Chapter 1
GOLDEN RETRIEVERS OF THE APOCALYPSE (WITH MORE ABS)
MIKAELA
If I squint hard enough, the central fire almost looks like a fireplace.
Almost.
If I pretend the cave walls are exposed brick instead of sun-baked rock, and I angle myself just right so the piles of sand-dusted bones near the cooking area drop out of sight, I can imagine I’m back in my tiny apartment kitchen on Earth. Maybe it’s winter. Maybe a real pot of soup is simmering on a proper stove. Maybe there’s coffee.
And maybe the sky is green and unicorns herd themselves past my window on their way to the subway.
“That looks like it’s…” Pam trails off, brow furrowing as she eyes the stew I’m cooking.
She’s perched on the rounded boulder that’s somehow become her personal throne in our makeshift kitchen nook. She moves slowly, carefully, fingers weaving her blonde hair into a loose braid while she hums under her breath. It’s anabsentminded tune with no real melody, but three Drakav have edged closer, pretending to check the firestones so they can stand there and listen.
Pam, even here on a desert planet, with constant headaches and a side of fever dreams, still gives off warmth. Gentle, unselfconscious kindness that somehow survived being lied to by aliens and dumped on a world made of sand.
“It’s fine,” I say, which is a bald-faced lie.
The stew bubbles in the stone pot, thick and…alarming. The firebloom petals I added for “flavor” have turned everything into an aggressive, radioactive orange that screams food poisoning, not dinner. The surface burps with a wet pop as another bubble breaks.
I brace my feet and heft the communal ladle again. It’s carved from a single massive bone, polished smooth by years of use. It’s beautiful. It’s also ridiculously heavy. The handle is as thick as a pickaxe handle and clearly meant for a seven-foot warrior grip. I’ve got to use both hands just to stir without sloshing lava-orange stew everywhere.
I nudge a chunk of meat, watch it sink, then rise again.
By the time I finish cooking dinner, I’m going to need a wrist brace. Maybe a personal massage therapist. I make a mental note to find a smaller bone and carve myself a spoon that doesn’t require upper-body training to operate.
I look back down at the bubbling pot. “It just needs…something.”
“A miracle?” Erika suggests without looking up. “Its key ingredientisa giant iguana.”
She’s kneeling nearby, dark hair yanked back in a no-nonsense ponytail as she crushes dried gourd flesh in a shallow stone bowl. Where Pam is quiet sunshine, Erika is cold realism. Between the three of us, we form a sort of balanced ecosystem:optimism, practicality, and me, the stubborn weed trying to turn alien lizard into comfort food.
“Maybe add some of those herbs Jacqui found last week?” she adds.
“Those made Tina throw up for an hour.”
Erika wrinkles her nose. “Right. Not those, then.”
To my left, there’s a low, rough sound. One of the Drakav forces a single word out of his throat. He grimaces, the simple act of forcing a word through his vocal cords clearly painful. My Xyma earbud pulses warm against my skin, and the familiar artificial translation curls into my ear.
“Hot,” the cool, genderless voice whispers.
I glance over. The male has stepped between Alex and a rogue firestone that popped out of the main blaze. The thing is glowing and dangerous, like a tiny piece of a dragon’s fire. The Drakav warrior doesn’t shove her; he just extends one massive hand behind her back, fingers spread wide, palm hovering a good three inches from her spine. He steers Alex with the air pressure of his palm alone, looking terrified that if he actually touches her, the world will explode.
Behind him, several other Drakav very pointedly do not stare. They pretend to check spears, to weave more sleeping mats, to patrol. It doesn’t matter. Their attention is as obvious as heat.
They’ve learned that direct staring makes most of us twitchy, so now they watch us without watching us. Or they think they do. The result is a cave full of men who absolutely are not looking…while their entire focus is on us.
The central fire throws gold and red across everything. In the middle of it all, Kol sits on his low stone seat, expression unreadable. His shoulders seem loose, but there’s something in the way he holds himself. The absolute stillness of a hawk on a high branch, seeing everything that moves below. He doesn’tmove much. He doesn’t have to. The air seems to move around him.
My gaze slides his way without my permission. The instant it does, his eyes find mine.
It’s unnerving how fast that happens. As if hehearsmy attention, like I whispered his name.
I jerk my chin away, a nervous chill going down my spine.
