called out to him. Solo was too lost to his rage to understand the actual words. He had to destroy this place. Had to ensure Vika never again suffered at the hands of these monsters. Had to save the others like him.
He plowed into the little ice cream shop, tilting the tin building to its side. The equipment scattered to the floor. Bottles of flavoring spilled, scenting the air with strawberries and vanilla. The fragrance only incensed him further, reminding him of the humans. Of being touched when he hadn’t wanted to be touched. He shredded the building, leaving only confetti, uncaring when jagged shards of tin cut him.
A group of males rushed into the tent to find out what was causing such a commotion. Eight, Solo counted as he straightened, ready for more. Wanting more. They spotted him and ground to a halt. Solo knew his skin had turned red. Knew his bones had enlarged, his ears had extended into sharp little points, his fangs had sprouted, and his claws had lengthened. He was the monster their mothers had probably always warned them about. The one under their bed, or in their closets. The one who would steal their souls.
He leapt into motion and slammed into them, a bowling ball to the pins. They fought against him, but they could not contain him. They tried, oh, they tried, but Solo ripped arms from sockets, ripped spines from beneath their fleshly coverings, bit and clawed and tossed his opponents in every direction—in little bitty pieces.
“Solo,” he heard.
Soft, whispery. Frightened.
He whipped around, panting, nostrils flaring, his big body tense, his claws raised and ready to slash whatever had dared to frighten Vika. Wide plum-colored eyes peered over at him—and he was the target of her fear.
“Vika,” he said, his voice nothing more than a broken scrape.
She was still standing in front of his wheel, her little body quavering, her arms wrapped around her middle. “The others,” she said, and motioned to the otherworlders. “Let’s free them and go.”
She still wished to leave with him.
He would do whatever she asked.
He rushed to Kitten’s wheel. She had been struggling against her bonds, and blood was dripping down her arms. He reached out, yanked, and ripped one of the bars from the wheel, taking a huge hunk of wood with it.
“Watching you work was a real pleasure,” she said. “But you aren’t part of AIR, are you? I’m guessing you’re black ops all the way, baby.”
Silent, he reached for the second bar.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Kitten paled.
“Go,” she said. “Come back for me later. With guns. And Dallas.”
He turned. Four other males and two females had just run into the tent. They stopped to catalogue the carnage, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. One of the females unleashed a blood-curdling scream.
His gaze swung to Vika. She was at Criss’s wheel, tugging ineffectually at one of the bars. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the rest of the otherworlders begged and pleaded with her to hurry.
He had a choice to make. Vika, or all the others. Right now, he couldn’t have both. The knowledge frustrated him, enraged him further, and guilt immediately began to chew on his bones. Because honestly? He didn’t need a moment to think. He already knew what he was going to do: grab Vika and run.
He would come back, though. There was no question about that. He wouldn’t leave these people defenseless for any longer than necessary.
Decided, he rushed to Vika’s side and scooped her up.
“If you want to save anything here,” the Targon called, “I’d return in nine days.”
Why nine days?
“My bag,” Vika gasped out. “Please! I need it.”
The males had finally looked past the pile of dead bodies and the pools of blood and noticed him. Shouts erupted. Solo backtracked, grabbed the bag’s strap, and fit it over his shoulder. The moment the weight settled against him, surprise filled him. Little Vika had carried this thing? On her own? It had to weigh a hundred pounds, at the very least.
Another group of men entered the tent, claiming his attention—and Jecis occupied the center. His stormy gaze locked on Solo, and the skull he always carried with him, the one that moved of its own accord, separate from his own bones, that dark presence, tilted back, stretched open its jaw, and shrieked.
One day, we’ll have our showdown, Solo vowed, and ran in the opposite direction. One day very soon.