Blayze_Talonian Warriors_Sci-Fi Alien Weredragon Romance Page 4

  The director had gone off the deep end. Belle was sure of it. He needed therapy or medical intervention. Worse, he might convince others of his crazy theory, and the weredragons would be targeted for elimination without a trial. The real culprits had to be found, and quickly.

  Where was Blayze? She needed to warn him, and in turn, he needed to warn the other weredragons, both on Earth and in Talonia. Plus, she felt compelled to apologize for running out on him with so little explanation. If he couldn't be found, she'd have to go back to the liaison building and convince the receptionist to let her speak to someone in charge, so they could reach out to the rest of the weredragons all over the world. Thank goodness she had held back from telling the director that Blayze was missing.

  5

  Belle

  Belle's concern over Blayze's disappearance was turning into deep-seated fear. She'd been to his apartment three times a day for weeks. His quirky neighbor was in a panic. She wasn't sleeping at all now, constantly watching for Blayze to return. She swore he hadn't ever failed to come home during his work break. Belle found she was blaming herself. He was hiding from her. That had to be the reason no one had seen him. She'd pushed him too far with her questions, thrown herself at him, and finally run away. She'd sent so many mixed signals that he must have thought her crazy and dangerous.

  The CIA director hadn't let up on his theory. He continued digging into the lives of all the weredragons on Earth, looking for reasons to arrest them. He seemed to suspect them for every crime committed since their arrival, even though actual incidents had lessened in the cities where the weredragons resided. The man had a vendetta that Belle couldn't understand or explain. She fought him when she could and proved him wrong in most cases by solving the crimes and putting the real perpetrators behind bars. Those she couldn't solve, she at least caused enough doubt to keep the weredragons free. She was now the director's choice for enemy number one, but he couldn't fire her since everyone was aware of all the cases she had solved.

  The results of the autopsies were due to be announced today, and she feared they would give her boss the ammunition he needed against the Talonians. If the bodies contained the biological weapon in greater amounts than the human ones, it would appear that they were the source. The director wouldn't take into account the fact that their makeup was different than humans and might absorb the compound at a faster rate.

  Belle was following new leads, ones she hoped would clear the weredragons. She suspected a conspiracy. Someone was framing the aliens. It was obvious to her, but not to many others. She was alone in this fight except for a few rogue agents who were too terrified to speak out against the director. They covertly spied on him and fed her information, often warning her ahead of time about plans he had made to charge one of the Talonians with a crime.

  This morning, their information led Belle to the nastiest part of the city. The streets were filled with trash, rotting food included. Children, covered in grime, who should have been in school, ran barefoot through the filth. Like their older siblings, they snarled and made rude gestures when she stepped out of the public transport. It was sad to see this continue when it was so unnecessary. The world was at peace. All nations worked together. There was an abundance of jobs and food if you were willing to work. Education in all parts of Houston was equal; the law demanded it. Yet, here these children were, shunning the beautiful school building a few blocks away. Well-trained teachers awaited them, practically begging for students.

  The former president had passed a law forcing all parents to send their kids to school, but after his sudden death, when the vice-president had been sworn in to take his place, it had been repealed. The new president had changed a lot of things, having disagreed often with the previous one. He wasn't any help to Belle in this investigation. He hadn't signed the alliance, though he pretended not to be prejudice against the weredragons. He had shaken Maxxus's hand and smiled for the cameras after the Xycon were eradicated, welcomed weredragons into the military, and even visited their workplaces at the request of the former president. But, once he took over the higher office, he shunned them as if they were lesser beings. Publicly, he claimed to be enforcing their equal rights, declaring them to be true citizens of Earth. Privately, he punished no one for paying them less or giving them the worst tasks to carry out. She knew he would be firmly on the side of the director.

