Page 1 of Mated to the Monster God
CHAPTER 1
ESME
Sweetwater smells like ozone, fermenting fruit, and burnt tool grease—meaning it’s a normal morning.
I’m hip-deep in a mud pit that used to be our southeast weather sensor array, sweat rolling down my back and collecting in the curve of my spine. Every few seconds, my left boot tries to suction itself off my foot and steal my balance, and the damn panel I’m trying to replace keeps sparking when I slot it in.
“Do youhaveto do this barefoot?” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the trees, equal parts amusement and judgment.
I grunt, glancing up at my eight-year-old brother as he balances on the broken fence rail, legs swinging like he hasn’t a care in the world. His mop of hair is soaked in sweat, freckles bright against his sun-flushed cheeks.
“These boots are practically marsh soup, and I’m not trying to cook my toes in electrified goo,” I shoot back. “Why aren’t you with Tara doing inventory?”
“Because I actually like my brain. She’s in a mood again.”
He’s got a point. Tara’s been a walking snarl since the solar array shorted last week and fried half the medigel stocks.
Jimmy hops off the fence, squinting at my hip. “Your pistol’s crooked again.”
I look down. Damn it, he’s right. The plasma pistol’s riding high, grip flared out awkwardly from my holster.
“Colonial fashion is evolving,” I say, tightening the strap. “Crooked is in.”
He snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, Es.”
I’m about to toss a mud clump at his head when it happens.
A thundercrack splits the sky. A streak of fire rips overhead, blazing gold and violent red. It’s so close I canfeelthe heat across my skin. The trees shudder with the aftershock. The air smells scorched—like burnt copper and singed dust.
Jimmy stumbles, shielding his eyes. I stare, mouth open, heart kicking into overdrive.
“Was that a shuttle?” he whispers.
My blood issinging. Somethingbigjust came down.
Perhaps a supply drop, a crash, or even pirates. Anything would be better than the unending routine of repairs and ration distribution.
Other colonists are pouring out of the east gate now—dozens of voices overlapping, all talking at once.
“It came from Sector Five?—”
“—crash site, we need to report it?—”
“—what if it’s the Combine, finally?—?”
Dad jogs toward us, face pink from the heat, mustache drooping like a sad broom. “Esme! You okay?”
“Peachy.” I pull myself out of the pit and shake the mud off one leg. “What was that?”
“No idea yet, but we’re locking down. Protocol, just in case.” His voice drops lower. “Get inside.”
Lock down? Inside? We justsawsomething crash, or at least land hard enough to kiss the dirt. Someone might be hurt. Someone might be dying out there.
“I can go check it out?—”
“No,” Dad snaps, then softens. “Please. Let the scouts handle it.”
I spot Mom in the crowd, arms crossed, a scowl plastered across her face like it’s painted on. Blondie Cruise—botanist, mother of four, undisputed queen of disappointed sighs.
