Page 25 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

R haal moved purposefully through the clan caves, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him. Some faces showed fear, others curiosity, a few even displayed respect. He acknowledged none of them. His only focus was on finding out what was killing the fish and poisoning the sothiti parasite.

Broc intercepted him near the equipment stores. The male’s limp seemed more pronounced today, his staff tapping a steady rhythm against the stone floor.

“You’ll need these,” he said, holding out a set of cave hooks—tools designed for navigating the treacherous underwater passages. “The Sunken River turns violent in places.”

He stared at the offering, then at Broc’s face. There was no mockery there, no lingering accusation. Just the pragmatic offer of aid.

He took the hooks with a curt nod. “My female…” he said.

“Will be safe,” Broc finished. “The clan will protect your mate and cub.”

He was grateful for the assurance, but he still felt exposed, vulnerable—his most precious secret laid bare before those who had once judged him unworthy.

Broc must have read his expression. “Things change, Rhaal. Perhaps it is time the past stayed buried.”

But that’s the problem , he thought grimly. The past never stays buried.

He gathered what he needed quickly—glow crystals, dried meat, the cave hooks. The weight of clan eyes on his back was a pressure he had forgotten how to bear. Seven years of solitude had not prepared him for this return.

The entrance to the underground river system was a jagged mouth in the lowest level of the clan caves.

Cold, damp air flowed from it, carrying the mineral scent of deep places.

He knelt at the edge of the river, dipping his hand into the water.

It felt normal—icy cold and swift—but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.

He followed the main channel, moving deeper into the mountain’s heart. The cave ceiling dropped lower, forcing him to wade through chest-deep water in places. His white fur grew sodden and heavy, but he pushed on, his night vision guiding him through the darkness.

Hours passed. The network of tunnels was extensive, branching and rejoining like the veins of some massive beast. He had traveled these paths as a youngling, part of hunting parties seeking the prized cave fish.

He remembered the excitement of those hunts—the thrill of the chase, the pride of bringing back a full catch.

Now, the tunnels felt empty. Wrong.

He paused at a wide pool where the current slowed.

This had once been a prime fishing spot, the deep water teeming with the silver-backed fish that harbored the sothiti parasite.

Now, the pool was nearly lifeless. A few small fish darted away from his approach, but they were thin, sickly-looking things.

Near the far edge, he spotted the bloated corpse of a larger fish, its body decomposing in the slow current. He waded over and examined it without touching. The flesh around its gills was discolored, tinged with an unnatural bluish-green.

Poison.

He continued downstream, finding more dead fish. The pattern was clear—the further he went, the more corpses he found. Whatever was killing them was coming from deeper in the system.

After two days of travel, he reached a point where the river disappeared into a narrow crack in the rock wall—a crack too small for him to follow. The water flowing from this crack carried a subtle wrongness, a scent his sensitive nose could barely detect beneath the mineral smell of the caves.

He stood in the waist-deep water, frustration building in his chest. The source of the contamination lay beyond this impassable barrier. He needed another way.

He backtracked to a larger chamber and found a vertical shaft that led upward. Ancient handholds were carved into the rock—a path to the surface used by hunters when the lower tunnels flooded. He began to climb, his powerful arms and legs making quick work of the ascent.

The shaft emerged onto a rocky shelf halfway up the mountain’s eastern face. Cold wind whipped at his fur as he pulled himself out, the late afternoon sun momentarily blinding him after hours in darkness.

Once his eyes adjusted, he surveyed his surroundings. He was higher than he’d expected, with a clear view of the valley below. To the north lay the clan territories. To the south…

The Valley of Echoes.

He frowned. The Valley was sacred ground, the place where generations of his people had laid their dead to rest. It was named for the way sound carried there, bouncing between the steep cliff walls until it seemed the ancestors themselves were answering.

It was also where Ayla was buried.

He hadn’t visited her grave since the funeral. Couldn’t bear to face the stone marker that proclaimed his failure. But now, as he scented the air, he caught that same subtle wrongness he’d detected in the water below—coming from the direction of the Valley.

It made no sense. The Valley was geologically stable, protected by ancient taboos. No natural blight would originate there. And no Hothian would dare disturb the resting place of the ancestors.

But offworlders might.

The thought chilled him more than the mountain wind. He began to descend the outer slope, moving with the silent grace of a predator despite his size. As he drew closer to the Valley, the scent grew stronger—a chemical tang that didn’t belong in this wild place.

The Valley of Echoes was a long, narrow gorge carved by an ancient glacier.

Its walls rose steep and smooth on either side, and its floor was dotted with stone cairns marking burial sites.

He approached reverently, his steps slowing as he crossed the invisible boundary between ordinary ground and sacred space, then bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer.

Ayla’s grave would be near the center, where the clan’s most honored dead were laid to rest. He didn’t look for it. He couldn’t. Not yet. Instead, he followed the alien scent, tracking it along the Valley’s eastern wall.

