Friends. Lovers.

We had the chance to be, Together forever under the Alayeahian Sea.

As if to prove there was no avoiding an invasion of her mind, Dervinias started humming the chorus along with her thoughts. Ugh. He deserved a thorough beating. But her whole body hurt. She rested her head against the seat and listened.

His sang in a deep baritone. After a few times through, he said, "It's been so long since I've heard that song. Thanks, Venus."

He made it difficult for Venus to stay mad.

Zaren reached over and grabbed her hand. Grateful for his comfort, she squeezed; pleased he knew exactly what she needed. "You're welcome, Dervinias."

They continued home in silence.

Venus said her goodnights to Zaren and Dervinias on the way in the house. She wanted to be alone. It took every effort not to drop into bed and sleep, grubby clothes and everything, but the idea of dirtying the pretty white comforter drove her into the shower.

Before she went to sleep, she stretched her mind to reach Cheverly, placing loving ideas about Michael into her head. Cheverly had quite the dreams, too. It made Venus's job all the easier. After Chev, she entered Michael's mind-well tried. There wasn't anything to enter. Clearly, he hadn't gone to bed yet. Venus waited for a while, but fell asleep.

When she realized she was on the fringes of his mind, she searched through his dreams as well as his memories. The visions she encountered terrified her while simultaneously breaking her heart.

No!

33. Human Nature.

Around ten, Michael and Cheverly decided to call it a night. They'd already returned their horses to the barn and Venus, Zaren and Dervinias had gone. It made it easier for Michael to focus on Chev. She walked him to Red, his hand in hers.

"Can you forgive me, Michael?" she asked tenderly.

He loved her upturned nose. The way her glistening lips called to him in the moonlight. Her dancing eyes surrounded by curly lashes. She looked incredible. It wasn't even hard to bend and brush his lips against hers. They tasted of toasted marshmallow and hot chocolate.

She smiled into his lips. "Is that a yes?"

In response, Michael kissed her harder, clutching her shoulders. He made every effort to block out images of Venus. Their almost kiss, the feel of her body against his. The strange, scary, weird pictures that'd entered his mind when their lips touched. He resisted a shudder at the memory of Venus on the ground heaving blood this afternoon.

What's the matter with her? Who is she?

Shaking off the questions, he worked harder to focus on Chev. She'd reached her hands under his shirt, and her hands wandered. The girl knew how to arouse him. Despite that, he gently pushed her away and searched her face for answers she wouldn't possess.

"Oh, Michael, I love you." She touched his face. Brushed away some hair that'd fallen into his eyes.

Michael watched the words leave her mouth, heard the lilt of longing. Her eyes sought a.s.surance, and her body language begged a response.

Why not?

"I love you, too, Chev." His voice hadn't cracked. The words didn't come out weird. He'd sounded sincere. Michael did . . . love her, care for her. She was kind and gorgeous, a perfect combination.

Tears filled her eyes. One ran down a cheek.

He caught it, wiped it away. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Very okay." She hugged him, pressing her face into his chest. Michael hugged her back, knowing he should feel happier. Feel more. Instead, he felt anxiety, like he'd swallowed a large rock.

Michael didn't think it had anything to do with Chev. He kissed the top of her head. The smell of her shampoo-jasmine-filled his nose. No, he didn't think so. Wherever their relationship led them, Michael believed she loved him.

Is that what you want?

"Michael?"

"I should go. Do you want to get together tomorrow?" He opened the door, climbed in.

"Yeah?"

A question hung on her lips, but the boulder in his stomach seemed to be growing. He had to go. Now.

"I'll call you. Promise." Michael started the car, closed the door and left. The closer he got to home, the larger the stone became. Something was wrong.

34. Sharp Dressed Man.

When he turned off Red and closed the garage, he noticed the clock on the wall next to the door. 12:06 A.M. The door from the garage to the kitchen gaped, ajar. When he pushed it open further, a pungent smell a.s.saulted him.

Sharp. Combined with the citrus scent of their cleaning supplies, he couldn't place it. From the street, it'd looked like every light in the house was on, which was maybe why he glanced at the clock. Mother preferred to keep the house dark. It had to do with her depression and her constant belief that life wasn't fair.

Those were reasons she'd given him before. But, he'd always figured it made the evil she flung at him seem less real. So his coming home and seeing the complete opposite gave him pause, made Michael worry. He didn't know what to expect: A drunken rampage or worse.

