Hostile Genus: An Epic Military Sci-Fi Series (Invasive Species Book 2) Ben Stevens (best contemporary novels txt) 📖

“I will continue to remain here and be annoying until you tell me how much longer it’s going to be.”

“Vete a la mierda, niñita. Or I will make you. We ain’t gonna interrupt the king’s dinner date for nothing.” The tough stepped away from the wall where he had been leaning and stood up as straight as he could, puffing out his chest.

Lucy did not back down, but altered her smile to show her teeth.

“You can either interrupt his date by simply peeking in and letting me know what is taking so long, or I will interrupt from out here by making so much noise that you will wish you had. I start screaming in three, two, one—”

“Okay, okay! Esta bien!” the tough said, shaking his head. “Be right back.”

“Muchas gracias,” Lucy replied, her smile vanishing in an instant.

She watched the man disappear into the dining hall and heard some muffled conversation on the other side of the door. A short minute later, the man returned.

“Well?” she asked.

“They aren’t there,” the tough reported.

“¿Qué?” Lucy felt her enhanced nervous system switch into battle mode. She had to restrain herself from launching her BFG into her waiting hand and releasing the dogs of war on these two, and the whole city if need be.

“Relax, chica. They went for a walk. Your friend will meet you back in your room. You can go now.” The man smiled and crossed his tree trunk arms in front of his chest.

Lucy wasn’t one to panic, but she came close. She knew well the monstrous nature of the people they were dealing with, and the idea of her lady being off with one, unprotected, rattled her to her machine core. Every bit of her programming wanted to spring into action, to find and rescue Maya, but part of her restrained herself. If she laid into these guys now and went tearing through the palace, they could forget any chance they had of re-supplying. Not to mention, she might inadvertently put them all in such danger as to make escape from the city impossible. As much as she hated it, she would have to hope that Maya was not in danger, or, if she was, that she would be able to take care of herself.

Damn it all!

The least she could do was find Ratt, and then together maybe they could track down Maya and get the hell out of this city. Jon had been right. Coming here was proving to be a big mistake. No amount of transportation or food would be worth it if they themselves ended up on the menu.

Lucy made for the exit and, finding it, stood on the threshold, looking out over New Puebla by night. Not for the first time since being reborn at the hands of Warbak’s top man, Matiaba, she hated her embellished appearance. Her ghastly visage was known, known and feared in the Shanty, but here? How would the average citizen react to seeing her? She cursed again, lamenting the lack of even a hood to hide her painted face, and stepped out into the streets.

Now where did the little twerp get himself to?

Lucy wandered the streets like a ghost haunting a place not its own. She tried not to look panicked or otherwise draw attention to herself, but failed at every turn. Human and vampire alike cast strange glances at her whenever they came near, no doubt wondering who she was, why she looked like painted death, and why she didn’t smell of blood.

This is no good, she thought, avoiding the confused stares of the undead, and looked for an alley or dimmer path that she could navigate, hoping the darkness would help obscure her unusual appearance.

She found just such a street before long and ducked into it, instantly wondering what she was thinking. The street was only dimly lit by the glow of cook fires in the windows of the hovels that lined it, and was devoid of foot traffic, which in turn meant devoid of Ratt.

This is pointless. Maybe the best thing to do is just to go back to our suite and wait. Her thoughts and the futility of her situation pained her, but she didn’t see many other options. If she kept wandering the city, it was probably only a matter of time before someone questioned her, or accosted her, and then she would have no choice but to show them what she was really made of.

She was about to turn around and head back to the main thoroughfare, when she rounded a sharp corner and startled two children who were busying themselves picking through a pile of garbage.

“Santa Muerta!” one of the children gasped, bolting upright and freezing in place before Lucy like a prisoner in front of a firing squad.

“Hey, easy there. I won’t hurt you,” Lucy said as softly as possible. In her mind’s eye, the dirty children before her transformed and became the children of Underground, pickers, the ones that Home forgot, trying to eke out a small measure of survival by sifting through the refuse of the Ziggurat. Without even knowing their story, Lucy pitied the pair of waifs before her every bit as much as she had pitied the children who lived in the buried ghost city of Denver-That-Was.

“Eres el diablo?” the second child asked, also frozen in place, hands full of rotten produce and trembling.

“Am I the devil?” Lucy repeated the question, the child’s words breaking her phantom heart. It pained her to see fear in the children’s dirty faces. In a better world, ones as tender as these should be innocent and full of joy, not covered in filth, starving, and afraid of the devil.

“No, sweet one. I am a friend. Amiga.” She touched one hand to her chest and smiled at them. “Mi nombre es Lucy.”

“Eres humana?” the first child asked, her body language showing that she was on the cusp of relaxing a little.

“Yes, little one. I