Also, he sensed sincerity coming from the alien warrior. No matter how strange he looked, with his curling horns and his shiny black hooves, he was clearly still Kindred—albeit a strange and distant branch of the tree that had first taken root on First World and then branched out across the universe and beyond.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’m going to scan your ship for bombs or incendiaries. As long as you’re clear, we’ll escort you to our Mother Ship and I’ll see what I can do about getting you an audience with the High Council.”
He didn’t think that would be much of a problem—his half-brother, Sylvan, who was a Blood Kindred—was the Head of the High Council, after all. He would surely want to meet this strange, far-distant cousin who had shown up, literally out of nowhere.
“Commander, do you think this is wise? Bringing him back to the Mother Ship?” Talon asked, calling in on a different channel.
Baird frowned, but he had known the other pilot long enough to understand that the Blood Kindred was only questioning orders out of an abundance of caution.
“I said I would scan him first,” he reminded his subordinate. “We won’t take him back with us if he has any weapons of mass destruction. Now, follow my lead and no more questions.”
“Yes, Sir.” Talon still didn’t sound happy, but he was clearly willing to comply.
“All right, Warrior,” Baird told the Satyr Kindred. “Commencing scan.”
The Satyr spread humanoid-looking hands with five fingers each and clean, neatly trimmed nails.
“Scan away—I have nothing to hide. And may I know your name? I am Storn,” he added as Baird scanned the golden ship.
“Baird,” Baird said, giving his name grudgingly. “And what’s this ‘warning’ you say you have for us?”
Storn the Satyr Kindred shook his head, his curling, ivory horns winking in the lights from his control panel.
“I am much afraid my orders are explicit—I can only give it to your commander—or your High Council, if they are your ruling body. It’s classified information.”
“Very well.” Baird nodded, respecting the warrior’s refusal to break confidence by violating his orders. “The scan came back clean,” he added, looking at the numbers scrolling at the bottom of his viewscreen. “Looks like you’re coming home with us, Storn of the Satyr Kindred.”
“Thank you, Commander Baird—I look forward to meeting your people.”
The Satyr Kindred nodded respectfully and then his image winked off, replaced on the viewscreen by his golden ship.
Baird took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You never knew what the hell you were going to find in space, but a strange new kind of Kindred hadn’t been on his list for today. However, it seemed the Goddess had some surprises in store for him—for everyone aboard the Mother Ship, he thought.
“All right,” he directed through the com-link. “Follow my lead. The Mother Ship isn’t far.”
“Acknowledged, Commander Baird,” came the Satyr Kindred’s voice.
As the golden ship sped through space, bracketed by the two silver shuttlecrafts, Baird wondered what Sylvan and the High Council were going to make of Storn.
Well, he supposed he would find out soon enough. And as for the mysterious warning the strange new male had promised, well, the Kindred of the Mother Ship were ready for any kind of conflict.
No matter what happened—or what else flew through that green gash in space—they would stand strong and protect the Earth.
2
“Goodbye, Mrs. Rogan. Umm, thanks for everything.” Serena Yates bobbed her head and clutched the book of piano exercises to her narrow chest.
“Goodbye, Serena. I’m sorry you had to find another teacher.” Mia smiled at her youngest—and last—pupil trying not to let the sorrow show in her eyes. She would miss teaching—it had given her life meaning and structure—not to mention a safe time and space where she didn’t have to be afraid.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogan. You can’t help it if you’re, uh, sick.” Serena’s eyes drifted nervously to the half-healed bruise on Mia’s cheek and then flickered quickly away again. “My mom says Sheriff Rogan called and said you have, uh, some kind of fiber problem and that teaching tires you out too much.”
“Fibromyalgia,” Mia corrected her gently.
Of course it was a lie. She no more had fibromyalgia than she had purple polka dots. But it was a nice, easy explanation for why she couldn’t teach anymore and had to let all of her students go.
The real reason, of course, was that her husband, Hank, had decided she wasn’t devoting enough time to “keeping the house up.” Mia didn’t understand it—they didn’t have any kids to clean up after—it was just the two of them. And even though Hank was a slob, she picked up after him as quickly as he made a mess. She kept her house in what her Granny used to call “apple pie order.” But it still wasn’t good enough for Hank.