Big, Bad Alien (Alien Wolf Tales #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

S carlett bent over her loom, hemstitching the end of the length of fabric with practiced ease. She carefully cut the warp threads, then sat back with a satisfied sigh, brushing her curls away from her damp forehead. The day was already promising to be hot even though summer had yet to arrive. Outside the open window, the muted hum of a typical village morning drifted past.

She scanned the cloth, the evenness of the weave a testament to years of discipline and care, and nodded approvingly. It was thick and sturdy, dyed in earthen tones perfect for market trade. Not an exciting job but a practical one which should bring a decent profit.

The baskets of colorful yarn stacked on the wooden shelves lining one wall of the cottage promised a more interesting project. Mrs. Jacobson, the village mayor, had ordered her to use only the finest yarns and normally she would have been anxious to get started, but she didn’t feel her usual enthusiasm today. The loom that dominated her living space suddenly felt too large, too confining. She’d been cooped up for days working on this length of cloth.

A breeze swept in through the open window, carrying the scent of pine and moss from the nearby mountains and adding to her sudden restlessness. She stretched and rose, her muscles protesting from being bent over the loom since first light. Wandering over to the window she looked up at the mountain peaks, still snow-capped even though they were well into spring. When she was a little girl she’d dreamed of exploring them, but that was a long-forgotten fantasy, buried under years of responsibility and routine.

She sighed and ran her fingers along the windowsill, tracing the cool grain of the wood. Her restlessness was about more than just needing a break from weaving. It was something deeper, an itch she couldn’t quite reach. The day was still young and suddenly the sunlight seemed too bright, too inviting, to ignore. Mrs. Jacobson could wait a little longer.

As she turned away from the window, her gaze snagged on the red cloak hanging on the hook by the door. Her grandmother had made it for her several years ago—a practical thing, warm and sturdy, but the color blazed like autumn leaves, like the sunset, like her own untamable hair. It always made her feel braver, more alive. That feeling was exactly what she needed now.

A visit to her grandmother was long overdue. The thought struck her with a pang of guilt—had it really been a month? The old cottage in the woods would be draped in morning glory by now, their purple flowers climbing the timbered walls just as they did every year. If she set out now, she could be there by early afternoon and they would have plenty of time to visit.

Her wicker basket hung by the door, the handle worn smooth from years of use, and she grabbed it, taking a quick look around the cottage. What could she take with her? She wrapped the loaf of bread she’d baked the day before in a clean cloth and tucked it into the basket, along with the canister of tea she’d bought from a passing trader. How many afternoons had she spent at her grandmother’s side, drinking tea and listening to her stories as her nimble fingers wove intricate patterns into the cloth?

Grabbing her red cloak from the peg by the door, she swung it over her shoulders, the fabric swirling around her like a flash of flame as she took her basket and headed through the cottage door into the bustling village square.

Fortunately Mrs. Jacobson was nowhere in sight as she headed over to the bakery and ducked inside, breathing in the heavenly aroma of fresh-baked bread and sweet pastries. Behind the counter, her friend Tessa’s dark curls bobbed as she bent a tray of fruit-filled tarts.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite weaver.” Tessa grinned at her as she straightened, absently swiping at the flour dusting her face. Even flushed from the heat of the ovens and sprinkled with flour, she was still the prettiest girl in the village. “What brings you out of your cottage?”

“I’m going to visit Grandmother so I thought I’d bring her some treats. What do you suggest?”

Tessa lifted a cloth to reveal a batch of sticky buns, their tops glistening with honey. “Fresh from the oven. Want some for your basket?”

“You know me too well.” She peered into the display case and pointed. “I’ll also take two of those cream buns, and two of those berry tarts.”

Her friend wrapped the pastries in parchment paper, then tucked them carefully into her basket before giving her a warning look.

“If you’re going alone, you’d better not take the forest path. I hear there are monsters lurking in the woods these days.”

“Monsters?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What have you been drinking with your morning tea?”

“I’m serious!” Tessa protested, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “Mrs. Peterson swears she saw something huge moving through the trees yesterday. Said it had glowing eyes and everything.”

“Mrs. Peterson also claims her cat can predict the weather,” she said, shaking her head as she placed a few coins on the counter. “I think she’s been into her special elderberry wine again.”

Tessa pushed the coins back again.

