Page 106 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“How can this be...” he mutters, turning to Bitch Brick. “Xandor never spoke of this.”

His unsettling eyes—violet flame behind obsidian irises—fix on Dracoth. “I had given up hope of ever finding our females. Tell me... how many?”

Dracoth hesitates, then pulls his mother gently closer, protective even now. “Some dozens,” he growls.

Mama Dracoth continues humming, her tune slightly faster, like a warning building in the air. Her green eyes stay unfocused, distant.

“So few...” Krogoth whispers, shaking his head slowly. “Still... you are to be honored. This is no small feat.”

He honors us? I practically choke.

This from the guy wearing a galaxy-sized ego on his headdress? He exists in my Lexie-verse—not the other way around.

“Listen—” I begin, my voice low with sharpened edge—

“Ah!” Bitch Brick cuts across me, grimacing like someone just stabbed her with a migraine. “I can feel her pain.”

She clutches her temples, wincing as if to ward off the world’s worst hangover. “It’s overwhelming—her thoughts, her memories. They loop. A constant, echoing scream.”

She slides from Krogoth’s clutches like a slithering snake, moving to stand before Mama Dracoth, feigning a look of concern.

“May I try something?” she asks Dracoth, glancing back at him with a calculated look of innocence.

I tut, raising a hand to object. “Actually, I’d prefer—”

“Proceed.” Dracoth the rude prick cuts me off.

I seethe, nails biting into my palms. The absolute nerve—undermining me in front of everyone, when what we need is to be the power couple to end all power couples.

Bitch Brick glances over her shoulder at Krogoth, smiling with a knowing nod. Then their eyes swirl with a mix of glowing purple and hazel hues. Mist almost as divine as mine, spills from their eyes in eerie plumes.

I recognize it. Their bond is bridged. Like what Dracoth and I used to share—back before he turned off the frowny juice tap.

Bitch Brick turns her focus back to Mama Dracoth.

“Can you tell us your name?” Her voice comes quiet, but it makes me shiver, carrying a strange element that pierces my mind like a hundred reverberating hairpins stabbing.

Mama Dracoth shudders.

Her green eyes—once lost—snap into focus, locking onto Bitch Brick with raw, terrified intensity. Her hands tremble violently.

“I...I...” she whispers.

Her gaze drops. Her lips quake.

“I can’t remember. I don’t want to remember.” She begins to shake, voice cracking like dry pasta. “Please... please, Gods... make it stop. Make it stop!” Trembling claws rake through her scalp, leaving green gouges.

“Ae...ri...th.” A broken name squeezing through a heartbreaking scream of anguish.

“What have you done?!” Dracoth roars, a feral beast unleashed, his voice reverberating like tectonic fury. In a blur, he tears his mother away, shielding her from Bitch Brick as if she’s emitting a toxic miasma.

“I—I only asked her name...” she stammers, retreating into Krogoth’s steadying grasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“Great job,” I cut in, feigning a sigh, though inside I’m giddy. This is like a birthday cake layered with revenge. “Sandra, you got a comb?” I ask, slipping free from Dracoth’s arm.

Sandra blinks, then nods, digging into her oversized potato sack ensemble and handing me a plastic comb.

“Come on, Mrs. Dracoth,” I coo, easing into my softer voice. “Let’s sit. There now.” We both guide her gently into my chair turned volcanic diorama.

“You’re safe now.” I murmur, brushing her hair, so fine it parts like golden rays. “No one will hurt you again.”

I glare at Bitch Brick, feeling a new sense of loathing bubbling in my guts.

How dare she do whatever it is she did! Probably imprinting terrible taste in men into her.

“We’re both here. Your son, Dracoth. And me—Lexie, your daughter-in-law.” I keep brushing, keep soothing. Slowly, Mama Dracoth’s frantic breath begins to steady. Her hands stop twitching. The haunting, absent humming resumes.

