Page 2 of Mated to the Monster God
“Esme, don’t even think about it,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Whatever came down is someone else’s problem. We are not equipped for alien drama.”
“Someone might need help,” I argue. “I’ve got medical training, remember?”
Tara appears like a summoned demon, lab coat stained with what I hope is nutrient broth. “You havebasictriage training. And a bad habit of nearly dying every time you leave the perimeter.”
“She does have a point,” Jimmy mutters, traitorously.
I turn to him with a mock glare. “You wound me, little man.”
Tara steps closer, hands on hips. “If you go, and it’s hostile, you’ll lead them straight back here. You’ll risk the whole colony.”
My jaw clenches. The crowd’s noise blurs in my ears, a mess of fear and speculation and the quiet hum of a place that’s been stuck in survival mode for far too long. Sweetwater is safe. Secure. Stagnant.
I’mnot.
I need something more than weather sensors and plasma-fed boredom. I needpurpose. And maybe—just maybe—I need to do something reckless.
So I nod. I act like I’m backing off. “Fine.”
Tara relaxes. Dad sighs in relief. Blondie turns to talk to one of the other colonists.
Which is when I bolt.
Jimmy yells something behind me. Feet pounding the cracked red soil, I sprint past the mess hall, veer behind thegenetics shack, and duck through the partially collapsed storage shed. My heart pounds, more from excitement than effort.
There it is. The old medkit. Not the small one—no, I grab the oversized triage pack, complete with bloodtype-matching injectors and plasma bandages. If someone’s injured, this is what I’ll need.
I snag a solar flask, check my pistol, and shove a few protein tabs in my pocket. My hands are shaking, but it’s thegoodkind of adrenaline.
The trees at the colony’s edge beckon like old friends, dark and swaying.
I pause just long enough to hear Tara shouting somewhere, then I slip between the branches and vanish into the jungle.
The leaves close behind me, and Sweetwater is gone.
The jungle doesn’t welcome me—itdevoursme.
Humidity punches me in the face the second I step off the game trail. The air is thick with the smell of wet earth and something sweeter, rotting and sticky like old fruit left out in the sun. My boots squelch through the leaf litter, and vines try to tangle around my ankles like jealous lovers. Every breath feels like I’m sucking down hot soup.
“God, I forgot how bad it stinks out here,” I mutter, flicking on the scanner strapped to my forearm. The screen flares to life, lines and blips dancing across the display.
No life signs. At least, nothing that’s showing human DNA. Plenty of motion, though—this place isalwaysmoving. Always watching.
I push forward, brushing low-hanging branches aside. A trio of glowmoths scatter in a shimmer of blue-green wings. I don’t have time to be gentle. The fire streak we saw wasclose—less than five clicks, easy. If there’s wreckage, if there’s anyone out there bleeding or crushed or burning alive—I’ve got minutes, maybe.
The jungle howls to itself around me. Somewhere high above, a grolth buzzard cries out like a baby being skinned. Charming. Welcome to Pwarra.
“I swear, I should sell tours,” I mutter. “Come for the scenic toxic ferns, stay for the screaming sky-beasts.”
I move fast but careful. This isn’t my first walkabout. I grew up in these trees, tripping over death every third step. There’s a reason the survey team called Pwarra a “Class Seven Hazard World.” Half the flora here secretes paralytics, and the other half tries to digest you alive.
The scanner chirps low, indicating a movement spike to the northeast—just static-laced distortion, no ID. Could be nothing. Could be something bleeding out behind a log. I veer toward it.
And that’s when I see the mold.
“Oh,hellno,” I hiss, skidding to a stop.
A smear of crimson and yellow stretches across the trunk of a felled groat tree. The wood pulses underneath it. There’s a low, almost imperceptible hiss, like it’s waiting tobreathe.
