POV: Ayla
The impact made every nerve in my body vibrate.
No capsule. No parachute. I was a meteor of living flesh slamming into wet asphalt. The ground exploded beneath my weight, and I felt my bones splinter from the force of the blow. But it didn't matter. My biology doesn't recognize permanent damage.
A wet snap. Crock. My spine realigned itself, ligaments weaving back together like frantic worms under the skin.
I rose amid torn trash bags, inhaling. Disgusting. Damp. It smelled of stale sweat and faint decay.
I looked at my arm. The skin—gray and hard like volcanic rock—began to ripple. It wasn't metal; it was adaptive flesh. My scales retracted, sinking into my own flesh, hiding the claws, softening the razor edges, changing battle-gray for a pale, fragile tone.
The process hurt. It always hurts to compress the power of a god into such a small shell. In ten seconds, I no longer looked like a Devourer of Worlds. I looked like a "human female."
"Torpor," I ordered my body, searching the Hive for the Chiefs' voices.
Silence. Only emptiness in my head. The impact must have damaged my receptor gland.
I was alone. Isolated on a planet of mud. The mission remained intact: Infiltrate. Gather intel. Judge. If this race is prey, we will feed. If they are worthy, we will subjugate them. It is natural law.
My ears, now round and soft, picked up a sound. An engine. Blue and red lights blotting the darkness. Heavy footsteps splashing through the water. Someone was coming.
My predatory instinct tightened. I could gut them in a blink. But that would ruin the disguise. I needed to be taken inside.
"Torpor," I ordered my body.
I forced my two hearts to nearly stop. I cooled my blood. I relaxed every muscle until I looked like a fresh corpse. I let myself fall into the filth of the alley.
If the human tries to attack me, my reflexes will tear his head off before he reaches my skin. If he's stupid and compassionate, he'll carry me to his nest.
I closed my eyes. Wait.
---
POV: Evan
I hate the night shift. I hate it with my whole soul.
It was three in the morning, the sky was falling apart over the city, and I was here, patrolling a back alley because some neighbor reported "sounds like an explosion." I'm twenty. I should be on my couch in my boxers, playing Warzone and eating cold pizza. But no. Here I am, in a uniform that's too big and a badge I feel like I stole from my dad.
"Unit 4-2, verify 10-53. Possible vagrant," the radio crackled.
"Copy, dispatch," I sighed. I ran my hand over my wet face. "Probably old Harry sleeping it off again."
I climbed down from the cruiser. The alley reeked of urine and rotting trash. I pulled out the flashlight, stepping around the puddles. My boots aren't waterproof; total rip-off from the supplier.
"Hey!" I shouted. My voice came out high, almost a squeal. I cleared my throat, trying to sound like actual authority. "Police! You can't sleep here."
The beam swept over the black bags and stopped on something pale. I froze.
It wasn't Harry. It was a girl. And the scene was wrong. Very wrong. She lay on the trash as if thrown from a rooftop. Black hair soaked through, skin painfully white, and tight black clothing of some strange fabric that looked like shark skin or something organic—nothing sold in normal stores.
My stomach knotted. Please don't be dead. Please don't be a homicide. If I throw up, the sergeant will kill me.
I approached, trembling under the rain. "Miss?"
I touched her shoulder. The feel was… strange. Cold, but hard. Not rigid from rigor mortis, but dense. Like touching a compacted sandbag instead of soft human flesh.
I searched for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. Wait. There. A beat. Thud. An eternity passed. Thud. A slow, heavy pulse, like a war drum sounding under water.
"Jesus…" I murmured. "What happened to you?"
She was beautiful. In a disturbing way. Her features were too symmetric, lashes too long. She looked like a porcelain doll dumped in the mud. I had to get her out of there.
"Dispatch, I have an unconscious female. Strange vital signs. I'm taking her to the hospital myself. Code 3."
"Negative, 4-2. Wait for EMS. Do not move the victim."
"She's dying on me!" I lied. Well, half-lied. The panic was real.
I cut the radio. Stashed the flashlight and slid my arms under her to lift. God! I nearly dislocated my shoulders. She weighed a ridiculous amount. Small, but it felt like hauling solid lead. I grunted, clenched my teeth and hooked my back to hoist her. Her head fell limply against my chest. She smelled odd. Not cheap perfume or booze. Wild. Musky, like wet earth and something metallic—like dried blood.
I shoved her into the back seat as best I could. I was panting like I'd run a marathon. My hands trembled. Go, Evan. Get out. My instinct screamed to run.
I leaned down to look for ID before I took off. On her side, the black suit had a bulge. I reached out. The fabric felt warm to the touch, alive. And it opened. There was no zipper. The fabric simply split, like lips parting.
"What the hell…?" I flinched back, banging my head on the car roof.
Calm down. You're seeing things from tiredness and fear. I shoved my hand in, disgusted, and pulled out what was inside.
It wasn't a phone. It was a black stone, irregular, carved with symbols that looked like interlaced bones. It glowed with a violet light, pulsing in time with the girl's slow heartbeat, and then went dark.
I looked at the stone. I looked at the girl in the rearview. A lightning flash lit the alley. For a fraction of a second, the shadow her body threw across the seat was not human. I saw membranous wings. I saw a spiked tail.
I blinked and the darkness returned. Just a sleeping girl. Just my imagination playing tricks.
The stone in my hand vibrated, hot. I started the car with my heart in my throat. "What a mess I've gotten myself into…" I whispered.
I had the horrible feeling I'd just put a wolf in the back seat.