Her Alien Warrior Prince Page 2

  “An empty threat if ever I've heard one,” I pointed out, my voice sharp and dismissive. “If you could do such a thing, you would have by now. And our sentry forces would spot you long before you reached us. Furthermore, our ships outnumber yours five to one, and our forces have numerous advantages over yours in terms of where they're stationed. The systems we've seized have given us a significant tactical edge – their locations are more defensible, especially since they allow us to track your armadas before they can get close enough to strike. As such, it seems we Valkredians are in a far better position to dictate the terms of this treaty, wouldn't you say? So I propose we stop playing foolish mind games with each other, start taking this summit a bit more seriously, and agree to a list of terms we can both agree with. Every moment we waste on crass attempts at manipulation in here is a moment during which our people are still trying to murder each other out there.”

  M'ruvev clapped his webbed hands together. “Can’t get anything past you, can I, Akzun? Shame on me for trying to bait you with such crude machinations. Clearly, I underestimated you. I should have known better. Very well, then: Present your terms.”

  “All major planets and lunar colonies seized during the war will be returned to the empires by which they were originally owned,” I began, the words clear and strong, like I’d rehearsed during my many strategy sessions with Torqa and Zark, “and the smaller outposts and stations will be negotiated on a case-by-case basis. All prisoners of war will be returned to their respective races. Trade will be re-established between Valkred and Mana, with a steep but temporary tariff imposed on all Mana imports and exports as a punitive measure for the damages inflicted during the war. And talks will continue, with the goal of forging a lasting military alliance that will ensure we'll be united against future outside threats.”

  M’ruvev’s face was unreadable, and as we stared at each other, I tried to ignore my awareness of the human woman as she flitted from table to table, serving the other patrons. I was sweating harder now, and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to tremble openly. My heart felt like it would go supernova in my chest at any moment, obliterating me. The bloodlust was simply too strong. The human girl was too close, her pheromones mocking me, twisting my insides into knots.

  M’ruvev leaned forward, his face as stoic as I’d ever seen it. For a grim moment, I was certain that M'ruvev would reject the terms – that he'd object to the tariff, and keep dickering with me indefinitely.

  Instead, finally, he smiled. “These terms are acceptable,” he replied, though his voice sounded strained. “From this point forward, no Mana shall fire upon a Valkredian ship or outpost as long as both sides honor the treaty.”

  M'ruvev stood, and I followed suit.

  “You'll see, Akzun,” he went on. “This day will be remembered as a triumph for both of our races. Now that diplomatic relations have been restored, there will be no limit to what we can accomplish together.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have some rather urgent business to discuss with our host.”

  I turned and walked toward Nos, trying to keep my stride casual – even though every cell in my body wanted to break into a run, to throw all of my money at him in exchange for the woman and drag her to my ship at once.

  “Yes, I imagine you do,” M'ruvev murmured under his breath.

  2

  Carly

  I hated the dress.

  I realized I must have been in a state of shock so deep I couldn't even fully understand it. Just three days ago, I'd been on Earth, working my new waitressing gig at Gianni's Pizza and Wings in Scottsdale.

  On Earth – as though that had been a distinction worth making, before, as though I'd ever even dreamed that there were alien races on other planets like in those science fiction flicks my dad used to watch on the classic movie channels when I was a kid.

  I never gave any thought as to whether extraterrestrials and their flying saucers might actually exist out there somewhere. Life on my own planet always seemed strange enough to me.

  Especially after I lost my job fixing engines and riveting airplane parts for Cumulus Aeronautics.

  I'd been there for almost four years. I was one of their best mechanics. Can't fix it? Give it to Carly. That was what everyone there used to say. I'm not sure why I was so naturally good at it – ever since I was a little girl, I'd always been obsessed with taking things apart and putting them back together again, figuring out how they worked. With the right background, I could have been an engineer in my own right… but unfortunately, Earth was a place of haves and have-nots, and no matter how hard I worked or what grades I got in school, people never let me forget which one I was. When I was accepted for the mechanic job, I was told in no uncertain terms how lucky I'd been to get it.