“A gift for your grandmother.” She held up her hand when Scarlett tried to object. “If she makes too much of a fuss, bring me back some of her hand salve.”

Scarlett sighed and gave in.

“If you insist.”

“I do. And you be careful out there.” Tessa gestured at her cloak. “That color might attract attention.”

“From what? A fashion-conscious monster?” She picked up her basket and grinned at her friend. “The worst thing in those woods is probably my grandmother’s cooking. But if you’re worried, you could come with me. I know Grandmother would love to see you.”

Tessa’s smile faded as she looked past her to the sunlit village square outside the shop, and Scarlett immediately regretted making the suggestion.

“You know Lenora would never let me do that,” Tessa said quietly.

Scarlett followed her gaze and saw Tessa’s stepmother standing near the fountain talking to Mr. Gosling while the delivery boy from the general store stood behind her, laden with packages. Lenora was a beautiful woman and both Mr. Gosling and young Billy were gazing at her with foolishly besotted expressions, but Scarlett knew that beneath Lenora’s outward beauty was a vain, malicious woman who kept Tessa tethered to her duties at the bakery.

“I know,” she said gently, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Another time, then. I’ll give Grandmother your love.”

Tessa’s smile returned, albeit smaller, as she plucked at the hem of her apron.

“Thank you. And seriously, watch yourself. Even if the monsters are just stories, those woods can be dangerous.”

“Don’t worry. I grew up running through those trees. I know how to take care of myself.”

She settled her basket on her arm and gave Tessa a reassuring smile as she left the bakery. The villagers were out in full force as midday approached. Merchants called out their wares, children darted about with laughter in the air, and the blacksmith’s hammer rang out from across the square. She caught a glimpse of Mrs. Jacobson, scanning the activity in the square, her mouth pursed as if she’d just eaten a sour fruit. Fortunately she managed to turn down one of the lanes leading out of the village before the other woman saw her.

As she reached the outskirts of the village she hesitated. The wide road that led past her grandmother’s house curved along the edge of the forest, dry and dusty beneath the hot sun. The shorter path wound through the heart of the forest, cool and shadowed.

The smart choice would probably be the main road—it was safe and well-traveled and she might even catch a ride from a passing merchant—but nothing about the dusty track appealed to her. Instead the forest path whispered to the restless side of her. She’d crossed the road and entered the woods before she’d even made a conscious decision.

As soon as she stepped beneath the trees, the temperature dropped, the air cool and tinged with the scent of damp earth and evergreens. The morning sun filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead, dappling the ground with patches of gold. She adjusted the basket on her arm and pulled her cloak closer, the red fabric bright against the muted hues of the forest as she set off.

The forest welcomed her with its familiar symphony—a bird calling from high in the branches, leaves rustling in the breeze, the distant burble of a stream that wound its way through the woods. She tilted her head, smiling as she tried to spot the bird, calling on the skills she’d learned as a child running through these same woods. It had been far too long since she’d been this way.

The restlessness she’d felt earlier began to fade as she fell into an easy rhythm, humming an old tune under her breath, one Grandmother had taught her about travelers and the paths they chose. Her feet knew this route by heart—past the split oak, around the moss-covered boulder, across the wooden bridge that spanned the narrow part of the river.

A rabbit darted across her path, disappearing into a thicket of ferns, and she smiled again. Her grandmother had told her the furry little creatures with the long ears weren’t really rabbits, not the kind that had once existed on Earth, but the colonists had chosen familiar names for everything they encountered on Cresca. The thought of her grandmother’s cottage, with its herb garden and welcoming hearth, quickened her steps.

It had been too long since her last visit. Grandmother would probably scold her for staying away, but then serve her tea in those delicate cups painted with roses while asking about every detail of village life. The familiar routine was as comforting as the soft wool of her cloak.

The path curved ahead, following the contours of the land. She breathed deeply, taking in the scent of pine and moss and wild mushrooms. The forest felt alive around her, vibrant with late spring growth. Even the shadows between the trees seemed to dance with possibility rather than threat. She’d been right to take this path.

But just as she crested a rise in the path, a distant sound reached her ears—a howl, faint and mournful. Her heart gave a sharp thud as the sound whispered beneath the trees and her steps faltered. Goosebumps prickled along her arms despite the warmth of her cloak as she froze, her fingers tightening on the basket handle.

