First Species

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  At the end of his words, Seiger cups his chin. “So this female—or supposed female, is believed to have surfaced because you spied a First Species traveling …?” Seiger spreads his arms wide.

  Dirk's oblong-shaped nostrils flare with his indignation. “Motating—in First form, Seiger.”

  Seiger also loathes the way Dirk pronounces his name: Say-gehr. Though correct, Dirk says his name as though it's a foreign language, protracting the two-syllable name out into the next year. Seiger's name is not technically foreign. On the contrary, it is ancient. Alpha Mutables have carried the name for eons, and from all accounts, he is Seiger the tenth.

  At least, that is what his sire had told him. Right before he was slaughtered by a First Species scum on the heels of an excellent raid for females.

  “ʻMotating?ʼ” Seiger cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at Dirk.

  Dirk rolls his expressive, large liquid eyes at Seiger and, in the next breath, finds himself with Seiger's hand collaring his throat.

  The donkey Mutable sputters but does not fight back. A certain death awaits him, if he were to retaliate, when one's Alpha is a true chimera.

  By birth.

  That's right, Seiger can throw true form—every time. Any offspring he might be blessed with could be literally anything at will.

  With the right female.

  His body tenses.

  Seiger is constantly scouting (or his colony is) for a female with First Species or prehistoric blood sufficient enough to surface their combined genetics for another one such as he.

  But such false sightings are common. This is why Dirk noting the appearance of a traveling First is not, in and of itself, cause for hope.

  The entire reason he uses donkey Mutables isn't for their brains but their tenacity.

  Even the stupid humans understand the disposition of the common donkey. That particular animal is renown for its stubbornness. In that respect, the shifter is no different.

  Dirk's face begins to take on an alarming bruised, plum appearance.

  “Do not roll your donkey eyes at me.” Seiger seethes. “Explain your ridiculous human terminology in a short, concise manner or I will strangle you.”

  The arm that is extended is not in Seiger's human form. By will alone, he changed just the appendage to that of a gorillan. Strong, dexterous, and deadly, though he possesses the half-form of the Firsts, he cannot change into full First. An irksome quirk of nature.

  “Blink those doe eyes one time so I know you understand your life hangs in the balance of your acquiescence. Further, should you forget a second time, the next breath you take will be in your new environ—hades.”

  Dirk blinks.

  Seiger abruptly releases his hold, grunting from the return of his limb to that of a heavily muscled human.

  Dirk's hand drops the blade where it clatters against the naked and dusty cement floor. His stubby, partially changed hands brush a neck where bruises the exact size of Seiger's fingerprints already present as a dusky, purple necklace.

  “Yes, Alpha.” His voice is raspy.

  A tight smile stretches Seiger's lips. “Excellent reply, Dirk.” Seiger's tone is devoid of any trace of malice. He can reset order without anger. However, disrespect must be righted immediately or one can lose control of the entire colony.

  He's fairly merciful as Mutable colony Alphas go. It's typically necessary to kill only one member of his colony every year or so. In full view of the collective, of course. Keeps things in raw check. There is nothing better than a graphic, visual reminder of who's in charge to see that things get moving in the direction that Seiger would have.

  They stare at each other for another heartbeat of time where the hate that Dirk holds for Seiger stands in his eyes like prisoners planning a future riot.

  Fine. Dirk may hate Seiger all he wishes. Sometimes a ruler must remain in position by brutality alone. In his experience—leadership is mostly executed with force. At the end of the day, they are beasts at the core of their nature, without rationale. It's ridiculous to assume differently.

  A Mutable's animal nature runs like an underground river beneath the surface of their skins. Always moving—to surface when needed.

  Dirk does not need his primal nature to assist him at present. He only must hear what is required of him and keep a civil tongue while doing so.

  Dirk's protruding Adam's apple plows up and down before he speaks. “He was moving fast, Alpha—urgently.” His ears bend at the point where they intersect his skull in a disconcerting ripple. “You understand better than any of us that Firsts don't show themselves in their full form unless there is a female. Doesn't matter that the humans know about them now—the Firsts keep to the old ways.”

