Under the Radar (Outcasts of Oloria #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

NICOLE

“Keep calm, Nicole,” I tell myself. “You’ve only been abducted by an alien. Nothing to freak out about.”

The hoof pick in my right hand trembles, the worn tip tapping on the metal panel. I screw my fist closed to stop it. This ventilation shaft thingy is tight, and I’m… well, generously proportioned.

“You’ve… got… this,” I groan, my shoulders burning as I shimmy my chest forward, pushing, pushing, not letting up until I inch forward. I lie flat like a worm, arms at my sides and legs behind me.

It’s tight. Maybe too tight. My huge ass will get wedged in here and I’ll block all the air.

I blow wisps of hair from my sweaty face.

“Don’t freak out,” I whisper. My voice bounces back to me from the dark.

I'm not scared. I'm not. Okay, I am, a little.

But showing fear or nervousness is the number one way to put animals on edge, and the guy…

the alien who kidnapped me, he might have similar instincts.

“Bloody aliens,” I mutter as I seal-slide my way forward. I always knew other forms of life would be out there, but I never thought I’d meet any of them. “Bipedal scaled hot guys? Sure, why not. But I’d have been more excited if they were, I dunno, flying horses. That would be cool.”

I wish I'd spent more time with the guys who’d crash landed into Ellen's barn so I could understand what was going on now. Why me? None of the scaled men from space seemed psychotic from what Ellen, Arabella and Laura told me. Hell, they even seemed to have romances going on.

It was all going great. I was looking forward to Ellen’s pizza. One second the pilot’s smiling, polite, pale blue eyes were drifting somewhere else, and the next his scales shifted, not only color but size. His body grew bigger, broader.

He attacked, smashing the other aliens back. My skin crawls at the memory of him spitting acid at one of the purple aliens.

I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move.

Then he glared at my friends. Laura scowling at him, Ellen shocked, Arabella frozen. They were next.

So, I stepped in his way.

I ball up my fists, pressing my nails into my palms. Did he have a particular target in mind, or just chose me because I was handy to grab? Either way, here I am.

I hate the room he shoved me in. It may be as big as four decent stables, and has a bathroom with fresh water, but it’s still a cell.

No matter if it does have a wardrobe that whizzes out of the wall, filled with long rolls of see-through fabric, the matt gray-black walls were oppressive. It didn’t even have a window.

But it did have a ventilation panel, one helpfully removable with the application of a hoof pick. I pried it open last night, and using some of those robes, I’m shimmying through to see what’s what.

My stomach growls. It’s been three days, as far as I can tell, because he’s brought me breakfast, lunch and dinner. All meat, like he’s torturing me, trying to reduce me to a state of desperation, daring me to drop my principles and eat animals.

“If so, he's in for the shock of his life,” I say to the panel I’m skating over. “I need to get back to Earth. My friends need me, both human and horse.”

I'm the sensible one, the reliable one, the mother of the group, and my herd were doing so well until this happened. So, I'm just going to have to be a bit un-sensible for a while to get back to them.

I glare at the metal walls of the shaft. Light peeks through the panels, dim purple and orange. I peer through the cracks to orient myself as best I can; unlike all my friends, who’ve jetted around in this ship, this is my first time seeing inside it.

Below me lies a huge circular area with a big bright glowing cylinder in the middle.

A variety of comfy couches to suit every sitting or reclining position ring the perimeter, except where the galley kitchen occupies one third of the curved wall with a breakfast bar in front.

Paintings and lamps sculpted like an Escher painting line the walls.

A sleek metal rectangular dining table sits near the cylinder, and all around the walls there are lots of doors.

“I’m in the central room. Score,” I mutter.

Sweat creeps down my forehead. I try to pull my right hand up from my hip to my chest, but I’d need to bend in a really weird way, and my elbow hits the side of the shaft, then the ceiling.

Shit. Oh, well. I keep pushing myself along using my palms on the smooth metal floor, like a seal.

It’s slow going, and my muscles tire quickly from lack of food, but I have plenty of junk in the trunk to use for energy, and progress is progress.

I slide forward a few inches until my hips hit the opening on both sides.

Ah, shoot. My ass needs serious push power to get in here.