  Those were the best years of my life. The title and pay were low, but the respect I got from my co-workers and supervisors made it all worthwhile. I loved wearing overalls and having engine grease under my fingernails. I loved the smell of metal and oil, of sweat and fuel and sunshine on a hot tarmac. I loved looking up into the sky, seeing the contrails behind the gleaming aircraft, and knowing I was the reason they were flying.

  Sometimes, on my days off (which were rare), I'd sit in the airport and just watch people preparing to board for parts unknown. I'd look at the businessmen, the students, the families, and I'd think: Once you're aboard and in the air, if you have a moment, look out the window. See those fingerprints on the wing? They're mine. Hear the gentle whine of the engine? I did that for you. Wherever you're going, you'll be getting there safely because of me.

  I knew those kinds of thoughts were silly, not to mention more than a little arrogant. But I didn't care. It made me happy – it gave me a sense of purpose, of importance. It reminded me that it didn't matter where I came from, or how low my status was. I could still make a difference. I could make the world a better place for others. Nothing could take that away from me.

  Or so I thought.

  Then my shift manager retired, and I was assigned a new one: Lars Morganstern, a man who looked like a warthog and stank like a dumpster on a hundred-degree day. A man who didn't know his ass from his elbow when it came to putting planes together – who only got the job because his uncle was the company's chief financial officer.

  A man who couldn't resist staring at my tits and making lewd jokes every time he was around me.

  I could see that my co-workers wanted to come to my defense, but they didn't dare, and I didn't blame them. He could have fired any of them with a snap of his fat fingers, and among the lower classes, jobs had never been scarcer.

  One evening, Lars dismissed everyone except me – told me there was a new shipment of engine parts he wanted me to take a look at and inventory.

  I wasn't stupid. I knew the real reason why he wanted to be alone with me. I saw the whole scene play out in my head beforehand, but that didn't stop any of it from happening: His sausage fingers feeling me up the moment my back was turned. His scowl when I told him to knock it off. The look of surprise and pain on his piggish face when he refused to stop and I kicked him squarely in the groin.

  The next day, there was a pink slip waiting for me in my locker. None of the other workers could make eye contact. They were too ashamed that there was nothing they could have done to stop any of it.

  I was fortunate to get the server job at Gianni's a few days later; most people from the lower classes who lost their jobs stayed out of work for months. I loathed carrying trays and getting yelled at by rich assholes for not bringing their food quickly enough, but what else could I do? I had to live, after all. And with no other jobs available, I figured I'd better get used to it… even though every time I heard a plane overhead, I wanted to cry.

  Then one night, as I was walking back to my shitty studio apartment after my shift, I saw a light in the sky ahead. It was getting closer and closer, but as I squinted up at it, I couldn't place it. Its movements were too smooth and nimb
le, too precise, to be a plane. A helicopter? Perhaps, but then why couldn't I hear the rotors? The most obvious answer seemed to be a drone, but drones never came to the low-class area where I lived – no one there could afford to order the kinds of goods that delivery drones would bring, and the law enforcement drones had stopped caring about what went on there years ago.

  Whatever it is, I'd thought to myself, I'd sure love to get a closer look at it.

  There was a sudden flash of light, a feeling like the ground was being yanked away from under my feet – and the next thing I knew, I was on this damn space station, being ordered around in broken English by a grotesque ghoul of a bartender who called himself Nos.

  Wearing this fucking dress, which I hated.

  Yes, I was terrified to be surrounded by bizarre creatures that babbled and gurgled and roared at each other – and at me – in what seemed like a hundred different languages. Yes, I was frightened by the thought of how far I must have been from home, and whether I'd ever see it again. Yes, I was scared to death that I'd get someone's drink order wrong and be eaten alive or vaporized by some laser beam, or whatever the hell these alien bastards did when they got angry. When I let myself think about those things, really internalize them, it felt like my brain was going to crack in half… like I'd start crying and screaming and never stop.