  Seiger gives a distracted nod, rasping a hand over his chin before letting it drop and meeting the black eyes of Dirk's half form, the pupil indistinguishable from the iris.

  “Scout?” Seiger stabs at a justification for a First in full form to be racing toward Sioux Falls. Possibly, their miserable Alpha is bold enough to send a precious male First out in search of females? However, the Firsts are conservative with their clan, unlike Seiger's expendable Mutable colony, excepting the few who had been the offspring of a chimera union.

  They never would be scouting anything. Too versatile. Let the lesser Mutables act as the meat shields for their colony.

  Dirk shakes his head, the bit of hair remaining from his human form (which he cannot keep by default—this unfortunate partial form is his primary form) floats in long wispy tendrils as he dramatically gestures with half-hoofs and a deformed-looking cranium. “Definitely Alpha First—had the look, the size.”

  A frown knits Seiger's brows. “There are not many Alphas of the First Species to spare.”

  “Yeah—but this dude, he was somehow different, smelled different.”

  First interesting piece of information Seiger has heard this entire time. “Tell me more.” Seiger loosely knots his hands, giving Dirk his unwavering attention.

  Dirk shrugs, his bony shoulders lifting in a series of upward jerk and drop patterns. “Don't know. Not a dog.” He attempts a smirk, but instead, the desired effect is missed, freezing his thick lips in a toothy bright yellowed sneer.

  “Alright, do we have a Lycan among us?” Seiger has over a hundred Mutables in his charge, and few stand out unless they are chimera like himself or a rare Mutable that has, say—prehistoric forms. They all work toward the potential for being a chimera, but unless they multiple-breed the right female, they're just drilling their collective dicks into unwilling fillies.

  Excepting Talbot Cline, a recent lucky acquisition that fell like a ripe plum into their collective grip due to missing the more viable female—a daughter named Grace, by the slimmest of margins.

  Of course, said female has since been spirited to a secret location and heavily protected, Seiger is sure. Out of their reach forever.

  But the mother of the lost female had yielded a single female child before being literally bred to death, inciting many Mutables to gain additional forms from the sexual conquests.

  Females with a First blood's offspring reach maturity in three or fewer human cycles. This “child” will be ready to breed with Seiger in a mere cycle more, having reached maturity—perhaps sooner.

  I can hardly wait. Dirk's next comment tears Seiger from his musings, whisper-thin eyebrows lifting and oval nostrils rounding with surprise as he gulps a breath. “The chained one is the only Lycan we have, Alpha.”

  Ah yes, the mongrel. Seiger heaves a mental sigh. “He cannot be trusted.” Seiger's voice is a low hiss.

  “Fuck that, Alpha. We'll get a pack of hyenas and tag team his ass.”

  Seiger considers this idea for a long moment. Then nods. “Enlist them.”

  “Yes, Alpha.” The donkey's eyes narrow to ebony slices of hate as he cocks his head. “He can only assume one other form.”

  Neither of them discusses the rare First they have within the colony.

 
“Unfortunately, his primary is Lycan, not ideal for the needs of the colony.”

  Dirk he-haws, his sawing laughter grating Seiger's sensitive hearing, though he hasn't assumed any of his animals, thank earth. It would be far worse if he wasn't currently maintaining his human form.

  The miserable guffawing ends, and Dirk murmurs, “Except that his nose is the finest of all.”

  There is that. No disputing the highly evolved olfactory senses of the Lycan.

  “Fine—assemble those whose primary form is hyena, and move toward the area where you sighted the First.” Seiger pauses for dramatic effect. “Then, and only then, enlist the Lycan.”

  “If he doesn't cooperate?”

  Seiger feels his first genuine smile of the day overtake his expression. “Compel him.”

  Kiel

  His muscles shake and burn from the travel. Kiel hunkers down, planting his fists in the tough and parched earth, launching far and wide with each land and plant, as he thinks of his “strides” in his First form. His massive body see-saws through the air, feeling the cool night wind grabbing at his heaving flanks and chilling the sweat before it can heat him.

