The Alien's Match (Le'vris Dragons Book 2)

TWO

MYRA

I shouldn't be outside, because once the sun dips, the streets become dark, literally and figuratively.

The embassy is miles away. It will take ages to arrive, especially since Winter got a head start.

I reach the small bridge that connects this part of town to the embassy. Four gangsters block it off. They're charging for passage across. This is illegal, but the city can't afford to distribute police to keep these guys in check.

I pat my back pocket. It's practically empty, just like my lungs. I pull my sweater tighter to my chest and get in line. Coins clank, and sighs weave from the chests of unwilling customers. When it's my turn, I purse my lips and stare at the gangster before me. He's young. There's smudged blood and dirt on his jaw, and his cheeks are healthy from all the food he can afford.

"Thirty cents." He extends his hand. It smells like metal—like greed.

"I don't have anything. Would you take my shoes?"

He looks at my sandals, which sport a few holes. "Listen, bitch. The only payment we'd take from you is pussy or thirty cents. Which will it be?"

I lower my face.

"Get off the line." He takes my bicep, and I latch onto his wrist.

"Morphine," I whisper.

He stills.

As I hopped from jobs and mingled in the city's heart, I learned that morphine is the best currency. It's the only investment that I saved for a rainy day. I need it now, since today became a storm.

"I'll drop some morphine here tomorrow afternoon. Let me through, and I'll return with the payment." I dig into my pocket and pull out my identification card. "If I don't deliver, you can find me at my apartment."

He squints. "If you're lying..."

"I'm not." I'm not stupid. I would never cheat gangsters known for maiming pockets and bodies.

"Go." He nods toward the bridge, and I rush away, adding a new hole to my sandals.

The embassy is easy to spot. It was formerly a factory but has been repurposed as the portal between Earth and Le'vris. It's vast and pristine, but most humans glare at it, hoping it will collapse on itself.

When I reach the factory, I'm met by a group of city workers. The tall metal doors of the factory are closed behind them.

"Mornin', girl," a bored, clean-shaven older man greets. He has a strong New York accent, proof that the apocalypse can't take everything from our city. "We're not accepting applications. Return in the morning."

"I'm not here to apply for the program. I need to speak with my sister. Can I see her, please?"

"In the morning," he repeats.

I want to scream and stomp, but those are luxuries for children and the rich. I'm neither, so I have to think calmly. There's no turning back now. I can't cross the bridge without Winter, so I'll go through the cursed screening process to get inside.

I sit on the sidewalk. Fatigue waltzes with me, making my head bob. Giggles wake me up. Within the next fifteen minutes, a wave of women appears. Some are young, some old, but all are hopeful. They wear their finest while I'm covered in filth, but I have bigger things to worry about.

When the factory doors open, over fifty women pile inside. Long tables with finger snacks line the walls of the massive hall. The women swarm the tables, their airs of sophistication dispersing and their true natures of desperation coming to light. I don't judge them. Hell, I join them because I'm just as hungry. I devour a sandwich and pocket two for Winter.