First Species

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Unsurprisingly, there are no takers.

  Seiger chuckles.

  It is an entirely different matter when they cannot gang up against the one.

  “Leave us,” Seiger says to the remaining donkeys.

  A few brave brayers grab the fallen donkey by the arms and drag him off, leaving a messy red stripe in his wake.

  Seiger turns to Roiel, folding his massive arms. “You are impressive.”

  Roiel says nothing.

  Seiger lets the silence lengthen before continuing, “I suppose you know that you will have many tasks before you, and the most important one will be the top priority.”

  “Yes.”

  Seiger pauses for a dramatic moment. “The reward for securing the three females will be a breed.”

  Roiel's pale eyebrows rise.

  Seiger nods. “I hate to waste a female with First or prehistoric blood on a donkey, but I have no choice. Any Mutable who can accomplish that impossible task deserves a breed.”

  “But not a mate?”

  Seiger frowns, cocking his head and not bothering to contain his surprise. “Why would you think such a thing? Mutables do not mate—they fuck. To impregnate a female. There is nothing more.” He spreads his heavy arms wide. Maybe Seiger had made the choice of this donkey in error. Roiel must be somewhat soft in the head from all the hoof kicking to assume Seiger would ever entertain a mating within his colony.

  “Yes, Alpha.” Roiel's face is carefully neutral.

  Frown affixed, Seiger quickly runs through the details then calls over the five hyenas who remain. “It's with great trepidation I send the six of you out without a Lycan. Unfortunately, that wretched botch First mongrel took Jael and massacred Dirk and the majority of hyenas. My options are limited.” Seiger folds his arms again, eyes sweeping the assembled hyenas. “You take your orders directly from Roiel.”

  The hyenasʼ low grumble of dissent makes Seiger's anger burn brighter. “One of you would die if I didn't desperately need numbers.”

  That shuts them up. Because Seiger did not expressly say he wouldn't kill one of them, only that he desperately needed numbers. This means those facts merely give Seiger pause. Not unwillingness.

  Seiger dramatically cups his ear.

  In unison, the hyenas recite, “Yes, Alpha.”

  Roiel's strange eyes stare at him like pools of diluted blood as Seiger outlines the plan of attack.

  He must retrieve Jael. Lastly, he instructs Roiel, if at all possible, to return Casek to the fold by any means necessary.

  “Dead?” Roiel scowls.

  Seiger shakes his head, eyes hooding. “No, I want him alive.”

  “How?”

  Seiger grins, and the expression sobers Roiel’s already stoic disposition. “Maim him if necessary.”

  His blood-red eyes glitter back at Seiger for a space of seconds. Then he gives the only possible reply, “Yes, Alpha.”

  Chapter 20

  Paige

  W hat?” I just can't get past the looks of the car. No pulse technology, and the undercarriage has rusty cancer lace circling the edges.

  Drest seems unperturbed by my pause on the car's driveability, lifting a heavy shoulder. “It is the transport we have.”

  “This is a hunk of she-et!” Jac exclaims.

  I dip my chin to hide a smile. It's been a long day and partial night. Somehow, a comment like that just lightens the mood. Because God knows, Drest is Mr. Serious.

  Scowling at Jac and clearly unamused, Drest grips the driver's side door handle, jerking it open to get in.

  Rendering metal shrieks its indignation, and the entire door panel comes off in his hand.

  Slapping a hand over my mouth, I stifle laughter.

  “Fuck,” Drest says with gravity.

  That's it. I howl. It's just too funny. This big, tough First Species dude is standing there with a car door in his hand. Like it weighs nothing, like people just rip off uncooperative car doors all the time—not.

  “Nice, dude,” Jac comments helpfully.

  Drest ignores him. “All I can think of is you will be too cold to ride inside the car without a door.” Drest levels a loaded glance my way.

  “Well, yeah,” I wave a palm at the hole where the car door used to be. “It's not air conditioning that you can turn off, and it's the middle of the night.”

  “One in the morning,” Jac inserts without an ounce of sarcasm.