  The building she was looking for had broken windows, no locks, and had obviously been used as a drug den. Illegal substances couldn't be stopped; the profits and addictions were too large. Carefully stepping over broken glass and discarded needles, Belle made her way to the staircase. She wasn't going up. Her goal was underground: a tunnel that supposedly held the answer to all her questions. Laser gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, she descended slowly. The steps were narrow but had recently been repaired. New wood gave off a pleasant scent, overcoming that of the trash-filled upper floors. The basement was dark, dingy, and contained old furniture and bedding: compliments of the druggies who called it home. Whoever was using the tunnels didn't use this entrance often, although they must have at one time or the stairs wouldn't have been fixed. There was another entrance somewhere.

  Belle scanned the walls, seeking a hidden door. They all looked the same: old brick and cinderblock from long ago days. Nothing unusual popped out. The floor was next. Littered like all the rest, it appeared undisturbed. She moved the flashlight from left to right, then suddenly swung it back to the left. It took her a moment to understand what had instantly registered in her subconscious. The trash in that corner wasn't as randomly placed as the rest, and it wasn't covered in muck from years of exposure. It was shiny. A stool sat on each side of the corner with the crumpled trash and cigarette butts in between. Scuff marks lay beneath the mess. It was a typical guard's nest. But what was being guarded? Belle stuck the laser into her waistband and used the free hand to feel the walls. She pushed, prodded, and dug her nails into the cracks. Nothing happened. There were no clicks or the sudden sliding of a door.

  Defeated, she sat down on one of the stools. "This is a waste of time," she said out loud to herself. "Kids probably set this spot up. I'm chasing ghosts while the case against the weredragons is gaining speed." Frustrated, Belle kicked at the opposite stool, fully expecting it to fall over. It held fast. Curious, she stood and tried to pick it up. It proved impossible. She cleared the floor around it and saw that it sat on a perfect circle. She grasped the sides and instead of lifting, turned it like a steering wheel. It moved so smoothly, she stumbled backward. Her foot found air where floor should have been. Catching hold of the wall to keep from falling, she turned. The stool she had used as her seat was now four feet farther behind her. In its place, there was a staircase. The walls weren't the door: the floor was.

  Excited by the discovery, Belle began to walk down the steps, ignoring the prickling on her neck. Protocol called for getting backup or at least informing someone of her location. There was no one to reach out to. The only person she trusted was missing. It was Blayze she wanted with her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, double doors swung back and forth. She had seen this type of door in hospitals, separating off-limits sections from public ones. Behind them were usually operating theaters or trauma rooms. A tunnel was definitely not the place for them.

  She drew her laser once more, took a sustaining breath, and burst through the doors. She went in low just in case someone on the other side began shooting. Motion sensors caused the lights to turn on, blinding her for an instant. She automatically sent a stream out from the laser. It made scorch marks on the walls, but no answering blast came.

  Her eyes adjusted and what she saw in front of her was a startling contrast to the space above. Bright, modern lighting showcased a surgical unit. The newest equipment gleamed, proclaiming its sterility. Anything a doctor could possibly want was represented, with the exception of a patient or nurses. It was quiet. Her footsteps echoed as she walked the perimeter.

&nb
sp; Belle traded the flashlight and gun for her COM link. She removed it from her wrist and put it on recording mode. Rooms like this had been known to vanish, and she desired proof that it existed. Opening cabinets and drawers, she found the expected items: gowns, gloves, masks, syringes, etc. The light caught a tiny sparkle in the far back of one small drawer. Something was caught in the corner. She couldn't pry it out with a finger; it was far too small. A syringe with a long slender needle attached was the perfect tool. The object came loose easily. It wasn't much bigger than a speck, so she couldn't tell what it was.

  "There must be a microscope in here somewhere, or something that would magnify this thing." Belle realized she had spoken out loud and checked to see if it had brought an audience. No, she was still alone. Odd looking goggles were laid out on a tray beside the metal slab used for surgery. She lifted them to her eyes and smiled. Of course, the doctor would require a hands-free way of seeing tiny objects or the workings inside a body. She studied the dot on her finger. It reminded her of a microchip, but there were slight differences. She needed a scientific mind to help her figure it out. It was a clue, one she couldn't leave behind, and she doubted the previous occupants had intended to either.

