2. Donna

2

DONNA

T he berries are so good, I spend the next three days milking oogas—which turns out to be a very, very messy affair—and baking all sorts of crap with grushi flour and zimi berries. Turns out they’re like blueberries, but ten times sweeter. A bit like a fruit that tastes like coconut milk infused with honey. It’s absolutely delectable and before long, I’ve tried every recipe I can remember and I’m completely out of berries.

My oogas, the cow-hippo-like animals that live on my farm, now eye me with suspicion whenever I exit the cottage. Today I laugh when I spot my main milker, Gertrude, bustling down to the far side of the pasture as soon as I open the door.

“I’m not milking you today, Gertie!” I adjust my headscarf as my body shakes with withheld laughter. I swear, sometimes I think these animals are more intelligent than they appear. I’m probably not milking them right. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not. I catch just about ten percent of the milk that comes from their teats, and that’s because it’s nothing like milking cows.

I huff another laugh as more of the milkers spot me and head in Gertrude’s direction. “Hey, don’t teach them to do that, now.” I laugh. “I’m not that bad at it, am I?”

I swear one of them snorts, and that makes me chuckle. Gripping my grocery satchel, I look toward the pasture across from mine. Time to get more berries. I’m pretty sure I remember where Xarion and I found them. I just have to retrace my steps.

Five minutes later, I’m pushing my big ass through the fencing, cursing my hips again ‘cause they don’t want to bend, but then I’m straightening and continuing on.

A song hums in my throat as I push through the tall grass. Not one of Ma’s old hymns, but one of my favorites; something with a little more sass and a lot more soul. Aretha. Always Aretha and her song Respect .

I belt it out, my voice echoing across the alien plains. I’m pretty sure Aretha never imagined her music reaching a planet like Hudo III, but hey, a girl’s gotta have her anthems, no matter where she hangs her hat. The orange grass sways in time with my crooning, the pink sun beating down like a spotlight. It’s a beautiful day, the kind that makes you want to shake your ass and forget your troubles, even if those troubles involve intergalactic relocation and a distinct lack of decent cornbread.

I lose myself in the rhythm of my footsteps, the gentle sway of the alien foliage, the clean fresh air. For a few glorious moments, I’m not a displaced Earthling, not a reluctant farmer, not a woman in her fifties with more regrets than recipes. My feet pick up the pace, turning into an unchoreographed dance, and my arms reach out to embrace this new world, a surge of pure, unadulterated happiness coursing through me.

I’m just a soul set free, carried on the wings of a song.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot the silver-tipped leaves of the zimi berry bushes in the distance and I pick up the pace, song still loud on my lips because well, there’s no one out here to hear me. As I get closer to my destination, however, I notice something odd. The bushes look…different. Picked over, almost. My brows furrow as I draw closer.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper, examining the nearest bush. It’s been stripped clean, not a single purple berry in sight. I move to the next one, then the next. All of them are bare.

A prickle of unease runs down my spine. Did Xarion come back and harvest them all? No, that certainly doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t do that without telling me. He hardly even wanted to get his suit dirty. Plus, these bushes look like they’ve been ravaged, not neatly picked in the way Xarion would most likely have done.

I stare at the bushes before my gaze shifts to the surrounding area. I often see some tall creatures that look like dinosaurs mated with giraffes out this way. Could it have been them?

No. I don’t see any close by. Haven’t seen any in a few days, at least.

Straightening, I’m suddenly aware of how quiet it is now that I’m no longer singing. The usual chittering of the insect-like creatures that inhabit this world is absent. Even the wind seems to have died down.

I freeze for a second, scanning my surroundings, ears straining for any sound that’s out of place. My heartbeat feels too loud in the sudden stillness.

Something’s off.

This is where, in the movies, some idiot would call out ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Well, I haven’t survived five decades and a year by being a fool. I don’t call out. I’m not about to advertise my presence. Instead, I step back slowly, eyes darting around, keeping my breath steady. Whatever’s out here, it doesn’t need to know I am, too.

Taking another step backward, I cringe, now feeling stupid for my reckless and loud singing. Whatever it is that ravaged the bushes probably already heard me. Dammit Aretha, girl. This is not how I intended to come meet you in the afterlife.

I’ve taken two steps backward, intent on making my way out of the pasture and back to the safety of my homestead when I hear a sound. And not just any sound. Something that sounds like a dying animal. I freeze again.