  Drest shoots him a frown.

  “Dude, I can tell you haven't done an ass-ton of reconnaissance.”

  “I also intuit how pleased you are by my accidental blunders.” Drest’s eyes slit on the woolly.

  They glare at each other in the bloated silence.

  I bite my thumbnail.

  “I won't lie. You being a noob works for me.” A slow grin spreads across Jac's face.

  Oh shit.

  “Listen, prehistoric.”

  I raise my hand like I'm back in high school. “May I say something?”

  Their heads whip in my direction.

  “It seems to me that if you guys are supposed to transition me and protect me, standing out in the middle of the Final Enforcement parking lot, having a pissing contest is sort of making a spectacle of yourselves.” Personally, I think my observations are perfect.

  Drest straightens, fists loosening at his sides. “The female shames us.” His brow drops low above his golden eyes.

  Pfft. “It's Paige—not ʽthe femaleʼ. Talyn told me we're going to need to have some sort of transition orgy, so this type of dynamic is super-unhelpful.” I wag my finger between Jac and Drest.

  Jac snickers. “Nice. ʽTransition orgy?ʼ”

  I nod. “Yeah. For the record, I don't know you guys and just got my life's future jerked from underneath me. So I don't need the male testosterone amped up. I'm pretty stressed out anyways.”

  Jac's bright, orangish-iridescent aura pulses brightly then settles. “I'm sorry.” He looks to Drest. “We're both sorry. Right Drest?”

  Drest's exhale is sheer reluctant frustration.

  “Fine,” my eyes move between the pair. “So now what's the plan?” I shift my attention from the POS to Drest again.

  Drest pegs hands on his muscular hips, hanging his head, and I notice the scar where his arm was half-torn from his body has vanished.

  Jesus, am I going to be this soon? Or something else? Relieving myself of my secret was on the tip of my tongue when I'd met with Talyn and Camille, but instincts kept me quiet, as they do now.

  “We walk,” Drest says.

  “To the fucking Hills?” Jac eyebrows whip us as his strong arms spread wide.

  “Yes. That mode of transport has the best degree of stealth, and we can take turns shifting to move more quickly.” Drest's eyes sparkle, the gold color of his irises bright in the dark. “After all, you're a woolly, right? You can cover a lot of ground.”

  Jac's brow lowers in silent acceptance of the challenge Drest clearly lays before him. “Yeah.”

  “Then there should be no issue.” Drest crosses heavy arms, eyes half-mast on Jac.

  I feel the testosterone in the air and have time to note that males are males are males—regardless of species.

  Drest turns and begins walking.

  “The door,” Jac says with a twist of his lips.

  Drest looks down at his hand, noticing that he's still gripping the handle and heavy door panel.

  With a huff of disgust, he tosses the door back in the car's direction where the large Frisbee of metal skates across the roof with a shrill whine of kissed metal and impales itself into a nearby landscape tree, causing the trunk to shiver, ridding itself of remaining leaves.

  Gulping, I follow the hothead while Mr. Comedy takes the rear.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Riding on Jac's back while fisting tufts of his hair was completely cool.

  At first.

  Then my crotch and ass got sore, and it just hurt after that.

  I'd
refused Drest when he wanted to switch out with Jac. Riding on him was even worse.

  “I'm not going to ride on you again, Drest.” I plant my feet in defiance, folding my arms and scowling at both of them.

  Chest heaving and glistening with sweat, Drest says, “I am sorry. When I'm full form, it is not a smooth gait for a rider.” He wipes his forehead, flinging the droplets away with a practiced flick.

  Jac snorts. “We're not horses, Drest.”

  “Speak for yourself, prehistoric.”

  Turning swiftly, Jac takes a half-moon, thick foot and kicks straight into Drest's gut.

  He flies backward, plowing three trees, excising limbs and breaking the last where he somersaults like a runaway, fleshen tumbleweed.

  Holy shit. I back away.

  Jac had been in what he calls his half-form, and I’ve been thinking of him as the soft one of the pair.

  Not anymore.

