him. Beat him. He’d grown almost as tall as his father, looked like he weighed more. Certainly he was in better shape. Michael was a hundred-percent positive he could take him.

  “Why would . . . it kill mother?” Michael asked, keeping most of the hatred he harbored for the man next to him behind gritted teeth.

  Frank sighed. The first sign of weakness he’d seen. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Michael. “It’s making the chase personal. The alien has no problem killing. There’ve been other dead bodies, cut up the way we found your mother. We figured it was smart, but now we know it’s more than that. It’s vindictive. Recently it’s begun tracking down our families. Thaddeus Holstrom, my old boss was killed a few days after the alien killed his wife and two children. Now I’m the boss, it appears to be coming after my family.”

  Michael unfolded the white sheet of paper and read.

  While he scanned the lyrical handwriting, Frank continued, “You’re all the family I have left. If he follows the same M.O. . . .” He let the words hang in the air like a paper airplane caught in a burst of wind. The wind died. “You’re next, Michael.”

  35. Who Can It Be Now

  The rest of the long night continued in a blur of men in white suits. These men took samples of his mother’s skin, hair and blood. They scraped under her fingernails, stripped her and bagged up her clothes, and they ran some sort of beeping machine over every inch of her body. At first Frank tried to keep Michael from the room, but it wasn’t possible. Michael had to know what they were doing.

  His relationship with his mother had been rocky, at best. Right now, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that some monster had murdered her. And that the monster might be someone he’d begun to care about. Venus. Yet another relationship that would let him down.

  Regret also bogged him down. Guilt over the way he’d treated his mother the last time they spoke. The last words he’d said. There’d never be another opportunity. No more hope for a chance at reconciliation.

  The last time he’d seen her had been dinnertime the night before. His mother flung a paper plate full of mac and cheese at him. Yelled ‘happy birthday,’ and then started in on her usual barrage of spiteful words. Michael hadn’t backed down. They’d fought. She’d yelled at him for bringing ‘that slut-girl into her house’ and said, “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.” She’d hit him, m
ore than once, not that it mattered now, not when he remembered what he’d said back.

  He’d grabbed her arm, yelled in her face, towering over her, “I hate you.” He hadn’t stopped there. He’d said worse. “No wonder Dad left. He couldn’t stand to be around a crazy bitch. Neither can I.”

  He’d stomped out of the house. It was the last time he’d seen her alive. Her mouth twisted in anger, gray eyes burning with hurt and hate.

  Sadness tore through him.

  When they zipped his mother into the body bag, Michael puked again. His thighs wouldn’t stop shaking. Then they wheeled her body out of the house, on a gurney, and slid her into the back of a black van.

  He never got to say good-bye.

  The police showed up not too long after the van drove away. Frank and his team were able to clear them off the street and out of the neighborhood within minutes. Not a single police officer made it inside the house. Frank made a phone call and they went away. By four o’clock in the morning, the living room looked as pristine as it had when he’d left earlier that day. There wasn’t a trace of blood. Even the coppery, citrus scent had vanished, replaced by the odor of Clorox.

  Frank informed Michael that he needed to be in protective custody.

  “No way. I can’t.” The words came out with conviction, but Michael was still underage—seventeen. Whether he liked or trusted Frank was beside the point. He was Michael’s father, so he had to do what his father asked. Didn’t he? Alcohol never sounded so good. He wanted to be numb, to forget.

  You are stronger than you think! The words forced their way in. It hadn’t sounded male or female. But like . . . both—many.

  “Michael? Hey!” Frank snapped his fingers in Michael’s face.

  “I don’t want to go with you.”

  “What? You have other plans?” Frank’s dark eyes searched Michael’s while he waited for an answer.

  “No. But, I’m not, don’t—”

  “Sir, we have the results back.” The man wore white, including a hairnet on his head. Michael could see his eyes, crooked nose, and an untamed blond mustache. He’d looked directly at Michael when he spoke, his eyes accusing. Then he turned to his father, “We’ve got something.”

  Frank immediately perked up at the news. He combed his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat. The two men exchanged a look.

  “Is it a hair? If so, it’ll have to be tested quickly.”

  “I think you’d better come with me . . . sir.” He shifted his weight, glanced down at the floor. The man seemed anxious, but obviously didn’t want to speak his mind in front of Michael.

  “Right, Seth. Michael, stay in here. I’ll be right back.” Frank patted Michael’s shoulder, straightened his tie and followed Seth.

  When they’d gone, Michael contemplated the marks repeatedly cut into his mother. The large circle, which reminded him of a sun, with a half moon attached to the right side. All around the sun and half moon were what appeared to be flames. Inside the half moon had a carving of what looked like a shark’s face—the nose, mouth and one eye visible. The full circle surrounded a long vertical oval circle with what appeared to be a Japanese symbol inside. Since an alien murdered her, he doubted, though, that the symbol was actually Japanese.

  The whole idea of carving into the flesh baffled him. What did it mean? For centuries humans had carved into themselves, in the form of tattoos or whatever else other cultures called them. Usually the person receiving the tattoo had a specific reason for it, whether trivial or not. So why would a creature from another planet carve into a human? For that matter, why pick Earth. Michael had always thought the Hollywood notion of aliens choosing his planet ridiculous.

  I mean, if they’re smart enough to get here; they’ve got to be smart enough to know this planet’s dying.

  But, if for some reason aliens had chosen this planet, his bigger question: why, oh why did they choose to kill his mother? He’d destroy who or whatever had done it.

  The carvings had to hold some meaning.

