Pheromone, page 3
part #1 of For the Love of Aliens Series
The man standing beside Trevor isn’t a man at all, is he?
While unmistakably male, he’s as alien as the rest of them.
His pale hair—or is that fur?—falls around a face carved of milk white jade. A black V-shaped mark dips between his eyes giving the illusion of a nose along with slits that might be his nostrils. And that pretty mouth? Ash-pink and pouty and kissable and … the fuck is wrong with me?! His eyes are solid black, twice as large as a human man’s. He sweeps the room with them before allowing his attention to rest on me. With no pupils, I’m not entirely sure how to meet such a stare. This is the gaze of a nocturnal god, the endless ebony of a night sky devoid of stars.
I fall right into those eyes, so hard and so fast that I know it’s not in my best interest to hold his stare.
My eyes water as I force myself to break his gaze. I look at Avril instead, standing firmly in the center of the tent with her scalpel clutched in a shaking fist. She, on the other hand, has no problem meeting the alien’s demonic stare, the bare skin of her arms and face stained with the sticky red of my blood.
There’s a hissing sound, this soft, sibilant whisper that reminds me of the wind in the trees. It takes me longer than it should to realize that the new guy is talking. He says something to Trevor and the green-skinned twin responds in a clunky, thick-tongued growl.
I take slow, shallow breaths, ensuring that the beautiful alien man is no longer looking at me before I study him again. He has two black and white horn-like antennae, and a devastating frown on his perfect lips. When he parts them to scowl at Trevor, I see three canines on either side of his white teeth, like a vampire but with thrice the biting power.
He stays near the doorway, shutting his lips on a frustrated sigh and closing his eyes. His massive antennae shift forward, each as long as my forearm. No, longer than my forearm. Is he … smelling us? I wonder, scraping my fingers across the hot skin of my thighs.
He’s no pustule-covered slug, that’s for sure. If I have to be eaten, I may as well be eaten by him. Only … if he tries to meet my eyes again, I won’t look at him. I won’t. I might have the instincts of an overfed housecat, but even I can sense that something irreparable and ill-fated will tear through me if I look at this man too long.
He opens the cloak on his shoulders, and I feel this strange dizziness sweep over me. I realize then that not only isn’t he wearing a cloak—those are wings on his back—but I’ve dropped the bag of fluids to the ground, and my IV is no longer working.
My mind goes to strange places in that space between reality and dreams. I once dated an entomologist who bred moths. In particular, he bred vestal tiger moths, these cute little fuzzy white and red moths with black spots. That’s what this alien reminds me of, a moth.
My head spins, and I blink away several seconds, finding myself on my back as Connor struggles to lift the fluid bag up amongst all the chaos. When I come to, Avril is screaming as she’s dragged across the gravel floor of the tent by Trevor. It feels like I should stand up and offer myself in her place. I owe her for saving my life. Or … maybe some strange part of me wants to go with the moth man?
If you give into him, that’s it. He will own your ass, Eve.
The alien with the pretty (if terrifying) mouth is frowning as he carefully tugs one red glove off, digit by digit, revealing long fingers, two of which have sharp-tipped red claws. He clacks them together in thought, gaze drifting briefly to me. I turn away again, shivering with revulsion at how easily he draws me in. I glance back only when he’s returned his focus to Avril.
Those demon eyes narrow dangerously as Trevor pushes the medic to her knees in front of him.
Moth Guy has this commanding look about him, this cavalier imperialism that matches his outfit. It’s crafted of an eerie, bejeweled black material, like fabric torn from the night sky and wrestled into a tight-fitting military jacket and slacks. A weapon hangs at his waist that I can’t identify, and which I’d like never to be able to identify. He exudes self-importance and privilege, but I can’t bring myself to look away, sweat dripping down the sides of my face. I’m having a physical reaction to either the blood loss or the alien, and I hate that I can’t decide which it is.
He reaches out and places his palm on Avril’s cheek, gently, reverently, like he actually cares about her. Jealousy spikes my gut, and I clench my teeth hard to fight back the disturbing surge. Moth Guy holds his hand there for a minute and then sweeps his fingers down the length of Avril’s jaw. She goes completely still, lips pursed, eyes wide and entire body vibrating with either rage or fear or a mixture of both.