  Another ten kilometers, and he can reduce to gorillan.

  Thank fuck the terrain of the Dakotas are flatter than pancakes. Of course, that's not accounting for his clan nestled in the foothills of the Black Hills. Small mountains hide their kind from those who don't know what they see before them. First Species is astute at hiding in plain sight.

  Conrick has been exceedingly judicious in disclosing their location. Murphy, shared mate of Conrick's Grace—is the only non-First Species who knows exactly where they call home. Their shared ties to the one female necessitate that knowledge as Murphy would come should the clan need additional fortification.

  Bounty enforcers Adrienne and Mollie (surname unknown) might be able to find the clan's homeland again, but they would not try. As a point of fact, the females have flat noses, shit for scenting. Not the rich ones of Firsts, Lycans, and depending on the type, prehistorics.

  Unless a supe is motivated by the hunt for females, finding a dangerous den of First Species loses its appeal. One does not traipse about aimlessly in areas known to house shifter species if one is a shifter themselves.

  The practice could greatly shorten lifespan.

  Kiel is not meeting any enforcers; he's not really the proper First for that scene. Earth knows he's not what the humans would term a “people person.” For that, Kiel is thankful Drest is the one to intercept the first female at Final Enforcement. Conrick has given Kiel the task to find the second female, the more mature of the two. Murphy had given them the tip. Drest will secure Paige LaRue in a bid to claim her. Of course, Doric will also toss one of his prehistorics in the same direction. There had been a meeting of the clans, and there are no singular unions of female and shifter.

  For the time being, neither First nor prehistoric can afford to lose more males. They will have to share a female.

  That goes against the grain for most males.

  Kiel is the only one who Conrick could dispatch for a rare, second female. He is honored by the trust as Kiel is keenly aware of how he's perceived in his clan. Especially since he hides a dark, shameful secret: Kiel is not one hundred percent First Species. He is something else – or many somethings. Kiel's First Species partial gorillan form is the one that is his default shape he maintains without effort like many of the Firsts. It was during adolescence that he became aware of a terrible revelation. No matter how Kiel tried to ignore it, there was no way to avoid the gained knowledge. The males of his clan were cruel to him as he grew up. Kiel had no friends and made many enemies within and outside of the clan. Inside himself, the need to defend to the death is deeply ingrained though that trait is not typical of the First Species unless a circumstance presents itself where a female is in need of defense.

  Kiel kills because he enjoys it. A thrumming drumbeat sounds inside his head of end it. It has always been so.

  Discarding his knotted thoughts, he waits a few minutes more before forcing the change to gorillan. Afterward, battered and tired, Kiel looks first right then left, catching sight of a sign that declares Sioux Falls a mere twenty miles away.

  The roar of an empty belly seizes Kiel. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation, he begins to jog in a generally southeasterly direction toward Camille Becker's last known location.

  Kiel needs fast-burning carbohydrates to fuel his empty gut. He'll stuff his face with everything on the menu at a Culver's Drive-In.

  Thinking about the sugar rush he'll have after a Concrete mixer, Kiel gives a thin grin, increasing his pace.

  Kiel's ass drags into the burger joint, every bit of him sore. Though he used his full First form to drive his body across the state to Sioux Falls, the process was an energy suck of the highest order.

  Now, he must feed.

  This final insult comes after he forces the change to human and has just enough energy to root around in his rucksack to get new clothing.

  A naked “Sasquatch” walking into the restaurant would not be received well.

  Kiel knows this from hard experience.

  Even after essentially hosing himself down in the bathroom of the restaurant, he still retains grime at the edges from sloughing off remnants of each form. Basically, drying gore from the two changes still clings to almost every bit of him, drying underneath his nails.

  Whatever. He must feed, the only constant directive he's paying attention to at the moment.

  “May I help you?” the small female behind the register asks him tentatively.