  Digging through the drawers again, she found an empty jar about the size of a nickel. She placed the object inside and slipped it into her pocket.

  Another door led to a hospital bed, but it was more than that. Thick metal bands hung from its right side, five in all. They could be flipped up and over any patient and bolted closed on the opposite side, rendering the poor patient immobile. The size of the bed and the metal bands made it clear that the patients it was meant for were large and extremely strong.

  A headpiece, covered in sensors, remained on the bed. Upon inspection, Belle saw that it held a recording device. She turned it on, but everything on it had been erased. She considered using the COM link to scan for fingerprints. In her heart, she knew it was useless. Nothing incriminating or that told who had built this amazing facility in a dirty tunnel was left behind.

  One door remained. She hoped it was an office. Nope. It was the rest of the original tunnel: dirt floor and wood rafters to keep its users from being buried alive. It was as different from the surgical suite as OZ was to Kansas in the old movie she loved so much. Yet, she had to explore it. The other entrance might give her a clue as to who built it or who the patient had been.

  After ten minutes of walking, with only the flashlight for light, the ground began to slope upward. The tunnel abruptly ended at a set of metal stairs. Reaching the top, Belle pushed through a heavy door that groaned and squealed. She was disappointed to find that her destination was an old subway tunnel, unused for many years. The tunnel door looked like all the others used for maintenance rooms. If she hadn't just come out of it, she wouldn't have any idea which one it was or that there was more behind it. Picking up a loose piece of metal that had broken off the tracks, she scraped it across the door in an X shape. This was her secret treasure, and X marked the spot.

  Turning south, at least she thought it was south, she marked each door she passed with a number. She had marked nine of them before she got to the old station. It stank of mildew and mold. Fresh air and sunlight greeted her outside. It felt like returning from the dead.

  Blayze

  He was moving again. He could feel his body bounce as the vehicle hit bumps. That meant it was an old one with wheels. The bright lights and voice in his head were gone. Were they done with him? Was this the end or the beginning of their plan?

  The vehicle stopped, and he heard the squeak of rusty doors opening. The scent of an ocean breeze reached his nostrils. It reminded him of freedom and friendship. He was dragged out and dropped on the sand. These captors were far less careful than those who had taken him. They were rough and their language foul. Their words had nothing to do with his predicament. They spoke of theft, drugs, and sex. Had he been able to ask questions, they would not have had the answers.

  He was left to stare at the sky, a tear rolling out of his eye as he imagined transforming and taking flight. The clouds rolled by, changing shapes as time passed. The numbness his body had sustained since his capture began to wear off. Pain took its place. His muscles twitched as they came to life. His head pounded and his heart raced. He gagged as bile rose in his parched throat. The urge to move was a powerful force. He expected his body to disobey as it had for a long time. But, it did not. He rolled onto his side and spit out the vile tasting bile.

  Blayze knew he was weak, yet the fact that he was alive and able to move was a miracle to rejoice in. The pain was something he could handle as long as he was free. Night was falling. He got to his knees and crawled toward the wooden pier he saw ahead. Under its shadow, he found a discarded beach towel and a half empty bottle of water. He greedily drank the stale water, almost choking, then wrapped the damp towel around himself. This would be his home for the night. Perhaps he would be stronger when morning came. As his eyes closed, the voice in his head started again. "Your life is mine to command. You owe your loyalty to me. Only I can save you......."

  Blayze pressed his head into the ground trying to stop the repeating mantra. He pounded it with his fist and screamed into the wind. "Please, Belle," he murmured when he was too tired to continue and lost hope. "Find me. Help me. I need you."

