Handsome Devil (2 page)

I step to the side and he tracks the movement, still not twitching. That's not humanly possible. If his eyes hadn't already given it away, that much would have sealed the deal. “Just one question,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Are you an assassin or a bounty hunter?”

The nonsmile grows but doesn't show teeth. That's more than a little creepy and definitely not reassuring. My heart rate picks up.

“
Does it matter?” he rumbles.

“
Well,” I admit, “no.”

I slap at the underside of the bar, hitting the hidden light switch with life-saving accuracy.

The place goes pitch black—except for his eyes, two orbs of gold flecks in blue oceans floating in the darkness.

Oh fuck.

He can see in the dark.

The orbs rush at me with preternatural speed. I barely have time to duck and grab the stool next to me. I spin on my heel and bring it up as fast as I can, slamming it into his body with all my considerable might.

The sound is indescribable, except it is more like glass shattering than wood. Splinters blow back in an invisible cloud and shower my face. I automatically turn and try to protect my head, but something catches me in the cheek. There's blood. I don't have time to think about it.

I can't see his eyes, so he must have closed them, and I attack, reverse mule kicking into the inky black. I connect with what feels like a freakin' brick wall, the jolt going all the way up to my lower back. Holy hell!

But I hear a grunt, which means surprise, and I'm not going to let that pass me by. I pull my leg back before he can grab my ankle—Dumb Heroine Move to Avoid Number One—bounce on a heel and then kick him again, harder.

Furniture crashes. I turn to run because I know this room like the back of my hand and I'm not sticking around to duke it out with a guy who nearly broke my ankle with his rock-hard bod.

A growl fills the room, starting low and growing to such intensity and volume that fear slices through me for the first time.

Oh my god.

It's a Ferissian.

I grab the coat hook drilled into the paneling along the bottom of the bar and yank. There's no hang time between
pull
and
fall.
The second I trigger the mechanism the floor disappears out from under me. I slip through the emptiness maybe two meters into the room I paid a lot of money to build, landing lightly in a practiced crouch. My weight triggers the second mechanism and the trapdoor slams shut above me, titanium bars sliding home to lock him out and me in.

Glow in the dark footprints light up to lead me to the exit, and I dash to it with cold sweat beading on my temple.

A Ferissian?
Who the hell has Mom pissed off?
 

All of my training and practice runs kick in. I reach the door and pull the bar from its place without a second to lose, throwing myself into the tunnel beyond that cost even more than the trapdoor to put in, the knowledge of who is chasing me nipping at my heels.

Ferrissians aren't a species that you send in to pick up groceries. They are a warlike people that don't know when to say die. Think Captain America mixed with Wolverine and throw in a hunting instinct. They're the soldiers, the warriors, the go-to humanoids for a good old fashioned manhunt. But they don't work for just anyone. They're that kind of powerful. If you have a Ferissian on your tail, you are as good as caught.

Or dead.

I speed up, knowing he's not too far behind. The Terminator has nothing on this guy, because Arnold needed machinery and he doesn't. Hell,
werewolves
would look like pussies compared to a Ferissian, if werewolves were real.
 

And I hit him with a chair.

I've got to get out of here.

My legs and lungs are pumping in time with each other. My night vision isn't particularly good and I have to rely on the low-tech glowy sitckers on the floor that fly by. A toy section supermarket buy could mean the difference between life and death or dismemberment for me, and I've got a freakin' Ferissian hunting me.

I follow the line for what seems like hours, but it's only twenty-two seconds. My emergency duffel is on the shelf where I set it over a year ago and I snatch it up without pausing. Money, papers, clothes, everything I need is in there. More importantly—so are my extra motorcycle keys.

At the end of the tunnel is a set of wooden stairs. I push my arms through the duffel handles, creating a weird kind of backpack. The metal hatch is already unlocked—removing the bag released the counterweight, so nothing stands in my way as I sprint up the steps and plow through the door into the night.