  And the room, seeing his mother’s blood dripping from the walls and the furniture, it was worse than any horror film. Michael hoped he’d get the chance to ask the monster why, right before he killed it.

  Heaving a big sigh, he decided he’d better call someone. The police didn’t know his mother had been murdered. If Frank took him, there’d be no proof anything had happened. A little calmer, he remembered his cell.

  Duh!

  Checking to make sure he had the kitchen to himself, he dialed Cheverly’s number.

  “Holy cheese and crackers, Michael. What time is it?” She sounded cranky and half-asleep.

  “Chev, sorry.” Now that he had her on the phone, he wasn’t sure what to say. An alien killed my mom. My deadbeat dad came back and works for a secret government . . .

  “Michael, I’m trying to sleep. Can we talk later?” She yawned.

  “Wait. I know it’s late—early, but I need to talk to you. It’s important, about my mom.”

  “What? Is she okay?”

  She sounded more alert. Good.

  “No. She-she’s dead, Chev. Someone or thing killed her. I found her . . .” Saying the words out loud, the whole night overwhelmed him. Mother had died, gone forever. He’d never see her again. Tears pooled in his eyes, blurring everything. He blinked furiously, pushing them back.

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Where are you? Tell me and I’ll be there.” Michael knew she meant it.

  “I’m still at the house. Chev, there’s more.” How should he tell her? Blurt it out. He took a deep breath and said, “My dad’s here, too. He thinks a . . . non-human killed her.”

  “What? Like an animal?” Her confusion was easy to hear.

  “No. Look, my—Frank thinks it’ll come after me next. So I’m leaving. He wants to take me—”

  “Michael, what are you doing? Hang up!”

  He turned to see Frank standing in the doorway. Anger lined his face. Michael had seen that before. Nothing had changed with Frank.

  “Hang. Up.” He walked over. Michael stood firm, prepared for a beating. Instead Frank grabbed the phone and shut it. “Are you crazy? Who did you call? What did you say?”

  “A friend.” Part of him still cringed, waiting for the pummeling Frank usually brought, had constantly sent down on Michael when they’d all lived together.

  He opened Michael’s phone and went through it, probably looking through his recent call list. “Cheverly West.” He looked at Michael for confirmation. Michael kept his mouth shut. He had no intention of confirming or denying. Besides, Frank already knew the answer.

  Frank pocketed his phone. “I packed you some clothes. It seems you and I have even more to talk about than I’d previously thought. Where’d you get this?” Frank held up the gun Michael had stuffed between his mattresses.

  Michael wanted to play dumb, but decided coming clean would bode better. Frank probably knew it was his. “Oh, that. I found it. Why’d you go through my room?” He stood straight, tall, shoulders back. The bruise on his shoulder ached, but he pushed through the pain. No way he’d allow Frank to see more of his weaknesses.

  Frank tucked the gun into his pants at the small of his back.” “Let’s go. We’ve a lot to talk about.”

  Michael’s first thought was to put up a fight. Tell Frank to suck it. He didn’t want to leave. Somehow he knew that wouldn’t do a bit of good. If Frank wanted him to come, he had too. “Fine.” He let out a sigh.

  Frank grabbed his arm and pulled. “Don’t look so glum. We’ll go alien hunting together. It’ll be great father-son bonding time.” A smirk played on his mouth. Michael wanted to rip it off.

  Yanking his arm from Frank’s grasp, Michael stepped back. Frank wasn’t telling Michael everything, which ticked him off. What more had Frank’s people, A.L.T., done in his house? His room? He had to know. “Can I grab a book first?”

  He nodded. “Make it fast.”

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Michael rea
ched the top and ran into his room. His sheets and bedding were gone, empty mattresses lay naked.

  The blood—Venus’s blood. A few drops of her blood had fallen onto his comforter.

  Is that what they were after?

  He thought everything else had been left alone, until he tried to find the book Venus had touched, War and Peace. It was missing. A.L.T. had gone through his entire room. One lamp was shifted further to the right. His laptop sat more forward, and the screen glared on instead of the screensaver. The trophies weren’t exactly as he’d left them either. Usually the curtains were open and now they were closed.

  “Great!” He closed his laptop, grabbed a random book, and ran downstairs. To Frank, he said, “What were you looking for in my room? Why’d they take one of my books?”

  “We’ll talk more in a minute. Right now we’re leaving.” He didn’t wait for a response, but walked out of the house.

  Reluctantly, Michael followed.

  Outside, a man in a black suit stood alert. Puffs of hot air came from his mouth. Frank spoke low to the guy. Michael couldn’t hear what was said. Then Frank moved toward a silver sedan. Michael lumbered behind.

  At the car, Frank opened the passenger door, turned and said, “Get in.”

  36. Pour Some Sugar On Me

  The next morning Venus knocked on Zaren and Dervinias’s bedroom door. “You guys, we need to talk. Right away.”

  “It’s six in the morning. Give me another couple hours,” Dervinias griped.

  “Be right there.” Zaren sounded like he’d been awake for hours.

  “It’s important, Dervinias. Get your lazy butt out here.” Knowing Dervinias and Zaren would be reading her mind, she scanned through Michael’s memories. In less than sixty seconds both guys were seated at the tiny kitchen table barreling questions at her.

  Frustrated, Venus counted backward. Three. Two. One. “This is a disaster. Who would kill his mother? Why?” Sorrow pierced her heart for Michael. “And where did his father take him? He must be so upset.” She slid down in the rickety black chair, feeling torn. Not only would Michael be devastated, maybe unable to ever love, but Venus felt sorry for herself, too. “I only have a few days left.”