First Species

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Music that inspired me during the writing of FIRST SPECIES:

  All of Me

  by

  John Legend

  (score and lyrics)

  Character List

  Paige - transition

  Drest – First Species

  Jac – prehistoric (woolly mammoth)

  Camille - transition

  Kiel (Key-eihl) – First Species +

  Jael (Hai-ehl) – transition (daughter of now-deceased Talbot Cline)

  Casek – adopted First Species/Lycan Mutable

  Roiel (roy- ehl) – Mutable donkey +

  Talyn – prehistoric/Lycan post transition

  Merck -Lycan mate

  Drake - dragon mate

  Declan – infant male offspring (twin of Cara)

  Cara – infant female offspring

  Narah – hybrid female vampire (Final Enforcement bounty)

  Murphy – male [turned] vampire (Final Enforcement bounty)

  Mollie – female [turned] vampire (Final Enforcement bounty)

  Conrick – First Species Alpha mated to Grace

  Amelia, infant daughter of Grace

  Doric – prehistoric dragon Alpha

  Seiger (Say-gher) – Mutable chimera Alpha

  *Dirk – donkey Mutable

  Travis – hyena Mutable

  Lark - hyena Mutable

  + = mixed genetics

  * = deceased

  Chapter 1

  Talyn

  H ang on,” I say, hoping to unlatch my nursling and deftly switch him to my other breast without fully waking him.

  God knows the process is a juggling act.

  Or just jugs. Big ones. Whoever thinks huge breasts are great has never had them bursting at the seams with milk while braless and leaky.

  So sexy.

  These days, I have to make an appointment to brush my teeth. Motherhood is not like the famous painting of Madonna and child. And I thought I'd wanted a dozen kids.

  I'd been infertile in my human existence.

  Then Drake and Merck had changed me into what I am now: A female Lycan with a streak of prehistoric blood. Enough exotic genetics for the Mutables to hunt me.

  That's over for me now, thank God.

  Doric, the alpha of the prehistoric den has agreed to reveal our presence to humanity.

  Our location cannot be divulged, of course.

  And our location is as covert as that of the First Species. As Doric had called them when I was newly pregnant, “the first of us all.”

  What are the First Species? Well, as near I understand (having met Grace, who is a FS, as I think of them) they are a primate type vampire.

  Bigfoot with bite—I mean fangs.

  Maybe humans were climbing the evolutionary ladder, becoming waylaid. Meant to be human, they're now stuck as superior intellectual giant apes who can sustain themselves with food or blood.

  I'm not sure if the “mainstream” humans are ready for additional revelations. They've already had vampires, shifters, and Mutables coming out of the metaphorical closet lobbed between their collective eyes.

  I live within the confines of prehistoric boundaries now. My twins are one-year-olds and not nursing every second of my life. But the bounty against the one half of my dual mates has not lifted—now Doric has a publicity revelation to be made.

  The story of prehistoric animal extinction is not technically accurate. They're around, just not the way people have always quantified them. Humans have believed they're the top rung of the evolutionary ladder when in reality, they never were.

  The First Species have that distinction.

  Even the prehistorics bow to the FS hierarchy in the chain of supernaturals.

  A small sound disrupts my thoughts as Merck saunters in from his training session with Drake. My Lycan and dragon mates, finally getting along.

  Well... mostly.

  Deep scratches decorate Merck's flanks, have my breath hissing inward at the sight of the raw wounds.

  His blue eyes challenge me.

  I purse my lips. “Drake's been grabby again, I see.”

  Merck doesn't answer immediately. Opening the fridge, he rests his forearm on the top of the open door as he peers inside at the tightly-packed contents. I survey his hard, heavily muscled body from where I sit by a tall, narrow window, nursing the second twin.

  “Yup.” Merck finally says without turning to look at me, continuing to peruse the fridge interior.

  I give a mental sigh. “Tell him to stop pulling you with his claws.”

  Grabbing a water bottle and uncapping it, Merck upends the contents, thick throat working as he chugs the entire thing.

  Throwing the emptied bottle into the separator, he puts a fist over his mouth to stifle a burp, saying gruffly, “I'll heal.”

  Males.

  Giving a huff, I carefully unlatch Declan. He gives a half-dazed little gasping yawn. I scoot him next to me on the couch, tucking his lightweight baby blanket behind his back so he can't roll.

  His sister goes on the boob that's the fullest. With a relieved sigh, I shift my weight, looking down at Cara.

  She has her father's bright blue eyes. Well, one of her fathers. Cara gazes up at me as she nurses. A single, unruly tuft of bright, carrot-colored hair sprouts from the middle of her head, secured with a tiny, bright pink barrette to keep it in place.

  Who says redheads can't wear pink? I don't know why I bother with securing anything. She tears the slim plastic rectangle out at every opportunity.

  Merck strolls toward me. I watch the smooth movement of his hips, the scratches fading to shallow, furrowed rakes as I look.

  As he leans over me, I tilt my head up to catch his lips. His flesh covers my own, soft as a feather, hot as stoked fire.