When he draws his hand away and peers down at it, I see that it’s kissed in blood, a bright red that matches the fur neckline of his cloak. I mean … his wings. That fur might even be a part of him.
Those dark eyes of his remain fixed on the redness as he lifts a single finger to his lips, a long tongue unfurling from his mouth and wrapping around the tip. He licks the blood off with a lewdness I can’t bear to describe, and then pulls his tongue slowly back into his mouth—tasting me.
Moth Guy makes a sound that might be a reluctant murmur of confirmation, and then carefully puts his red glove back on. He lifts his eyes then to study me a final time, and I squeeze mine shut until I feel his attention shift. The heat of his gaze strays elsewhere, and I crack my lids open, not daring to miss a single second of this nightmare.
An odd forlorn regret grabs hold of me as Moth Guy turns away and takes off out the zippered doorway, dragging Avril the Medic along with him. As she disappears from sight, I see her struggling and thrashing violently. Not that it matters. In less than a minute, she’s gone, and it’s down to three of us in that stuffy tent.
Seconds later, I hear her blood-curdling scream echoing around outside.
It sounds like she’s being murdered.
“Fuck.” Connor grips his own weapon—it seems to be a knife—and turns to face the doorway. “We’re not getting out of here alive, are we?” He looks down at the weapon as if he’s considering harming himself.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper, voice hoarse and strange. There’s a messed-up part of me that feels envious of Avril, like maybe she got the best possible deal here. Moth Guy looked mostly human, didn’t he? He was the right height, had a nice broad chest, muscular arms. So what if he was sporting wings and demon eyes? He was a million times better than the alien slug with the snake jaw.
And yet … I couldn’t even make myself look at him. Why?
That feels like a problem for ‘Tomorrow Eve’. ‘Today Eve’ has a very simple task: don’t die.
What’s in store for the rest of us? I wonder as I try to figure out some way to crawl toward Connor. If I have to, I’ll wrest that knife from his hand. Not only am I concerned for the guy, but I also don’t want to be left alone with Tabbi. Hell, it’s as if she’s already given up, sitting in a slumped puddle with her pet possum.
“Why not?” Connor asks, still staring at the blade of the knife. “What’s the point of waiting? Do you want to be eaten alive? I’d rather bleed out.” He puts the weapon to his throat, but then pauses with it in place, gaze moving to me as I struggle to stand up and then stumble.
It’s as if some impossible instinct takes over him, and he sighs, dropping the knife back down before coming over to help me. Connor gets me seated properly again, and takes a turn with the IV bag, using his other hand to offer me more water.
“You saved me but sacrificed the lawyer?” I ask, trying to get some clarification at least as to what might’ve happened while I was passed out. “He must’ve really pissed you off.”
Connor sighs and looks away, almost as if he’s ashamed of himself.
“He tried to use this knife to hold Avril hostage, even shoved her toward the first alien that came in here.” Connor scoffs and finally, he too, drops from a crouch to a seated position. “The guy—or whatever it was—didn’t want Avril; he picked your friend, Jane.”
“Did it … he … whatever … look okay, at least?” I ask, praying that my friend might still be alive, that she didn’t spend her last few moments screaming inside the belly of a giant alien slug. “Like the moth? Like Trevor?”
“Trevor?” Tabbi asks, her head jerking up suddenly. She shoves up to her feet like she’s been electrocuted. “Trevor!” she screams, and then again. Actually, Tabbi just screams her damn head off, shouting and cursing and pacing as her poor pet scrambles into the pocket of her baggy jeans and peeks its head out.
“The alien that took Jane was … better than the slug.” Connor fixes his glasses again, and then nods sharply. “Much better. He spoke to the green-skinned guy. Obviously, I couldn’t understand him, but he was at least somewhat civilized.”
