Page 213 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I feel him through the bond, thundering toward us with his usual big stomping Red Taxi speed. I’m honestly surprised the floor isn’t already cracking yet. My stomach erupts into a tornado of Lexie-moths—barrel-rolling with excitement and dread.
“Already?!” Sandra yelps, nearly tripping as she springs off the bed like a firework made of nerves.
“I’m not even dressed yet!” She lunges for the nearest drawer, hurling outfits over her shoulder like a frantic red squirrel building a fashion nest.
Poor, sweet, disaster-Sandra.
I, of course, am already dressed—in one of my many versions of black ceremonial robes. This one? Flowing, majestic, embroidered with golden runes, and trimmed just low enough to show Arawnoth’s blessing. Which also just happens to reveal some strategic divine cleavage. Lexie-age.
“Just throw on some gnome clothes,” I sigh, gesturing lazily at the ever-growing pile of fabric she’s building behind her. Can’t have her stealing attention. Spotlight should stay where it belongs—on me.
“But I worked really hard on these designs,” she mutters, still elbows-deep in the drawer like she’s mining for gems.
A sudden realization hits me like a winning lottery ticket.
“Todd’s clothes!” I spin around, comb flying. “Did you finish them?” I ask, unable to hide my excitement.
“I wouldn’t exactly call themclothes,” Sandra scoffs, thumbing over her shoulder. “I just tossed them.”
With a dramatic gasp, I dive headfirst into the pile like it’s a ball pit full of hope and color. Fabrics fly. Limbs flail. A red-and-blue tunic whacks me in the face, clinging to my ear like a Christmas bauble.
“HEY!” I shriek, glaring at her through a curtain of sequins.
She stifles a laugh, hand over her mouth. “Oops. My bad.”
“I’m not an ironing board, you...” my voice drifts off. There. Glinting silver, wedged between socks and terrible choices. “A-ha!” I snatch up the prize. A tiny, glorious bowtie. Dainty. Dashing. Todd-worthy.
“Oh, Toddy-Woddy,” I coo, bouncing my shoulder gently. The eternally snoozing cyloillar stirs, his black eye blinking open like a jellybean full of secrets. He peers at me, reflecting my beaming face.
How is he so cute?
His mandibles creak open like there’s a dramatic proclamation on the tip of his bug-tongue.
It’s all too much for him. He promptly blinks again and curls back up like a bug-burrito.
“Wake up!” I scold, tickling under his chin segment. “Auntie Sandra made you apresent!” I dangle the bowtie in front of him like it’s a jelly stick.
He lunges.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
“No! Bad Todd. It’s not a jelly stick.” I rap his mandibles gently as he grabs at the bowtie with alarming speed. He croaks in protest, his array of spindly legs digging harder. Undeterred, I press on. This is my big day. And Chug Bug?
He’s going to look fabulous.
I suppress a grunt, hiding the effort as I wrestle with the deceptively strong, squishy mass that is Todd. Finally, I manage to squeeze his mandibles shut and slip the loop over his head. A little tug, a bit of straightening and—perfection.
“He’s so stinking cute!” I beam, only slightly dampened by Todd’s constant croaks and the fact that his front booties are already trying to rip the thing off. “Theyhaveto let him in now.”
I hold him aloft like Simba inThe Lion King—though Todd’s much cuter with his spindly legs hypnotically waving in the air. His tiny silver bowtie glints like the cherry on his black-red cake.
“Aww, he looks so dignified in his dickie-bow,” Sandra coos, abandoning her frantic outfit search to adjust his newestmust-have cyloillar accessory.
Todd, despite the praise, curls forward like he’s trying to become a sad little wheel of protest.
“Though I hope he doesn’t stage a dirty protest,” she adds, scrunching her freckled face.
“Good point. Last thing we need is him pooping on a Big Chief’s head,” I say, draping him over my shoulder like the universe’s most extravagant shawl. “No pooping, mister. Imean it.”