  Pivoting, Jac swings his other leg to join the first and crouches, dipping his heavy head and lowering deadly tusks.

  Drest rises from the carnage of broken limbs and a trunk that's bigger than my waist that dives into the sky like a shattered tooth.

  Stalking forward, Drest eats the distance between him and Jac.

  I make a split-second decision. I've made better, I think, running to stand between them.

  Drest's eyes bring more meaning to the “seeing red” expression.

  In his case, his eyes spin so fast they make me want to puke trying to focus.

  “Female!” he roars.

  I shove him with both palms right in his chest that's already bruising where Jac nailed him, and he barely moves. “Listen, he-man!” I yell back while advancing. “I'm done. This is about me. My ass is sore! I'm tired—and apparently nobody cares about it, but I'm hungry and scared.”

  Then I burst into tears. Ugly ones. The kind that produce snot and jagged coughing.

  Next thing I know, the males have sandwiched me. Jac is at my back, and I can feel the coolness of the bone from his tusk against the heated skin of my neck. Drest's lips rest against my heated forehead.

  “I keep apologizing.” I feel his words vibrate against my skull.

  “Stop doing shit that you have to say you're sorry for then.” I hiccup back another sob.

  “We're sorry,” Jac says with a breath against my nape.

  I shudder. “I can't do this.”

  “Which part?” Jac asks.

  “I'm too tired. Can't we sleep or something?”

  Drest pulls away, placing warm hands on my shoulders. “Resting means discovery.”

  “The Mutable dickheads?”

  Jac laughs, nodding. “Yeah, that crew's always skulking around, the chumps.”

  Drest smiles. It's small, but it's there. “I am very focused when it comes to the protection of females.”

  Ya think?

  Drest swipes a hand over his hair, and a leaf falls between us. His eyes rise from the discarded proof of the beat down the two of them almost got into. “But I must remember that you're too fragile; too much has occurred to tire you.”

  “She's so close to transition I can taste it,” Jac interjects.

  Wonderful. “I feel okay—I mean—except for this stupid tiredness because of all the recent fun. I'm alright.” I blow loose hairs from my nose. “At this stage, I feel like the Mutables could find us and I wouldn't care.”

  “You'd care,” Jac says in a sober voice.

  “Do not say that,” Drest grips my shoulders tighter.

  A fat tear rolls down my face, and I press my fists into my eyes. “Why can't I just change and be done with it?”

  As though by invitation, horrible pain lances through my body like a corkscrew turning.

  I fall to the ground.

  My arm reaches up like a drowning victim, and I scream from the burning pain.

  The males react simultaneously, each grabbing a limb.

  When sharp teeth plunge into my neck, I don't have the strength to fight as my body convulses. As my bones shift and my brain changes.

  My thoughts leave me, my skull too small to hold who I am.

  I feel like all of me is going to explode.

  Cooling liquid tears through my veins, and I'm so happy the tears this time are wet relief that I take heart, daring to have hope.

  But one thing isn't right.

  Instead of Jac's face—or Drest’s—I see Chuck, Dave, and Scott.

  Blinking, my first thought is I must be going insane. We're in the middle of nowhere, smack-dab between Sioux Falls and the Black Hills.

  “That worked like the shit, Dave.”

  Chuck leers at me, or my Chuck mirage does.

  Moaning, I shake my head, my vision swimming, and croak, “Drest—Jac.” My voice is weak, the wind robbing the volume.

  “Tranqed those bad boys,” Chuck’s evil smile isn't real happiness—more like triumph. Turning his head, he says to someone I can't see, “Take her legs, dickhead.”

  I give a vicious kick to the hand that grabs my ankle.

  Another joins that one, pressing my limb into the ground, and it hurts so badly I can't scream through the sensation of agony that exerts on my already tender body.

  Twisting, I grip the long prairie grass and notice my nails are gone, nailbeds oozing blood.

  Oh my God.

  “She's gonna turn and die,” a disembodied voice yells from behind me.

  “Nope, just accelerated shit,” Chuck says with supreme confidence.