One way to find out.

"Mother?"

Typically, when she stayed up late, she either watched TV in the den or her bedroom. Michael checked the den first. The television blared some late-night talk show. A couple of the cushions on the couch were scrunched, like they'd been used, but she wasn't there. With the remote, he switched off the TV. Then he went into her bedroom. An empty gla.s.s sat on the nightstand. Next to that, a bottle of wine, opened and half full. Normal. At least twenty squished cigarette b.u.t.ts lay in a gla.s.s ashtray. The burgundy comforter and sheets on her bed were pulled back.

"Mother," he called again. No answer. He switched off the bathroom light after checking it. His letterman's jacket, with the hole in the shoulder, had been moved. Where'd she put it? In his closet? He had no idea with her. It could've been thrown in the trash. As he moved toward the living room, the rock in his stomach nearly sent him to his knees. The stench became stronger. He had to check it before heading upstairs.

When he entered, it was as if his mind went on pause. He forgot how to think, how to do anything but stand there, frozen. For how long, he had no clue. He knew the images that flooded his mind would haunt him forever.

Blood. Death.

Everywhere.

The odor burned. A physical a.s.sault from every angle beat his senses. Large blotches of blood stained the walls, with streaks running toward the floor, like they were racing to see who got down first. Blood had been flung all over the furniture, the closed curtains, and the carpet. It covered the lampshades, too, giving the room an eerie red glow.

"Mom," he yelled. She lay on the floor in front of their wood coffee table, hands tied at the wrists. Michael ran and fell to his knees at her side.

Disgusted. Horrified. Terrified.

Bile rose into his throat. He stood, ran to a corner and puked. When he finished, Michael realized he'd touched a wall to hold himself steady. More blood. His mom's blood, covered his hand.

"No. No. No," he cried, wiping it on his pants and rushing back to her.

She'd been laid on her back, eyes wide open. Terror plastered on her face. Her lips were cracked, dry blood crusted over them. Her skin looked odd in color, a grayish-black, but that may have been because of the light shining through the bloodied lampshades. Each cheek and her forehead had strange cuts in them. Her sweatshirt had been sliced opened and her stomach had a large carving in it too. It reminded him of a weird shaped eye. Blood had pooled into the center of the carving, creating a red pupil. As though whoever had done this tried to cut art into her body. A huge black-handled knife protruded above her left breast.

Her sweatpants had been sliced away as well and there were carvings in her thighs. The murderer had hacked off her legs below the knee. Rage as he'd never known coursed through his veins, filling him. Michael searched the room, but couldn't find the missing limbs.

"Who would do this?" he yelled, his body shaking. 9-1-1. He needed to call the police. An ambulance. He stood, looking around for the phone. It wasn't in its cradle. There was another in the kitchen. He left the room and rounded the corner.

Someone grabbed Michael around the neck with one arm and placed a hand over his mouth. They were wearing black gloves. The smell of oiled leather seared his nose. He tried to wrestle free. Being a big guy, a football player, he figured he'd be strong enough, but whoever it was knew what they were doing.

"Michael. It's me, your father. Stop. We need to talk."

Michael hadn't heard from his father since he was seven. He'd been glad to see him go. Hadn't cared if he ever saw Frank again. His mother had trashed every picture of his dad. Good riddance. He'd kill Frank if he'd done this to her. She hadn't been Michael's favorite person, but she was all he had.

The voice at his ear sounded familiar. Michael figured it probably was his dad, but he needed to see his face. And he needed answers. That meant he needed to hear the jerk out. Michael stopped struggling.

"Okay." It came out a mumble.

"Are you going to stay calm?"

He grunted a yes.

The hand came off his mouth and the arm around his neck disappeared. Michael spun around, determined to see what sort of man his father had become.

Frank wore a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt and a black tie. His hair had been clipped short. His skin tan, excessively tan. He recalled streaks of gray in his father's hair. Now, there wasn't a single gray strand.

Probably dyed. Lame. Michael couldn't help snorting.

"What?" Frank asked.

His father's clear brown eyes didn't seem a bit surprised by Michael's appearance. Even though he'd grown probably three feet since he'd left.

"Nothin," Michael said. His body still shook. From shock, he guessed. His mother's frightened eyes and those marks all over her body kept flipping like photographs through his mind. His stomach churned, bile rose into his throat again.

Frank waited, the picture of patience.

Jerk.

