Page 5 of Pets in Space 10

Aloud crash split the morning quiet like a gunshot. Landry Savoy bolted upright in bed, cursed, and immediately regretted both actions. His head throbbed from lack of sleep, and his spine protested the sudden movement like rusted hinges on a barn door.

Another bang echoed from the back deck, followed by a metallic clatter that sounded suspiciously like the lid from his bait cooler.

“For the love of crawfish gumbo,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face. “If it’s that damn gator again…”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging on a pair of jeans he’d half-stepped out of earlier. One leg in — good. Second leg —

Wham.

He lost his balance and stumbled sideways, crashing shin-first into the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. “Son of a — ” he hissed, hopping on one foot. His jeans tangled mid-thigh.

In his attempt to right himself, he jerked upright — and crack, smacked his head squarely on the edge of a hanging shelf. A row of rolled-up laminated bayou maps wobbled, then spilled across the floor like drunken batons.

“Perfect,” he growled, rubbing his head.

Still cursing under his breath, Landry finally yanked the jeans up over his lean hips.

He left them unbuttoned as he stomped barefoot across the creaking floorboards.

Another thud came from the deck. With the scowl of a man who’d rather be anywhere else — preferably with coffee — he grabbed the oar propped up beside the back door.

“Alright, ya slimy overgrown purse,” he muttered, “let’s dance.”

He flung open the screen door, brandishing the oar like a medieval knight about to smite an unruly dragon. The morning air hit him with the muggy embrace of southern summer, heavy with the scent of cypress, mud, and brackish water.

Nothing.

Just mist curling over the water, the chirp of cicadas, and the lazy flap of a heron’s wings as it took flight.

Landry narrowed his eyes. “You’d better take off.”

He lowered the oar and muttered a curse about swamp ghosts before he turned his attention to his desperate need for caffeine.

“Damn gators,” he grumbled, replacing the oar next to the door. “Next one gets a boot to the — ”

He yanked the back door open, yawning, and scratched under the waistband of his low-slung, still-unbuttoned jeans as he shuffled inside.

Then he froze.

Completely froze — hand still down the front of his pants.

Standing in his kitchen, cool as you please, was a woman.

A beautiful stranger.

Who wasn’t there thirty seconds ago.

She was leaning over his map of the delta, one hand braced on the counter, her head tilted in deep concentration.

She had rich, mahogany brown hair pulled back into a loose braid, and sharp, intelligent eyes the color of dark chocolate. Her nose twitched slightly as if taking in the scents of the room — old coffee grounds, pine cleaner, and last night’s gumbo.

She was dressed like she’d stepped out of a Renaissance fair and took a wrong turn — dark green tunic, fitted brown trousers, knee-high leather boots, and a sweeping dark green cloak that shimmered faintly with something not entirely natural.

And… she glowed.

Not metaphorically.

Actually glowed.

A soft, golden aura surrounded her, as if her skin remembered starlight and had kept it for herself.

Landry blinked.

Then blinked again.

Still there.

She turned slowly, eyes lifting — first to meet his stunned gaze, then slowly dropping to where his hand was still very much inside his pants.

Her brow arched. Just slightly.

The corners of her mouth twitched. Just a little.

And her eyes held tiny, tantalizing flames of interest. He hoped.

Landry’s cheeks flamed so fast he thought his eyebrows might catch fire.

He jerked his hand out like he’d been caught fondling a cactus. “Who in the hell are you?” he barked, his voice cracking slightly.

The woman straightened, completely unfazed. “I could ask the same of you. Who are you?” she requested mildly. “Given your current state of dress, I assume this is your home.”

Her voice was calm, velvety, with a bemused patience that made him want to throw something and apologize at the same time.

Landry opened his mouth — then closed it. Then looked down at his still-loose jeans.

He turned, buttoned and yanked the zipper up with a jerky motion, before he ran a hand through his messy black hair and turned back.

“Lady, I don’t know how you got in here,” he growled, “but you’ve got five seconds to explain before I call the sheriff, the Coast Guard, or just toss your ass in the bayou with the damn gator that woke me up.”

She smiled slightly. “Five seconds isn’t nearly long enough to explain something as complicated as this. And… it wasn’t a reptile, or at least not one from your world that woke you. I suspect it was a dragon.”

Her eyes flicked once more to his hand which was absently rubbing the dark hair near his belly button, before she ran her gaze back up over his bare chest with a look that seared his blood. That heated blood rushed embarrassingly south, and there was no hiding the sudden bulge that made him wince.

His face flushed again, and he released a silent groan.

It was going to be one of those mornings.

Landry kept one eye on the glowing woman in his kitchen while grabbing the shirt draped over the back of the nearest chair.

It was wrinkled, faded, and bore a coffee stain that looked vaguely like Florida — but it was better than standing there like a half-dressed idiot with swamp hair and a tent in his pants.

He yanked the shirt on and fumbled with the buttons, missing the middle two and fastening the third to the fifth in his rush. The result was a crooked mess that made him look like a sleep-deprived drunk raccoon trying to impersonate a nerdy biologist — which he was.