“That’s good,” I hedge, wondering how I can even say such a word in a situation like this. At any moment, I might wake up in a hospital bed, blinking blearily at my gathered family members. Mom and Dad will be there, of course, as well as my youngest brother, Nate. But the rest of my siblings will be there, too, I bet, all three of my sisters. My aunts and my cousins, Jane, maybe even Jane’s dad who I’ve been close to for longer than I’ve been close to Jane (after she kicked me in the va-jay-jay way back when, he wrote me an apology card and sent me flowers). Oh. I’ll bet my ex, Mack, is there, too. He’s been trying to get back together for the past three months, but I wasn’t having it.
“Eve?” Connor asks, and I realize then that I wasn’t entirely coherent for the past several minutes. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He lifts his hand, but all I can see are six fingers when there should be three. I’m in no condition to fight my way out of this, so I’ll have to improvise. With the same tenacity I used to start my catering business, I’m going to figure out how to wake up. If not that, then I’ll rescue Jane and … well, first I’ll just rescue Jane.
“I’m okay,” I reply, pushing his hand down. Connor frowns at me, but he doesn’t argue.
Eventually, we both realize that maybe there’ll be more time before the next alien buyer shows up. Connor takes that time to set me up with his medical bag on one side of me, Avril’s medical bag behind me, creating a makeshift sort of chair. He rests the IV bag on one of the duffels while he digs through the other, cursing and wondering aloud why he never did get that concealed carry permit.
“What’s happening?” Tabbi asks eventually, coming over to sit beside me. She even takes my hand in hers, and I look up to see that her blue eyes are brimming with tears. Her pink-tipped blond hair is mussy and tangled, a few stray strands stuck to her glossy lips. I realize then that she’s recently reapplied her lip stain. I’d call her out on it if I didn’t think she was in total shock; people do strange things when they’re in shock. “Evelyn, help me out here. Are we being filmed?”
“Tabbi …” I start, but I don’t have the energy to deal with her hysterics. She’s looking at me right now like I’m a life preserver, and she’s a drowning tourist on a Caribbean cruise. I toss her the flotation device she so desperately desires. “Yeah, we’re being tricked by some super talented cosplayers and Hollywood effects artists; it’s all being live-streamed on TikTok.”
“Really?” she asks, sniffling and pulling poor Madonna out of her pocket. She cuddles the possum to her chest and narrows her eyes on me. “If you’re lying, I’ll fire Jane tomorrow. I know you know how much work she’s put into my career, but you could mess it all up for her right now.”
God, I hate this woman.
“Oh, I could never lie to you.” I outright lie to her face and smile about it, too. Almost. I can’t really smile right now. When my lips try to lift at the corners, I remember that Jane is missing and that I saw a guy get eaten by an oversized alien slug. And then there’s moth dude … “It’ll all be over soon.” I offer Tabbi’s hand a pat, but she jerks it away from me.
Please let the next slug get her.
“Do you hear that?” Connor asks, just before the zipper at the front of the tent is pulled down yet again.
Humans … pets, meat, or mates must be a great sales slogan. I hope to hell that I’m chosen as a pet which isn’t a wish I’ve ever entertained in my entire life.
Trevor moves back inside, stepping to the left and crossing his bulging green arms (both sets). He eyes Tabbi, but she just glares at him and then flips him off. Another creature steps in behind him, and I’m relieved to see that this guy is also humanoid in appearance. Dark gray skin, gold markings that seem to glitter as he moves, plus two eyes, one nose, and a mouth (all of which are exactly where they should be). He does have two huge tusks protruding from his wide lips, and a pair of spiral horns, but that’s nothing compared to the slug.
I’ll take it.
His eyes swing to mine. They remind me of a goat—solid yellow with a square pupil—but they’re recognizable. I see understanding light in them as they meet mine.
“I’ll take both females,” he says—in English, mind you. Trevor offers him a look that could shake a mountain down.
“No. You can take the ugly one.” This is also in English which is annoying as hell. If these aliens are going to talk shit about me, couldn’t they do it in another language?
Tusk Guy and Trevor stare each other down, but in the end, the newcomer curses and reaches into his belt, withdrawing several coins and passing them into the other man’s waiting palm. When Tusk Guy stalks across the room toward me, I tense up, but I don’t try to run.
