Page 33 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

I’d grimace, but my face is as frozen stiff as an over-Botoxed celeb.

With no other choice, I reach for the handle. The bronze knob sears my fingers with an agonizing freeze-burn, but I force my grip to hold. The door groans open, the sound swallowed by the storm.

I brace myself, unsure if I’m about to be devoured by some monster, or worse, another endless void of snow.

Instead, warmth washes over me.

The scent of fresh peonies fills the air, mingling with hints of leather and Chardonnay. The combination unsettles me, but I can’t place why.

Driven by the promise of heat and shelter, I step through.

A study unfolds before me, grand and familiar. Nearly floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along the walls, framed by silk curtains the color of champagne. The deep, lacquered navy walls gleam under soft lighting, lined with towering mahogany bookshelves filled with untouched first editions.

Then my gaze lands on it.

That misplaced desk!

Monolithic. Overly dramatic. A statement piece trying too hard.

And, of course, the Queen Bitch’s throne—her high-backed, ivory-upholstered armchair, brass detailing polished to a mirror shine.

This room. These furnishings. A wannabe New York empress with more money than taste.

I’d recognize this place anywhere.

My mother’s study.

“Shut that door, it’s freezing, Alexandra!” My mother’s voice whips my head around, sharp as a lash. There she is—lounging on her red leather chaise, a magazine in one hand, a delicate glass of wine resting nearby.

“Elizabeth...” I mutter, like I’m seeing a ghost. Except a ghost might be more pleasant.

Still, I automatically move to close the door, the brutal blizzard disappearing behind its dark wood.

But the cold doesn’t leave me. It lingers in my bones, deep and aching. I shiver, pressing my fingers against my arms. They’re too thin. Too small. Like a child’s.

The sharp clink of ice in a wine glass snaps me back.

She tsks loudly, peering over the rim of her thick glasses, gray eyes unreadable.

“Is that any way to address your mother?” she asks, lazily turning a page, which is apparently more important than her own daughter!

“I swear, I should’ve sent you to the circus instead of that extortionate school of yours.

” She takes a sip from her wine, unhurried, composed.

“Remind me, Alexandra, which subjects were you caught cheating in?”

All of them.

I stare at her garish lavender pantsuit, my mouth working soundlessly, like I’ve just been stripped naked and slapped with a wet fish. Tentatively, I step forward, my hands still trembling from the frozen tundra outside or perhaps the rage bubbling within.

“Typical,” I sneer. “I’ve been missing for weeks, and the first thing you say is that I belong in the circus?” I jab an accusing finger at her, the venom in my voice increasing in potency with each word.

She sighs, lowering her glasses just enough to look at me. That infuriating gesture. “Well, if the clown shoes fit—BoBo,” she mocks, her smirk cruel, the severe pull of her blond-gray hair giving her the air of a hawk waiting to strike.

I recoil as if struck, my heart hammering. My mother is neglectful, selfish, vain—but she’s never been cruel in this way. Not like this. And yet, her casual indifference, the smugness, sets my teeth on edge.

“I almost threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge, Mother! And then—”

“You’re dripping all over my Isfahan rug!” she shrieks, bolting upright, her magazine flung aside like garbage.

I stare at her, stunned.

“I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. About your psychedelic carpets!” I spit, slapping away her wrinkled hands as she tries to usher me off her precious antique monstrosity. “You care more about that fucking rug than—”

She inhales sharply, her hand flying to her mouth. “Tattoos? Really, Alexandra? Aren’t you a little old for teenage rebellion?” She tuts, narrowing her eyes as they trace the swirling runic blessing scorched into my flesh. “You’re becoming more uncouth with age.”

“It’s not a tattoo, Mother!” I yell, accidentally giving her the satisfaction of being called Mother —the title too good for her neglect.

“Arawnoth himself gave me this,” I add, my voice raised with righteous anger and pride.

My fingers brush the blackened markings—clammy, rough skin, no longer burning with molten exhilaration.

She leans forward, scrutinizing me like an insect under glass. “Alexandra, are you on drugs?”

I scoff, but she gasps sharply, already spinning into action. “I’ll call Tony. He’ll get you into the best rehabilitation clinic—”

“What? So, you can lock me away again? Pretend I don’t exist!” The words rip from me, raw and venomous, carried by the weight of my broken childhood. My lip quivers. My eyes sting.

She stands there, fidgeting with her ridiculous outfit, surrounded by tacky décor—her empty, beautiful nest. I could hit her.