"What happened to Mom? Who did that to her? Why are you here?" Michael placed his hands on the kitchen counter. He needed to steady himself. The lights suddenly seemed too bright. His head throbbed. "We should call the cops." He heard the words leave his mouth, but they didn't sound like they were his. Grabbing a barstool, he pulled it out and sat, resting his head in his hands.

"Michael-son, it's okay. I am the cops, the good guys . . ."

"What? No you aren't. Mom told me what you did. A computer a.n.a.lyst. Besides where's your uniform?" The last question had come out sounding childish, he knew, but it took everything he had not to run from the kitchen and cry uncontrollably.

"I had to keep it a secret. Your mom never knew the truth." He patted Michael's back.

Michael wanted to punch him.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Michael spat, furious.

"Look, Michael. I get that you have many reasons to be upset with me. I'm sure I deserve it, too. In fact I know I do. But now's not the time."

"What are you going to do?" Michael asked, quietly, keeping his eyes on the counter. If he moved, no doubt he'd puke again.

"We're going to handle everything. Our unit is different than regular cops. Special. I belong to a government group called, A.L.T. And what happened to your mom, it's the work of a certain type-"

"The government? Seriously, you expect me to believe that not only are you a cop, but a government-type cop. What are you? Like FBI?" Michael shook his head, which caused him to become even more nauseated. "Why should I believe anything you say?" He finally looked at Frank, glared actually. If he were honest, he'd have to admit Frank did sort of look FBI-ish. The suit. His hair. The way he was acting-too calm. He decided he didn't care. If Frank would help find his mother's killer, he'd deal.

For now . . .

Michael realized there were sounds coming from the other room. Low voices. Other people were in the house. "What's going on?" He bolted from his chair and ran back into the living room.

"Michael, wait."

He heard his father following. Frank grabbed his arm as he reached the entry to the living room. Two people in white were leaning over his mother, inspecting her. One had a syringe and a slide like he'd used in chemistry cla.s.s earlier in the year.

"Get away from her." Michael made a move toward her, but his father grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. "Stop. Make them stop," he yelled. The thought of them doing tests on her, treating her like a lab rat, infuriated him. What did they think happened to her?

"Like I said, we need to talk." Frank half pushed, half dragged Michael back into the kitchen.

Michael breathed heavily, trying not to cry, but seeing her that way, so small and broken. And all the blood, he couldn't help it. Then the smell-a combination of copper, the effing citrus from the cleaning products, and . . . death. It was too much.

"Why'd this happen?" He closed his eyes and pressed both palms into them, rubbing. They stung with unshed tears. And his mother's carved and bloodied body seemed tattooed to the insides of his eyelids.

"Michael, you're old enough to understand what I'm about to tell you. He clapped him on the back. Ready?"

Michael nodded.

"Our agency has been tracking . . . life forms that don't originate from our planet." He stood next to Michael, his presence overwhelming. Calmly, he continued, "The A.L.T. agency was created in the eighteen hundreds. The government believes extraterrestrial life exists. h.e.l.l, the whole world does. Our species have been curious about what else is out there for-well, forever."

Michael's head thumped in pain. Was Frank going to give a history lesson right now?

Frank continued, "They discovered the first real evidence fifty years ago. In the last nine, we've known for a fact . . ."

He paused and Michael took his hands from his face. He wanted to see Frank's eyes. Instinctively, Michael knew Frank wasn't lying, wasn't kidding around. The truth of it sank deep in his bones. But if Frank was going to say it, the word alien, he had to watch the words leave his mouth. See Frank's lips move to be sure he heard him.

"Say it." Michael waited, desperate to go back to . . .

And then events of the past few days. .h.i.t him. The girl, Venus. The way she'd made him feel. The color of her blood. What she'd said to his mother. Words like, *where I'm from' and *wish you were dead' filtered through his brain, like the drip, drip of leftover coffee. At each memory, his face shifted, twisted in agony.

"You tell me, Michael." His eyebrows scrunched together making the skin between them ripple, like an old pug.

"No, go on. Finish what you were going to say." Michael forced himself to concentrate on Frank's eyes instead of the wrinkled protrusion.

Frank sat in a barstool next to Michael. "You know what I'm going to say. I can see it on your face. But-" he paused, perhaps gauging how Michael would respond. "Aliens are here on our planet. And you know how the movies portray them as enormous monsters or little green men with big, black eyes?" He'd used his hands to help describe them. All Michael saw were flailing fingers.