Awaken Me Darkly (Alien Huntress #1)(61)
Author: Gena Showalter

Urgency hammering through me, I raced outside.

No street

signs. No traffic. The afternoon air breathed a frosty cover in every direction as a large expanse of trees and untamed land greeted me. How many miles stood between the city and me? I didn’t know, couldn’t even see New Chicago’s skyline. I could begin walking, hoping someone would drive past and give me a lift, but…I didn’t like the odds, the waiting. The time involved. Kyrin could return at any moment.

There had to be another way.

The answer entered my peripheral vision as I stepped farther away from the house.

To my right rested a four-car garage, square in shape, white trim and red brick, detached from the house. The very garage I’d watched Kyrin speed from only one night ago. I quickened my step, pumping my arms and flinging snowflakes up my calves.

The side door proved locked, and the automatic entrance too heavy for me to lift. I busted the back window with a rock and climbed inside, knowing I’d set off whatever alarm system he used. I didn’t care. Warmth enveloped me as I studied three SUVs, each clean and all-terrain. And waiting for a driver.

Waiting for me.

I grinned. One space proved empty, which meant Kyrin was still using the Jag. As I considered what to do next, my smile dissolved. I didn’t know how to hot-wire a car. Earthlings used fingerprint IDs to start cars. Most aliens did not have fingerprints, so they used voice recognition.

Without Kyrin…No. Wait. Most likely, Kyrin would have programmed a few of his servants’ voices into the system, in case he needed someone to run his errands. Or he would have left a recorder with his voice commands for their uses.

Cursing, I ran back through the snow, my teeth chattering, my body shivering. Inside the house, the servants were still in hiding. As I searched for them, I also searched for a recorder. I rummaged through drawers and cabinets on the ground floor, finding nothing but a few batteries and bullets. Scowling, I pounded up the stairs to Kyrin’s room, where I left no corner or hollow untouched.

I discovered a feather boa and a straw cowboy hat in his closet—but I didn’t want to consider why he had those items.

Back downstairs I went. A few minutes later, I found a young woman hiding in a cubbyhole under the kitchen floor. She screamed when she saw me. I grabbed her by the upper arm and hefted her up.

“Come with me. Be good, and I won’t hurt you.”

Her body trembled, but she didn’t try to fight me. I raced back outside, dragging her with me as I retraced my steps to the garage. Thankfully, there was no sign of Kyrin’s return. I approached the far SUV, the one with chains on the tires, low mileage, and turbocharge.

“Open it,” I commanded the woman.

“Op—open,” she whispered.

Nothing happened. I banged my hand on the hood in frustration. “Say it again. In the right language.”

“Luo,” she shouted.

The door popped open.

Relief pounded through me. “Now make it start.”

“Pren,” she shouted, and the engine hummed instantly to life.

I released her and slid inside the car. As she sprinted away, I programmed in the coordinates to my apartment. The garage door opened automatically and the car jolted into motion. The squeal of thick tire tread filled my ears as I sped away.

I snatched the car phone and said, “Jack Pagosa, A.I.R.,” into the speaker. I heard the ring, but he never answered. Shit. I’d try again when I reached my home. I drove north for half an hour, and had almost given up finding a familiar road when New Chicago’s skyscrapers rose ahead, above the horizon. An hour later, I eased into my building’s parking lot. I left the car running.

My steps clipped and frantic, I strode inside the building. The hallway was a broad opening into an expansive sunlit lobby that left nothing to obstruct my vision. Just as I rounded the corner, I heard a high-pitched you’re-looking-good whistle. I turned sharply on the balls of my feet. My neighbor, Eddie Briggs, paled when he realized who he’d just objectified.

He was damn lucky I didn’t knife him.

“Uh, hi,” he said, pressing his glasses up his nose and trying not to stare at my cle**age. He wasn’t doing too good a job. He stood in front of the elevator, tall, lanky, and young, probably twenty, with dark blond hair and freckled skin.

“If you want to live, don’t comment on my clothes.” I never slowed my step and quickly passed him. I felt his gaze on my legs.

“Uh, the police have been here looking for you,” he called.

I stopped mid-step and spun to face him. “Did they question you?”

I waited. Nothing further was offered. He just continued to stare at the gown beneath the jacket, and I waved my hand in front of his face until he actually made eye contact. “What’d you tell them?”

“That I didn’t know nuthin’. That I hadn’t seen you in a few days.”

“You did good,” I told him, jumping back into stride.

Only when I reached my apartment did I stop again. I cursed. My ID unit was busted. I cautiously stepped into the foyer and scanned my living room. Nothing appeared out of place or destroyed, but…something didn’t feel right. The air pulsed with someone else’s energy. Someone, maybe A.I.R., maybe not, had searched my place. That someone might still be here.

I unsheathed my knife. A thorough search revealed an empty trash bin and a missing answering unit, but thankfully, no intruder.

I tried Jack again. After eight rings, I slammed the receiver onto the kitchen receptor, once, twice. Where the hell was he? My fingers stiff, I phoned the hospital next, only to be informed that Dr. Hannah was absent. Was everyone conspiring against me?

After locking up as best I could, I hurried through the spray-shower, changed into fitted slacks and a button-down, then ceremoniously dumped Kyrin’s clothing into the corner. God, it felt good to wear my own things. Even better, I had strapped on a pyre-gun, clips, and several knives. I secured the necklace Kyrin had given me in my closet safe, where I usually kept old weapons. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it yet.

Thankfully no one had stolen the SUV, so I used it to drive to the hospital. Anticipation filled me as I strode into Dallas’s room; sunlight streamed through the open blinds and gleamed on the white tile and silver bed rails. I stood there, drinking in every detail.

Dallas was propped up on the bed, eating lunch and speaking with another agent. Garret Harsbro, I realized, a young recruit fresh from school.

I felt a surge of joy and relief, consuming, pure. Dallas was alive, healthy, and whole. His skin possessed a strong pink tint. His motions were slow but sure. The only evidence of his recent brush with death was his thinner cheeks and the lines of tension around his mouth.