It's a courtyard formed by three buildings pressed up against each other. Ninety percent of the people that walk by have no idea it's there. There's an old wrought iron gate and privacy wall that's tucked away from the street. I'm not ready to bet that the Ferissian is one of that ninety percent though. He knows, and I probably only have seconds before he comes running. My pub is on the other side of the street, beyond the building behind me, but for all I know Ferrisians have ears like bats and he heard the opening clang.

My bike is sitting next to the hatch, half hidden by the vines and pots of baby trees. I run over, keys falling into my hands via convenience zipper I sewed into the bag myself. I have my leg slung over the saddle and the keys in the ignition before you can say “proud Mary” when a tile crashes to the ground inches from my leg.

I look up from the terracotta remnants to the roof—and there he is, four stories above my head, staring down at me. I know it's him even despite the fact that I can't see his eyes. No human in their right mind would be up there.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. He has a mini transporter.

I twist the keys.

The engine guns, and then a hand comes down on my wrist like a vise. He yanks me off of the bike hard, wrenching my arm in the process. He pulls me so forcefully that I fly across the courtyard several feet beyond him, stumbling and ducking into a roll. The duffel hampers me from rolling all the way and I skid to a halt on the asphalt.

His boots thump and suddenly I'm being lifted into the air via duffel, so high I'm freakin' dangling with my toes barely touching the ground. My arms are trapped by the handles.

Hoisted by my own petard.

He twirls me—holy shit, he's only using one hand?!--and I see him in the harsh light of the apartment entrance lamp. There's his set of stars-in-space eyeballs, freaky as ever, glowing just a little bit brighter.

He smiles, and shows me just what he was hiding before.

A set of really, really sharp teeth. White, straight cat-teeth, not so different from a movie star's except that he could
rip my throat out if he wanted to
.
 

My eyes go wide—I've never seen anything like it—and he hums in dark approval. It's like a purr. Or a growl.

You know what? I'm a fish person. I don't have time to make Nat Geo comparisons.

And Mama didn't raise no punk.

I slam my forehead into his chin.

Blinding pain explodes behind my eyes. Oh my god, what the hell is in that chin of his? Steel? Jesus!

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and that's when I realize he didn't even flinch. Okay, that's an exaggeration—he is cradling his chin, glaring at me. At least I think he is. I'm kind of seeing the Funhouse version of him right now.

His pretty face contorts with annoyance. He flicks his wrist and chucks me like a tape wad that got stuck on his fingers. I'm back on the ground before I can blink, my head cushioned by the bulky duffel. It's the only thing that saves me from a concussion, if I don't have one already.

He walks the two steps before I can move away and a big boot comes down on my chest, pinning me in place. He's not going easy on me either. He weighs a ton. I might mean that literally. The breath is pushed out of my lungs and there's nothing to fill them. He keeps pressing and pressing, until I think my ribs are going to break from the compression.

I've got to get out of here. I punch his knee and meet the hard resistance of a boot. I kick up but can't reach his ass. He's big, unyielding, and pissed. I'm not getting an inch.

It feels like the blood is rushing to my face, and I know it's a reaction to too little air. He's not killing me, but spots are starting to float.
Don't panic. I can't panic.
I have to move, to act.
 

I hit his ankle with my other hand—and realize, throughout this entire thing, I never once let go of the keys.

So I center them between my fingers and stab him in the thigh, right above the knee.

He roars. It's big and lion-like, a terrifying testament to his otherworldly origins, the kind of sound meant to cower prey into submission.

It does that, but it also does something else.

It wakes up the neighborhood.

The people of Earth don't know that aliens exist. They think they do, but there's a difference between
thinking
and
knowing.
 

People can watch as many alien invasion, stoner comedy, or animated movies they want. What they imagine life beyond Earth's atmosphere is not even close to reality, and that's the way otherworlders want it to stay.