  6

  Blayze

  The sunrise over the water helped ease the chill. Blayze stopped shivering, and his teeth ended their chattering. He sat up to watch the golden orb finish rising. It spoke of safety, freedom, and beauty, pushing his misery into a dark corner of his mind. He became aware of the itch all over his body. Sand was in his clothes, hair, and crusted on his tear-streaked face. He had to get up or go mad. The salt from ocean water would not feel much different, but the idea of it was better than remaining like this. He plunged into the waves and relief overcame the pain. The cold water washed away more than the sand. It cleared his head, wiped the scent of antiseptics from his nostrils, and shut the door on his captivity. Wherever he had been, whatever had been done to him, it was over. Seeking revenge or even reporting it to the authorities would only cause more suffering. He simply wanted it to be in the past and forgotten.

  He decided to speak of it once: only to Belle. To do that, he would have to find her, and he did not have a clue where to start looking. His own location was a mystery. Yes, he was at the shore, but which one? Standing there would not help at all, so he began to walk. He chose north because he happened to be facing that way at the moment. As his skin, clothes, and hair dried, becoming stiff with sea salt, and the heat of the day gained power, he considered transforming. Taking flight in dragon form would give him a better perspective of the land and substantially quicken his pace.

  Blayze felt his skin begin to shimmer, preparing for the transformation. Excruciating pain shot through his head. He fell to his knees and grabbed it with both hands, opening his mouth in a silent scream.

  "Hey, mister. Are you okay?" The words of a young boy broke through the agony.

  "Get away from him, son," a gruff voice demanded. "He's probably coming down off some drug, and you could be hurt."

  "He needs help, dad. Call the medics or something."

  "I will be fine," Blayze murmured, raising his eyes to the child. "I just want to go home. Where am I? Which beach?"

  "This is Surfside. Where do you live?" the boy asked.

  "Houston," Blayze replied.

  "Catch a public transport, buddy. There's a stand down the beach about a quarter mile," the dad stated, tossing a money card at his feet. "There's enough left on that to get you to Houston. Get some professional help and stay off the beach when you're doped up."

  "I am not doped up, and thank you for your help," Blayze answered.

  "Whatever. Keep lying to yourself. It won't help. Let's go, son."

  Blayze saw lots of faces turned his way. As he had wandered down the beach, he had not taken notice of the humans arriving to play in the surf and sun
. It was fortunate that he had been unable to transform. It was not against any law to do so in public, but it was frowned upon. Perhaps his brain had been aware of the people's presence on a subconscious level and sent the pain to stop him from changing. What other explanation could there be?

  He hated the stares that followed him all the way to the transportation center. He could feel the discomfort and disdain emanating off the crowd, who most likely thought he was a homeless drug addict as the other man had. For someone who prided themselves on working hard and dressing well, it was a hard blow, even worse on a weredragon that came from a world that had no problems of that nature.

  Blayze chose to ride in a unit that held a single person rather than share with a group. He was not fit company, and he knew it. The ride would cost more than was on the card the man had generously handed over, but it did not matter. His handprint was all that was needed to access payment for the ride. The requested amount was immediately transferred from his account without a signature.

  Blayze made it to his apartment without incident. His heavy footsteps alerted his neighbor, and out she popped, ready to gossip.

  "Blayze, I thought you were never coming home. Did you get stuck on the rig for an extra month? You look terrible! Some CIA lady keeps showing up looking for you. Why couldn't she find you if you were pulling a double on the rig? She must not be very good at her job. Don't scare me like that again. Call or something. You want your mail?"

  The cheerful chatterbox usually made him smile, but today it made him agitated, almost to the point of anger. He told himself he was just tired and confused, yet it did not seem like the correct conclusion. He had enough control not to shout or say something that would kill their friendship. Instead, he held up his hand to signal her to stop speaking. Shaking his head he grumbled, "Not now," and left her standing speechless in the hallway.