“She’ll be fine,” I say over my shoulder to Dracoth. His rage simmers behind those blood-red eyes, betrayed only by the subtle tension in his jaw. “Once we get these cuts cleaned.” I glance down at her scalp, tutting at the depth of the wounds.

“Maybe we should try a healing pod?” Bitch Brick suggests, clutching at straws now she has an ostrich-sized egg on her face.

“We tried,” Sandra chimes in, glowing like a ginger sunrise. “None of them responded. I’m Sandra, by the way.” She trots over, hand extended, all warmth and kindness. “When I heard there was another woman, I couldn’t wait to meet you!”

Bitch Brick blinks, caught off guard by the friendliness—and probably the fact Sandra’s draped in a brown woolly pillowcase.

But she recovers quickly. “It’s lovely to meet you.

I’m Roxanne, but...” she chuckles, casting a fond glance back at Krogoth, “everyone just calls me Rocks. He started it. Now it’s kind of stuck.

” She takes Sandra’s hands in hers. “I’d love to catch up after this meeting. ”

That’s it, Sandra. My little ginger mole of irresistible friendship.

“I’d like that, Rocks,” Sandra smiles, nodding. They lock eyes like new playground BFFs—except the sandbox is made of politics and blood.

“Krogoth, do you think Tyrxie could help Dracoth’s mother? You know, since she healed the youths.” Bitch Brick glances back, her hopeful words pricking my ears.

Tyrxie? That name sounds like a back-alley, hobo drug dealer with delusions of grandeur. Is she like me... well, nearly like me. Almost divine? How many are there ? A dozen? A hundred? My spine straightens.

“It’s possible,” Krogoth replies, stroking his chin. “Though she and Xandor departed for Klendathor to complete the Mortakin-Tok.”

I don’t like this. I really don’t like this. I’m supposed to be the one. The Divine Daughter. Not last year’s sacred edition, gathering dust in the dark recesses of a wardrobe of unfashionable pretenders while new models get rolled out.

“What is this madness?” the Big-Bellied Chief exclaims, rising.

His ruddy face burns redder, voice thunderous.

“Our females returned. Strange abilities. Bonding with aliens. And now a cure for the sin that cursed our youths?” He raises his arms, sending his bone-laden beard and hair jangling.

“Have the Gods finally forgiven us? Have they answered our devotions, our sacrifices?”

His gaze sweeps between Krogoth and Dracoth—between divine calm and divine wrath. “And now... through you ... salvation.”

“You speak of salvation, Borrthak?” Peacock Big Chief sneers, puffing up like an angry turkey.

“This one slew our War Chieftain Gorexius!” He jabs a trembling finger at Krogoth.

“Then dragged us into a traitorous, ill-prepared assault—allying with these... Nebians .” His voice grows louder.

“Did we not just fight and die by the thousands breaking their war machine?”

His hand slams down on the twisted metal table with a thunderous smack. “By what right does he betray their sacrifice?!”

“By right of Krak-Tok,” Krogoth growls, his voice vibrating with barely leashed power. “By decree of the Council of Elders. By the blood oaths of the Clans. The authority of the High Chieftain’s ancient crown. And by the noble blood flowing through my veins.”

With each lofty title, his voice grows darker, heavier—like he’s building for an EDM drop. Peacock recoils, eyes downcast like he’s done ten rounds with a tank.

Ugh. Leave it to Todd and me to save the day. Again.

“That’s funny...” I begin sweetly, brushing Mama Dracoth’s golden hair, every word honeyed poison.

“Because what I heard? You used your powers to beat up Dracoth’s daddy.

I mean, I’m no expert on bone-through...

um, Klendathian politics, but that doesn’t sound very honorable to me.

” I flick a glance at Bitch Brick and flash a razor grin.

“That’s like entering a fashion show in an unsightly purple dress. ”

Her expression shifts instantly—no more nice girl. Her mouth twists into a sneer: betrayed, outraged, like a brown mouse catching someone nibbling her last cube of cheese.