One thing is for sure. When the apartments around us light up like Christmas, the Ferissian is not happy.

Could be because of the blood coming out of his wound, though.

There's shouting. I punch him in the leg again, right where I got him the first time. He dodges with a snarl. I scramble to my feet and dash away. “Help!” I shout. “Somebody call the police!”

He yanks me back.

People are looking out of the windows now. Mobiles are flashing.

He snarls and twists into shadows of the vines. I dig in my heels to gain traction. I'm not going down without a fight. This isn't going to last long. I can already hear people pounding down the stairwell to help. Thank god I live in a neighborhood that has a lot of ex-soldiers. More than a few of those guys will have baseball bats.

But damn, what if they
do
have baseball bats? What if they figure out the Ferissian isn't normal?

Hell, I don't have time to worry about that now! I've got a getaway to make.

I have to abandon the duffel.

I pull my arms out of the handles and go forward, my legs pumping.

About a million pounds of forceful Ferissian forearm come down in front of my hips, basically clotheslining the bejesus out of me. “Oof!”

He keeps turning. Imagine a ballet spin, only in combat boots, the balls of his feet grinding on the asphalt. He ducks just out of sight of the first guy to my rescue, disappearing around the corner for an instant.

That's all he needs.

I hear the click and I know—he activated the transporter.

My last sight is the faint outline of leaves against the super bright backdrop of fluorescent lights.

We're gone.

Transporting is not easy. It feels like a rollercoaster spinning in place, as weird as that sounds. Dip, punt, and twist. That's all you need to know. Then you're in a completely different place and, in my case, in a deep load of shit.

Cold rushes my face. This is recycled air at its finest, swamping my skin the way a fridge ghosts out in the summer. I have the vague impression of white and blue and gray before I'm turning again. His arm is thick and unyielding.

I ram my elbow into his solar plexus.
Dammit!
For god's sake, there's no bone there. It shouldn't cause this kind of pain.
 

God, I'm in trouble.

But I'll be
damned
if I make this easy.
 

Chapter Two

Like any of my kind, I relish battle. The hunt, the struggle, and the ultimate victory are the same as breathing. When my brother Feruz proposed this plan to me, I seized upon the chance to take the game to an intergalactic level. Earth is the great uncharted territory. It is under the protection of the powers that be, but a ship can slip in without detection if one takes the right steps.

I predicted the chase itself to be quick, of course. The target is half-human, no physical match for me and mine. This was to be an exercise, a favor to my brother and a little thrill-seeking on my part. Regardless if Feruz succeeded, for me the aftermath and reward would be worth it.

The female, however, is not what I expected.

Satisfaction burns in me when she grunts in surprise. I toss her from me to the floor. She does a strange one-legged somersault, spins, and comes at me with a growl. I swat her punch away. She takes advantage of the deflection and plows the other fist into my side. I snarl playfully, enjoying the tussle.

She bares her teeth.

I swing her bag into her belly.

“
Oof! Why, you dirty bastard—” she bites out in Galactic Standard, yanking the back away.

I smirk. “That is payment for stabbing me, little human.”

She spins. The bag slams into my face. I stumble to the side, pain exploding in my cheek. “That's payment for kidnapping me, Ferissian!” She rams her elbow into the joint between my shoulder and neck. I drop to a plank position, landing on my palms, toes balanced.

She kicks me in the stomach. “That's for taking me from Alan Rickman!”

I roll to the side and come up to my feet. This is still a game—a delightful, rough and tumble skirmish—but it is taking up too much of my time. I must get a message to Feruz soon, or this will all be for nothing.

The game must end.

I attack in earnest, feigning left and hooking my arm out when she dodges. She falls into my trap without a moment's hesitation. I wrap my forearm around her throat and haul her into my body, her crown slamming into my breast. She slipped her hands beneath my hold—impressive reflexes—but I am too strong. I squeeze and hiss in her ear, “Yield, female, before this becomes unpleasant.”