Page 110 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Secret Agent

T he shot-glass-sized cup barely warms my hands, but what it holds is pure chocolatey gold—a rich, decadent mocha. I groan aloud as the creamy sweetness floods my insides, igniting a warmth I thought long lost. Bliss. Utter, caffeinated bliss.

Ah.

I’ve got to hand it to the Nibs—they know how to make a drink.

Marshmallows, dustings, the whole deal. Who knew Smurfs were such great cooks?

Probably the murder-orbs doing the actual work, let’s be honest. But I choose to ignore that detail—thinking about murder chefs kind of ruins the magic.

And I’ve waited too long—suffered too much—to miss out on this pant-busting extravaganza.

I sink back into the squishy seat, which molds itself around my rapidly expanding butt like it’s personally invested in supporting my descent into gluttony.

Hardly surprising, considering I’ve been speed-running the Nibs’ entire Earth-inspired menu like I’m on death row.

Every dish, from gooey fries to caramel-loaded waffles, crafted to sinful perfection.

Now, I’m building a shrine to excess—a leaning tower of dirty, multicolored plates stacked like a toddler’s tea party gone rogue.

Nib-sized plates, mind you. Tiny. Practically decorative—which means the calories don’t count.

I’m just waiting for the moment one arrives with a sticker and a prize inside.

My stomach groans dramatically, like a man being crushed under a falling cheesecake. I ignore it. Who knows when I’ll get Earth food again? This could be my last French toast ever. Let me suffer in syrupy peace.

Honestly, I kind of love it here—on the Imperator’s Glove or whatever they’re calling this floating five-star space brunch.

Except for the Nibs themselves. Ugh. Those smug blueberry heads strut like giant Dracoths, their noses so high you’d think I’d just tramped stinky Todd poop on their precious floors. I mean, who does that? Rude.

Still, once this unfortunate bone-through-the-nose business is finally sorted, I do hope Dracoth will do the right thing—squish the blueberries.

I mean, my birthday is coming up soon...

I think—Ah, the exact date doesn’t matter.

After all, it’s the thought that counts.

So, let’s say, this ship—and who knows, perhaps the entire Smurf kingdom—would make such a lovely gift.

Ah. Mushroom risotto.

Todd croaks loudly, interrupting my yummy plotting. He rests on my shoulder belching with what sounds suspiciously like a burp, having just devoured the last of my Jelly Sticks—a treat for his divine plumpness.

Watching his wee clackers clack, a wave of adoration swells in my chest. My little cherub of joy—so squishy, so divine, truly blessed by Goddess Aenarael. I giggle, remembering the way his rune flared and melted the smug off Bitch Brick’s face.

Hmm . Her tears? Aged like a fine wine. I’d drink them by the bottle.

Todd’s gleaming black eye blinks lazily at me. Then down at my French toast. Then back to me. And once more at the syrup-soaked bread.

Uh-oh.

“Don’t even think about it, mister,” I warn, eyes narrowing.

He bolts—well, as much as a chubby glow-bug can bolt.

I lunge, fingers brushing rubbery black-red skin, but he wriggles free with surprising strength. Launches himself like a lead balloon on a mission.

“Traitor!” I shout, flopping back in my seat. “Fine. Whatever. I’m stuffed anyway.” I exhale, patting my full belly.

Todd crashes onto the tiny plate with all the grace of a cannonball dripped in lard. Spindly legs twitch, mandibles blur, croaks belch, bread flies, syrup drips. Terrifying. Impressive. Fat.

Then—he stops. Despite two French toasts still begging for mercy, Todd freezes mid-gluttony.

“Todd?” I lean closer, inspecting the bug-statue of greed. “Is His Royal Plumpness... okay?”

His giant eye wobbles toward me, crumb-stuffed mandibles twitching like a drunk trying to parallel park.

“Chug Bug?” I whisper, a flicker of concern rising.

He keels over, rolling onto his side in a dramatic reenactment of the Titanic.

“Don’t die, I need you!” I shriek, diving for his exposed, squishy belly.

Burp!

“Eww!” I recoil like I’ve been slapped by a jellyfish, wiping my hand on my robes.

Todd wiggles, legs fluttering weakly, his croaks sounding suspiciously like me trying to haul myself out of a beanbag chair.

“You’re not dying!” I snap, waving my finger over the sheer quivering mass of chunk that is Todd. “You’re just in a food coma! Admit it, you little faker sneak.”

Todd doesn’t reply. Doesn’t apologize. No shame. Typical. Just selfishly rocking back and forth on the table like a living bowling ball trying to sling shot himself to freedom.

Then... I sniff.

Oh, no.

Nose wrinkling, I gag at the sulfuric death-cloud he’s released. It’s the kind of biological warfare that should be banned under intergalactic law.

“Ugh, you stinky stink bomb. I wish Divine Mother’s blessing came with a Chug Bug toilet.” I wave my hand wildly over my nose. “No pooping in here, mister. I mean it.”

