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CHAPTERONE
MAGGIE
Aputrid smell that reminded Maggie of decaying rats yanked her from the crazy dream where she’d been chasing a blue male with horns. She’d been naked, and the male… No. She refused to acknowledge she’d dreamt about Zirkov again. Especially with that horrid smell aggravating her pounding head.
And what the hell happened to her soft mattress? The bedding beneath her had more lumps than her mother’s mashed potatoes. Fuck, had she gotten drunk on a date and slept with a guy?
No. No one held her interest, except Zirkov, and he avoided her as much as possible. One of these days, she’d figure out how to get his attention. Until then, she needed a shower. And something to stop the pounding in her head.
Need coffee. Now. World’s worst hangover.
Especially since I don’t drink.
With a deep breath, she pushed up on her arms and nearly threw up. If she didn’t open a window and air the place out soon, she’d have a mess to clean up. Through sheer will alone, Maggie pried one eye open.
And nearly screamed. She wasn’t resting on a lumpy mattress, but a man. A man she didn’t remember going to bed with.
“Who are you?” she asked the male with… four arms.
An og’dal. WTF?
His glazed-over eyes stared up at the ceiling, never blinking, never closing.
Dead.
Stunned, Maggie jerked back and tumbled off the body. Her knees hit the ground beside the body. She wasn’t in her bed or anywhere she recognized. The og’dal lay on a cement floor, with piles of old machinery dumped nearby.
What the hell was going on?
Maggie scanned her surroundings. Pre-dawn light wove through broken windows above rusted-out catwalks that crossed the length of the abandoned warehouse. The style of the warehouse signified Earth, but that still left a lot of territory. No noise from the outside penetrated the metal walls. That meant the warehouse was in an isolated area, not near any bus lines or construction.
Her car had to be nearby. Unless she took the bus. Or someone had kidnapped her.
A sense of dread filled her as her eyes drifted down to her hands. In her right hand, she held a three-inch throwing blade. She usually carried a double-edged knife in her boot, but never throwing blades. Maggie reached for her Glock, relief filling her when she found it holstered at her hip. No kidnapper would let her keep her gun. That meant she’d come here willingly. When? How? And who was the dead alien?
The last memory she had was of slipping into bed and going to sleep. Alone.
As her senses slowly woke to her surroundings, Maggie realized something soaked the knees of her pants. She swiped the liquid with her finger and smelled it. Blood. From the huge gash in the alien’s neck.
Maggie stared at the blade in her hand. The optics of her situation looked worse every minute.
She had met an og’dal… willingly. With few exceptions, og’dals didn’t have permission to be on Earth. Yet, she’d met with one in an isolated location. Now he was dead, and she held the murder weapon.
The kill could be justified, except she hadn’t drawn her Glock. She trusted him, apparently.
Who the hell was this guy? Why couldn’t she remember any details, including why she’d met an og’dal in an isolated area without backup?
Getting to her feet, she cursed not having a comm. The Department of Alien Affairs didn’t issue comms to agents in what they deemed low-risk positions. Like liaison officer to GI7.
“Okay, Maggie-girl. Need to think,” she whispered to herself out loud, so she wouldn’t feel so alone and vulnerable. She hadn’t worked a case by herself in years. Ever since she began working alongside GI7, she’d had partners, people she trusted to watch her back.
Assess. Prioritize. Strategize.That’s what Zirkov always reminded his marshals. To her, well, he’d ignore her. But she was a marshal the same as Zirkov, Konnitch, and Ri’Nom—another og’dal. One of the few good ones.
Maggie checked herself over for any sign of injury. Aside from a splitting headache, a rumbling stomach, and a parched throat, she was fine. She wore her usual black slacks, utility boots, and a white tank top beneath a black blazer.
She fingered her gun, still holstered beneath her left arm, wondering why she hadn’t drawn her gun given the situation. Had she seen a body on the floor, shewouldhave drawn her gun.
She had no reason to kill this male, except in self-defense. And yet she didn’t have any cuts, scrapes, bruises, or other evidence of having fought him. Her clothing looked crisp and clean, except for the blood-soaked pants.
