Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

Slithering feet crawled through the adjoined corridor, followed by hissing and the waft of blood. I waited.

Heart-pounding moments later, the unlit tunnel drifted to silence. I forced my feet to move.

Sconces illuminated the end and framed the double doors to the hall. I slipped out of the corridor and remained in the shadows. A large swinging door loomed ahead. The kitchen.

Big breath. Then I ran.

A buzz spiked through me. A clammy arm slammed into my throat. My face skidded along the rock wall.

I pawed at my neck, gripped the pincer that held me. Back, back, back I shoved from my spine.

A mandible yawned next to my face. The spear telescoped out. A drip glistened on the point.

Your blood’s not only poisonous to the aphids but exponentially more potent.

No time like the present to put Michio’s hunch to the test. I caught the spear and squeezed the razor edge. Pain streaked up my arm. Wet warmth poured over my fingers. I let go.

The tube receded, stained with my blood. Pressure eased from my neck and the claw dropped. Fumes of burnt hair assaulted my nose. Then the violent release of flesh and blood sprayed the floor, the walls, my face.

I plodded through the sludge and banged the kitchen door open with my shoulder.

Two pairs of wide human eyes looked up from bubbling pots and locked on my bleeding hand.

“English? Do you speak English?”

A pan dropped, scattering fish heads across the floor. A man with wild hair and lanky limbs crumpled like a marionette and canopied his head under trembling arms.

The second man’s neck sank into his shoulders, a surprising feat given the rotund folds engulfing it.

“Knives? Pokers?” I made a jabbing motion.

Their eyes bugged, and their mouths sucked air. Useless.

I jogged through the room. Copper pans and ceramic plates cluttered the stainless counters. Nothing sharp or dangerous.

My foot slipped on fishy parts. “How’d you cut the damn heads off?” I gestured to the eyeless faces on the floor.

The fat man stabbed a shaky finger at the rack above the next counter. Torchlight flickered on a half dozen steel blades dangling from the ceiling. Jackpot.

I leapt onto the counter and rolled the knives into a nearby towel. “The doctor? Have you seen him?”

The marionette on the floor curled farther into a ball. The fat one blinked. It was possible one of these asses was missing a tongue.

I yanked up my sleeve and pointed at my stitches. “Doctor?”

Layers of chin rolls shook side to side. His belly jiggled with his backward shuffle into the counter.

Jesus, fuck. Knife in hand, I tied the rolled spares at my waist with the sash on my robe. Then I touched the door and put out feelers. Hunger pushed back. Enough for a single aphid. Close. The other side of the door?

Fffffound rattled through me.

I leaned into my back foot and kicked out with the other. The door crashed into a blur of swinging green limbs. The aphid’s back smacked the floor. Double-jointed legs buckled under it. I jumped on its chest and raised the knife.

“Found what?”

An accented purr rolled down my backbone. Your doctor.

I buried the blade in the creamy white orb.

Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more

Henry V Act 3, Scene 1

William Shakespeare

I planted my feet shoulder width apart on the kitchen floor and packed my voice with authority. “Take off your clothes.”

Creases deepened around the fat chef’s puffy eyes.

God knew what was happening to Michio at that moment. Every second counted. But I wouldn’t go after him without a plan. “Understand anything I’m saying?”

His jowls trembled. Sausage fingers clutched the counter behind him.

“Fine. Watch.” I untied the knives and removed my robe. “Now you.” I pointed a blade at him. “Quickly.”

He fingered the collar of his shirt. I gave him a long nod.

The marionette man scrambled under the counter. I grabbed his bony ankle and pulled him back. Unidentifiable words spewed from his chattering jaws as his hand shook through the sign of the cross.

I ripped open his shirt. Spit sprayed my face and dribble clung to his unshaven chin.

My blade bit his neck. “Clothes off. Now.”

He touched the nick and screamed at the smear of blood on his hand. I returned the knife to his neck. He jerked back and stripped off his clothes.

The fat chef’s pants smacked the floor. A white swath of material peeked from beneath the bulge of his hanging gut. He slipped his thumbs under the remaining waistband.

“No, no,” I shouted. “That’s enough.”

I yanked off my chemise and ripped it into strips to tie across my chest and waist. Red tinged the fat one’s cheeks, but he didn’t utter a word.

Then we shuffled as one to the door. I should’ve felt guilty ushering them at knife point wearing only their underwear, but Michio was my priority and I needed their Yang. With the quivering man hooked to my side and my chest and the knife pressed to the back of the fat chef, I sucked in my fuel and filled my nose with fish and sweat.