“Mama?” a scared, little voice called.
Phezznibbet Maplebark’s ears twitched, his paw closing around the bottom knife in his bandolier. He poked his head around the slimy dumpster that hid him. At the front of the alleyway stood a figure not much smaller than himself. It didn’t appear threatening, so he took a few
If newspaper headlines could scream, this screech would be heard on my home planet.
Cash Reward for Bronx Kids Who Attempted to Kill Squirrel.
What monsters would reward someone for attacking helpless creatures? Earth-Humans, apparently. No surprise. Their cruelty is known throughout the universe.
I was here to stop it. I had to act
Phezz patrolled the forest’s edge, searching for ingredients. Er… trespassers. A welcome respite from the training grounds, where he spent endless hours instructing kits and running melee drills. After Acon—the runt of the litter—had nearly skewered him today, he decided to end the session early.
Phezz crouched low against the forest floor
“I’m serious; I don’t need a bodyguard.” Moxly scowled, arms crossed. He grunted when Brix swung him around to face the entryway mirror.
“Do you see that face?”
Moxly pulled out of Brix’s grasp and made a point of adjusting his tunic. “I’ve seen it many times, dear brother. It’s mine.”
“Yes. It’s yours.”
Zaivar Witz studied the mist dealer behind the counter, wondering if the wizened man could actually help him find a new disguise. Harvesting and selling mist from the kingdom’s shrouded mountains required an unmatched madness. But Zai never cared for convention—if it helped him track down his warrants, why question it?
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My photograph hung on the bar’s wall.
“WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE”
“$100,000”
Well, at least it didn’t only say dead. And a reasonable amount of money, too. What had I done this time?
Maybe it was the general stores I’d robbed or the people I’d blackmailed for information. With a shrug, I glanced again
I punched the Mustang into gear, tires squealing down the unlit county highway.
The sudden acceleration pressed the man beside me back in his seat. He made no move to grab the door handle for support. Probably because I’d zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
“I thought your orders specified not to harm me.”
Zai rotated the pendant dangling from his neck, lost in thought. Clanking shackles roused him, and he glanced at Xander, the drug dealer he’d apprehended in the Ketz District. “Maddening, isn’t it?”
A tall man in a red capitol uniform marched past the cell, and Zai shot to his feet. He slammed his huntsman’s
Zai’s blood pressure skyrocketed at the sight of the woman sauntering into the restaurant, her golden hair wound in a coronet, a faint sneer marring her otherwise perfect face. One look was all he needed to recognize Viola Gill, the galaxy’s most notorious slave trafficker.
He was bussing tables at the Perfect Plate
“Tell us a story, Gwandpa!”
The old man smiled at the two curly-haired kids, Adley and Bianca, on the floor in front of him, a pipe clasped between his fingers. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”
“Tell us another story
Transfiguration Church’s Pasta Night was the same every year: an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet, two hundred parishioners cramming the American Legion Hall, old folks doing “YMCA,” and the 50-50 raffle.
My sister Cecily and I always spent every minute in the bar.
Not for the booze.
Spark scanned the street, a typical mid-town scene: corner bodega, laundry, electronics repair store, coffee shop, all with residential spaces perched above. Nothing to merit the strange sensation prickling him. Several normal-looking people walked by; a couple surreptitiously glanced his way. Spark nodded
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