  Lifting his head, Merck gently tugs at the tuft of hair on our daughter's head, and a small smile curls his lips as her nursing pauses. A smile forms around my nipple, and he gives a slight shake of his head. “I don't know where the red comes from.”

  Cara keeps her mouth moving, but her sparkling eyes follow her father. She's a curious little bean.

  Declan resembles Drake.

  Neither of our children takes after me though I'm not overly concerned, as I remember their birth quite well, I think with a mental smirk. My own lips twitch at that painful memory, also the most rewarding of my life.

  “Do not worry about Drake and me.” His eyes hood with mirth. “We work together well. If there were to be an altercation, I guarantee the other male would not take care with talon or claw. So Drake must not either.”

  That's true, I suppose. It's just so difficult to see the harm they cause each other in the name of defense. Mainly, the defense of their female, offspring and the greater clan.

  But these men—males—are my co-husbands, they continually misbehave with each other. At least, that's my perspective on the situation.

  Merck kneels at my feet, his large hands coming to rest on my knees as he reads my troubled expression perfectly. “Talyn, we do this training to defeat Mutables and others.” His voice is low, careful.

  Because our sleeping children should not be woken due to my fear.

  Cara's eyes have drifted closed to the melodic timbre of her father's voice as Declan's soft snores fill the immediate space.

  “I know.” But my eyes dive toward the floor-to-ceiling window where only mountains and low-lying mist brought by early autumn weather gathers along the ground like weeping clouds. “I feel so fragile.”

  Merck cocks his head, confusion clouding his eyes. “You are.”

  I smile at his misunderstanding. “No—I mean mentally.” There's just so much to come to terms with in the supernatural world. I'm not quite the
re yet. Even though I'm technically one myself now. Of course, I've not had very much time to get used to that.

  “I disagree. Any female who goes so long in her human existence only to be changed at almost forty? No. Not a soft female.” Merck stands with a quiet chuckle, stretching his heavy arms to the ceiling. Though he wears the athletic pants that so many of the males favor around here, he is shirtless, and the scratches are now red, whip-like marks as though healed three weeks instead of only three hours.

  I'm still human enough to be amazed by the healing of the supernaturals. Merck and Drake have had their entire lives to become accustomed to the miracle it is from my perspective.

  I have not.

  Merck's eyes sharpen on me as he lowers his heels to the ground, placing large hands on his hips. “What is it?”

  I give a tiny shake of my head, “I'm thinking about Doric's ʻcoming out.ʼ”

  My mate lifts one broad shoulder, letting it fall a moment later. “His decision pleases me. With more humans understanding the supernatural role right beneath their noses, there will be more females saved. It's a bold move steeped in logic.”

  I shiver. Just the thought of a Mutable getting his hands on a vulnerable, sick woman hybrid sets my teeth on edge.

  He studies my face for a moment. “You miss your work,” Merck states.

  “I do.” My eyes hold his. “Very much. I mean—” My eyes flick away, scanning the shrouded woods outside the window as I hold Cara a little bit tighter. “I love helping the hybrid females transition, but what about the ones who haven't a clue what they are?”

  Merck nods. “I forget so easily their plight when I have what I need right here.”

  Our eyes meet, heat flaring between us.

  At just that moment, Drake quietly opens the door to our semi-subterranean house. I've trained the males well—they tiptoe for the babies.

  His green-gold eyes take in the serious atmosphere and the sleeping children. “Is all well?”

  I nod.

  Another thing to become accustomed to is the way my mates speak. When you've been alive for a few centuries, you speak differently. It's just what it is. They can assume modern vernacular, but it's by design, not by default.

  “Merck and I were discussing Doric's revelation.”

  Drake nods, his citrine eyes blazing, the oblong pupil an inky oval slit in the middle of his iris. His eyes are that of his animal, telling me his emotions are running high. His chin kicks up slightly. “I have some trepidation regarding the move.”

  One of Merck's dark brows raises. “It's for the best.”

  Drake gives a slow, answering nod. “Perhaps. But the Mutables will feel like they can run amok.”

  His skin appears to shimmer, glassy iridescence for a moment or two, then subsides to the skin of his human form.

  Like Merck did before, Drake opens the fridge and repeats the process of the water ritual, but instead of still water, he drinks live. That's how they refer to it, anyway.

  It's mineral water to me. For a shifter whose animal is dragon, the carbonation adds a bit more cool, soothing properties to the internal heat that is always brewing as part of their nature.

  Drake sips at his. There's part of the stark difference between the men.

  Drake is slow to respond, thoughtful—he can't really afford to explode as a dragon shifter every time his ire rises.

  Merck is like a struck match. Sometimes I think I got the best of both worlds.

  Gazing down at a sleeping Cara, I restrain myself from squeezing her. My love for the twins is scary, overpowering. When a person wants children as badly as I had then having resigned myself to infertility, the love I have for my children is a different brand, bordering almost on desperation. Because I never thought I'd have them.

  Cara's detached from my nipple, her small head gaining weight, where it lolls into the crook of my elbow.

  Drake's nostrils flare as he strides past Merck. Sensitive to my emotions, he sinks to his haunches, expertly sliding big palms beneath our sleeping daughter, and lifts her, settling her next to her brother.