“Lord, have mercy.” The whisper is barely there as my eyes open wider, because that strange sound takes me straight back to those hot summer nights in Mississippi, sitting on my granny’s porch, listening to her stories about haints and boo-hags. “ Child, when you hear a sound like that ,” she’d say, her voice low and sinister, “ you best turn around and run the other way .”

There’s the sound again, loud enough that it sends a shiver down my spine because this time I can tell it’s coming from behind the biggest zimi berry bush.

Yeaaa…no thank you.

I turn and hustle my ass out of there, pushing through the orange grass as fast as I can go. No more zimi berries for me. I sure as hell will just eat that tasteless cornbread, cakes and cupcakes I’ve been making without their addition. I can live with eating food that tastes like dirt. No more zimi berries. No sirree.

But as I push through the grass, the sound comes again, this time morphing into a voice that speaks actual words.

“Frakk me.”

I pause.

That sounded like a man. Well, not a man. Men don’t exist here. Not human men, at least.

The voice sounded male. Masculine. Very masculine.

My eyes narrow as I bite my lip. I can just see my cottage over the rise in the field. I could carry on, pretend I didn’t hear anything. For all I know, this could be a demon trying to lure me with his voice. You know, pretending to be human. Well, not human, of course, but the equivalent.

My eyes narrow on the cottage some more and a defeated sigh makes my shoulders rise and fall as I turn away from it. Leaning forward, I try to peer through the bushes without going closer. Because I might be cold, but I’m not heartless. I can’t let someone suffer if I can help it.

That doesn’t stop me from finding a large stone and gripping it tight in my hand as I take a step closer to the location of that sound.

“I rebuke you in the name of Jesus. If you’re trying to trick me, you’ve got another thing coming.” I say the words underneath my breath, just meant for my ears—you know, just in case this haint will take my words as a challenge.

Pushing through the foliage, my heart pounds a rhythm against my ribs that’s got nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with fear. The sound, that awful, pained moan, grows louder with each step, and my grip tightens on the stone in my palm.

I steel myself for whatever horror awaits, for whatever alien monstrosity might be lurking in the shadows.

But what I find is…a male.

He’s sprawled on the ground, half-hidden by a tangle of the thicket, his body contorted in an unnatural position. He’s not human, of course, but I know exactly what he is. I’m very acquainted with his kind, because his kind is the one that Xarion is pushing me to befriend. The same alien species Eleanor and Catherine are mated to. Before me is a Kari male.

His skin is a patchwork of shimmering iridescent scales, his features sharp, predatory, with eyes that gleam like molten gold. Thick, green hair is pulled back away from his face, the sides of which are shaved, only highlighting the strong structure of his brow and cheekbones. One ear has a small device tucked into it, like an earpiece maybe. That same ear is adorned with a single golden ring.

I find myself staring, not because of his undeniable beauty, but because this is the last thing I expected to see. I came out here to find zimi berries, not a Kari male.

One that’s definitely hurt. Badly.

His chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, as those slitted pupils go narrow at the sight of me.

Something twists in my gut, a knot of… What is it? Pity? Fear? Or something else entirely?

I step closer, cautiously, the stone still clutched tight in my hand. What am I doing ? This is madness. He could crush me with a flick of his wrist.

But he’s hurt. Something’s gone through his boot, I can see now, something sharp and unnatural, like a shard of dark glass. My eyes widen even more when I see the extent of the damage. I see no blood, but piercing one’s foot, alien or not, can’t be good.

For a moment, we stare at each other, both seemingly shocked to find the other here. Me, a lone human woman on an alien planet, armed with nothing but a rock and a prayer. Him, a creature of raw power judging by those muscles, brought low by…whatever that thing is sticking out of his boot.

When his lips curl into a wry smile, flashing just the tips of vicious fangs, and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest, I lose about fifty percent of my shock.

Now what the heck is going on here?

“Good sol,” he says, before he glances down at his boot. “A slight miscalculation. I assure you, this is not how I usually make an entrance. Though, I must admit, your timing is…impeccable.”

My spine straightens.

You know what else is impeccable? My aim.

I don’t say it out loud, of course, but my hand tightens around the stone still gripped in my palm. Wouldn’t want to spook the poor creature, even if he does look like he could wrestle Gertrude on her worst day and win.

I can already tell this male is a problem. It’s that same feeling you get when you lock eyes with your best friend across a crowded room, the one that says, Girl, this one’s trouble with a capital T .

And I’m the fool that is going to help him.