Vultor.

The name floated unbidden to the surface, but she immediately dismissed it. The Vultor were a race of aliens who had also established colonies on Cresca, although unlike the human settlers, they preferred to stay deep within the wilderness. They had clashed with humans several times in the early years and the stories painted them as violent predators, little more than animals, but it had been a long time since there were any incidents. She remembered winter nights by the hearth, listening to tales of the Vultor—their razor-sharp claws, their ability to shift between forms, their superhuman strength.

Her heart quickened, but not entirely from fear. The stories had always fascinated her, even as others shuddered at their telling. What were they really like, these beings who shared their world? The howl came again, closer this time, and there was something almost musical in its otherworldly timber, a complexity that made her wonder if it carried meaning beyond what human ears could comprehend.

While the village children traded tales of the Vultor in the dark, trying to spook each other, the adults spoke of them only in passing, their jaws tight and their eyes grim. Her grandmother had always been more matter-of-fact about them.

“They’re not beasts,” she’d told Scarlett once, her voice calm as she bent over her sewing. “But they’re not like us, either. They have their own ways, their own truths. Best to leave them be, child.”

She’d always listened carefully to her grandmother’s words, and now, standing alone on the forest path, her skin tingling from the eerie howl, she took comfort from them. She glanced around, trying to penetrate the shifting shadows cast by the swaying branches above.

“Probably just an adyani,” she muttered under her breath. The adyani were one of the few predators native to Cresca, but they preferred the high mountain ranges. “Sound travels in the mountains.”

She adjusted her basket, the rustle of the parchment-wrapped treats reassuringly normal as she resumed her walk. The path beneath her feet was still familiar, the trees still the same ones she had climbed as a child. Nothing had truly changed even if the subtle shifts in sound and light, the gentle movement of the leaves, and the way her own breath stirred the stillness seemed charged with an odd kind of expectation.

Then another sound broke the stillness. This time it wasn’t a howl, but something gentler—quieter, even. A rustle of leaves, too deliberate to be the wind. She should have been frightened, should have hurried along the path towards the safety of her grandmother’s cottage. Instead, she found herself moving slower, more deliberately, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.

“Hello?” The word slipped out before she could stop it, soft and tentative. She felt foolish the moment she spoke—if there really was a Vultor out there, what did she expect? That it would step out and introduce itself?

There was no answer, but the sense that she was being watched refused to leave her. She told herself it was nothing—just her imagination playing tricks on her. But she couldn’t shake the sensation, that creeping tension prickling at the nape of her neck.

The path took a sharp turn ahead, twisting deeper into a thicket where the trees stood closer together, their branches weaving into a canopy that cast the ground in dappled shadow. She hesitated for a heartbeat before marching onwards. The earthy smell of the woods grew stronger here, thick with the scent of moss and damp bark.

A flash of movement caught her eye—just a shadow, there and gone between the trees—but her breath caught. She turned her head slowly, scanning the undergrowth, but saw nothing except shifting patterns of light and shade.

The sensation of being observed intensified. It wasn’t like being stalked by a predator—this felt more… deliberate. Like she was being studied. The presence seemed to move with her, keeping pace somewhere in the shadows.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I know you’re there.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected. “I can feel you watching.”

The forest absorbed her words without echo. But something changed in the quality of the silence—it became heavier, more focused. The invisible observer had heard her, she was certain of it.

She continued forward, forcing herself to maintain an even pace despite the urge to either run or freeze in place. Every few steps, she caught glimpses of something moving in her peripheral vision, but whenever she turned to look directly, there was nothing there but dancing shadows and swaying branches. When a bird startled from a low bush, she flinched despite herself. It darted up into the canopy, and she exhaled with a nervous laugh.

“I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a bird.”

Yet even as she tried to convince herself nothing was wrong, she heard that same deliberate rustle in the bushes. She spun sharply, searching along the trail behind her. Nothing. But she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination. Someone, or something, was following her.

“Show yourself!” she demanded as she turned a slow circle, scanning the woods.

For a long, breathless moment, she heard nothing but the low shrill of insects and the distant chirp of birds. Then, from the shadows where two great trunks leaned close together, a pair of luminous blue eyes blinked to life and she froze, rooted to the spot. Those eyes weren’t human.