  If I did, though, I'd probably be severely punished for it by Nos.

  Which is probably why my mind wouldn't let me fully focus on anything except the goddamn ugly, skimpy, annoyingly slutty dress they were forcing me to wear.

  The collar was uncomfortable, sure, but the dress made me feel like I was being wholly robbed of my identity. On Earth, I'd never worn dresses. They'd always seemed silly, impractical, even a little demeaning. Even at my waitressing job, I was allowed to wear jeans and a t-shirt.

  If I were out of the dress, and feeling like my usual, resourceful self, maybe I could have thought my way out of this situation – found some way to escape. In it, I felt helpless and lost.

  As I brought a pitcher of water to a table, I could feel one of the patrons sitting at it staring at me openly. He was tall, thin, and pale, with bluish-silver hair and a vaguely pointed face that reminded me of a timber wolf. Most of the patrons in this bar seemed to be the same species as him; I thought I'd heard them referred to as “Valkyries” or something like that, which didn't seem to make much sense, since the Valkyries were women and many of these aliens looked like they were probably male. (Then again, for all I knew, genders weren't the same out here in space.)

  But there was something about the one staring at me… something I couldn't quite put my finger on. An air of nobility in the way he carried himself, as though he were some authority figure. This was confirmed by the deference the other members of his race seemed to show him. Even Nos looked like he was eager to kiss this guy's ass, bringing him drinks personally and fawning over him.

  Still, I was determined not to stare at him as I set the pitcher down, no matter how intense his gaze was. After all, for all I knew, staring back at him was considered an insult on his planet.

  As I continued to carry drinks to the customers, I stole a few more glances at him. He was flanked by two other members of his species (servants? Advisors? Bodyguards?), and involved in what looked like heavy negotiations with something that seemed to be part man, part fish. Were they bargaining for some item? Exchanging valuable information? Trading insults?

  For perhaps the thousandth time since I'd been abducted – “abducted,” I couldn't believe I was actually using that word to describe what happened to me, like someone on the cover of a supermarket tabloid – I wished I could at least partially understand some of the languages these creatures spoke.

  Suddenly, I felt a small hand grope my ass, right where Lars had once grabbed it. I turned and saw a short, round alien covered in thick white fur. Its fingers were stubby, eyes glowing electric blue, and its mouth was sideways and extended halfway down its chest. When its lips moved, I could see rows of tiny teeth that looked like zippers.

  “Cheeble-deep!” it squeaked, giving my bottom another squeeze.

  I tried to move myself away from him, but he followed, continuing to grab at me.

  “Chee-bee! Bee-hee-beep!” it chittered insistently.

  “No,” I said, waving my hands at him (and hoping he'd understand the universal gesture for “get away”).

  He shook his head, lunging forward and pawing at my breasts. “Heep-beeble-dee! Bee-deeblebip!”

  Something inside me snapped. Whoever these people were, whatever their reason had been for kidnapping me from my home planet, whatever stupid outfit they dressed me in – they couldn't take away who I was, any more than Lars could by firing me. I wasn't some defenseless bimbo who'd let men feel me up without standing up for myself. I was Carly Love, goddamn it, and I'd make anyone who treated me like an object pay dearly for it, no matter what the consequences.

  I was about to give the fur ball a taste of the same medicine I'd given Lars – my leg was tensed, ready for me to bring my knee up sharply between this alien lecher's legs – when another human woman rushed over. She was tall, with blue eyes, long brown hair, and an athletic build.

  “Chibbip,” she said to the alien, putting her hands up in a placating gesture and bowing deeply. “Chibbip-cha.”

  The furry critter considered her for a moment, then let out a low growl, stalking away.

  “What did you say to him?” I asked her.

