Page 60 of Mated to the Monster God
“We’re needed,” I say, voice low and fierce. I stand, moss crunching under claws. She rises, wings of damp hair framing her face. She’s trembling, but resolute.
Outside, the forest thrums—a red flare arching skyward cannot go unnoticed. I scoop her onto my back and burst from the crevasse’s safety.
The outside world has shifted. Dawn’s soft promise collapsed into chaos. Sweetwater lies beyond the trees, but barrier-like drone patrols swarm the clearing. Mechanical whines fill the air. Their sensors glint like malicious stars hunting through foliage.
I lean into the underbrush, pressing Esme lower. The rust of leaves, the whir of propellers, the thrum of fear—each sound is life and death.
“They’re drone patrols,” Esme whispers, voice trembling. “Swift, silent.”
I nod, lips brushing her temple. “Stay low.”
We sprint through the forest’s skeletal arms. The whine splits the silence. One drone spots us, swivel eyes igniting red.
I pivot onto two legs, tail whipping for balance. I snarl, folding the drone with bone and furious intent. Sparks explode, metal shearing like brittle leaves. Esme grips me, breath stuttering.
We cover thirty more paces before two more patrol into view. I don’t wait—snowballing claws shatter the drone’s rotors. It crashes behind us, a mechanical rendition of dead leaves falling.
I keep going. The forest opens. There—Sweetwater’s barricade, hastily erected logs and trenches glistening with rainwater.
I barrel forward, calling out to the colonists. They look up—eyes filled with panic and relief.
“I need passage,” I shout, voice thunder-choked. “Open the barricade!”
Rick, near the palisade, slams a control lever. Logs shudder; the barricade groans and splits.
Inside, organized chaos blooms—colonists scurry, Tara shouting, firing up medigel tanks. Blondie herds children behind cover. The air thickens with the acrid tang of cordite and adrenaline.
As I burst through, the world strains. Esme tumbles from my back, breath ragged.
“Esme,” I growl, reaching for her. She stands, trembling, rain plastering her face. Her gaze rises—up into the sky.
A thundering voice booms down from orbit, crackling across speakers and comms. Mechanical, remorseless.
“Your time is up. Prepare for extinction.”
The voice—Krenshaw’s—drips through the entire colony like poison sugar. Faces twist into horror.
I feel Esme press against me, a tremor finding me through her bones.
Anger surges hot—pure, volcanic. My claws extend involuntarily, digging into my own flesh until I taste iron.
People freeze. Rain washes over their faces, but their eyes are ablaze. I step forward, voice raw with buried fury.
“We fight,” I roar.
And Esme, rain and blood and defiance in her eyes, matches me: “We fight.”
Above, Krenshaw’s voice fades—but the threat lingers, a storm before battle.
I look at Esme. Her strength hums against my spine. I will not let her go.
CHAPTER 19
ESME
Dawn breaks gray and brutal across Sweetwater, but the colony buzzes with grim purpose—not coffee or idle chatter, but the clack of shovels and the roar of fusion charge firing. Trenches are gouged into the earth, muddy lines cutting through the plains like wounds given deliberate shape. A matrix of half-forged defenses rises: log barricades cemented with clay, fusion blocks humming with weird blue energy, and towering perimeters manned by anxious hands gripping scavenged rifles.
My muscles ache, not just from hauling medigel and resin vials but from command. I bark orders with steady urgency, “Channel two teams to the southern wall! Keep that trench flooding—we need to slow anything crawling across floodlight range!”