  My eyes take in the crumpled bodies of Drest and Jac a few meters away. Are they dead?

  Staring, I see Jac's large, dark eyes latch on to me. Horror fills them. Something I've never seen before in the brief time I've known him.

  Fear.

  Not for himself.

  For me.

  This isn't a dream. This is real. Chuck and the others lift me, and everywhere their sleazy hands touch me, the fingerprints of their contact scorch my sensitive skin. I cry out, and the puncture wounds at my throat pulse briefly with the move.

  “No,” I whisper, so mad at myself for slowing the guys with my whining about my sore ass I could die.

  Oh yeah, I probably will.

  Or something worse.

  Chapter 21

  Jac

  H ey, pal—wake up.” Jac shakes Drest's shoulder, and his head lolls to the side, drool slipping out of his mouth. Fucker weighs a ton.

  They must have reversed the tranquilizer doses. Because being a woolly, Jac is the clear contender for needing the higher dose.

  He snickers then immediately sobers, straightening.

  Fucking Mutables took Paige.

  Jac had watched them cart her away, helpless to stop it. He's somewhat surprised they didn't kill him and Drest. Guess it was a time constraint. Getting Paige out of there was the priority, not their asses.

  Jac's not super-torqued though. He's been in worse spots. Unfortunately, they pegged her with some special sauce too, and whatever cocktail that shit was will advance her change to the critical stage.

  Without her kind to transition her, Paige might die. At the least, in the hands of Mutables, the next two years of her supposed “life” will be some kind of special daily torture.

  Jac doesn't know who's part of the Mutable colony. Are there any chimera? If so, that could make things dicey as fuck.

  “Hey, First Species fucktard!” Jac bellows, putting the full force of his substantial pipes into it.

  The fine hairs of Drest's form lift, and he rolls to his elbow, groaning and plainly trying to swim out of his drugged state.

  Huffing a disgusted exhale, Jac turns in the direction the Mutable fucks took Paige.

  As a woolly, his sense of smell blows, but it's still ten times that of a human.

  With a disdainful final glance at the weaving Drest, who's now on his knees, Jac chuffs.

  Pivoting swiftly, he changes to his half form. “Hang on, you unhelpful dickhead.”

  Lifting the huge
First to his back, Jac centers his weight then goes full mammoth.

  Gritting teeth gone to the size of a human's head, Jac shakes his thick mane, grimacing at the horrible aftereffects of the tranq, the abrupt change, and the fucker like a gigantic tick on his back.

  Of course, Drest isn't all bad, Jac's just in a foul fucking mood.

  Easier to get mad at the First then think about the alternative shit. Like Paige being an abused concubine for a sadistic Alpha of the local colony.

  Yeah, that.

  “What... are you doing?” Drest slurs.

  “Going after our girl. You'll sober up.”

  “No—wait.”

  “No waiting,” Jac rumbles, and Drest tries to slide off.

  With a shrug of his massive shoulder, Jac rights the First, whose fingers bite into the layer of blubber he has, thank earth for small favors. “Hang tight, pal. This is going to be a lumbering gallop.”

  Lowering his head, Jac leaps, the extra weight of the First like an annoying gnat.

  An important one.

  Jac doesn't give a shit. If he has to use the First as a meat shield, he will. All's fair in love and war.But that's a bullshit cliché. It's actually: all's fair when acquiring females.

  Regardless the means.

  Paige

  My head is splitting, and I groan, using both hands to grip my skull, but bark out a hoarse shout of pain when my fingertips touch my scalp.

  With shaky hands, I move them into my line of sight.

  My nailbeds are raw, open wounds, leaking blood while new nails already grow from the cuticle.

  I shut my eyes and let my head fall to the surface I'm lying on. “Ouch!” I mutter.

  When I smell hay, my eyelids fling open.

  Not daring to try to touch anything more with my wrecked fingers, I press my hands against what lies beneath me. Using the heels of my palms, I push myself upright. I scan my surroundings quickly, and at first glance, I think farm—sure smells like one.