Page 140 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth’s long ear twitches. “There,” he grunts, jabbing a jumbo bratwurst-sized finger at a carved door at the end of the corridor. “Voices. The scent of fear.”

“Oh, goodie,” I sigh, shuffling toward it like a student called to the principal’s office after torching the art supplies.

The door groans like a dying banshee with a toothache—until Mr. Impatient throws it open with a single sweep of his mighty arm.

BANG!

“ Ahh !” Rocks yelps.

A black-haired skinny human-bitch moves with way too much cowboy flair. She draws a sleek, black-red pistol like she’s auditioning for Gunsmoke in Space , leveling it at us with a twitch of precision.

My eyes flash silver-crimson. Arms raised. Barriers snap into reality. Chug Bug snoozes. Dracoth’s arm wraps protectively around me, the other blazing into a murder-shield of divine fire.

Babes is such a babe.

“Relax, my sexy little puffrio,” purrs a green-haired space-knight, golden eyes gleaming as he steps into view. “I said they’d be arriving soon.” He gently lowers Cowgirl Trigger-Happy’s arm.

Ugh. He has that look—the kind of wannabe playboy who thinks smarm is a virtue and modesty is a vitamin deficiency.

“My apologies,” says Trigger-happy, sheepish but still spinning her pistol like it’s a yo-yo and she’s headlining the Space Olympics. “I don’t like being taken by surprise.” Her emerald eyes flash, gun finally disappearing into her belt.

“Funny,” I purr, letting my hand drop and smile curl. “I love surprises.” I look her up and down. “You must be... what was it again? Ah yes— the Green Goddess. ”

I nearly choked when I first heard that title.

Like a knockoff superhero on a cereal box.

But the pang in my chest stabs like jealousy in ten-inch stilettos.

She’s younger than me. Very pretty, in that heroin-chic kind of way.

Dressed like it too. And the way the bone-through-the-noses talk about her—you’d think she was Jesus in drag.

“Oh, that,” she mumbles, fingers fiddling in her pocket. “Xandor started calling me that, and it just kinda stuck.” Her alabaster skin flushes, and her awkward humility takes the edge off the rib-stabbing stiletto.

“You’re far too modest, my love,” Xandor beams, draping his arm around her like a satin ribbon of cringe.

“Tyrxie has spent tireless months healing war brothers from every clan and restoring the minds of our youth.” He turns, smirking at Dracoth.

“And thanks to your rescue of the Revered Mothers, they’re also on the mend. ”

Stab. There goes the stiletto again. Right in the ribs.

“Yep,” Xandor adds, flaring his half-cloak over Tyrxie’s shoulder like he’s unveiling a prize on a game show. “She’s the reason our future shines brighter than a supernova.” His golden eyes flash before glazing as if he’s overdosing on pure crystal smug.

“My mother?” Dracoth breathes—a wind-tunnel on standby. His side of our bond exploding with eager anticipation.

“She’s well, Dracoth,” Rocks answers, propped up in a fur-mountain bed that looks like it could sprout branches. “You should go see her. She’s staying with Elder Harkus.” Then she grimaces, clutching her absurdly pregnant belly.

“Is it time, Pebbles?” Krogoth blurts, leaping from his ornate chair like an overprotective penguin in war paint.

“I’m fine, I’m fine ,” she says, waving him off—though she looks like someone crammed two oversized alien babies inside her.

Oh yeah. They did.

“Our people owe you honor beyond imagining,” Dracoth growls, inclining his head toward Tyrxie with rare reverence. “Should you ever call upon me, I will rend your enemies to bloody strips.” He says it so sincerely you’d think he was offering to help do her taxes.

“Oh,” Tyrxie flinches, then musters a warm smile. “Thanks. But everyone’s been so kind.” She glances up at Xandor. “For the first time, no one wants to hurt me.” They both share a quiet chuckle.

“Look at us, jibber-jabbing,” I scowl at the pair of wannabes, moving to scoop bloated Rocks into a gentle hug. “When this is your moment to, uh... shine.”

Or explode.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, flashing what I hope is my most sympathetic expression.

“Like someone force-fed me backflipping bricks,” she groans, though it ends in a giggle. “The healers say it’ll be today.” Her eyes soften as she meets Krogoth’s. He takes her hand, squeezing it gently.

“Shouldn’t there be midwives or something?” I glance around at the rustic woodwork, the fancy chairs, the conspicuous lack of a medical team. The reality hits me like a thousand overdue credit cards: I have no idea what to do.

They all stare at me like I just sprouted ten adorable Todd heads.

“What?”

“There are no Mortakin-Kis mothers,” Dracoth says, low and grave. The obvious truth makes my face burn hotter than his miniature suns.

“It’s up to us now,” Tyrxie adds, stepping forward with quiet strength. “Us—and the Revered Mothers, once they’re able—to guide the next generation.”