Where would I go anyway?
“Stay safe, Connor,” I whisper. I don’t bother with Tabbi because … fuck her.
“You know what? I don’t care what I said: Jane is so fired after this. Once I’m done smearing her name on social media, nobody in this industry will ever hire her again.”
I close my eyes as Tusk Guy leans down, but he surprises me by scooping me into his arms and lifting me up off the ground. As he does, the IV bag gets pulled taut, and the needle tears from my skin resulting in renewed bleeding.
That’s all it takes, and then between one blink and the next, I find myself on the back of a wagon.
There’s a canopy overhead, shading me from the intense rays of a manic sun. As I adjust myself, my arm slips out of the shade, and the golden light seems to burn. With a hiss that reminds me of Madonna the Opossum, I jerk my arm back into the shadows and sit up.
The wagon is jostling down a dirt road bordered by wildflowers. Up ahead, there’s a forest with trees so tall that the wagon’s canopy cuts them off at the trunks; I can’t see how far up they actually go. Glancing over my shoulder and out the back of the wagon, I see shabby metal walls bolted and hobbled together. Suffice it to say, this isn’t exactly the high-tech sci-fi environment I’d expect of an alien race. Err, races? Because I’ve already been introduced to four different species in such a short span of time.
I check my wrists and ankles, but I’m not bound to the wagon or tied up in any way. In fact, I feel a million times better than I did earlier. A quick check of the wound on my thigh reveals that the bandage Avril applied for me is still in place. Maybe Tusk Guy gave me some special alien booster shot or something?
Whatever happened, I’m awake, and I’m still here—wherever the hell here is anyway.
“Excuse me,” I start, clearing my throat before I attempt to crawl across the fabric bundles beneath me and in the direction of the wagon’s driver. I can already see that it’s the gray-skinned man with the tusks. He glances briefly back at me, and then pats the seat beside him.
I’m immediately suspicious.
I’m not sure how others would interpret that phrase—the pets, meat, or mates thing—but this is what I got out of it: humans are disposable here. Chattel. Livestock. Basically, we’re not worth much. And the guy who bought me is being nice?
Maybe he picked me up at the market like I picked up Annabelle (that’s my cat, remember) at the local shelter? Could I be somebody’s cat here? A faithful companion? A lovable goof who earns money for her master on the alien equivalent of social media?
“Have a seat,” the man growls out, his voice guttural and accented, but easy to understand.
Not only is he speaking human, but out of all seven-thousand-plus languages in the world, he’s speaking my sort of human (aka English). I haven’t had the time or leisure to freak out yet, so I stay with the numb whiteness of shock edging my reality and do as the man asks. That’s one positive to note, how humanoid he seems. He’s got a flat chest (no nipples though), a glorious set of abs, and bulging biceps.
He doesn’t look at me as I take the spot on his left, staring down at the horse in front of me for several minutes as I try to force my addled brain to understand that … that thing is most definitely not a horse. It has huge hoof-like feet, four legs, and a vaguely horse-like body. Otherwise, that’s where the resemblance ends.
The creature I’m staring at has rough, brown skin, like a tree’s bark. It also has wings that appear to be webs of branches and leaves. That same material sprouts from its neck and along the sinuous curve of its long tail. It makes a low baying sound and twitches leaf-like ears as it clops down the road.
“This is a kiyo,” Tusk Guy explains, his voice like boulders rolling down a hill. He pronounces the foreign word like key-yo, and I take it to mean that’s the alien’s species and not its name. “First question every human asks.” He looks askance at me, gold eyes unblinking. “Though you’re by far the calmest I’ve ever met. Most try to jump the wagon and take off running into the woods or else they scream—”
“How the fuck do you speak English?” I ask, and the alien man finally blinks. Not regular eyelids like you or I might blink, but a translucent set that gives me the chills. Um. I curl my fingers tight around the wooden bench seat and try not to freak out. What good will that do me? Either this is all a bullshit hallucination brought on by some really good hospital painkillers or else … it’s happening.