Todd only blinks lazily. But there’s a hint of apologetic guilt reflected in that mirror sheen—I can tell. I’m his bug mother, after all.

“Right, time to pay Auntie Sandra another visit,” I grunt, scooping his hefty chunkiness and draping him over my shoulder like the universe’s most fashionable neck pillow. “I just hope we make it in time,” I mutter grimly, side-eyeing Todd. “Because I’ve still got poop PTSD from last time.”

No way am I dealing with another code brown. Sandra can handle it. She’s weirdly good at gross stuff. I mean, she thought cleaning giant snail poop was fun .

Very strange woman.

I snag the last plate of syrup-drenched French toast—because if I’m bringing her a surprise visit, I better come bearing gifts. And who doesn’t like gifts? Weirdos, that’s who.

I step through the fake exit, the weird hologram rippling like warm jello around me, wallpapered in door. My stomach flips for half a second but quickly settles—practice makes perfect.

Outside, the massive stone corridor yawns ahead, polished and grand, a sharp contrast to our dinky living quarters. I march left, toward Sandra’s rooms, cradling Todd like a precious, slightly toxic football.

Nibs scuttle past, heads turning away as if I’m some grubby space-hobo begging for change. Rude. Don’t they know who I am? The Divine daughter, blessed by Aenarael and Arawnoth.

Worse are the murder-orbs zipping through the halls like homicidal hornets, whirring ominously. I swear they’re plotting something. Probably waiting to steal my French toast.

I sigh, hugging Todd tighter. I’ve made this sad little march like... what? Two dozen times already this morning? It’s highly embarrassing. I’m basically a stage-ten clinger now. If the Nibs have security cameras, they’re probably nominating me for “Most Desperate Life Form 2025.”

Totally Sandra’s fault.

She’s been out since dawn doing... Arawnoth knows what. Well, technically, I did send her on a Lexie Top-Secret mission. A Lexsion. So, if the Gods are kind, my red squirrel is off gathering juicy nuts of gossip I can weaponize against Bitch Brick.

The cold, sterile air prickles against my skin, making me yank my black robes tighter. Despite the blood-red sun burning like a malevolent eye through the viewport. The ruby rays suggest heat I can’t feel, bathing the incredibly detailed murals and intricate statues with a bloody glow.

I shiver, feeling the chill—and something else. Dracoth’s presence lurking at the edge of my thoughts. Maybe it’s the Mr. Frowny Face-like star or the fact I’m freezing, that casts my mind back to the summit yesterday. When he finally stepped up, almost provoking Krogoth Cringe-Eyes into a duel.

I mean, it was all thanks to me. Skillfully, and gracefully neutralizing Bitch Brick. But the frightened wimp refused—a violation of the Sacred Words.

He deserves to be reborn in strength.

He is big and scary, sure. But deep down, he knows the truth: in a fair fight, my Red Dragon would tear him apart. In strength, no one comes close to my Dracoth. He’s just so... massive , a mountain of muscle meat that can’t be stopped.

I still ache from his savage... attentions last night. Sadly, our hovering bed? Yeah. It doesn’t hover anymore.

Ah, I kind of miss my Big Red Radiator already. How simple things could’ve been.

But no. Here I am. Stalking halls like a deranged Disney princess, forced to unleash peak Lexie charm to swing the Big Chief vote our way. Of course it falls to me. Dracoth’s off somewhere with Drex-iot and Jazzy, probably comparing boogers or whatever. It’s fine.

Like in boarding school, when I went from new girl to Head Girl faster than a scandal could spread.

And Bitch Brick? Please. She’s a Plain Jane in budget fashion at New York Fashion Week. This’ll be easy . Fun even.

I smile just picturing the look on her scarred face when we’re declared the winners.

It’s going to be wonderful! I can’t wait!

My heart skips when I spot Sandra’s door—not solid, but wavering, shivering under the sterile orange and blue lights overhead.

She’s back!

I don’t even think. I leap through the stomach-churning barrier like a sugar-addled banshee.

“Hello, gorgeous!” I sing out, arms wide, fingers fluttering like I’m revealing a magic trick.

“Oh!” Sandra gasps, clutching her chest. “Lexie! You scared the life out of me!” she cries, jolting upright from her undersized floating bed like a startled zombie. “What time is it? I haven’t stopped all morning.”

“It’s time to eat,” I announce with a grin, shoving the plate of food under her nose. “Behold—French toast. Todd says it’s yummy.” I lovingly pat his roly-poly pudding body draped over my shoulder. “Isn’t that right, mister?”

He doesn’t respond, still draped sideways, lost in his food coma, probably baking a stink nuke.

I need to be quick.

“Um... thanks,” Sandra mutters, groggily rubbing her eyes before accepting the plate. “I am kinda starving...”