  Merck walks to the chair I sit in, lifting the blanket from my shoulder and tucking the soft cloth beneath a sleeping Cara.

  From our perspective, they're two little peas in a pod, stacked beside each other, blankets rolled and tucked to keep them sleeping, not shifting.

  Standing, I give a soft groan, pressing my hand to the small of my back.

  Drake moves to stand behind me, gently kneading the part of my back that's always sore between my neck and shoulders.

  “Ah,” I groan again, tipping my head back and resting it against his chest.

  Merck steps in front of me, cupping my breasts but not squeezing though they're empty of milk for once.

  His lips sear a trail against my throat, and I can't help the erotic sound slipping from between my lips.

  “Feed me,” I say just as my stomach growls.

  I want sex. Unfortunately, my body requires food more.

  Drake moves from behind me, sliding a hand around my waist, and Merck lifts his head, gazing into my eyes.

  “Quickly, then we worship you in another way, my female.”

  A flush of heat rises, warming my face in a way that is felt all the way to the roots of my hair.

  Because a promise made from Merck is one Drake will match.

  The men make quick work of assembling something nourishing so their female is not hungry.

  I know they'll make thorough work of my pleasure as well.

  Chapter 2

  Paige

  W aitress!” table number four calls out. Not the actual table but the people sitting there.

  Typically, I'm a really great server.

  But forgive me if I'm a little freaked out at the moment. Some dude just announced there are more weirdos running around.

  I frown. Guess that's a pretty prejudiced attitude. In this politically correct era of tolerance, I need to buck up. But that's a tall order, no pun intended. First, there's vampires (some even work at Final Enforcement, the badass bounties of Sioux Falls and the greater Midwest region, though more are springing up like McDonald's restaurants—they're franchised, after all).

  Second, the existence of werewolves and shapeshifters was announced.

  When the third bit of news broke about renegade shapeshifters called Mutables that were stealing human women to force-breed them—well, that kinda shook the world's foundation.

  Where Mutables were concerned, that usually equaled a short lifespan for the women.

  I shudder. So yeah, this new revelation is scary.

  Now this guy, his name is Doric—just one name; like Madonna or Usher—he's come out to say there's an entire group who are prehistoric shapeshifters. Like saber tooth tigers.

  The first group of shapeshifters who ever existed is called First Species.

  Doric, the Alpha of the prehistorics, made this tidbit all sound very simple—matter-of-fact, but the truth is: they're bigfeet who are also vampires.

  It's simply not a safe existence anymore. Being human, that is, especially being female.

  “Waitress!”

  My shoulders slump. Jerks.

  Turning on my heel, I give the pulsevision embedded tight against where the wall meets the ceiling my back, trudging over to the table.

  I'm a cocktail waitress. We have a limited food menu at Spinal Tap in the downtown area of Sioux Falls, population three hundred thousand souls. If you like grease and fried, or both—there's a bit of that here, but mainly we have great beer and mixed drinks that are known for strong pours.

  So, I deal with my share of dickheads. Like this group.

  A familiar guy leers up at me as I approach. “Looking good, Paige.”

  A smattering of other comments mark my progress as I move toward the group of local boys. Waitresses are part of an unfortunate group of people who are a captive audience to this particular brand of bullshittery.

  If you're female, this brand
of rude is usually from the male variety. Girls can be bitches too, but generally—they don't grab your ass.

  “Captive audience” in that, this is your job. To wait on people. It's their job (in the case of these morons) to make me miserable while I'm doing it.

  I straighten my spine, coming to stand in front of the table. “Hi, guys, had some time to decide?”

  Chuck Crete stares at my boobs instead of my face, saying, “I'll have one of those.”

  His snide smile is unmistakable. He's saying I should just pluck my breast off my body and give it to him to mess with. Charming.

  The raucous laughter drowns out the commentary from the pulsevision behind me.

  Chuck flicks his deeply set, muddy brown eyes at the pulsevision and snorts. “I bet some of those ape schmucks would love to have some of your tail.”

  Gawd. Aren't they listening? The “ape schmucks” are not interested in ordinary human women.

  “What's your order?” I ask for his order the second time, as neutrally as possible, thumb hovering over the doc for my pulse. All I have to do is think their orders as they tell me and depress my thumb on the doc that is shaped approximately the same size as the tip of my finger. The thought transference model I'm currently using has been in place since Brain Impulse Technology came into being in the mid-20s of the 21st century.

  Can't even imagine what it'd be like to have to use a pen and paper, archaic cell phones, or other old forms of communication. Look at all the forests we killed to manufacture paper, all the coal burned to put electricity into play to power those old cells? Now all the charging docs are solar.

  Everything we need for security is in a fingerprint. Pulses are only good for the fingerprint of the owner to which they belong.

  Theft of the new pulse devices is practically non-existent.

  Chuck's face sharpens at my lack of engagement over his stupid comment.

  ʻApe schmucks?ʼ Chuck'd crawl up his own ass if he ever ran into one of the newly-outed shapeshifters.