Series: Charmaine Pauls
Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Something else is going on, but I’m nowhere near figuring out what. Until I do, I should probably operate on the assumption that I am alive and avoid getting myself killed. So, as the demons launch into what appears to be an argument, I stay meekly on all fours and do my best not to draw any more attention to myself. Silently, I study them, taking note of the reddish-orange hue and leathery texture of their faces and the way their snakeskin outfits cover them from the neck down, fitting them like second skin. Unless… that is their skin.
I peer closer.
Yep, it’s attached to them, their leathery but smooth facial skin transitioning at the neck into the snake-like scales covering the rest of their bodies.
Driven by a prurient curiosity, I sneak a peek below their waists.
Huh. I don’t see any manly equipment whatsoever, though each demon does have a bulge in the groin area that suggests something is there. That’s what made me think they were wearing skintight snakeskin pants. Their lower bodies look like those of male ballet dancers in tights, only way bulkier and more lizard-like.
Wait a sec…
Are these actual lizard people? The ones the conspiracy theorists would have you believe are secretly ruling Earth?
My mind makes another, more logical leap.
Have I been kidnapped by aliens?
Holy shit. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier. Aliens are at least theoretically possible. Humanoid aliens are highly, highly improbable, even lizard-like humanoid aliens, but they’re more likely to exist than demons.
So… have I been abducted by aliens? Like for experiments and stuff?
Argument against: I’m not on a ship—at least I don’t think I am—and these lizard dudes huddling around the fire like cavemen don’t look like anyone’s idea of alien scientists.
Argument for: My throbbing face and burning skin aside, I feel… fine. I ran and fought, got hit by a linebacker-sized demon and stung by a giant caterpillar, yet my heart isn’t giving out. It’s pumping in a strong and steady—albeit very alarmed—rhythm, and I don’t feel any dizziness, weakness, nausea, muscle spasms, or any other fun sensations that come along with having various organs failing. It’s as if I’ve been healed… or given a new body.
Fuck. Could it be?
I quickly scan myself. There’s no mirror, so I can’t see my face, but my hands—small and skinny—look the same to me, and what I can see of my knobby knees is familiar as well. Oh, and I’m still in the pajama shorts and T-shirt I insist on wearing in hospitals in lieu of a typical hospital gown. They wouldn’t bother changing my body and then putting the same clothes on it, would they? I wish I could see my hair to check if it’s still the same shade of strawberry blond, but it’s not long enough.
Ever since all the chemo, I’ve kept it in a pixie cut, just in case.
A familiar clawed hand grips my upper arm, once again rudely cutting into my thoughts. I fight the urge to struggle as the lizard dude who hit me drags me up to my feet. This is not a battle I can win. The top of my head barely clears the middle of his chest, and he has the bulk to go with that height.
At least I’m assuming it’s a “he.” Could just as easily be a “she,” given the lack of obvious male equipment. I’m going with “he,” though, if only because of the mile-wide shoulders and the a-hole behavior. He drags me closer to the fire and forces me down into a sitting position before shoving a piece of charred meat into my hand.
“Bvcherru,” he barks, staring down at me.
Huh. Does he want me to eat the meat?
He brings his hand to his face and opens his shark-like mouth to bite at the air above his empty palm.
Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a command to eat.
I debate not obeying—who the hell knows what this meat is?—but I am hungry, weirdly enough, and presumably, humanoid aliens who kidnap earthlings should know what to feed us. There’s no point in bringing someone through a swirling-lights portal if you’re just going to poison them, right?
Fuck it. I’m supposed to die in a few days anyway. Or was supposed to. Whatever. I bite into the charred meat in my hand.
Holy guacamole. It’s like the juiciest, most tender chicken ever. There’s no salt or spices on it, but it’s still freaking good—and I don’t even normally like chicken.
“Can I have more?” I ask, looking up at the lizard dude and mimicking an eating motion.
He shoves another piece of maybe-chicken into my hand.
Okay, I’m starting to change my mind about his a-holeness. That is, until my tongue lands on my empty tooth socket, and my bruised jaw begins to throb harder as I chew. Yeah, no. A-hole all the way.