Page 247 of Scorching the Alien Empire
It’s like some supervillain power he’s using to abuse me.
“It’s your fault!” I blurt, suddenly confessing to a crime I maybe, probably committed. “You lefteverythingto me. Sowhat if I got a little sandy in the process?” I turn to glare at him, heat rising in my throat. “I’ve done everything forus, and you’re giving me drama because I gotcreativewith coral-scent sandcastles.”
I cross my arms. Too fast. Too loud. Again.
Ugh.
Even I know I’m overplaying it now.And still—he says nothing. Just stares until my words stew into awkward Lexie soup: extra salty, slightly burnt.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of internal screaming, he closes his eyes again.
I breathe. The sterile recycled air never tasted so sweet.
Still, the guilt clings like wine on white silk—stubborn and stupid. Not helped bySurfer Broflashing me a smug grin from across the table.
Barf.
He lounges on a coral throne like it was stolen from a discount Atlantis resort. His two alien hussies drape across his shoulders like damp dishcloths trying to cosplay seduction.
Peacock Big Chief sits nearby, arms folded, trying for calm—but I canseethe steam curling off his fancy feathered crest like gravity-defying bird poop. His pale gold eyes flick between the Robo-Nibs and the guards like he’s waiting for a sudden breakdance battle to break out.
The Imperator, for once, hasn’t brought half his court. Just a few assistants and his two sour, bulbous-faced advisers perched atop the stone dais, whispering like predatory aunts at a will reading. Their noses are so high in the air I’m surprised they haven’t passed out from altitude sickness. They mutter like vultures deciding which intestines will taste the yummiest—mine, obviously.
Big Belly Chief practically floats on his iceberg-turned-throne, having apparently reached a state of Zen far beyond the frantic drumline of my heartbeat.
Beside the still-empty seats that look like they were grown from a really judgy tree, I spot Mummy Big Chief. He’s giving me industrial-strength stink-eye from across the table. Piercing blue eyes glare from beneath a shrouded face like he’s auditioning for the next Dune movie. And yet, despite his hostility, I wonder... if I tried—really tried—could I have flipped that frown upside down?
Wouldn’t be the first time.
Hate’s just foreplay in the right lighting.
But whatever. I don’t need him. With Surfer Bro, Big Belly, Peacock Big Chief, and of course Dracoth—I’ve got the majority. Should be in the bag. But still, I can’t shake this nagging doubt like a thousandbasicmother lectures echoing through my skull at once.
Suddenly—
“I do hope you’re enjoying the décor?” booms the Imperator, making my heart try to leap out of my mouth and hide under the table. “Those chairs were crafted to match your native homelands,” he continues, glancing at his two penny-headed Smurf advisers. “Or so I’ve been told. Iwouldlove to visit the...primalworld of Klendathor once the Fallen are crushed.”
“It’s, um... impressive,” Surfer Bro stammers, trying not to impale himself on a particularly pointy piece of throne-shell. “Your craftsmanship is... second to none.”
“Silence.” Big Belly’s eyes snap open like divine mousetraps. From Zen to zap in an instant. “You do not speak here, Second,” he growls. “Not while you defy our traditions with those...whores.” He makes a rowing gesture with one massive oar-hand, like he’s trying to physicallypaddlethe alien hussies out of the room.
Surfer Bro launches from his throne like toast from a holy toaster. His alien companions squeal as they’re flung aside like cheap drama props. “You don’t speak for Clan Aquaxus!” he roars, slamming a fist into the table of twisted metal.
“Oh dear!” the Imperator gasps, soundingdelighted.“I never thought I’d admire the Fallen Scythians, but the way they maintained unity among such... fiery tempers?Impressive.” He chuckles. His minions chuckle. The whole Smurf village joins in like it’s open mic night at a dictatorship.
Then he leans forward, voice syrupy with mischief. “That table you struck—does it remind you of anything?”
“Scythians,” Dracoth grunts, the only sign he’s not as sleepy as Todd.
“Correct,” the Imperator nods, beaming. “I thought you might appreciate the gesture. You people often wear totems of the vanquished—I assumed you’d like one as a centerpiece. A fetishism that borders on unshakable delusion.” He shivers theatrically, Elerium eyes aglow. “There’s something so...wildabout your barbarism. Vicious. Pure. A kind of bloodthirst we’ve lost in our own pursuit of enlightenment.”
Counselor Sour-Face rolls her eyes. The other one’s mouth drops open like he’s just been sentenced to ten years of Sock-Chair meat.
“Enlightenment,” Peacock Big Chief spits like it’s a naughty word dripping poison. “And yet,” he growls, “you bar our movements and communications like a master tightening a slave’s leash.”
“Of course,” the Imperator replies, all smiles, zero shame. “We can’t have...untoward actorsmanipulating such an important vote, can we?”
My stomach drops straight to my leather booties.