A melon-sized lump forms in my throat. Not sweet. Bitter. Salty. Existentially terrifying. I just want to crush stuff with chunky Todd while Dracoth roasts murder-bots with Arawnoth’s love, expanding our glorious Dracie-Lexie-verse.

“Yes! That’s... very important too,” I blurt, suddenly channeling the social grace of a drunken prom date. “Which is why—we brought gifts! To, um. Help.”

Dracoth stomps forward, his towering frame nearly brushing the ceiling. “In honor of your coming blessing, High Chieftain and Chieftainess, we present this.”

He extends a fur-wrapped cube toward Krogoth, who rises and carefully peels back the covering. A soft orange glow radiates from outside, eerie and mesmerizing.

“Ohh, what is it, Korgy?” Rocks breathes, awe twinkling in her hazel eyes.

“A crushed Scythian foundry core, encased in solid Elerium,” Xandor the rude prick interrupts smugly, flashing his perfectly punchable smile.

“Yes... how did you know?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

“I have my ways.” He taps a clawed finger against his temple, like he just read the script ahead of time.

Ugh. Please.

“Conquest and wealth for your legacy and progeny,” Dracoth intones, eyes flaring crimson.

“You honor us, War Chieftain,” Krogoth says, reverently rewrapping the awesome gift cube. “When our children ask of it, I will speak of your strength and courage.” He and Rocks exchange a warm, fuzzy look that could thaw glaciers.

Dracoth’s face remains impassive, but through our sneaky bond, pride explodes across my mind like a crimson supernova.

I give his sausage fingers a squeeze before bouncing forward and shoving my gift into Rock’s lap. “This one’s from Todd!” I beam, stroking the silver mirror rune pulsing on his back. “He’s very excited.”

Todd, the little traitor, lazily blinks his eye open, scans the room like a jelly-stick targeting system... then—finding nothing—promptly falls back asleep.

“Oh,” Rocks says, lifting the fur. “Todd’s very...” She holds up two pairs of booties. “Uh... thoughtful.” She glances at Krogoth, who studies the shoes like they might detonate.

Typical. The unfashionable wouldn’t recognize style if it slapped them with a velvet glove.

“See?” I point eagerly. “Black and red accents? Silver mirror rune on the side? Exact replicas of the cutest thing in the universe—little Todd booties. You know, for your babies. It’s fashion, symbolism, and a blessing, wrapped in one adorable package.

Very Avant Garde,” I explain, feeling a sinking, queasy pit open in my stomach.

Rocks only blinks.

This gift is going down like a lead balloon. Shaped like Todd.

“For the kids?” Xandor snatches a pair from Rocks, flipping it over like they’re contraband. “Hey, Rocks, are you planning to give birth to a couple of aurodons?”

Rocks’ face drains of color. Her hand flies to her mountainous belly. “Crap! I hope not.”

“They’re not that big!” I protest, heat flooding my face as I take a second look at the oversized—perhaps clown-sized—shoes.

This is definitely the Nib fabricators’ fault.

Still, I power through. “Your kids’ll grow into them.

.. eventually.” I flash a smile that wouldn’t look out of place on a back-alley hobo drug dealer.

“I mean, let’s be honest, Rocks.” I wave vaguely at her belly, which looks ready to declare independence.

“You look like a herd of elephants is about to pop out.”

Rocks’ expression shifts to full horror-movie murder scene. “AHH! It’s just like AHI said—I’m going to expand until I explode!” she wails, gripping Krogoth’s arm like a life raft.

His eyes drill into me—sharp, unblinking, and edged with violet menace. “No, my sweet Pebbles. You’re going to have a wonderful, painless birth.” He turns to Xandor, voice edged with threat. “Isn’t that right, Xandor? ”

“Um... well...” Xandor glances between Rocks and Tyrxie like a man caught in an ambush. “Painless? Hmm. I—uh—you’re in no danger, I promise you, Rocks.” He nods quickly at his Mortakin-Kis. “And Tyrxie will be there to, uh... smooth out the bumpier bits.”

“What bumpier bits?” Rocks demands, whipping her head around like a condemned woman facing imminent fashion disaster.

I know that look. Too well.

“I can help too,” I chime in, grabbing her hand and offering my most compassionate grin. “I could use my shields to, you know— widen the passage . Like a water slide kind of thing. Your babies will love it.”

She stares at me, stunned.

“Swoosh,” I add, making a wave motion with my hand.

“RIGHT!” Rocks shrieks, wincing as she clutches her belly. “EVERYONE GET THE HELL OUT NOW!”

My back snaps straight. I blink.

Rude.

We all scurry out—except Tyrxie. Of course.

“Ugh, not you, Krogoth,” Rocks huffs, breathing heavily. “Ahh! I think I’m contracting.” She leans forward, groaning.

“Don’t worry, I’m right here with you, Rocks,” Tyrxie says gently. Her eyes flash green as she lays a glowing hand on Rocks’ back, soothing her.