Did Cora return? Or is there a brush fire that could wipe out the saucer?
I start through the little patch of jungle between our saucer clearing and the beach, moving slowly.
As I get closer, the smell hits me first—smoke, sharp and real, mixed with something briny and raw. The ocean, the seaweed, the monsters we suspect live in the depths.
The fire is small, barely more than embers licking at a few charred sticks. It sits alone on the sand. There are no figures around it, no voices, no movement.
Weird.
I stop a few yards away, scanning the beach. The surf rolls in and out, as calm as ever. The jungle behind me is silent in a way that feels intentional.
I take another step, then hear the soft sound of feet on dry sand.
Arms close around me from behind. As hard as iron.
A hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream, cutting off the sound and crushing my breath back into my chest. The body pressed against my back is massive. There’s solid heat and muscle, smelling of ocean and wood and something unmistakablymale.
Panic explodes through me, and I go wild with thrashing and writhing. But it’s useless. He’s too strong. One arm locks around my ribs, lifting me just enough that my feet scrape helplessly over the sand.
A low sound vibrates against my ear. It’s not a growl and not quite a word, but clearly a warning.Be quiet.
I bite down on his hand. Salty sand between my teeth.
He hisses, more surprised than hurt, and tightens his grip. My vision blurs as fear floods me, sharp and dizzying.
Dragged forward, I watch helplessly as he reaches out with his free foot and kicks sand over the fire. Embers scatter and hiss on the humid sand.
I try to turn, to yell, to alert Theodora. There are no witnesses. She won’t know what happened. I’m not even leaving tracks in the sand.
He hauls me toward the water, moving fast and sure-footed, like this beach belongs to him. I catch glimpses of bare skin and leather, the rough brush of something like a kilt against my legs. His chest presses against my back when he shifts his grip, and the contact sends a confusing jolt through me that has nothing to do with fear.
I hate myself for noticing.
The shape of a boat looms ahead, half dragged up on the sand. It’s long and narrow, balanced with an outrigger that cuts a dark line against the waves. It’s shockingly primitive.
He drops me into it with little ceremony. I scramble, but before I can move, rough rope is wrapped around my wrists, tight and efficient. He doesn’t look at my face while he does it, just my hands, his fingers quick and practiced.
I shake my head, a silent plea clawing up my throat.
His gaze finally meets mine.
The firelight is gone, but blue moonlight catches his face. There are sharp lines, luminous eyes set too deep to be human, skin marked with pale scars, and streaks of something purple that might be paint. Or blood. Or something else entirely. There are fangs and a mane of dark hair.
Yep, that’s a caveman.
For a split second, he stiffens. Something like hesitation flickers across his expression.
Then it’s gone.
He shoves the boat into the surf. Water slaps against my ankles and manages to feel cold.
My kidnapper vaults in after me. The vessel rocks dangerously, then steadies as he grabs a pole and pushes us away from shore.
The beach starts to slide backward. The jungle retreats, swallowing the darkness where the saucer stands.
I open my mouth to scream again, but the wind steals the sound as the boat turns toward the open water.
“Don’t worry,” the caveman says in the caveman language that Cora’s taught us over the past couple of weeks. “The Plood will never get you again.”