  “The only phrase I know in Drekkir. Roughly translated, it means, 'We're sorry, please don't do us harm.' It comes in handy. I'm Miranda, by the way.”

  She extended her hand, and I shook it. “Carly. Nice to meet you, even if it's...well, here. What did he want?”

  Miranda raised an eyebrow at me good-naturedly. “Come on, you know damn well what he wanted. Just like it was pretty obvious what you wanted to do about it. It wouldn't have worked, believe me. First of all, kicking the Drekkir between the legs doesn't do any good. Their genitals are located in their gizzards. And second, trying to harm the customers will only get you killed. Nos doesn't tolerate that. He can't risk pissing off any of the patrons. Bad for his business, especially when auction night is only a couple of days from now.”

  “Auction night? What the hell is that?”

  She sighed, pointing to her black collar. “That's where we get sold to the highest bidder. That's what we're wearing these for… to advertise whether we'll be offered up as sex slaves or blood slaves. Black means sex slave. Lucky me, I guess, huh? Sex slaves can go to anyone, but blood slaves are exclusively bought by Valkreds.” She pointed to the pale man in the corner who'd been staring at me earlier… who was still peering at me covertly, even as he spoke with the fish-person. “Those are Valkreds. They're basically space vampires. They need blood to survive, so they buy people like us to use as sustainable food sources. The good news is, whether they buy us for blood or sex, it's in their best interests to keep us alive and healthy for as long as possible.”

  My heart stopped. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “We can't just wait around for that to happen! What the fuck are we going to do? How can we escape?”

  She shrugged. “Honey, if I knew how to escape, you'd be talking to an empty collar right now. From what I can tell, there's nothing we can do but wait… and hope that whoever buys us isn't too bad. Everything else is completely beyond our control. I mean, maybe you could try to scope out the clientele in advance, find someone who seems nicer than the others, flirt a little so they'll go out of their way to bid on you. But honestly, that's just about impossible if you don't understand their languages.”

  Nos appeared next to Miranda, clapping his long-fingered hands together impatiently. “No more talk! You work now! Work harder! Faster!” He gestured to a tray of drinks on the bar.

  “Better get to it,” Miranda said, picking up the tray. “Try to read their body language. It's not foolproof, but it's better than nothing, right?”


  “Thanks for the advice,” I replied in a small voice.

  I stole another glance at the Valkred who'd been looking at me, just in time to see him stand up and walk over to Nos. His teeth were bared, and I could see his long fangs. The sight made me shiver. I couldn't help but imagine them puncturing my throat. Would it hurt? Or would he put me in some kind of trance first, like Dracula in an old B-movie? Would my blood spurt and gush everywhere, staining his lips, his face? Or would he be able to swallow it all neatly as it pumped out of me, without spilling a drop?

  The Valkred began speaking to Nos in their native language in a low, urgent tone. Both of them were looking at me. Were they talking about me? What were they saying?

  “You are correct,” a deep voice behind me intoned. “They are indeed discussing you.”

  I turned and saw a tall alien with pale, glowing skin. He was sitting at the bar, his long fingers steepled together.

  “You… speak English?” I asked breathlessly.

  He nodded slowly. “I speak many languages. It's a hobby of mine. The entire cosmos would function far more smoothly if only we would all take a bit more time and effort to properly understand each other, don't you agree?”

  “I guess so,” I replied lamely. “So what are they saying about me?”

  “Much as I might wish to comfort you with my answer, I fear I can only confirm your worst apprehensions. Akzun – who, it bears mentioning, has the distinction of being Blood Ruler of the Valkred – wishes to purchase you as a blood slave.”

  I swallowed hard. “I thought the auction wasn't for a couple of days.”

  “Again, you are correct. However, Akzun appears to be unconcerned with such trivial details, and insists that he must buy you immediately. He is… most vehement in his desire for you. Not that I can blame him. You are most attractive, certainly. For an Earthling, of course.”

  Nos was shaking his head vigorously, clearly challenging Akzun.