Page 4 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

“He alreadyhaskilled the entire town,” Seabus growls, his fists tightening. “This dam is just the eulogy.”

The despair in his voice cuts through me. Clem’s eyes are wet, and the man who used to haul tons of rock out of the mine looks defeated. It’s too much. I can’t let them spiral. I reach out, grabbing Clem by the front of his flannel and shaking him hard.

“You shut up!” I snap, my voice sharp enough to make him blink. “Coldwater isnotdead! Not yet! It’s time we do something about Gary Irons.”

Seabus squares his shoulders, his chest puffing out like a rooster. “I got a shotgun, a shovel, and a free night.”

Clem raises a hand, cutting him off. “I think she’s got something less lethal in mind.” He turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Go on, Reily. Use them book smarts and tell us how we’re going to stop one of the richest, most powerful men in the world.”

I freeze. I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. My mind races, scrambling for something,anything, to keep these two from marching off to Irons’ mansion with pitchforks and torches. Then it hits me.

“We’ll organize a protest,” I say, the words tumbling out faster than I can think. “Against the dam proposal. The biggest this city has ever seen! We’ll get everyone—fishermen, shop owners, families—to show up and make some noise. Boss Hoag won’t be able to ignore us. He’ll have to tell Irons no.”

Clem raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “You really think Hoag’s gonna stand up to Irons? That man’s got more money than common sense.”

“He will if he’s got half the town breathing down his neck,” I shoot back. “We’ll make it so loud, so impossible to ignore, even Hoag can’t pretend not to hear us.”

Seabus grunts, crossing his arms. “A protest, huh? Sounds a lot less fun than my idea.”

“Fun doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice firm. “This town matters. And if we’re gonna save it, we need to do it together.”

CHAPTER 2

GUVAN

The scent of rot and infection hits me before I see the bear. My nostrils flare, the holographic disguise of Gary Irons flickering for a moment as my true form threatens to break through. The air is thick with the stench of festering wounds, the kind that drives a creature mad. I don’t need the tracker embedded in my wrist to tell me I’m close. The forest is silent, the usual chatter of birds and rustle of underbrush replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness. Even the trees seem to hold their breath.

I step over a fallen log, my boots crunching on the brittle leaves. The bear’s trail is easy to follow—broken branches, deep gouges in the bark, and the occasional smear of blood. It’s not hunting anymore. It’s lashing out, driven by pain and rage. I’ve seen it before, in soldiers and beasts alike. When the body breaks, the mind follows.

“Should’ve stayed in the mountains,” I mutter, my voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that doesn’t belong to Gary Irons. The hologram flickers again, and I adjust the image inducer on my wrist. Can’t have the locals seeing a seven-foot-tall scaled alien wandering their woods. Not that they’d believe it if they did.

The ridge comes into view, the town of Coldwater sprawled out below like a toy model. The bear stands at the edge, its massive frame silhouetted against the pale sky. Even from here, I can see the arrows jutting from its back, the wounds swollen and oozing. It’s a monster, but not by choice. Someone did this to it.

The bear’s head snaps around, its nostrils flaring as it catches my scent. Its eyes lock onto mine, , I see the pain there, the confusion. Then it roars, a sound that shakes the ground beneath my feet, and charges.

I drop the hologram. The air shimmers, and Gary Irons is gone, replaced by the scarred, scaled warrior I truly am. The bear doesn’t slow. It’s a freight train of muscle and fur, its claws tearing up the earth as it closes the distance. I brace myself, my muscles coiling like springs.

“Come on, then,” I growl, my voice a deep rumble that matches the bear’s roar. “Let’s end this.”

It’s on me in seconds, its massive paw swinging down with enough force to crush a car. I sidestep, the claws missing me by inches, and drive my fist into its side. The impact sends a shockwave through my arm, but the bear barely stumbles. It swings again, and this time I catch its paw, the force of the blow driving me back a step. My boots dig into the dirt as I hold it, the muscles in my arms straining against the bear’s weight.

“You’re strong,” I admit, my voice tight with effort. “But so am I.”

I twist, using its momentum to throw it off balance. The bear crashes to the ground, the earth trembling beneath it. It’s up in an instant, roaring in fury, but I’m already moving. I leap onto its back, my claws digging into its fur as I grab one of the arrows. The bear bucks, trying to throw me off, but I hold on, my grip like iron.

The bear rears up one last time, its massive body towering over me, its breath hot and rancid. I drive the arrow deeper, the barbed tip piercing its heart. The beast lets out a final, guttural roar, its eyes wide with pain and confusion, before it collapses onto the ground with a thud that shakes the earth beneath my feet. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my chest rising and falling as I step back.

I kneel beside the bear, resting a clawed hand on its head. Its fur is coarse, matted with blood and dirt. “You didn’t deserve this,” I mutter, my voice low and gravelly. “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I give its head a final pat before standing and turning my attention to the arrows sticking out of its back.

I grab one of the shafts and pull it free with a swift, practiced motion. The arrow is a mess—barbed tip, jagged edges, and a sickly sheen that screams poison. Illegal, even by Earth’s lax standards. Whoever did this wasn’t just hunting; they were torturing. And then they left the poor creature to suffer.

My compad hums as I pull it from my belt. The holographic display flickers to life, scanning the arrow with a soft blue light. The screen flashes red, then populates with data—manufacturer, buyer, transaction history. It doesn’t take long to zero in on the name: Henry Lothar. Of course. Local dirtbag with a reputation for cutting corners and skirting the law.

“You’re not just an idiot, Lothar,” I growl, my tail flicking in irritation. “You’re a lazy idiot.” I tuck the arrow into my belt and activate the image inducer. The air around me shimmers, my scaly form replaced by the sleek, polished facade of Gary Irons. The suit fits well enough, but the disguise feels like a prison. I hate this charade.

I stride down the ridge toward Coldwater, the town’s lights flickering in the distance. The weight of the arrow in my belt is aconstant reminder of the task ahead. Lothar’s place isn’t far, and I don’t plan on knocking. This isn’t a visit; it’s a reckoning.

The streets of Coldwater are quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel under my boots. Lothar’s house is a squat, rundown thing on the edge of town, the kind of place that looks like it’s one strong wind away from collapse. I don’t bother with the door. Instead, I kick it in, the wood splintering under the force of my boot.

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