“Silence!” she snaps, misting violet-hazel eyes flashing. Her words hit me like a bucket of cold water, reverberating in my mind like an intrusive thought I didn’t ask for.

But Todd’s mirror runes blaze. Silver fire . Beautiful. Divine. Aenarael’s gift.

Her mouth opens again—but no sound. Only silence. Her hands fly to her lips in horror.

I laugh. Oh, I laugh . “Cat got your tongue?” I purr, leaning in. “Aw. That’s tragic.”

Her mouth widens in what could be a soundless scream. I savor it like fresh mocha. Sweet, delicious revenge. Divine Mother truly is a genius.

“Now where was I, before being so rudely interrupted?” I say brightly, turning to the room.

“Ah yes. The ‘ Council of Elders’ ?” I gesture to encompass the immense, opulent room.

“Funny. I don’t see them. Maybe they’re at home sipping Dark Tar Stouts while you lot risk your necks?

And the blood oaths of the Clans?” My gaze sweeps over the Big Chiefs—a mix of stunned and thoughtful faces.

“ You are the Clan leaders. Did you agree to this?”

A ripple of murmurs. Heads shaking. All except Mummy-wrap Chief.

“So, phonies then? They probably found hobos, gave them different colored clothes, and a pat on the back,” I snort, flicking my wrist at the garish, horned monstrosity on Krogoth’s head.

“And that... hat? Something you found at the circus? Tell me, what if, say... the wind blew it off and some kid picked it up, would he be High Chieftain? He also speaks of blood. But here stands Dracoth, the son of War Chieftain Gorexius.” I gesture to my murder husband. “The rightful ruler.”

The words spill out of me in a euphoric rush. I love the power play. All eyes on me, hanging on my every word. I finish my monologue overcome with a sense of pride and self-satisfaction.

But something’s wrong.

There is no victory. No. Something much worse—Krogoth, face twisted in rage, eyes glowing like twin purple infernos. “You will undo whatever foul thing you’ve done to my Pebbles ,” he commands, raising a hand at me. “Or I will end you.”

Oh, fuck.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” I swallow a lump in my throat, regal composure cracking. “It was her own power—her backlash—”

“Face me,” Dracoth says.

A low growl. Pure thunder. He steps forward, crimson-eyed and colossal, rage simmering in every movement, his shadow falling protectively over me.

He stops before Krogoth, towering over even him by a head. Massive. Invincible. Totally hot. But annoyingly showing restraint. The pair lock burning eyes. Purple and crimson suns burning fumes into the tense, sterile air.

Can Dracoth kill him before he unleashes those vortexes? Maybe—maybe—if I get my barriers up in time.

My heart jackhammers in my chest. This is it. The moment I’ve been building toward, hoping for. Our enemies in one place. The gooey, delicious tension is so thick I could marinate in it for weeks.

Dracoth’s hand twitches—ready to strike. Krogoth’s eyes crackle with power. Todd croaks with sleepy, divine protection.

Then—wood creaks. A long, ancient groan.

Light spills in. Cool. Pristine. Unnatural. Next comes—music. Twinkling, high-pitched and eerily serene—like a fairy tale turned sideways.

All eyes snap to the source.

Nibs. Lots of them.

Two hulking purple Robo-Nibs. A dozen armored guards. And Consul Catokar at the head, flanked by a new figure—a tall Nib woman with radiant yellow hair and a collar high enough to pick up Wi-Fi.

But it’s the one floating on a strange disc that silences everything.

A figure suspended like royalty. Ancient.

Wrinkled. Glowing Elerium-like eyes. Blue skin, bushy white eyebrows, a beard like frosted moss curling down his robe.

His collar is the largest yet: half iridescent orange, half shimmering blue.

He doesn’t walk. He hovers— a radiant techno, Papa Smurf.

A voice echoes through the chamber, formal and rehearsed:

“All rise for Imperator Bulba, Fourth of His Name, Protector of the Twin-Sunned Empire, Slayer of the Scythians!”

Bulbasaur?

I blink.

Seriously?

That’s his name?