Chapter 1

“You should come,” Greg said, grinning widely. He wore a light-pink oxford shirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. Jenny’s secret-recipe barbecue sauce dotted his shirt and lined his fingernails. He had a bit of barbecue sauce on his cheek as well, and bits of grayish meat stuck in his teeth. I wanted to suggest floss, but from the yellow tint to his teeth, I had the feeling that he wasn’t much of a flosser. “We’re going next weekend. We’re supposed to get a lot of rain on Thursday.”

“Oh?” I asked vaguely. I caught a woman staring at me from across the yard. She was a stranger, weird for a small town. But then, Jenny’s crowd was a wide demographic. I frowned at her, and she smiled at me, like she knew me. She’s probably drunk, I thought. Uncomfortable, I looked up at the sky, and noticed that the sun began to get that late afternoon slant. I sighed deeply. Part of what Jenny called my “Cinderella Syndrome.” I rarely stayed at any party for more than three hours. I’d had enough of being around people, and one person in particular. It wasn’t yet dark out, but Jenny had already turned on the chili pepper lights that had been strung across the blue-painted ceiling of her porch. I was in desperate need of a few hours of R&R, involving a book and a nice, fluffy bubble bath.

“It’s a lot of fun,” Greg said, his eyes wide. I looked back toward the woman to find her gone. I returned my focus toward Greg. He was waxing poetic on his favorite pastime. I’d known him since high school. He had a pattern—when at a party, he made the rounds of every girl who found herself alone. He’d slowly try to work his way in to make his move. I had the distinct luck of talking to him at least once. I was surprised that he still thought it a possibility after so much time.

“And you call it ‘mudding?”” I asked, frowning and crossing my arms over my chest. I’d heard of it, being a small-town inhabitant… but I certainly wasn’t going to partake.

“Naw,” he replied, running his hand through his straw-like blond hair. “Muddin’. You drink a few brewskis and then drive your truck through mud puddles, big ones, like.” I looked at him skeptically. I had just spent over an hour listening to the finer points of his muddin’ adventures, where he and his buddies would drive their trucks through puddles of mud with a blood alcohol level decidedly over the legal limit. Lacking much of a death wish, it had very much convinced me that it was definitely not my thing.

“So, you drink and then drive your truck through the mud.” More statement than actual question. I comprehended what he was talking about. I couldn’t understand why the activity that he seemed so excited about was a thing.

“Yeah,” he said exuberantly, interpreting my words as a question. I nodded, looking at the ground. I cleared my throat.

“Well, um, I have to find Jenny,” I said. He nodded.

“Okay. I’ll catch you later, Shay,” he replied. “Let me know if you want to come with.”

“For sure,” I said, turning.

“Do you have my number?” he called hopefully. I waved my hand over my shoulder, quickly forcing my way through the mass of sweaty, beer-quaffing bodies. I looked about me for Jenny’s shock of Harley Quinn-esque platinum blonde hair.

I made my way through the crowd, looking for Jenny. I found her by the corner of the backyard, lighting one of the strategically placed tiki torches that lined her fenced-in backyard. I had wanted to be gone long before this. Damn Greg and his stupid muddin’. I glanced behind me, hoping that I hadn’t been followed and could thus make my exit speedily.

“Hey, lady,” I said, standing beside her and watching as the flame caught. The barbecue at her house was in full swing, the air redolent of grilling meat and chlorine from the pool.

“Hey,” she replied. “You heading out?” I was a notorious introvert, and Jenny had been my friend since middle school. She knew all my quirks, and seemed to appreciate them.

“Yep.”

“All righty,” she said with a firecracker-red lipstick smile. “Night.”

“Night! Thanks for everything!” I said. “The ribs were amazing.”

“Sure thing, boo,” she flicked her bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder as I began to walk away.

“You’re leaving already?” the real reason why I was leaving the party asked. He had a disappointed puppy-dog look in his eyes. “It’s not even seven thirty.” I looked at him, eyes wide.

“I’m tired,” I said bluntly.

“You—you want me to come with?” he asked hopefully. Inwardly, I groaned, cursing whatever men’s self-help blog he read religiously.

“I wouldn’t want you to miss the party,” I said, forcing deep concern into my voice. I was grasping at straws while he was going balls to the wall. Attempting to come up with a way out of the situation, I tugged uncomfortably on the strap of my black-eyelet sundress, then toyed with my favorite necklace—a tiny silver Ouija Board planchette. I ran a hand through my hair, wrecking the soft, beachy waves that I had spent so much time on earlier that day. I was getting flustered and annoyed, and by the look on his face, he thought it was cute.

“Oh, it’s fine,” he said brightly. Cottoning onto what was happening, Jenny came to my rescue. She placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder.

“Dude, if you leave now, you’ll miss my homemade beergaritas,” she said emphatically. Beergaritas are a sickening mixture of frozen limeade, tequila, and cerveza that makes one feel as though there is a gaping hole rotting through one’s stomach lining. “You love my beergaritas.” He seemed to struggle. We both watched as the rusted wheels turned slowly behind his murky brown eyes. He shrugged. Evidently, getting into my black-lace panties wasn’t as important as beergaritas because he shrugged again and turned away from us.

“’Bye, Shay,” he mumbled. With that, he was off to find his next mark. Jenny and I looked at each other. Her eyebrow was raised. We burst into laughter.

“Ah, man,” she said. “There’s a winner. You sure you don’t want to stick around for more of that?”

“Nah,” I said. “Hard sell, though.” I waved and made my escape.