I want to. Smack the thick mascara from her bitch face.

Instead, I breathe deep, recalling the heart-pounding bloodroot and Ignixis’s scathing lessons.

It grounds me, giving me a moment to regroup.

“Listen, Mother,” I exhale, forcing the tension from my hands and neck. “Why am I here?” I gesture to the opulent study that shouldn’t exist. “I don’t remember your penthouse being located in Antarctica.”

It always felt like it, though.

“Why, you brought us here, dear,” she says, her voice shifting, morphing into something foreign.

My breath catches. The brittle edge in her tone vanishes, replaced by a syrupy warmth. “Don’t you have something you want to say to me?” She smiles softly—too soft. Too open. Her arms extend in an embrace I have never, not once, felt.

I step back, hands raised in alarm.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t real.

“It’s okay, Alexandra,” she croons, stepping closer, her expression chillingly understanding. “I’m here now. You can tell me anything. Just let it all out.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

“Wow. Back off!” I shove her with all my might, but the force sends me staggering instead. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even sway. Like she’s secretly a skyscraper dressed in a lavender pantsuit.

“What the hell is this? Who are you?” My voice trembles. I reach instinctively for Todd’s warmth—for comfort.

But even my chug bug is denied to me here.

A jagged crack splinters through the ceiling, a sickening fracture that spreads like veins of black ice.

The study’s warm glow flickers, warping into a biting, unnatural chill.

Then, like snow beneath a cruel sun, the room dissolves.

The mahogany shelves, the red leather chaise, the garish Isfahan rug—all of it liquefies, sloughing away in curling wisps of frostbitten mist. The floor vanishes beneath me, and in a blink, I’m no longer in the sanctuary of false warmth but hurled back into the howling abyss of the blizzard.

Icy death crashes into me, a force so brutal it steals the breath from my lungs.

Snow lashes my face like a thousand razors, and the bitter wind gnaws at my skin with mindless hunger.

But my mother—or the thing wearing her skin—remains untouched, standing pristine against the storm.

She watches me with a knowing smirk, her eyes no longer dull gray but blazing, their depths swirling like liquid mercury. Endless, churning, ancient.

Shielding my face against the blizzard, I watch in horror as she begins to change.

Her pale skin deepens into flawless crimson, her ears elongating into daggered points.

Her hair spills over her shoulder, soft as golden light, and her body stretches taller, towering like Ignixis.

Her lavender pantsuit unfurls into flowing white robes, adorned with strange, pointed shoulders.

She is otherworldly. A vision of impossible beauty.

A Klendathian woman.

“I’m liquid mercury, your darkest fantasy, a divine entity, your beloved enemy,” she proclaims, her voice layered and discordant, echoing like an infinite choir of women speaking in unison. Or perhaps it’s just the storm twisting her words into something more.

My foot sinks into the snow, my instincts screaming at me to run. Her gaze, smoldering and unreadable, pins me in place like a mouse caught beneath a cat’s paw.

I pull my cloak tighter around me, desperate for warmth, for something familiar—Dracoth’s arms. More than ever, I need his heat, his protection from this... whatever this is.

“Um,” I begin, my teeth chattering. “That’s a lot of names. And, um... interesting meanings. But I really must be going now.” I whirl around, despite having no idea where to go, seeing only endless white in every direction. “Thanks for the emotional trauma, though.”

Before I can take a step, she materializes before me, so suddenly, so effortlessly, that I flinch backward.

“How deliciously flawed you are.” She leers down at me, her burning eyes spilling silvery smoke, unmoved by the storm. “I chose well. Truly a beauty,” she tuts, eyes tracing my divine mark. “Such a shame Arawnoth marred you so. How rude of him to mark my pet.”

Her voice drips with aristocratic disdain, and I notice—really notice—how her features shift, flickering between countless variations of beauty, as though she is all of them and none of them at once.

And then it hits me. My stomach drops, a pit of ice forming in its depths.

“You’re Aenarael,” I breathe.

She smiles, the expression sharp as a dagger.

“I have had many names throughout the eons—sanctified. Vilified. Prophesized. Justified.” She lingers on each word, savoring them as she traces a clawed finger along my cheek, making my skin crawl.

“But in this cycle, you may call me Aenarael. Such a shame you’re still going by Princesa —how utterly embarrassing. ”

I scowl, slapping her hand away. “It was Carmen who gave me that stupid name, and Dracoth who insists everyone calls me it!”