I’m wearing my technical T shirt with zippered side pockets, but my jodhpurs were gross and I didn’t have spare underwear for my impromptu trip.

Thank goodness for those see-through scarves in the wardrobe.

I even brought more to make myself more slidy and put under my boots, so I didn’t accidentally knock them and make a clang like a bell announcing, “Hi! I’m here, sneaking around your ventilation system! ”

I shove with the full force of my shoulder strength, and a panel below me pops. Shit. Did he hear? I go as still as I can, the ragged rush of my breath the only sound.

Music, if you can call it that, starts playing ahead. Pots and pans clanging together on a galloping horse would sound more melodic. It gives me heart palpitations just from the speed of the beats.

Phew. At least he didn’t hear me loosen a panel. The slightly widened corridor gives my hips enough clearance to slide onwards, the shaft leading me toward the sound. I pass over the wall and into a smaller room.

Bands of bioluminescent light ripple along the walls below me, casting soft blues and greens over rows of unfamiliar equipment, curved frames, cables and big blocks.

The air smells sharp and metallic, like ozone mixed with heated skin.

Heavy breaths and guttural grunts echo up to me, punctuated by the clanks of metal locking into place and the wet hiss of hydraulics engaging.

An alien swaggers into view below, petrol-blue scales flashing in the light as he approaches the wall. Is that Ilia? Did he somehow get on the ship with us? My fingers spasm. Help is closer than I thought.

The wall shimmers to become a shiny mirror and he… poses. Arms up, biceps bulging, and he meets his reflection with a smirk. Ilia hardly ever smiled; that’s not him at all. Arture’s taken the form of Ilia’s type of clone, a Gerverstock.

I nestle closer to the gap in the panel to spy.

Arture turns to the equipment and picks up two blocks.

Is this… a gym? He pumps his arms up and down with feral grunts, moving to bigger and bigger blocks.

Red races up his left arm as he uses Ilia’s super strength; not only can he shift into their forms, he can use their abilities.

His metal right arm hasn’t changed, but his fist can morph into a blade.

My skin goes cold; he slashed one of the triplets when he abducted me. I hope that guy’s okay.

Gone is the slim-built black and red scaled alien I remember. Whatever he is now, he’s dangerous in a way the other aliens weren’t. What was he doing with them? Was he part of their group at all?

With a yell, he lifts a block over his head, then throws it up in the air. It disintegrates before it hits the floor, and a computer beep sounds.

“New record,” he crows, putting his hands on his hips. His shoulders curl in on themselves as he shrinks down, but not by much. When his form settles, it’s the real him, as far as I can tell.

His new muscles upon muscles are certainly impressive, like he bench presses cows before breakfast. The gold scales on his back throw off a subtle glow behind him and the ones on his chest harden into black spikes, like he was forged in fire and hammered on an anvil.

He smirks as he checks out his own broad shoulders in the mirror. Yeah, I have eyes and can say he's hot, but he's still an asshole. No amount of hot makes up for this shit.

A trill sounds in the ship, making me jump. It’s an alarm of some kind, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to respond to it, flexing his shoulders in time to the ‘music.’

“Dinnertime.” He grunts to himself. “Hopefully she’ll eat something this time. How long is it before humans perish from not eating?”

Like he actually cares. Fortunately, I have some handy stored energy and can stand to lose some weight, although my stomach growls again. I press my hand against it, as if that’ll help. Shit.

He doesn’t seem to hear. Resting his back against the cool wall, he grins at his sweaty face in the mirror. “Samara will be extremely pleased with me.”

Samara, the ruler or what they call ‘Prif’ of Oloria. What does she want with me?

The panel below me groans as long as my stomach, and with a heart-stopping lurch, it gives. Gravity grabs me, the world tilting, lights streaking past, then I jerk to a stop, breath punching out of me in a startled gasp.

My see-through robes snag on the edge of the panel with a protesting rip of fabric, the material stretching but holding.

I dangle there, suspended and swaying, heart hammering so loud I swear it echoes off the curved walls.

My boots flail uselessly in the air as I clutch at the fabric bunched under my arms.

Fantastic.

Arture sank into a half crouch like he was about to fight. He slowly stands, mechanical arm catching the light as he straightens to his full height, eye level with me. His gaze flicks over my predicament, assessing, unhurried.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up.

Fuck.