Page 12 of Alien's Luck
CARLA
Carla woke with a killer hangover and the taste of something dead in her mouth. The overhead lights didn’t help. Thankfully, she wasn’t on the floor but a padded surface. Not a bed, maybe a sofa or bench. She rolled to the side, convinced she was about to puke, but nothing came, just a throbbing behind her eyes and a general wooziness from turning too fast.
Tavat’s goon caught her and slapped a knockout mask on her. She touched the area around her nose and mouth, her skin still tacky from the adhesive. The goon also caught Poppy. She refused to panic, not yet, but yikes, this was bad. Maybe end-of-the-line bad.
Slowly, she sat up. Her head hurt, but thankfully, that seemed to be the only ache or pain.
She did a quick physical assessment. She was still dressed—hooray—and her underwear was where she had left it. The dress was torn where the fabric snagged a nail, but that was on her. Her shoes were gone, and the collar had vanished. Its absence felt strange. Carla’s fingers brushed her naked neck. The collar had been deactivated, but it looked real enough. She couldn’t imagine why Tavat would want it removed. Her bracelet remained.
Good. Having her escape plan made her feel like this disaster could be salvaged.
No injuries. Other than the headache and that horrid taste in her mouth, she was fine. In one piece, at least.
Then she noticed the room.
It was a treasure cave. Not a literal cave but imagine every movie scene with the adventurer stumbling into a secret room overflowing with gold and treasure. Tavat’s decorator should be embarrassed by how cliched the room was.
Display cases and shelving lined each wall, glowing with soft lighting. Each shelf was packed with stuff. Expensive stuff. Golden chalices. Gleaming blades. An ancient-looking energy blaster. Necklaces. Lots of necklaces with ridiculously large gems. Paintings were propped up against the shelves. Caskets—she really didn’t know what other word to use—cluttered the floor. Some were opened. One tipped over, spilling the contents across the floor in a confetti of colored gemstones.
Definitely not a holding cell.
Carla swung her legs off the padded bench. A glass of water and two white tablets waited on the table. Yeah, no chance she was taking those. Her shoes, now clean, had been placed next to the padded bench.
Was this a trick? Some cruel test to see what she’d do? Be a good little pet, drink the water, and take the pills? Sittingquietly? Or take that pistol and hope it had enough of a charge left to punch a hole in the door’s lock?
Screw it. The chances of getting out of this alive were slim. Might as well make her captors work for it.
Barefoot, she crossed to the display case with the pistol, stepping around a casket tipped on its side, gold coins spilling across the floor like a pirate’s fantasy. She inspected the case, unable to detect a seam or latch. There was probably a clever way to open it, but she didn’t have the brainpower for clever. Her head was foggy, and she was exhausted.
Carla grabbed a bronze statue of a four-armed female figure with wings from an open shelf. The heft suggested it was solid all the way through. Good. The statue might survive the upcoming violence. Carla didn’t know much about art—that was Poppy’s area of expertise—and she wouldn’t hesitate to ruin a one-of-a-kind piece if it meant her survival, but she wasn’t happy about it. She wasn’t a monster. The world was ugly enough without her destroying beautiful things.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she said, raising the statue, then paused. Smashing glass cases in her bare feet wasn’t her brightest move, thanks to the headache. Luckily, the fog lifted enough for her to slip on her shoes.
Properly outfitted for petty vandalism, she apologized again and smashed the bronze statue against the case. Glass shattered at once, falling to the floor and liberally scattering across the top of her feet.
Carla grabbed the pistol, using it to knock free any remaining shards of glass that could slice up her hand. Controls were on the side of the handle. She studied the symbols, unsure which one was the on switch.
“Do you like it? It’s a prototype.”
Carla jumped, glass shards crunching under the soles of her shoes, and spun around.
The gargoyle leaned against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Wings sprouted from his back, conveniently blocking any chance of escape. He still wore the evening jacket and suit. Oh, and that cocky grin.
She raised the pistol and pointed it at him. “It’s not bad. Bit old -fashioned.”
“Good design is timeless, but even batteries wear out. It won’t fire.”
“I don’t know. They made things to last back in the day.” Carla flicked the power switch. Amber lights glowed, albeit dimly. “How about that?”
“I’m Ari, since our introductions were rudely interrupted,” he said, completely ignoring the pistol pointed at him.
This was banter, and she couldn’t even explain it or why she was returning his grin. Lingering brain fog. Had to be. In no way was it because he had a handsome, if inhuman, face. Lots of people were good looking. It didn’t make him anything special.
Just… the way he watched her, like he saw her, not a pet or a toy to possess, but like she was a real person.
Fuck. This planet was awful. She hadn’t felt like a person in so long she was getting flirty with her kidnapper. Time to put an end to this.
“Take me to Poppy, or I’ll put a hole in you,” she demanded.