The scent led him to a section of cliff face that looked unremarkable—just another expanse of weathered gray stone. But as he drew closer, his instincts prickled. Something was off about the rock formation. The patterns were too regular, the texture too uniform.

He placed a hand against the stone and felt a faint vibration. Not natural. Mechanical.

He explored the area methodically, running his sensitive fingers over the rock surface. Near the ground, he found what he was seeking—a small irregularity in the pattern, a seam where none should exist.

A hidden door.

The camouflage was impressive, designed to fool both eyes and sensors. But it couldn’t fool a Hothian’s instincts. This was a disguise rather than a barrier—meant to hide activity rather than prevent access.

He examined the seam more carefully. There was no obvious locking mechanism, which meant it likely opened from the inside or via remote control. But the edges weren’t perfectly sealed. There was a gap, barely wide enough for his claws.

He wedged his claws into the crack and pulled. The false rock face resisted at first, then gave way with a soft hiss of hydraulics. A dark passage opened before him, sloping downward into the mountain.

He slipped inside, letting the door close behind him. The passage was lit with dim, recessed lighting—an offworlder tunnel, reinforced with metal supports. It descended at a steady angle, heading deeper into the mountain’s heart.

As he followed it, a terrible suspicion began to form in his mind. He calculated the tunnel’s direction and realized with growing horror where it must lead.

His pace quickened. The tunnel branched several times, but he followed the main path, guided by the strengthening chemical smell and the sound of distant machinery. Finally, the passage opened into a larger space—and his worst fears were confirmed.

The tunnel had cut directly through the sacred burial grounds. Ancient cairns had been carelessly pushed aside or destroyed entirely to make way for the excavation. And there, in the center of what had once been hallowed ground, stood a sterile, white-walled laboratory complex.

He froze, his vision bleeding red at the edges. This was desecration beyond imagining. The ancestors’ rest disturbed, their graves treated as mere obstacles to be removed.

Ayla’s grave.

Had they destroyed his sister’s resting place as well? The fury that rose in him was so intense it was nearly blinding. He wanted to tear the facility apart with his bare hands, to rip the throats from whoever had committed this atrocity.

But beneath the rage was a cold, calculating awareness. He needed to understand what they were doing here before he acted.

He moved silently along the edge of the excavation, using the shadows and his natural camouflage to avoid detection.

The lab complex was larger than it had first appeared, with multiple connected structures.

Through windows, he could see offworlders in white coats moving about, tending to equipment.

One building had a large bay door standing open. He approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows. Inside, he found racks of samples—plants, rocks, and sealed containers of water. And fish. Dozens of tanks containing specimens of the cave fish in various stages of health and decay.

Their purpose was all too clear. They weren’t here for minerals or metals. They were hunting the source of sothiti itself. And they had desecrated his sister’s grave to do it.

The Empire’s protection came at a price—the sothiti his people provided. But if someone else found a way to produce it, the Empire would no longer need the Hothians. The protection would end. His people would be vulnerable.

A door opened at the far end of the lab. He melted into the shadows behind a large storage container as two offworlders entered—a Kaisarian in an expensive-looking uniform and a shorter male with orange fur wearing a lab coat.

“I need results, Doctor, not excuses,” the Kaisarian was saying, his voice sharp with impatience. “My employer grows tired of waiting. Either isolate the compound or pack up this operation.”

“It’s not that simple,” the other male protested. “We know the source originates here but we don’t know exactly how. We’re making progress, but?—”

“Progress doesn’t fill quotas,” the Kaisarian cut him off. “You have two weeks. After that, we find someone more competent.”

He turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the doctor staring after him with a mixture of frustration and fear.

“Bastard,” he muttered, turning to a nearby workstation. Another researcher joined him, a younger male with tired eyes.

“What now?” he asked.

“What do you think? We keep working.” He gestured to a row of tanks containing discolored water. “Get rid of those failed cultures. They’re taking up space we need.”

The younger researcher sighed. “Down the drain again? The ecosystem?—”

“Is not our concern,” he finished firmly. “The compound breaks down quickly in water. It’s harmless.”

Harmless. His claws extended involuntarily, digging into the metal container he hid behind.

These offworlders were dumping their failed experiments directly into the underground river system.

The very chemicals that were killing the fish, poisoning his people, and threatening Yasmin and their unborn cub.

He watched as the researcher reluctantly emptied tank after tank into a large drain in the floor—a drain that undoubtedly led to the Sunken River. One of the substances gave off a familiar bluish-green tint as it swirled away.

He’d seen enough. He knew now what was happening, who was responsible, and how they were doing it. He could not take on the entire facility alone—that would be suicide. But he had the knowledge his people needed.

And he had something else, something cold and hard crystallizing in his chest. A vow of vengeance. For the fish. For his people. For Yasmin and their cub.

For Ayla, whose rest had been disturbed by these invaders who saw sacred ground as mere rock in their way.

He slipped back the way he had come, a white shadow carrying a terrible truth. The Empire they had trusted was poisoning them from within.

And he would make them pay.