I exited Jenny’s house, making my way to my car, which I had parked out on her street. I checked the time on my phone: seven thirty-five. I had been at the party for four hours—a personal best. I was lightly sunburned, and stuffed to the brim with grilled meats, chips, and beer. I had a bit of a headache coming on. I cursed myself for not drinking any water, but at least I was sober enough to ace a breathalyzer.

When I reached my habanero-orange Volkswagen Beetle, I paused, frowning. I thought that I had heard a crunching sound nearby, as though someone had gently put a foot down on a patch of dirt. I looked up and down the street. All the cars that were parked along it seemed empty. No one walked along the sidewalk. There were a few kids on their bicycles in the front yard of a house about two hundred feet away. Their voices were soft, the chirping of tiny, faraway birds. They were completely focused on their play, but I had the overwhelming sense that I was being watched. I fumbled with my keys nervously as I unlocked my car with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat. I slammed the door shut and pushed the button to lock the doors. I looked around again. Seeing no one, I started my car.

I drove out of town, the neat little streets populated by tiny houses disappearing in favor of farms and fields full of crops or cows. It began to grow very dark, and in front of me, I saw pulsing blue lights. I figured that it must be an accident—lights from a cop car, probably. I slowed a little as I went into a sharp turn, thinking nothing of the lights until I found myself careening right into their source.

I had, in the split second between seeing aliens for the first time, and my car colliding with their ship, thought them beautiful. I mistook them for humans—perhaps ones who had been born with defects that made them inhumanly tall and beautiful. Their ship was enormous, and shaped like a massive, white yacht. It had elaborate, elegant curves, and beautiful pulsing blue lights, almost like a heartbeat. My car hit it, the entire front end folding in on itself, while leaving not a scratch on their ship. Listening to the sound of hissing emitting from my car, I took stock of my injuries before I got out, shakily. I had hit my head, and blood dripped into my eyes. My ribs on the right side were on fire, and my arm hung limply as my wrist pulsed with the heat that indicated a sprain. I was angry because none of them had come to help me.

“What are you doing?” I snapped as I stumbled toward them. “You can’t park your weird Mardi Gras float in the middle of the road!” I had been to New Orleans several times, since it was only an eight-hour drive from my small town in Texas. The never-ending parade orgy atmosphere was the closest approximation to what was going on right now.

They all watched me with their bright, glowing eyes—a group of about five. With my head injury, my memory of that moment wasn’t exactly the clearest. I walked right up to them, pausing and waiting for an explanation. The one nearest to me reached out, grabbing for my throat. His bright eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. I recoiled, finally getting the feeling that these people weren’t who nor what they seemed.

The maniacally fierce look that then flashed across the creature’s face betrayed his foreign nature and turned my perception of life completely sideways. It had hissed, baring sharp, white, almost translucent teeth, similar to that of a deep-sea fish, and his skin luminesced like a pearl, and his green eyes glowed brightly, dangerously. And, he was blue—about the neck, and his arms were set slightly higher on his back than that of a human’s, causing them to have a remarkably straight and elegant posture. I noticed this all in the split second before I took off into the cornfield by the side of the road, running for my life. Luckily, I was a runner—in the best shape of my life. Unfortunately, I was injured from the crash—probably concussed, and they, too, were in excellent shape.

Because it was late summer, the cornstalks rose high above my head as I ran frantically, my heart pounding hard enough that I thought it would punch a hole through my sternum. I could feel my pulse keenly in my forehead, and I reached up and brushed away the blood from my face as I ran. The sun had just set, turning the sky a dusky purple, and it had begun to grow cold, causing goosebumps to break out across my flesh. My sundress stuck to my sweaty legs. The taste of beer was still sour in my throat. I felt my arms and legs scraped by the tough stalks as I ran. I held my aching ribs with one arm, each breath feeling like fire.

At some point during my run, I had kicked off my espadrilles, leaving them behind me somewhere in the field. My feet were bleeding, cut by rocks and other bits of sharp detritus in the soil. The cornfield seemed to go on forever, and part of me hoped that it would; then I would remain hidden. It seemed as though I had been running for hours, but it may have only been a few short minutes. The corn ended abruptly at a wooden fence. I jumped the fence quickly, not thinking about how the wide field of wheatgrass on the other side provided no cover. I just kept running.

I could hear them closing in. They had been getting steadily closer to me. I could hear their soft footfalls as they loped easily after me on their long, lithe, and sinewy legs.

When I was barely ten feet into the field of wheatgrass, I heard a loud, ululating cry behind me. I glanced quickly behind me to find that they were closing in quickly. And I tripped over what felt like a root, falling hard on my hands and knees. I skidded slightly on the ground, skinning both of my knees and my palms. My left wrist throbbed painfully, the heat that accompanied a sprain shooting through it. I got up, scrabbling against the soft grass. I was dirty, and bleeding from various cuts and scrapes. Sweat beaded against my temple as adrenaline coursed through my blood.

I was up and running again when I was pushed down to the ground by what felt like a hand in the center of my back. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. My chin hit the ground roughly. I lay on my face, gasping for air. Relax, I told myself. It’s over.

As my breath returned, I felt two sets of strong hands, lifting me like I weighed nothing. Their skin against my own was cool—as if the temperature of their blood was lower than my own. They communicated with each other in a language that I didn’t recognize. It was smooth, almost melodic. Fear coursed through my body, causing my limbs to go limp, and I was afraid of losing control of my bowels.

“Wh—wh…” I tried to speak, but couldn’t find the air to form the words. I was hyperventilating, and the world began to go black static—the negative of a television screen with no reception. My vision slipped, and faded into darkness as my body fell limp like a ragdoll.