He inclined his head. “Octavia then.”
She had to grin at the unsure way he’d spoken her name. “You’ll get used to it… James.”
His smile was genuine. “I guess we should get some sleep.”
She threw the final rabbit bone into the fire. “We have a human to track and a Xenocann to kill at first light. So yeah, we should.”
“I’ll take the first watch.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You look more exhausted than I am. Goodnight, James.”
He nodded, appreciative. “Thanks, Com—I mean Octavia. Goodnight.”
Octavia watched James retreat into the one-man tent that was standard issue in any IFAK—Individual First Aid Kit—pouch. Lifting the bottom of her cloak, she stomped out what was left of the dwindling fire. That accomplished, she sat on the ground against a nearby tree, a stolen SA80 rifle in her vigilant grasp. She sighed, realizing she was more tired than she’d originally thought. Forcing herself to stay alert, she allowed her thoughts to wander back three years to when this entire nightmare began.
Three years. It felt more like thirty had gone by.
The day the Xenocanns entered Earth’s atmosphere had been like something out of a Hollywood movie. Excitement had mingled with dread as she’d watched the triangular spaceships land. Thousands had landed simultaneously on every conceivable area of the globe, though she hadn’t learned that detail for several more hours. Stationed in Iraq near the Syrian border, Octavia had known immediately the metallic, pyramid-shaped structures as tall as any skyscraper were not human in origin. A shiver of awe and fear had run down the length of her spine. The awe would quickly fade; the terror would remain.
Upon first sight, the aliens had appeared nearly human. It wasn’t until a person was in close proximity that any differences became noticeable. The pupils of their eyes, for instance, were tear-shaped, like reptiles. Their skin, so pale, contrasted heavily against the blackness of their raptor-like fingernails. It was the fingernails that gave her then-superior his first tip-off that humanity was now dealing with technologically advanced predators.
“Get your team out of here, Commander Benatti,” Captain Alejandro Riaz had murmured near her ear. “The mission is aborted.”
“But what about you—”
“Get your team outnow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Octavia hadn’t hesitated. Later, she would be glad for Captain Riaz’s decisive command and raw instinct. She would learn a few days later while hiding out with Iraqi forces that her team comprised the lone survivors. For everyone else on base, it had been a bloodbath. An enlisted soldier from the U.S. Army had gone back later that same evening to search for survivors. The young Private had found a blood-soaked ghost town instead. Pocketing the footage from the base’s surveillance cameras, the soldier had caught up to her group three days after the fact. Starving and dehydrated, he’d handed Octavia the footage while a handful of compassionate Iraqi women brought him food and water.
Octavia frowned, recalling the horrid carnage evidenced on that tape. She looked up to the full moon and rested her head on an indent in the tree trunk.
All the fire power on base hadn’t been enough to stop the human slaughter. The Xenocanns had either worn invisible shields or their epidermises consisted of the toughest substance known to humankind. Back then, while viewing the surveillance footage, Octavia had assumed it was the former. It wasn’t until she put two and two together in the concentration camps that she realized it was actually the latter. Feeder skin was nearly impenetrable; it was only their hearts that provided vulnerable territory.
The video had given her—and the mishmashed group that was Seal Team 9, a few Iraqi fighters, and a handful of Iraqi civilians—one final, bloodcurdling discovery: the alien invaders had two sets of teeth. When not feeding, their teeth were nearly identical to that of humans, save their somewhat longer incisors. While they were feeding, or at least preparing to, serrated blades like those of a great white shark burst out of their gumlines.
Octavia’s hold tightened on the filched rifle as memories continued to flood back.
She had managed to keep her team together, alive, and free for a full calendar year. When it became apparent the feeders were going after military personnel before civilians, she’d ordered her men to burn and bury their dog tags. They’d spent six months blending in with the locals, Octavia going so far as to don the black and gold Hashimi dress favored by the village women. Eventually, however, the Xenocanns began rounding up civilians too… some for food, others for working the internment camps. She’d fled with her men when the roundups began; she had offered to take the rest of her little group with her, but they had declined. They refused to leave their village until they were taken by force, which she understood and admired, albeit reluctantly.
The next six months were spent on the run. Thirst, hunger, and fear were their constant companions. By the end of the sixth month their bodies were too weak to offer much resistance. The aliens picked them off, one by one, taking the captives to unknown destinations. Every time she lost another man, a piece of her soul went with him. Perversely, she was almost glad to surrender after her final man—Lieutenant Bellamy—had been taken. Or at least she’d felt that way until she’d arrived at her first camp.
Octavia sighed, forcing the memories at bay. Besides, it was almost time to wake up James and damn if she didn’t need a good sleep.
They had a job to do at first light. They both needed to be on top of their games. She absently ran a hand over her mane of curls before standing up to stretch her legs.
Chapter Two
Bothwell Castle, 10 miles southeast of Glasgow
Scotland, 1301 A.D.
Laird Angus of Karrik, feared Highlander warlord of legend and master of all he surveyed, was in a bedamned dungeon.
The laird frowned at the wee old mon who’d caused his current predicament, though in truth he wasn’t overly concerned about his fate. His stupid English captors didn’t ken just who it was they’d caught—of this truth he was certain. His clansmen would free him and kill them all in the doing did it come to that. Nay, Angus was not worried. His black mood came down to embarrassment… and to knowing he’d be in the debt of whichever warrior first freed him.
“I’m certain this will be over very soon,” the wee old mon stammered out in unschooled Gaelic. His accent, Angus noted, was as odd as the breeches and tunic he wore. “They need me,” he said on a sigh. “They’ll be coming soon.”