“Who the hell are you?” he snapped, yanking fruitlessly at the fabric to straighten it.

“Harmonia Stormhold,” she replied with infuriating calm. “And you are?”

“Landry. Dr. Landry Savoy. This is my damn house. You weren’t invited. So I’ll be the one asking the questions.”

She nodded as if this was perfectly reasonable.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where did you come from?”

“Multiple places,” she said, strolling toward the shelves by the wall. “But mostly Zelos. And Enyo.”

Landry blinked. “Where the hell are Zelos and Enyo?”

“Other worlds. Far, far from Earth.”

He stopped cold. His brain skidded on that response like a bullfrog on wet tile. “I need coffee,” he muttered. “A tanker truck of it. Maybe two.”

Still shaking his head, he stomped to the rustic kitchen, a space cobbled together with hand-cut cypress, metal mesh baskets, and a stubborn old gas stove that sometimes required threats to operate.

The place smelled of old wood, dried herbs, yesterday’s gumbo, and the bayou.

A pot of leftover crawfish stock sat forgotten from the night before on the back burner.

Jars filled with pickled onions, preserved mushrooms, and a suspiciously active sourdough starter lined one crooked shelf.

It was a bachelor’s kitchen through and through — functional, chaotic, and clinging to a layer of humidity that no amount of ceiling fan could chase off.

He grabbed his battered tin canister of coffee beans and promptly spilled a good handful of them.

“Son of a — ”

The beans danced across the countertop like caffeinated marbles, several rolling toward the edge with suicidal determination.

Behind him, Harmonia’s voice drifted like a song wrapped in amusement. “I could help with that.”

He grunted, sweeping the beans back into the canister with one hand. “No offense, lady, but you just appeared in my kitchen like a magical forest-themed burglar, and now you’re talking other worlds. I’m gonna need a minute before I hand you the sacred grounds of the Gods.”

“Well, if you need assistance, please ask,” she replied with the flash of another amused grin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. She moved with the grace of someone born on a cliff edge — elegant and dangerous. Her cloak whispered around her ankles like it was alive. She leaned down to peer into a wide-mouthed jar filled with polished stones and old arrowheads.

“Did you collect these?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rinsing out the coffeepot. “Been pokin’ around these swamps since I could walk. That one there’s a Choctaw blade. Found it up near Longwater Creek. Next to it’s a baby raccoon skull. Found that in my tackle box one morning. Still don’t know how it got there.”

She bent to examine a skull the size of a quail egg, her braid falling over one shoulder. Her curiosity was genuine. Her expression open. Honest.

Too honest.

Landry tried to focus on scooping beans into the grinder, but her presence buzzed along the back of his neck like a mosquito that didn’t bite — just watched.

She moved to the fish tank in the corner — an old converted icebox filled with native grasses, minnows, and a judgmental killifish named Sebastian. Harmonia crouched beside it, watching the little fish dart between the plants.

“They seem happy,” she murmured. “It feels… safe here.”

Landry choked on thin air. Sudden half-baked fantasies of being her hero flashed through his mind along with a lot less distance between them and even less clothing…

Focus, man. Coffee. Fish. Murderous forest fae women with glowing skin — NOT a turn-on. Not a —

He cursed softly when he missed the grinder and spilled more beans on the floor.

And dammit, his zipper was once again arguing with his anatomy.

He shifted awkwardly and yanked the waistband of his jeans up with a silent snarl. His body was ready to throw a Mardi Gras parade, but his brain was still stuck on ‘she came from another world’.

He cleared his throat, trying to shift the conversation — and blood flow — back to safe territory. “Are you, uh, hungry?”

She turned toward him, and her lips curved ever so slightly, her eyes holding something unreadable.

“I am,” she said simply.

Her eyes locked with his, and she started toward him — calm, smooth, deliberate.

Her gaze didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.

She stopped just shy of touching him, standing close enough for him to smell lavender, roses, and something uniquely hers that he couldn’t put his finger on — but wanted to explore in exquisite detail to figure out.

Landry froze.

She lifted one hand. “Hold still.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

“You buttoned your shirt wrong.”

He glanced down. Dammit, she was right. He looked like he’d dressed during a house fire.

Before he could protest, she made a slight gesture — and the buttons on his shirt unfastened themselves, then quickly re-fastened in perfect alignment.

He stared down at his shirt. Then back up at her.

His mouth was dry. “Okay,” he croaked. “That was… not entirely terrifying.”

The humor in her eyes deepened. But there was something else now, too. A flicker of caution. Of watchfulness. Like she was waiting to see how he’d react. Whether he’d run screaming, or throw her out, or accept what she was.

Landry took a breath. Then gave a jerk of his head. He needed coffee and food before he started running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

“You wanna help me cook breakfast?” he asked, his voice rough.

A smile spread across her face. “Sure,” she said, stepping toward the stove.

Landry turned to grab a skillet, ignoring the thrum in his chest, the buzz in his blood, and the voice in his head still yelling, You’ve lost your damn mind, Savoy.

Because, apparently, breakfast now included interdimensional guests who could wiggle their fingers and do shit that should be freaking him out.

Somehow, it didn’t.

Well, not completely.