  Kiel's smile is tired, and he's shocked he can produce one. He'll fake whatever he can manage.

  Food, then find the female, his brain sluggishly pushes.

  “Yes, thank you,” Kiel says at the exact moment a large, thin slice of residual flesh, discarded by one of his forms that he missed in the rushed bathroom clean-off, falls on the countertop between them like a discarded skin snowflake.

  Together, they stare at the remnant of his recent shifts. When her eyes rise, her face is set in a frozen grimace.

  Kiel gives an internal chuckle. Midwest courtesy has firmly inserted itself, and Kiel knows she'll never mention the weird slough off.

  What could she say? Oh sir—you've lost some skin here.

  Uh-huh. Never. Happen.

  He lets the cashier off the hook, as the humans say, leaning slightly forward. “I'd like eleven Butter Burger Baskets—Deluxe, with five Concrete Mixers.”

  On the heels of a long blink, Missy shifts to all-business. “Flavor?”

  I tell her.

  “You want all peanut butter with chocolate fudge syrup?” Her eyes widen a touch.

  “Yes, thank you. May I have a cup for water?” He'll go by the dispenser and get water from the fountain to quench his thirst.

  She continues to stare and finally gives a slow nod. “Is this for here?”

  I turn all the way around and stare at the available tables. There's a lot of space inside the restaurant at 9:50 pm.

  “Why, yes,” Kiel replies.

  She turns her cash portal in Kiel's direction, and he depresses his thumb on the rectangular doc pad.

  Activating, it reads.

  Kiel thinks his name—or the name he uses on the rare occasion he is among humans.

  Accepted. $257 credits.

  Conrick is not going to appreciate that bill, which makes him grin despite his exhaustion.

  Perfect.

  “For here,” Missy repeats to herself, her pulse badge flashing her age, education, and if she's ever been to the juvenile prison for those under the age of eighteen.

  Peculiar methods. Kiel wouldn't want everyone aware of every single detail about him.

  Especially the critical one he hides.

  He carries the number the cashier hands to him, the open triangle of plastic small in his hand, walking to the soda fountain and filling his empty cup with water. Kiel heads to the back of
the restaurant, plunking down on the stiff bench seating of a huge table meant to seat six humans where he orients himself to face the entrance.

  Kiel’s body fills quite a bit of the real estate of the circular booth. He shoots out his sore legs, folding his arms beneath his head and closing his eyes to half-mast.

  When the food is ready, it takes two Culver's employees to bring the trays bearing the weight of his hunger.

  Kiel begins with the Concrete Mixer. After two of those, he sets into the cheeseburgers with an almost sexual lust.

  He sits for thirty minutes, indulging the need to gorge. After he is through, his belly executes a slow, slick roll from all the quality junk food.

  Kiel admits it is not the same satisfaction as a freshly gutted elk or bear from the wild, but in this circumstance, it will do.

  When the bell tinkles at the door, Kiel frowns.

  Eyes touching on the time, he recognizes by the pulse clock blazing above Missy's head, that the establishment is now closed.

  Then, the scent of Mutable reaches his nostrils, and he goes from slouched to erect.

  “Sorry, we're closed,” Missy the cashier says without looking up.

  Then she does, her gasp of fright easily reaching Kiel's sensitive hearing.

  But one who is in the form of a half-donkey blasts a leg out, catching the unfortunate female at her temple, the grazing blow causing her to drop like a sack of potatoes where she'd stood only a half-hour before, taking his order.

  With a grim smile, Kiel stands, digested food or not.

  This will not end well, he has time to think before reinforcements pour through the door like foul water and, in an unbelievable coincidence, he catches sight of the one female who can stop him in his tracks.

  Chapter 9

  Camille

  S lamming the door on my Nissan March, I stew. Stew some more. “Unknown,” my ass.

  Checked it three times, did he? Protocol, he'd said.

  I don't know about that, but what I do know is I'm not waiting around for some big brute to come scoop me up from my doldrum existence. I love my kids and my job, and with the exception of my creepy boss, all's well.