CHAPTER
ONE
Every damn timethe lightning flashes through the green sky and cracks this world apart, I wince. On the inside obviously. Not a chance in hell that I’ll let any of these fuckers see even a hint of weakness.
Being a “fragile” human got old fast the day I got dumped unceremoniously into this world. It’s why it’s been my mission to toughen the hell up. I barely hold back my snort, thinking my dick-for-brains “uncle,” a.k.a. my mum’s latest loser bogan boyfriend before I was purged from Earth, would be proud.
I’d put up with over a year of being called every homophobic slur under the sun, complete with all the “effeminate” bastardisations he could come up with. If only back then I had the skills I have now. Not a chance the piss-poor excuse for a man would utter a word if he saw me on the training mat, let alone got up close and personal with the newly formed muscles I hadn’t thought I’d been capable of developing.
I suppose that was the thing with being vulnerable and legit the weakest species in this dimension. I’d quickly figured out it was a kill-or-be-killed world. Or at least, toughen up and survive—no matter what it takes. Day five of being here all those months or years (fuck if I know how many exactly) ago, I’d lost count ofthe number of times I’d almost been eaten or murdered, and all it took was a chance run-in with Varek for me to know I didn’t want to die.
And yes, by “chance run-in,” I absolutely mean the Riftborn Rebels’ group leader took pity on me and saved my arse. I’d been wedged behind a rock, trying to escape an eyeless monster I’d since discovered was anullmaw.
As it turns out, those little suckers might be blind as a bat, but it’s as easy for them to scent out a quivering human as it is for me to head into Woolworths—a big-arse supermarket in Australia (that’s assuming they’re still in business)—and buy myself a cooked chicken on my way from work.
Fuck, now I want roast chicken. I wouldn’t even mind chasing after one and plucking the damn thing myself. Ask anyone: Chasing food, hunting, preparing, cooking—it’s most definitely not in my skill set. But I suppose the point is moot since Terrafeara is a dimension without our tasty feathered friends. Which means, once again, I’ll be stuck eating whatever Decca and Molsi have cooked up for us.
“You beautiful bag of dicks, what’s cooking?” I greet as I enter Dathanor’s mess hall. Okay, when I say “mess hall,” think less “insert whatever popular Hollywood Army movie here” and more Dungeons & Dragons had a baby withInsterstar Trek,or whatever it’s called. Listen, I hated sci-fi and especially monster-slash-horror movies when on Earth. I’m just impressed that I know what Dungeons & Dragons is—courtesy of a deliciously geeky ex–fuck buddy of mine.
But back to the hub of Dathanor. It’s a second-floor cave—above ground level—and the only one that has good airflow out the back for fire pits. But the bioluminescent green-and-blue veins here do also channel some sort of energy that can be used to cool as well as heat. Or so I’ve been told. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past either Decca or Molsi to have made that shit up.
Decca flips me off with all four of her middle fingers—something I take great pride in having taught her. And just to be clear, yes, she does have four hands. And arms. Molsi, though, they arch their super-pointed monobrow at me—again, something I taught them to do—before they scrunch their nose, saying in perfect English (they even manage a touch of exasperated affection), “Sonny, I’m not sure ‘a bag of dicks’ can be used as a term of endearment.”
“No?” I step close to the large plank used as a countertop here—a barrier between the Riftborn and Decca’s sharp knives she’s threatened me with more than once. “I beg to differ. If someone handed me a bag of dicks right now, I’d be pretty fucking set for the night.”
Molsi’s scrunched nose remains in place. “A bag of severed dicks would give you… joy?”
The fuck?
I backtrack quickly. “Fuck no, Molsi. Bloody hell. Who said anything aboutsevereddicks?” My already-soft cock shrivels in my pants. “I was thinking more like dildoes. Vibrators, you know?” I slam my mouth shut, because of course Molsi doesn’t know what a vibrator is.
Like 99-point-whatever percent of the population here in our rebel hideout, Molsi is not human. Nor is Decca or the majority of individuals I feel like I have something in common with. Or at least who I can shoot the shit with.
At the moment, there are a staggering six humans, including myself—though I did hear that another two have joined us. I have exactly zero more details than that since they pretty much left again as soon as they arrived. At some point this morning, the newcomers joined Shanae—a badass Southern woman who, quite honestly, I could fall in love with if I wasn’t, you know, gay and if her mate wouldn’t eat me if I looked at Shanae wrong—on some sort of mission. No doubt because of that massive lightning rift that had me wincing earlier.
And the other four humans… unsurprisingly, they’re wrapped up in their mates, stuck like glue to their bonded. And if I sound petulant, that’s because fuck yes, I am. Being the exception to every damn rule is not my idea of a good time.
Varek has this theory that all humans who’ve crossed the rift into Terrafeara have a destined mate just waiting to be discovered and bonded to. Everyone except me that is. And it’s not even like it’s down to a waiting game. Every other human here—and other humans who Varek, Shanae, and literally every creature and species here have come across—have met their fated within a week of the rift.
So that either means my mum’s scumbag boyfriend was right (that I’m a cunt, destined to be alone) or my fated mate is dead. Okay, so there is, I suppose, the very real possibility that I’ve already met them, and when they realised who they were going to be tied to, they ran as fast and as far as their furry, maybe even clawed feet could take them. Which, I think, technically, would lead me back to the first explanation.
But also, fuck all that.
Or at least, back to me fucking a bag of dildoes. Now, wouldn’t that be something special? But it’s best I keep these thoughts to myself, especially if I want something decent to eat that’s not going to turn my hair orange (a story for another time—never). Plus, if anyone knows anything about the newcomers and why they went off with Shanae and her crew, then Decca or Molsi does.
They hear and see everything. Well, they seem to get all the good gossip at least. And since my duties here are pretty basic and I still haven’t got to swing a sword or pummel a monstrous beastie or even anyone from the royal guard who are enemy number one—not for lack of trying, I will pointedly add—I haveenough time on my hands to hear all the juicy goodness usually before anyone else.
“Let’s go back to ‘what’s cooking,’ both in that pot over there and where Shanae’s headed off to.” I flutter my eyelashes, which, to be honest, rarely works with most folks, but Decca loves that shit. Not having eyelashes or brows herself makes her think my fluttering is sweet, so obviously I use it to my advantage.
Decca lets out a snort and stirs the bubbling pot with one of her many hands while another tosses a handful of something red and wriggling into a sizzling pan.
“Tonight, we’re having a lovely stew of krigworm and arlak root,” she announces. “Nice and thick. Should keep your human belly full for a few hours.”
Molsi adds, “And fried silkstalks. Don’t worry, we drained the venom first.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan. “Just what every growing boy needs: protein, starch, and the ever-looming possibility of food poisoning.”
Decca cackles as she stirs, the thick brownish-green sludge in the pot making a noise that I refuse to describe. My stomach is already on thin ice.
